A/N – Realise that I may have confused any readers who have read this fic on another site. Yes, I am also RAAF Spitfire Girl – hope that clears up any concerns regarding possible blatant plagiarism.

….

Mike shook his head slightly and then became aware of the sailors standing around observing the exchange. He turned and swung his gaze across the semi-circle.

"Why are you all standing around?" He demanded. "Buff, get everyone back to work to restore our communications. I need to talk to NavCom and give them a sitrep asap. Swain, find some dry clothes for our guest and bring them to the Officers' Mess." Mike's tone conveyed his displeasure to his crew and they melted from the scene to obey his commands.

"I'm sure you want to get out of those wet clothes," he smiled. "I think we both have some questions we need answered."

"I'm sure we do, Lieutenant Commander," smiled Biggles agreeably. He looked skywards to where the two Spitfires continued to circle – one at what seemed to Mike to be a dangerously low altitude. "I'd better let my fellows know they can go home. My own 2IC is bound to turn up shortly, anyway." So saying, he waved his arm above his head and pointed westward. The pilot in the lower Spitfire commenced a very low run over the Hammersley and the pilot leant out, dropping a small object on to the deck. He continued his low circling as Biggles, with an apologetic smile, moved to retrieve it. It was a piece of paper wrapped around a small silver case that Mike took to be a cigarette case. Biggles read the note and politely handed it to Mike. Mike read the hastily written message.

Chief, If you're okay, we'll go back and tell Algy. Will let you know what he decides. G.

"Looks like you might have me with you for a couple of hours. I hope that won't be too inconvenient?"

'Not at all, Squadron Leader," returned Mike amiably. "I think we have a few things to talk about. If you'll follow me?" As Mike led the way below, Biggles' eyes registered many oddities. The uniforms, the female crew members, one of whom was part of the immediate command structure, the sophisticated gunnery equipment he had glimpsed on the deck, the inflatable rescue boat that had been used to rescue him, the design of the boat itself…all were beyond anything Biggles had previously experienced. If the RAN had something like this up its sleeve, he wondered why there had been no return fire on the attacking Zeros. If anything, the entire crew, from its CO down had seemed stunned and, he thought shrewdly, rather disbelieving of what they were seeing. He looked forward to his conversation with the two officers accompanying him.

They were soon in the compact cabin with the door labelled Officers' Mess where the man whom Flynn had called 'Swain' was waiting with a change of clothes and a towel. Biggles took them gratefully, and while the Hammersley's officers waited outside, he quickly towelled himself dry and changed into the strangely patterned uniform provided. He popped his head out the door to let his hosts know he was ready and the naval officers joined him.

"Would you like a brew?" asked the woman, moving to a small bench and reaching into a cupboard for some white mugs.

"A brew?" His puzzlement was genuine. Surely she wasn't offering him a beer?

"A coffee, sir," her smile was quite dazzling and changed her whole face.

"Oh, of course, I must have had a bump to the head," he grinned back amiably. "Thank you, Lieutenant. That would be very much appreciated."

As the younger woman busied herself making coffees and breaking out a packet of unfamiliar biscuits with the words Tim Tams written across the packaging, Biggles looked around the room, and finally allowed his steady gaze to rest back on the captain.

"I don't think I actually thanked you for pulling me out of the drink. It's always a bit dicey going down in these waters, isn't it?" Biggles raised his coffee mug towards Mike. "Thanks."

"No worries, mate. Glad to help out. But I think we have some questions we want answered, if you don't mind." Mike paused to sip the hot liquid appreciatively. "What exactly is going on, if you don't mind my asking. We seem to have sailed into the middle of World War Three."

Biggles held the other man's gaze steadily as he slowly lowered his own mug. "Why do you say 'World War Three?"

"Well, how else would I describe what just happened?" asked Mike, a little too casually. "World War Two was over more than 60 years ago…wasn't it?" He added hesitantly at the look that crossed the pilot's face.

"Sixty years ago! What year do you think this is?" Biggles' voice almost cracked with incredulity.

….

Mike looked across at Kate who had slipped into a seat nearby. She, too, was lowering her mug, eyes growing wide. Neither naval officer wanted to ask the next question. She looked steadily at Mike. You're the CO, sir. Your call. The message was as clear as if the words had been spoken aloud. Mike released the breath he'd barely realised he'd been holding.

"Perhaps you'd like to tell me the date, Squadron Leader."

"It's 20th April," Biggles said slowly, his eyes not leaving Mike's. The CO's head nodded very slowly.

"Yes, it is," he breathed. "Please tell me what year it is."

"The year is 1942."

Mike blinked and stared. Yet somehow, he was not as totally surprised nor shocked as what he felt he should have been. The clatter of Kate's coffee mug hitting the table jerked his attention away from the man opposite. A good portion of coffee rolled over the rim of her mug and splattered the front of her uniform. Suppressing a curse, she jumped up, grabbed a cloth from the nearby bench and mopped herself.

"Kate…X! Did that burn you?" Mike had also jumped to his feet.

"No sir. I'm fine. Really. It's not too bad at all. Just another uniform to add to the day's disasters," she muttered caustically.

Biggles watched the exchange with interest, noting how the woman batted the CO's hands away as he attempted to help mop up the front of her uniform.

"It's fine, sir. Really." She glared, her green eyes flashing dangerously. Mike withdrew and resumed his seat, his eyes still following her movements as she finally dropped the cloth on the bench and sat down again.

There was a silence, which Biggles was beginning to think he should break, when Flynn spoke again.

'You did say, 1942 – as in World War Two 1942? Northern Australia under threat of Japanese invasion? The bombing of Darwin and other northern towns? Our troops about to start the fight of their lives in PNG…" Mike's voice wound down as he frowned, his mind whirling at the implications. He ran a hand through his already unruly brown hair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How the hell…?" He seemed momentarily lost for words again and stared at the airman, wanting desperately to be able to disbelieve him, to somehow prove him wrong. Admit that it was all a terrible joke gone horribly wrong.

"Yes. That's what I said. 1942." Biggles took a sip from his mug and returned it to the table. "You're not from this time, are you? I don't know how you've arrived here – complete with this ship – but everything about you screams something very, very futuristic." He gave a lopsided, whimsical smile. "So the world survived its current madness?"

"Boat," corrected Mike absently, still lost for words. He noted the perplexity on the Squadron Leader's face and explained. "This is a Patrol Boat, technically not a ship." He sighed. "Is it possible for you to tell me what you're doing here? I'm not totally sure what to do. I need to think through the situation."

"Sir," offered his XO, "don't we have a duty to inform the nearest RAN HQ of our situation?"