Time Risk: A Time Travel Novel, page 23
Two airmen went tearing across the tarmac toward two untouched P-40s. A Zero dove down and attacked. A blast from its guns ripped into the tarmac and struck both airmen, sending them tumbling to the ground, twenty feet from the fighter planes.
A second Zero pelted the American fighters inside the hangar with a hail of bullets and a 20-millimeter cannon. Three more P-40s took direct hits. They exploded, their fuel tanks igniting in spectacular fireballs that sent shrapnel flying in all directions.
Rachel inched closer to David, shielding him as debris rained down around them.
“What are you doing?” David shouted over the deafening noise, his eyes wide with fear and determination, his face smudged with dirt and sweat.
“I’m not going to let you die,” Rachel shouted.
A hangar thirty feet away took several hits, and it buckled, debris flying. Rachel’s hands formed into fists. The fighter in her wanted to fight back. She wanted to do something to stop those bastards, as all three watched the world exploding in their faces.
Suddenly, she saw three Air Corps officers dart out from the shelter of a damaged hangar, pull their service revolvers, aim at the raiding Zeros and empty their guns. One officer shouted out as he fired. “Take that, you bastards!”
All three were still on their bellies. David grabbed Zach’s arm, his voice urgent. “Let’s get out of here and drive to Haleiwa. There are P-40s there. We’ve got to fight back. We’ve just got to.”
Zach nodded, his expression grim, as he looked at Rachel. “Anne, stay close to us. We’re going to make a run for my car. Then I’m going to drive north to another airfield. Can you make it?”
She jerked a nod.
As they prepared to move, another explosion rocked the ground, and the hangar close by shuddered, then buckled and collapsed into a fireball. Smoke from burning drums of aviation fuel was blown by the wind and it assaulted their nostrils with its hot, toxic fumes.
They launched to their feet and broke into a run, crouching low. Rachel glanced back at the inferno consuming the planes and hangars, a sense of profound loss washing over her, and her eyes threatened tears. It was just the beginning of the war, and she couldn’t imagine anything worse than what she’d just witnessed. The images would never leave her, not for as long as she lived.
Together, they darted off, zigzagging across the open ground toward the Buick, the sounds of destruction and the cries of the wounded loud in the smoky, acrid air.
David and Zach reached the car first, while Rachel held back. Then she stumbled, feigning a twisted ankle.
The two airmen turned about.
“Anne! Are you alright?” David called.
She called out, waving them off with a hand. “Yes, yes. Get in the car. I’ll be right there.”
Zach yanked the door open and slid behind the wheel, as David bounded into the passenger seat. Rachel reached into her purse for the ice pick. As she limped toward the car, with her left hand, she jabbed the pick into the right rear tire, tossed the pick away, reached the back door and got in.
Zach twisted around. “Are you sure you’re okay, Anne?”
“Yes, yes. Let’s go.”
Zach cranked the engine, threw the car into gear, and shot away, heading for the abandoned security gate. Racing ahead, leaving the lot, he swerved left, and took a sharp turn onto Snake Road.
“Step on it,” David said, glancing left to see Wheeler Field engulfed in smoke, the Japanese planes roaring away, moving onto Pearl Harbor. “Dammit! Look at that! Look what those bastards did!”
Zach’s determined eyes were fixed on the road as he bent the car around twisting turns, tires squealing, the car lurching left, then right.
“How did you know?” Zach asked Rachel as he glanced at her through his rearview mirror. “How did you know the Japs were going to strike, Anne?”
David swiveled around, waiting for Anne’s answer.
Rachel let the silence fall among them.
“How could you have known?” David asked. “How? It doesn’t make sense.”
Rachel ran a hand through her sweaty hair and made up yet another lie. “I work in intelligence.”
Both pilots let her words sink in. The car bounced and ramped along the curvy, bumpy road.
Zach finally said, “Then why did they let this happen? How could they let it happen?”
“Because they didn’t listen!” Rachel said firmly.
David, still facing her, studied her carefully. “Is that why you were dancing with Lieutenant Commander Rowe? Are you two working together?”
“No… We’re not.”
“I don’t get it, Anne,” David continued. “Why didn’t they listen? This is war. We’re going to be at war with Japan, and they started it. How did you know, and the military brass didn’t know?”
The men waited for her response, as she impatiently waited for the tire to go flat. At first, the wobble was subtle, just a faint vibration through the steering wheel, but Zach picked up on it. As air seeped out, the tire sagged, and the ride grew rougher.
David glanced about. “What’s wrong?”
“The tire, dammit! The damned tire is going flat. Some shrapnel must have hit it.”
The wobble turned into a shimmy, and Zach tightened his grip. The car sank lower, the rubber flapping, the metal rim scraping against the road with a harsh grind.
Furious, Zach slapped the steering wheel, braked to a stop, and threw the car into gear. “Dammit! We’re not going to make it.”
“Let’s run for it,” David said.
“It’s too far, Whitlock. Too damned far. It’s another eight miles.”
Suddenly, they heard the roar of an airplane engine. In unison, all three jerked their heads left and saw a Zero bearing down on them.
“Get out!” Zach shouted.
All three bolted from the car, sprinting for the cover of a ravine as the Zero unleashed a burst of machine-gun fire. David stumbled and fell. Bullets tore into the car, shattering windows, exploding two more tires, and ripping up the road. Zach dove to safety.
Rachel dashed toward David as the Zero banked left, roaring in for another attack. “Come on David… get up,” Rachel shouted.
He couldn’t. And then Rachel saw blood. A bullet fragment had struck behind his upper thigh. The Zero was on them again, his machine guns blazing. At the last minute, Rachel dived on top of David to protect him as a hail of bullets slammed in.
Rachel heard silence. She heard the buzz of an insect, and she felt a warm breeze pass across her face. Then the pain came, and a sense of floating, of slipping away. She tried to reach a hand as if to catch hold of something, but all she grabbed onto was air. Thin air.
She heard David’s frantic voice above her. “Anne… Anne! Stay with me, Anne. Stay with me! Do you hear me? You’re not going to die. Stay with me. You’re not going to die.”
She tried to speak, but her mind froze, her lips trembled, and she couldn’t form any words.
Rachel heard Zach say, “We’ve got to get her to a hospital, or she’s going to bleed to death.”
“A jeep’s coming,” David shouted. “Flag it down!”
CHAPTER 47
Rachel Hunt’s eyes fluttered open, the sterile smell of antiseptic and the distant murmur of hospital activity awakening her senses. Her sleepy eyes moved, and they hurt, and her head ached, and her body was as heavy as a fallen oak.
Shifting her blurry eyes slowly back and forth, she found herself in a dimly lit room, the soft hum of ceiling fans stirring a breeze in the humid air. The sharp pain in her upper back throbbed, and she winced as she tried to adjust her position.
With each lazy blink, her vision cleared a little more, and she noticed that white curtains separated her bed from another, offering a small measure of privacy in a room that she soon saw was filled with rows of beds.
Her bed was one of many in the makeshift ward set up to handle the influx of casualties. The metal frame was cold to the touch, and the thin mattress offered little comfort. A small bedside table held a comb, a small mirror, a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes, and an ashtray.
Rachel’s mind was suddenly flooded with images—both past and present—and they clashed and twisted. Somewhere behind her eyes, Rachel saw herself on a wooden sled racing down a snowy hill, her sister Sarah behind, her arms wrapped tightly around Rachel’s chest.
“Go faster, Rachel. Come on. Faster!”
“I’m going as fast as I can, Sarah. I don’t have a gas pedal on this darn thing.”
How old was she then? Twelve? Thirteen?
And then the scene vanished, and another old memory surfaced. Rachel saw her father in his police uniform, pacing the living room, a bottle of beer in hand.
“What’s the matter, Daddy?” Rachel asked.
She’d just entered the living room and had startled him.
He whirled about. “Dammit, Rachel. Don’t do that. Don’t ever sneak up on me like that. You scared the hell out of me.”
They stared at each other for a long time. His eyes were wounded, his face slack, his posture slumped. She was eighteen.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head, lifted a hand, and then let it drop in exasperation at his side. “No, I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Rachel. It’s just all the shit, you know?” he said, pointing the neck of the beer bottle toward the picture window. “Out there every day, I see the sick bastards, and the crooks, and the greedy politicians, and the corrupt courts, and sometimes I want to fight it, and sometimes I want to do something about it, and sometimes I just don’t give a good damn. Tonight, I just don’t give a damn because maybe I’m greedy and corrupt, too. Maybe that’s it, Rachel.”
He glanced up at the ceiling as if looking for answers, raised his beer and took a long drink. “It’s just that… sometimes you set out to do something right and good, because you feel like maybe you can make a difference—just a small difference—so you can change the world just a little bit for the better. Maybe you help one person, just one, and then the world changes because that one person got their life back on track. Then you think, hey, maybe my life has been worth it after all. But then it all turns to shit when your oldest daughter disappears when she’s jogging, and you know some sick bastard killed her.”
The startling memory slowly faded, and Rachel barely had the time to process that memory when yet another memory slid into her head.
Rachel was with Frank Pike on a date, her senior year in high school. Frank had been a shy, thin boy, with delicate features, who was kind and considerate. He’d written her poems—not particularly good poems—but they were sweet, and they rhymed.
“Why did you go out with me, Rachel? I mean, you could go out with lots of guys, you know? I’m like, well… you know, I’m not so smart or anything, and I’ve never been so good at sports, and maybe some girls ignore me because I’m different.”
They strolled along a grassy path in Wendy Park on an overcast Saturday afternoon, gazing out at the foggy expanse of Lake Erie.
“Do you know what you’re good at, Frank? You’re good at being a nice guy. Some girls want to be with the bad boy, but I don’t. I like nice, and you’re nice. And, anyway, what do you mean, you’re not so smart? What about American History? You’re a champ in American History. Mr. Belcamp read your paper on Pearl Harbor to the class. Remember? He said it was excellent.”
As that watery memory evaporated, Rachel saw Dr. Donald Elsden and Andrew Whitlock, and the time travel lab appeared. In a gust of emotion and memory, her mind exploded with images—faces and events—the Japanese attack on Wheeler Field, the bombs, the screams, the billowing smoke; the Zero racing straight for her on that single lane road, its machine guns blasting—the zinging sound of bullets ripping up dirt and grass.
Rachel’s eyes snapped wide open. What had happened to David Whitlock? Did he survive?
Where was she? What had happened? She couldn’t remember. Her thoughts and memories were out of sequence.
That’s when she noticed she was wearing a white hospital gown made of coarse cotton, and a thin blanket covered her legs, offering warmth but little comfort. Her shoulder and upper back were heavily bandaged, the white gauze stark against her pale skin, and the stitches pulling at her flesh.
At that moment, a nurse dressed in a crisp white uniform, with a red cross emblem on her cap, approached Rachel’s bed. Her face was kind but showed signs of exhaustion.
“Good morning, Miss Fowler,” the nurse said softly, checking the IV drip that was administering fluids and pain relief. “I’m Nurse Wilson. How are you feeling?”
Rachel tried to respond, her voice weak and raspy. “Hurts... a lot,” she managed to say, her hand instinctively reaching for her back.
The nurse nodded understandingly. “You were very lucky. You’d lost a lot of blood, and the bullet fragments missed your spine by mere inches. Dr. Thompson did an excellent job stitching you up. You’ll need plenty of rest and care, but you’ll recover.”
“Where am I?”
“This is Queen’s Hospital.”
“Where? I mean, where is that? The hospital?”
“Miss Fowler, you’re in Queen’s Hospital in Honolulu, Hawaii.”
Rachel shut her eyes for a moment, struggling to clear her whirling thoughts. When she spoke, the words came out in a rush. “My name’s Rachel. Rachel Hunt. That’s my name, not Fowler. Not Anne Fowler. I’m Rachel Hunt. This is 1941, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Miss Hunt. It’s Wednesday, December 10, 1941.”
“The tenth? But… The Japanese attacked on the seventh. I remember that.”
“Yes, Miss Hunt. You were brought here by two military officers on Sunday night. They’d taken you first to the infirmary at Wheeler Field, and a doctor there stopped the bleeding. But the infirmary was badly damaged in the bombing, so the two officers had you transported here to Queen’s Hospital, where there are many civilians and military personnel who were also wounded in the attack. You’ve been in and out of consciousness since then. We almost lost you. But you’re strong, and you’re doing just fine.”
Rachel’s round eyes glanced about, her full senses awakening. Her surroundings were a mix of hurried activity and quiet suffering. Doctors and nurses moved swiftly from one patient to the next, the doctor’s white coats flapping as they walked. The sounds of moans, whispers, and occasional cries of pain were all around her.
Rachel swallowed away a dry throat. “Did you say bullet fragments?”
“Yes, Miss Hunt. You were lucky. Two .30 caliber bullets from one of the attacking airplanes grazed you, but some fragments lodged dangerously close to your spine.”
Rachel stiffened. “But I can walk? I’ll be able to walk?”
Nurse Wilson smiled reassuringly. “Yes, Miss Hunt. You can move your legs and arms. You’re going to be just fine.”
“What about the Army officers who brought me here? Where are they?”
“I don’t know, Miss Hunt.”
“Do you remember their names?”
“No, I don’t, but the night nurse said there’s an envelope for you at the nurses’ station, left by two Army officers. Pilots. It’s addressed to Anne Fowler. But didn’t you just say your name is Rachel Hunt?”
“Yes… but the officers knew me as Anne. It’s a long story. Can you please get the envelope for me now?”
“Of course. I’ll be right back.”
While Rachel sat there, her heart racing, every second dragged on as she waited for the nurse to return with the card. She was desperate to know if all her planning, and all her efforts had been enough to save David Whitlock’s life.
The nurse returned and handed Rachel the envelope. She took it eagerly, noticing the name Anne Fowler written on the front in an elegant, flowing script. She excitedly opened the flap and removed the card. It featured a Bird of Paradise on the front, with “GET WELL SOON!” written in bold, red letters. The flower, resembling a brightly colored bird in flight, was a popular ornamental plant in Hawaiian gardens.
Rachel excitedly opened the card and read.
“Dear Anne, Thanks for saving my life. Why did you throw yourself on top of me like that? My wound was only a scratch. I’m just fine. I guess you and I will never see each other again. We’re engaged in intensified training and preparation for war. I haven’t even been granted a pass to see Lorraine and Andrew. They’re being evacuated back to the mainland any day. I hear we’ll be shipping out soon. Don’t know where. I’ll never forget you, Anne. With warm gratitude, David Whitlock.
Hi, Anne. It’s Zach. After what you did, you’re officially a member of The Fraternity of Flying Hams. Get well. Sending love and hope to see you soon! Zach.
Rachel’s eyes lingered on the words for a long time, her breathing steady and calm. With Nurse Wilson standing nearby, Rachel lowered the card to her lap and she let out a long sigh, the tension in her chest gradually easing. She shut her eyes, leaned her head back and said, in a near whisper. “It’s finished…”
Nurse Wilson asked, “Miss Hunt, is there anything else I can do for you?”
Rachel’s eyes opened. “Do you have any idea how I can get in touch with the soldiers who left this card?”
“No, Miss Hunt. Martial law was declared shortly after the attack, giving military authorities control over the islands. And there are blackouts and curfews, and fears there could be more attacks. All military personnel have been confined to their bases in case there are further attacks.”
Rachel lowered her gaze. “There won’t be any further attacks. Not here, anyway.”
“What was that?” Nurse Wilson asked.
“Never mind. Has war been declared?”
“Yes… we are at war with Japan, Germany and Italy. It’s a very sad time.”
After the nurse left, Rachel lay back and let out a long sigh. Had she completed her mission? Was David Whitlock alive?
CHAPTER 48
“Hello, Kiddo. How are you feeling?” Victoria Gilbert said, approaching Rachel’s hospital bed with a friendly grin, wearing a white and green print dress with padded shoulders and white gloves.
