A Short Circuit In Time

Flying less than twenty feet above the South Pacific, Senior Flight Lieutenant Donnie Columbusano looked out each side window, scanning the sky as much as possible from inside the cramped cockpit of his Mini Catalina. When he was satisfied that no Russo-Jap fighters were around, he pulled the yoke and throttles back simultaneously. "Okay, let's go up and have a look around," he said to nobody, or perhaps to his plane. From all around him came a harmony of groans and creaks as the two radial engines gained revs and the tiny, one-man flying boat began lumbering skyward.

This was mission 482 for Donnie. Not that long ago, five hundred missions had been a landmark. Nowadays, with the pool of eligible draftees drying up, five hundred was nothing special. The Navy had little choice other than to just keep flying missions with the trained pilots it had. Not that Donnie cared. He didn't even think about his life back in the Bronx much anymore. Naval Air Wing Eight, Fiji Airbase and the cockpit of a PU6A was his home.

Donnie had enlisted four years earlier, right after FDR A-bombed Berlin and Munich, and Stalin's army had occupied Japan. Or, was ostensibly "invited" by Hirohito to "assist in the defense" of Japan. The Russo-Japanese union had a stranglehold on Asia that the Western Allies couldn't shake loose. The rubble-filled cities of the Balkins and the wide expanse of the Pacific were now as stalemated as the trenches of WWI France.

Donnie glanced skyward once more, assuring himself that the sky was clear of enemy aircraft. Lowering his gaze, a massive white ship was suddenly in front of him.

"Holy--!"

Already climbing at the plane's maximum rate, Donnie could do nothing but hold on. Moments later, plane's belly cleared the ship's superstructure by inches. Incredulous, Donnie turned and struggled to see to the rear of the plane.

"Where the hell did that come from?" He yelled.

-

Justin Paulsen leaned against the balcony railing, watching the shadow of the ship get longer as the afternoon sun turned the sparkles on the blue sea to gold. He apathetically thumbed through the songs on his iPod while waiting for his wife to get ready for dinner. He finally settled on a song by Coldplay that he had already listened to a dozen times in the last 10 days. The island cruise was Melissa's idea. It had been enjoyable enough overall, but life aboard the Pacific Passion was growing tiresome, and there were no more island stops on the return trip to Fiji. He was sunburned, tired, and just wanted to be ashore, in a taxi, bound for the airport and the flight home to San Jose.

Without warning, the air was suddenly filled with a deafening, booming drone. He ducked instinctively as a small seaplane flew overhead, seemingly just a few feet above him. Carl watched, amazed, as the plane climbed out over the ocean and entered a shallow bank.

"What the hell?" he muttered quizzically.

"What was that?" Melissa asked, standing in her robe at the doorway to their room.