Author's note: thanks for the generous reviews of Chapter 1! I'm glad ya'll are willing to join me on this adventure.
History lesson – Operation Cherryblossom (yepper, all one word), which comes into play in this week's chapter, was a real thing. It was the invasion of Bougainville, which began in November 1943 and ran through March of 1944. The story needed a major campaign that took place in this time frame and I was prepared to fabricate one as needed but a little research found one all ready to go. Serendipity. I'm not trying to get a Ph.D. in WWII history so thanks for allowing me some wiggle room. Okay – on with the tale.
CHAPTER 2
My announcement the men could stay at my place did not yield the expressions of grateful relief or protests of "Oh no, we couldn't inconvenience you" I expected. Any other travelers who arrived with no motel reservations would have displayed at least a minimal degree of gratitude at being assured they had somewhere to sleep this weekend but Jim and Greg only studied me with guarded interest.
"You sure your man is gonna be all right with that?" Jim asked.
"My what?" I blinked. "Oh. Yeah. I mean no. I'm not married. It's no problem, I've got plenty of room."
"You own your own house." Greg's tone turned the statement into a question.
"Yes." I thought he sounded a little more surprised than the situation warranted. I'd been the proud owner of an 1897 Queen Anne Victorian right here in Cedar Junction since my Great-Aunt Eleanor Wiley left it to me in her will a year ago. Guess I was her favorite great-niece. Actually, I was her only great-niece.
Eleanor never married but devoted her life to cats and quilting. It took me six months to clean out a lifetime's collection of china cat statues and quilting fabric but now I had a lovely old house to rattle around in. It has four bedrooms. I own one bed. I'd figure out the logistics of this endeavor later. Yelling to Randall that I'd be back but deliberately not specifying when, I led the men through the front office into the parking lot.
My pickup is a big red Chevy Silverado. It's more truck than I need but my brother Cael sold it to me when he got deployed to the Middle East. Not much need for a set of wheels when you're a communications officer on a carrier and just re-upped for four more years.
I love this truck. It's great having four-wheel drive when my job takes me to odd sites. Last winter I'd driven to the backside of nowhere to do promotions for the Black Powder Rendezvous, a bunch of re-enactors playing fur trappers from the 1800s. What is it with grown men pretending to be from another time in history? I guess it's as good a way as any to get away from the Tide Pod challenge and the Kardashians.
With the exception of an "I love opossums" sticker on the rear bumper, Big Red looks like any other Iowa farm truck but the men stared at it like they'd never seen one before. I wrote it off as truck envy. Big Red has that effect on some people. She's a big girl with all the bells and whistles, thanks to Cael's thirst for technology. I beeped the doors unlocked and climbed in. The men stared for a heartbeat longer, then Greg opened the passenger door and they got in.
My truck is an extension of my life – practical, comfortable and a little messy. I scooped a folder of air show brochures off the seat and jammed it into my bag. I pulled a hoodie off the passenger side and the crisp scent of my fragrance drifted from the fabric to swirl through the cab. Who says a big tough four-wheel-drive truck can't have a feminine side? When I started the engine, Bon Jovi's You Give Love a Bad Name blasted so loud all three of us jumped.
"Sorry." I dialed the volume down as the men stared at the dash.
At first, I thought they were appalled at my taste in music, then Jim said, "This thing's got more gauges than our birds." He cast a doubtful look at me. "You sure you're certified on this?"
I leaned around Greg to give him my best you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me look. Pilots and their egos.
"Since I was sixteen," I said and put the truck into gear.
As I pulled onto the highway, Jim whipped his head back to look at the sign at the airport entrance.
"Hey Greg, you see that? It says Thomas Wiley Memorial Field. Whattaya reckon that's all about?"
"The field is named after a World War II ace who grew up here," I said cautiously. I didn't feel the need to trot out my pedigree. When people find out you have a famous ancestor, they immediately start measuring you by that yardstick. So, your great-grandfather helped save the free world - what are you doing with your life?
Greg looked thoughtful but didn't answer. Instead, he poked a button on the dash. "What's this do?"
"Heated seats." I poked it again to turn it off. Neither he nor Jim were small men and we were snug even in the roomy cab. I was warm enough without heated seats, thank you.
"What about this?" Jim pushed another button and my hazard flashers started to blink.
"Knock that off!" I yelped. The car behind us slammed on its brakes in expectation of some unknown chaos ahead. I turned the flashers off and hoped we'd get home in one piece.
Greg either didn't hear me or didn't listen. I suspected it was the latter. He tapped the colored map icon on the info center screen and a digital version of Cedar Junction's streetscape scrolled up. A woman's voice announced, "Satellite acquired. In two hundred yards, turn left on Elm Street. Destination in two-point-two miles on the left. Traffic is light. ETA, four minutes." I rarely use the onboard mapping system but if given a chance, it's annoyingly fond of informing me how to get from my house to the airport and home again. I guess it thinks I'm going to get lost in my hometown of four thousand people.
"The hell is that?" Greg asked. He looked intrigued.
"Nav system," I replied through gritted teeth and tapped cancel. The screen went dark. "It's always telling me where to go."
"Sounds like some upper brass we know. What's this do?" Jim reached for another button.
I swatted his hand. "Would you stop that! Do you have to touch everything you see?"
He gave me another quick once-over again, his eyes lingering a little longer than they needed to, and I silently cursed my choice of words.
"Are either of you married?" I hastily changed the subject even though I already knew the answer. If they had wives, they would have filed a flight plan, and arrived on time with motel reservations and more than just the clothes on their backs. Men. There's a reason I'm single. I can barely organize myself some days, let alone a husband.
"No," they both answered agreeably.
"And you seriously didn't bring any other clothes with you?" I was still having a little trouble with that.
They shrugged and looked at each other with one of those silent communications guys get when they're around each other a lot. I thought they were carrying this whole act a little too far, especially since we were away from the show grounds, but who was I to argue? If they were willing to keep it up, I'd go along with it.
"You can't spend the whole weekend in those flight suits," I said. "We'll stop at Farm and Home on the way to my place and pick up a few things for you."
This got another silent exchange. I wished they'd stop that. An undercurrent of energy radiated from both of them like a high-tension wire. It wasn't anger. It wasn't fear. It was just . . . energy. I couldn't put my finger on it.
I rolled the windows down as we cruised through Cedar Junction. The business district sits along the main drag through town, with Gable Chevrolet on the north and Farm and Home eight blocks later on the south. It was a gorgeous autumn day and there were worse things in the world than driving through that golden light with two good looking men, even if they came with more questions than answers.
My phone rang, sending the opening riff of Van Halen's Dance The Night Away ricocheting through the cab. I picked it up out of the cup holder. A glance at the screen told me it was the marching band director at the high school. I'd called him earlier to confirm musicians for opening ceremonies tomorrow morning. I thumbed the screen to accept the call.
"Hi Wayne. Good, how are you? Thanks for getting back to me. Yeah, I need the band at the main hangar for the patriotic medley as the gates open at 10. Randall's going to speak briefly, then Cody and Heather will sing the national anthem. And you're sending out a bugler for Taps at closing, right? Excellent. Thanks a bunch, see you tomorrow." I hung up.
It would be hard to be surprised by someone talking on a cell phone these days when they seem to be growing out of everyone's hands but the men's reaction was stunned disbelief. Damn, they were really good at this act. Their dedication to staying in character intrigued me but that didn't mean I totally trusted them. Oh hell, who was I kidding. Midwestern hospitality dictated they were spending the weekend at my house. If I didn't trust them now, I'd better get started.
I turned into the Farm and Home parking lot, parked and paused, fingers on the door handle. It was two days before Halloween and the air show was in town. No one would look at twice at men in flight suits. Well, anyone with an ounce of estrogen in their bodies would look more than twice at these two but that was another matter. Still, shopping in a small town means somebody always wants to stop and chat. Chatting leads to questions and I had too many of my own right now to deal with anyone else's. Taking these two into the store would be asking for trouble.
Greg relieved me of that problem.
"We'll wait out here, if that's all right with you," he said.
I got the feeling he wanted to talk to Jim without me around. Okay. Whatever.
"Give me your waist and inseam measurements," I said. I can eyeball men's shirt sizes pretty well but I'm not good with pants. When it comes to a guy's clothes, the only thing I can do with any confidence is take them off and I haven't done that for quite a while. It's hard to keep a steady relationship when you work a job where you never know what will happen next. I looked at the two pilots. Case in point.
"I won't be long." I was under no illusion they would wait in the truck. I took the keys with me.
I practically ran into the store, grabbed a cart and headed to the men's section. It took me less than ten minutes to pull blue jeans, T-shirts and flannels off the racks. I threw in a package of socks, then halted, uncertain. Boxers or briefs? Good lord, why was I even doing this? Being the show manager was one thing. Being a personal shopper for exhibitors who couldn't remember to pack their own shorts was something else.
I decided if they weren't boxers guys already, they were now, then wheeled through the health and beauty aisles to add toothbrushes and antiperspirant. I tossed in bath soap, too. They were welcome to my curl enhancing shampoo but they didn't strike me as the type to appreciate Sparkling Cider Spice body wash.
I paid for everything and bolted back outside. The pickup was empty. Damn it.
My heart stopped until I realized Jim and Greg were leaning against the tailgate, talking to a third man.
"Here she is now," boomed the familiar voice of Gene Thompson, Cedar Junction's mayor. "Good to see you, Alexa. These boys were telling me how you're helping them out."
I cringed at the use of my God-given name and I cringed double at the thought of what else the two men might have been telling Gene. Dear God in heaven, if word got out John and Carol Remington's daughter was entertaining pilots overnight in her home, the small town grapevine would incinerate within five minutes. I plastered a smile on my face. There was no way around it.
"All the area motels are booked," I said defiantly, "you know, with homecoming weekend at Iowa, so I'm putting them up." Better to get that right out there in front. This was a professional courtesy, nothing more.
"You're in good hands," Gene said. "Alexa will take great care of you."
"Alexa?" Jim asked, brows quirked. "I thought it was Alex."
"It is," I hissed. Apparently the exchange with Robbie and her never-ending Alexa joke had gone right over his head.
"Yessir, has Alexa told you about her great-granddaddy –"
"I'm so sorry, Gene," I interrupted as graciously as I could. "We need to keep moving if I'm going to get these two back to the field in time for the reception." The last thing I needed was a long discussion about my sainted great-grandfather. Small towns love their celebrities. I'm sure Thomas Wiley was the larger than life war hero everyone said he was but I didn't have time to hear it right now.
Gene made polite noises and said he and Maisie, his wife, would be sure to see us this evening.
We all got back in the truck and two minutes later, I pulled into my driveway on the edge of town. I unlocked the back door and ushered the men into the kitchen. Neither Great-aunt Eleanor nor I were big on HGTV so the house looks almost like it did when it was new. I've made a few upgrades for creature comforts but kept all of Eleanor's lovely early 1900s furniture along with the family photo gallery she had enshrined on the dining room wall.
"The living room's in there." I pointed through the dining room. "Make yourself at home while I throw these in the washing machine." I lifted the bag containing the new clothes.
"They can't be dirty already," Greg said reasonably.
"Humor me," I said. "You have to wash new clothes before you wear them. It's like a law." Maybe they weren't married but they didn't act like they spent any time doing their own laundry, either.
Both men looked at me like I was nuts. Maybe I was. But I couldn't wash their flight suits until they had something to change into and they couldn't put on stiff new jeans and shirts with the packaging creases still in them. As I tossed jeans, flannels, Ts and boxers into the washing machine, added detergent and set it for a fast, cold cycle, I couldn't shake the feeling that had dogged me since I met those two on the runway.
How could they not know where they were when they landed? Neither of the men struck me as the type to go for a casual joy ride without having a purposeful destination in mind. Especially in planes the condition of theirs. It had to be part of a carefully choreographed act. Nothing in my seventy-two hour career as an air show manager had prepared me for the eccentricities of this job.
I checked my watch. Plenty of time to deal with the laundry, then let the guys shower and change before we went back to the airport. I felt a twinge of guilt at bailing out on the day before the show opened but Randall could deal with whatever crisis arose. After all, he told me to find lodging for these guys. As show manager, it was my duty to make sure the exhibitors were taken care of.
I left the laundry room, walked through the kitchen and stopped dead. Greg and Jim stood in the dining room, looking at the family photos on the wall. I could feel the tension radiating from their body language from twenty feet away.
I'd grown up with those pictures. There were pictures of my Great-grandpa Thomas as a boy, his daughter, who was my Great-aunt Eleanor, and other relatives on the Wiley-Remington family tree. There were plump babies in lacy christening gowns and a faded sepia shot of the house when the huge maples in the front yard were mere saplings. Of course, there were pictures of Great-grandpa Thomas in his USMC uniform before he shipped out in 1942, more pictures of him taken during the war, and a formal studio shot when he'd returned in 1945 as a decorated ace.
As a child, I'd been fascinated by an informal snapshot of him with the men he'd served with in the South Pacific. Half a dozen of them stood in front of a Corsair exactly like the ones Jim and Greg had landed this morning, arms slung around each other's shoulders, grinning at the camera as if they didn't have a care in the world. I'd studied their faces and wondered what became of those high-spirited young men. How many of them had gone home to their wives and sweethearts at the end of the war? How many had never left the South Pacific?
The men seemed to have forgotten about me and I paused in the doorway, eavesdropping unashamedly. Greg said something I couldn't hear and Jim shook his head in negation.
"But you saw the calendar in the mechanics shed," Greg countered. "How do you explain that? And her clothes? And that truck? We're still in America but it isn't the one we left behind. And when the hell did women become mechanics?"
"You gotta tell her, Greg," Jim said. "If she ain't figured it out already, it ain't gonna take her long. It's best if she hears it from you, then we can adress this little situation." His voice twisted the last word with worry.
I sucked in my breath. I suddenly knew why the two men looked so familiar. I had seen them before.
But that was impossible.
Slowly, as if pulled by an invisible thread, I walked into the dining room. Jim and Greg parted as I stepped between them and we all stared at the photo of the group of pilots in front of the plane. Printed in a careful hand at the bottom were the words VMF 214, Black Sheep, Vella La Cava, October 1943.
My great-grandpa stood between Greg Boyington and Jim Gutterman.
"Where did you get this?" Greg asked. His voice low and rough and I was powerless to tell him anything but the truth, insane as it sounded.
"My great-grandfather sent it home. He was stationed in the South Pacific."
Jim's hand closed on my upper arm. "What was his name?"
"Thomas Wiley. The airfield is named after him. You saw the sign."
"What was his middle name?"
"Joseph," I whispered.
"Thomas Joseph Wiley," Jim repeated. "Holy hell, Greg, she's TJ's great-granddaughter."
It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Blood pounded in my ears as I fought to keep a grip on reality. The men standing in my dining room were undeniably real. Beyond that lie dragons.
Jim continued. "That calendar in your mechanic's shed, the one that said 2018. That the right year?"
I nodded. "Yes."
"Who's the president?" Greg asked.
"Donald J. Trump."
"Never heard of him. What happened to Roosevelt?"
"Roosevelt? FDR?" My brain spun like a hamster on a wheel. "He died. A long time ago. Trump is the forty-fifth president of the United States."
"Forty-fifth?" Jim's hand tightened on my arm.
"Ouch!" I said. He loosened his grip.
"Are we at war with any foreign nations?" Greg's voice was cold steel.
"We're still tangled up in the war on terror." I thought this was fairly obvious but when I got no response, I added, "You know, since 9/11."
Greg's eyes met Jim's and I felt something pass between them. Jim nodded and said, "You gotta tell her. I don't know how it happened but you gotta tell her. Maybe she can help."
Help do what?
Greg took my other arm and I met his eyes, feeling reality shatter even before he said the words.
"We're combat pilots stationed in the Southwest Pacific Theater. When we left our base this morning it was October 29, 1943. We got sucked into one hell of a weather system and when we came out of it, we were on approach to your airstrip. I don't know how it happened but we've been pulled seventy-five years into the future."
I've never been accused of having a frail constitution but this was too much. My vision went black around the edges, the floor tilted on its axis and I fainted.
XXX
When I came too, I was sitting on the couch in the living room. My head was between my knees, held there by a warm hand on the back of my neck.
"Breathe deep." Jim's voice sounded about two inches from by ear and I jumped. He released my neck. "Sit up slow, darlin', or I'll be picking you up off the floor again."
In the kitchen, someone was banging around, opening and closing cupboards at random.
"Where do you keep your whisky?" Greg shouted.
Even in my current predicament I was amused at his assumption I would have a bottle of whisky at hand for emergencies medical and otherwise. I wondered if that had anything to do with my family tree. In the process of cleaning out the house, I discovered Eleanor had a taste for single malt Scotch.
"It's in the built-in china cupboard in the dining room," I called weakly. I ignored Jim and sat up too fast, which sent my head spinning again. I grabbed the first thing available, which happened to be his knee. He didn't pull away and I used it as an anchor to steady myself.
From the dining room, Greg whooped. Within minutes, he was back with a bottle of Laphroaig and three glasses.
"You've got good taste," he said as he poured.
"Not me. My Great-aunt Eleanor, Great-grandpa Thomas's daughter. This was her house," I said, wondering how much of my family tree I needed to explain. They seemed to have a grip on the important parts.
Greg pressed a glass into my hand. "Then we'll drink to Eleanor."
I'm not a big a whisky drinker but I didn't argue. I closed my eyes and sipped, letting the smokey notes of the Scotch swirl through my senses. This was too much. I was sitting in my living room with men who knew Great-grandpa Thomas in 1943. Seventy-five years ago. Today.
"You really know Thomas Wiley?" I asked softly. Bizarre as this whole situation was, I had no reason not to believe them. It went beyond the authenticity of their planes and their clothing. There was an aura around both of them that couldn't be fabricated, something that said they were not of the twenty-first century. This wasn't some elaborate hoax orchestrated by Randall to pull one over on the only member of the Wiley-Remington family who'd never shown the slightest interest in her famous ancestor. The very air around them seemed to hum like they were tuned to a different frequency than the rest of the world.
"TJ's my wingman," Jim said, yanking my mind back to the present. Or the past. I wasn't sure which was which anymore.
"Greg paired us up when he formed the Black Sheep," he continued. "TJ's too much of a menace to put him with anyone else." He swirled his whisky and pondered his wingman's doubtful skill set. "But he hasn't shot any of us down lately so I reckon he's getting better."
"And he only hit that tree once," Greg added. "That I know of."
I made a concerted effort not to gape. I'd grown up watching an entire town revere Thomas Wiley, the military hero who'd come home after the war, married, raised a family, taught history and coached football at the local high school. He'd always been larger than life and the inspiration for my grandpa, dad and brother to serve in the military. But to hear Jim talk about him, it sounded like he was a wet-behind-the-ears kid, the ink barely dry on his post-flight-school orders.
My shock must have shown because Greg tipped another measure of Scotch into my glass.
"The kid didn't have the best air record but I recruited him for the Black Sheep because he knew how to get things done," he mused.
Jim laughed. "Oh, TJ gets things done all right. That boy can fly a nurse better than anyone in the 214."
I gaped anyway. I wasn't sure what I expected him to say but that wasn't it.
"The nurses love him," Jim continued. "Dunno how the hell he does it but he flashes that schoolboy grin and they fall into his arms. He scores more than anyone else in the unit." He chuckled. "Except for Greg." Greg shot him a look and Jim shrugged. "'S the truth."
"He's not the best pilot and he knows it, but he never gives up," Greg mused. "He's got good instincts."
"I gotta yell at him now and then but he's a quick learner," Jim said. "I reckon we'll get him knocked into shape yet."
My head started to spin again. I needed to either drink more or stop completely.
Beyond the kitchen, the washing machine clunked to a halt. I pushed up from the couch and wobbled a bit. Jim caught my arm and held me until I steadied. I looked at him and Greg.
"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." I needed a few minutes alone to process everything they'd said.
I didn't get it. They followed me into the laundry room. Honestly, they don't listen.
The men watched with interest as I pulled the wet laundry out of the washer and put it in the dryer. I pushed the buttons to start the cycle and the machine hummed to life.
"What's that do?" Jim eyed the dryer with keen interest.
It had a lot of buttons to push and I stepped in front of it protectively. "Dries clean clothes."
"But you haven't washed them yet."
"Yeah. I just did." I pointed to my Maytag washer.
"But you were with us the whole time. How'd they get clean if you didn't run them through the wringer?"
"The machine does it for me."
Jim peered inside the drum. "I don't see a wringer in here."
"There isn't one. It swishes them around in soapy water and then rinses them and spins them out."
"And all you do is put them in there and flip a switch?" He pointed at the dryer.
"Something like that."
"You don't have to hang them outside?"
"Not unless I want to."
"So you've got machines that wash and dry your clothes for you," Greg observed. "What do you do with all your spare time?"
"I don't have a lot of spare time," I said honestly. "I work full time. I've been doing public relations for the air show since late summer, then I took over as show manager when the original guy broke his ankle this week."
"You work full time," Jim repeated slowly, "but just because you're not married, right?"
It would be easier to talk about my skirt-chasing great-grandfather.
"I work full time because I support myself."
"But if you had a husband, you wouldn't work." Jim said this like it was a fact, not a question. He seemed determined to find the proper niche for women's behavior and put me in it, regardless of the century. I think I made him a little uncomfortable.
"No, my husband and I would both work. It's hard for two people to live on a single income."
Jim's expression indicated I'd said something blasphemous. I reminded myself while women flocked to the factories during the war, after the men came home, they were relegated back to domestic duties while men again became the bread winners.
"Is this a rooming house?" Greg asked.
Puzzled, I said, "You mean a bed and breakfast?"
"Call it what you like, sweetheart, but no single girl your age is going to invite men to spend the night unless she's running some kind of licensed establishment."
"No, this isn't a rooming house and thank you for worrying about my reputation," I said tartly. "But unless you want to sleep on the floor in the pilot's lounge, this is how it's going to be." Since I only had one bed, there was a good chance someone was going to end up sleeping on the floor anyway and it was probably going to be me but I didn't mention that.
I turned and walked back into the dining room to stare at the photo. Of course they followed me. The conversation was giving me time to come to terms with the revelation of who they were and where they came from, but all three of us were ignoring the white elephant in the room.
I turned and faced them. "What's going to happen when you don't show up wherever you were headed?" I asked. "Esperanto, Esperito . . .?"
"Espritos Marcos," Jim said, which gave me zero information. I wasn't up on South Pacific geography.
"Given the scope of that storm, they'll think we either got blown off course or set down somewhere to ride it out," Greg said. "Either way, there's no guarantee we'd be in communication range so there's no telling if anyone on Espritos or La Cava tried to contact us. When the storm cleared, they probably sent out a recon squadron to see if we got splashed."
"Splashed?" I asked.
"Went swimming," Jim said helpfully.
It wasn't helpful.
With a sigh, Greg said, "Crashed in the ocean."
I winced.
"But that all depends on action in the area," he continued. "Lard's not going to waste resources looking for two missing pilots when he's got his hands full with Operation Cherryblossom."
"Lard?"
"Colonel Lard," Greg said. It was his turn to grimace. "Rear area tight ass who flies a desk and thinks the war should run according to the Marine Corps Manual."
I made a mental note to keep Greg away from Randall.
"What's Operation Cherryblossom?" It sounded like something delicate and white but I had the feeling it was the complete opposite.
"The Allies are trying to surround the Japanese base at Rabaul but first they need to gain a beachhead on Bougainville," Greg said. "The Black Sheep will fly air support."
"When?"
"Nov. 2, three days from now."
I heard the worry in his voice.
"What happens if you guys aren't there?"
"Lard will jump at any chance he gets to take my squadron down," Greg said, "but he'll have to go through General Moore before he can reassign the unit. With the campaign ramping up, I don't think he'll push it. As long as the boys can put sixteen birds in the air, he'll drop in a new CO and send them up."
"Worst case, he'll break them up and toss the guys into the pilots' pool," Jim said. "They'll be reassigned to whatever squadron needs them."
"What about my great-grandfather?" For the first time since I'd accepted Greg and Jim's presence as the result of a wrinkle in time that inexplicably dropped them on my doorstep, it struck me that my own future was now in limbo. Until twenty minutes ago, I was sure Thomas Joseph Wiley - TJ - had come home from the war. The evidence was hanging on the wall in front of us. But that was before his CO and his wingman showed up here. What if Jim and Greg didn't get back to their unit and the Black Sheep got broken up? What if TJ got reassigned to a new squadron and flew into a major battle without the support of the men who knew him? The sudden lack of mentorship and guidance would spell disaster for a green pilot.
And if TJ Wiley didn't come back from the war to marry and raise a family in Cedar Junction, what did that mean for me? Would I cease to exist, time folding in around the hole of my great-grandfather's absence to create a new reality for the person who would have been me?
"You'd better sit down. You look a little green around the edges." Jim was holding my elbow again. He steered me back to the living room and I collapsed in a chair.
"You guys have to go back," I said. "This Colonel Lard can't disband your squadron. You have the best kill ratio in the theatre."
"How'd you know that?" Greg asked.
"My grandpa used to tell stories about Great-grandpa Thomas and the Black Sheep." I wished I'd listened to those stories a little more closely. I knew the 214 came through the war with one of the best combat records in the theatre, so that meant Colonel Lard hadn't broken them up, right?
No. That was before a hiccup in time spat out their commanding officer and his exec right in the middle of my air show. If Jim and Greg didn't go back, time would continue marching along, splitting and reforming like balls of mercury, filling in the void left in their absence and altering history in the process. The only reality was the one in front of me, with Greg Boyington and Jim Gutterman drinking Scotch in my living room.
"You have to go back to make sure my great-grandfather doesn't get killed." My voice was small. I stopped short of pointing out if he didn't come home from the war, I wouldn't exist.
"You got any ideas how to make that happen?" Greg asked.
I didn't.
"We couldn't fly out of here right now even if we wanted to," Jim said. "Greg's bird's out of oil and I've got a busted-off rudder and a stabilizer that's chewed to hell. Until we get some repairs, we're stuck."
"Robbie can help you," I said. "The oil shouldn't be a problem but I don't know what it takes to fix a whatchamacalit." I looked at Jim.
"If we were back on La Cava, Hutch could make the parts out of whatever's in the boneyard. Your girl that creative?" he asked.
I'd seen Rob fix a wing strut once with a pair of vise grips and a roll of duct tape. I had a feeling the repairs these boys needed might require a little more ingenuity but I had faith.
"She'll be at the event this evening. We can talk to her then. If she can't put it back to factory standard, I'm sure she can MacGuyver something to get you home."
They both gave me a blank look, the reference lost on them.
"Then what's the plan, boss lady?" Jim sounded resigned but his mouth quirked in mild amusement. I could tell it cost him to admit two women were the link between his past and present.
"How do you feel about being the most authentic re-enactors Wings Over Autumn has ever seen?" I glanced at my watch.
"What do we have to do?" Greg asked.
"Just be yourselves and tell war stories." I paused, then added, "There's usually a fair amount of alcohol involved in the evenings." I thought that might be an appealing incentive.
"Hell, Greg, sounds like Saturday night in the Sheep Pen." Jim turned to me. "We're in, darlin.'"
To be continued . . .