A Leap In Harm's Way
by Glenn St-Germain

Theorizing that one could time travel within his own 
lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett led an elite group of 
scientists into the desert as part of a project known as 
Quantum Leap. Pressured to prove his theories or lose 
funding, Dr. Beckett prematurely stepped into the 
project accelerator... and vanished. He awoke to find 
himself in the past, suffering from partial amnesia and 
facing mirror images that were not his own. His only 
contact with the present was through Al, the project 
observer, who appeared in the form of a hologram that 
only Dr. Beckett can see or hear. Trapped in the past, 
Dr. Beckett finds himself leaping from life to life, 
putting right what once went wrong, each time hoping 
that his next leap will be the leap home...


December 22, 1969
Gulf of Tonkin, off the coast of Vietnam

	For a while, there was just the sensation of floating 
in a timeless void... it could have been a few seconds 
or a few days -- he couldn't tell. But suddenly, the 
endless expanse of white started streaking with blue, 
resolving itself into shapes and patterns, adding more 
colours, until they resolved themselves into...
	... into the cockpit of an airplane.
	"... is too steep. Repeat, Hammer, your approach is 
too steep. Over."
	Sam Beckett looked around quickly to get his 
bearings. The sun was low in the sky, hanging over some 
tree-covered hills to his right; whether it was rising 
or setting, he couldn't say. Below him, open water, with 
a group of ships, including one which he seemed to be 
heading straight toward, an aircraft carrier. And he was 
coming in too low.
	"Hammer!" came the voice over the radio. "Pull up! 
Pull up!"
	Sam pulled back on the joystick, more than he should 
have, for the plane suddenly started climbing again. The 
flight deck of the carrier passed by far below him. He 
eased off on the stick, trying to level himself out.
	"Oh, boy," he muttered under his breath.
	"Say again, Hammer," came the reply. "I didn't catch 
that, over."
	Sam took a deep breath. He'd been in worse 
predicaments than this. He even seemed to remember 
flying a fighter jet in a previous leap, though he 
couldn't remember any details. He could fly the plane 
well enough. But landing was another story entirely.
	"Hammer," came the radio voice again, "what the hell 
is wrong with you?"
	"Uh... I'm okay," Sam stammered. "Circling back for 
another approach."
	"Roger that, Hammer. The CAG wants to see you when 
you're down."
	"Er... Roger. Over and out."
	Right now would be a good time for Al to appear, Sam 
thought.
	Almost as if on cue, Sam heard the sound of someone 
clearing his throat beside him. He glanced to his left, 
then did a double-take. Al Calavicci's head and 
shoulders were sticking into the cockpit from outside, 
as if the plane weren't there. Of course, for Al, the 
plane was just a hologram in the imaging chamber back at 
Project Quantum Leap, under the desert somewhere in New 
Mexico in the year 1999. And to Sam, Al was the 
hologram, invisible and inaudible to all but Sam 
himself.
	"Easy, Sam," said Al, in a reassuring tone of voice. 
"Gently move the stick to the left... gently... good, 
that's it. Hold it there while we circle."
	"About time you showed up," replied Sam.
	"Say again, Hammer," replied the radio voice. "I 
didn't catch that, over."
	"Cut your radio, Sam," said Al. Sam looked at Al with 
a questioning look on his face; Al pointed to a switch, 
which Sam pressed. "Good," continued Al. "Now we can 
talk. Straighten up the stick now... good. Okay, line up 
your compass at bearing one-six-four... good, good... 
push the stick forward, gently now..."
	Admiral Albert Calavicci, US Navy, had been a fighter 
pilot himself in his younger days; in fact, here and now 
in 1969, Lieutenant Calavicci, Al's younger self, was in 
a Viet Cong prison camp, having been shot down two years 
earlier, and would not be repatriated for another four 
years. 
	Al continued to talk Sam through the process of 
landing the plane on the carrier; Sam touched down on 
the deck a little bumpier than he would have liked, but 
with Al's directions he made it down safely. When the 
aircraft came to a complete stop, Sam leaned back and 
breathed a sigh of relief. Only then did he notice two 
things. One, the sky was getting darker, not lighter, 
meaning this was late in the day, not early in the 
morning. Two, Al was wearing full dress whites. Al 
dressed in his navy uniform only on rare occasions; Sam 
usually saw Al with more colourful clothing. But since 
Sam had evidently leaped into a Navy pilot, the uniform 
made sense -- Al always dressed in his uniform whenever 
Sam leapt into someone in the military. This was so Al 
could represent himself as Admiral Calavicci to whoever 
was in the waiting room, whoever it was that Sam had 
taken the place of.
	"Nice landing," said Al, encouragingly. 
	The top of the cockpit opened, and a hand reached 
over to help Sam up. Sam took it, still not quite sure 
what to do next, and climbed out of the airplane.
	"It's December the 22nd, 1969," Al told Sam 
hurriedly. "Your name is Harmon Rabb, call sign 
'Hammer', a lieutenant in the U.S. Navy. You're aboard 
the USS Hornet, and that land off to port is Vietnam."
	"Swell," replied Sam under his breath as he walked 
away from the plane. Before he could say anything else, 
a man in khaki trousers and a dark blue jacket came out 
into the deck and straight toward Sam at a fast walk.
	"Hammer!" snarled the man. Sam noticed silver eagles 
on his shoulder. "What the hell happened up there?"
	"Straighten up and stand at attention, Sam," Al 
cautioned. Sam did so while Al made a face at the 
newcomer. "That's the CAG -- Commander Air Group. Your 
boss."
	"Well, Rabb?"
	"I... uh..." replied Sam, stalling for a reply.
	"Tell him your altimeter needs to be recalibrated," 
Al said hurriedly.
	"I think there might be something wrong with my 
altimeter," Sam echoed. "It seems a little... I don't 
know, sluggish somehow."
	"Hmph," replied the CAG. "All right, as long as you 
made it down safely. But you look a little distracted."
	"It's the heat," said Sam before Al could coach him 
on his response.
	"The heat. Yeah, right. I'll have the techs look at 
your bird. Dismissed."
	"Aye-aye, sir," replied Sam, snapping to attention 
again. The CAG continued out onto the deck, presumably 
to meet with other incoming pilots, while Al motioned 
for Sam to follow.
	"The altimeter?" asked Sam with disbelief, once he 
and Al were alone below decks.
	"It's the humidity," replied Al casually. "These old 
planes had problems with that down here. Not a lot, but 
often enough to make your excuse sound reasonable."
	"Uh-huh..." Sam was less than convinced.
	"Get changed, then we'll go to your... to Rabb's 
quarters, and we can talk," continued Al.
	"How do you know where his quarters are?"
	"I asked. It's not like I don’t know the layout of a 
carrier."
	A few minutes later, Sam and Al were alone inside a 
small stateroom. Sam had hurriedly changed out of his 
flight suit and into casual khakis, then followed Al 
through a maze of corridors and gangways. The stateroom 
itself was spartan, with a single picture on the desk, a 
picture of a man, a woman, and a small child. Sam 
glanced in the mirror, and saw the face of the man in 
the picture looking back at him.
	"So," said Sam, "it's 1969 and I'm in Vietnam. Why am 
I here?" 
	"That's an easy one," replied Al. "You're here 
because in two days, Lieutenant Harmon Rabb gets shot 
down and declared MIA."
	"Great, all I have to do is manage to not get shot 
down," Sam said sarcastically. "Piece of cake."
	"If we can somehow prevent you from going up in the 
first place," Al answered, thinking out loud. 
	Sam picked up the picture and gave it a closer look.
	"He has a family, Al."
	"Yup. A wife and a kid." Al checked his handlink, a 
portable display unit which he used to interface with 
Ziggy, the supercomputer which ran Project Quantum Leap. 
"I thought that face was familiar. Harmon Rabb... I know 
him."
	"You served together?"
	"No... not him. His son. I met a Lieutenant-Commander 
Harmon Rabb last year in Washington at some big do, and 
he's the spitting image of the guy in the waiting room."
	"Must be Harmon Rabb, Junior," replied Sam.
	Al checked the handlink again.
	"That's right. Harm's son, Harm Junior, joins the 
navy, and is still serving now, with the... aw, yuck!"
	"Something wrong?"
	"According to Ziggy, Harmon Rabb Junior is with the 
Office of the Judge Advocate General. He's a lawyer."
	Al accented that last word with a certain amount of 
venom. Having been divorced several times, lawyers were 
high on the list of Al's least favourite people. Sam 
chuckled in response.
	"At least he's still Navy," said Sam, still smiling.
	"He's still a lawyer... wait a minute... I could have 
sworn that when I met him, he was wearing wings..." He 
mulled that over for a moment, then called, apparently 
into thin air, "Ziggy! Are you sure about this?" Pause. 
"Check again! This can't be right!"
	Sam looked at Al with a questioning look.
	"The Harmon Rabb I met last year had gold wings on 
his uniform, meaning he was a pilot. Ziggy, on the other 
hand, says he's a lawyer."
	"It could be the uncertainty factor associated with 
the leap," replied Sam.
	"Speak English, Sam. You sound like a professor."
	"I am a professor. But whether he becomes a pilot 
like his father or a lawyer might depend on the outcome 
of this leap."
	"Whatever. Listen, according to the original history, 
Rabb was shot down on Christmas Eve. That's the day 
after tomorrow. Since you were up today, chances are you 
won't fly tomorrow. So take it easy for a while. I'm 
going to have another chat with Lieutenant Rabb."
	Al punched a few keys on the handlink. Sam heard the 
sound of a pneumatic door opening; Al turned and 
disappeared from view. Sam sat back on the bunk and 
stared at the ceiling.

	The next day passed by uneventfully. Sam joked with 
the other pilots, ate, listened to music, read, and 
listened to the CAG give a briefing of the next day's 
mission, a routine patrol. That last bit of news didn't 
sit well with Sam -- the patrol would be over enemy 
territory. This would be where and when Rabb would be 
shot down. Sure enough, Rabb was assigned to one of the 
patrol groups.
	"I don't suppose I could have tomorrow off," Sam 
asked the CAG casually after the briefing.
	"Sure you can, Rabb," replied the CAG. "In fact, why 
don't I give everybody the day off. Then we could all go 
home, and let the North Vietnamese take the entire 
peninsula! Why didn't I think of that!"
	Sam tried not to let himself react to the CAG's 
sarcasm.
	"Tell you what, Hammer. You do your morning patrol, 
and we'll see about getting you the rest of the day off. 
After all, it's Christmas Eve tomorrow."
	"Thank-you, sir," replied Sam, smiling.
	"In the meantime, you have a mission to fly tomorrow, 
so grab some sack time. DISMISSED!"
	Sam snapped to attention.
	"Aye-aye, sir!"
	The CAG snorted and walked away, shaking his head.
	"Nice try, Sam," said Al, who had been watching from 
the corner.
	Sam nodded in Al's direction, then glanced toward the 
exit. Al nodded in response; the two of them went to 
Rabb's quarters to talk.
	"Looks like you're flying tomorrow," said Al. "But 
forewarned is forearmed, so maybe you won't get shot 
down."
	"I'm not a skilled pilot, Al."
	"I am. And I'll be with you every step of the way."
	"Do we know how he gets shot down?"
	"Nada. Just that he was shot down while on patrol."
	"You said he was MIA... not killed, just missing. Is 
there a chance...?"
	"Hell, Sam, there's always a chance. I mean, I was 
declared MIA... and I came back. But there are a lot of 
guys who weren't so lucky. I had Ziggy run a check."
	"And...?"
	"According to Ziggy, Rabb's son never gave up on the 
idea that his father was still alive. In fact, she's 
been able to find out that in 1980, sixteen-year-old 
Harm Junior takes an unauthorized trip to Vietnam with 
an old navy buddy of his dad's to track down a lead."
	"And?"
	"Nada. Zip. Zilcho. But listen to this. In 1998 -- 
last year -- Harm Junior supposedly gets some 
information about how is father survived being shot down 
and eventually wound up in Siberia."
	"Siberia? Is that possible?"
	"Officially? Not a chance. Unofficially? Who knows. 
Rabb Junior even went so far as to take a trip to Moscow 
to follow it up, though. Ziggy found a news clip about 
Harm Junior being shot down in an old Soviet MIG 
somewhere over Siberia in the summer of 1998."
	"I thought you said he was a lawyer."
	"I thought we had that straightened out. Ziggy? 
What's with Rabb's career?" Pause. "Junior, not senior." 
	Another pause.
	"Well?" asked Sam, impatiently.
	"Ziggy's checking on it. She insists that Harm Junior 
is a lawyer with JAG, but then all these pilot things 
keep coming up. And I know I saw wings on his jacket."
	"Maybe he changed careers."
	"A pilot give up flying? You must be kidding."
	"You did."
	"All pilots get retired sooner or later when they get 
older. But Harm Junior is still in his thirties... he l 
should still have as much as a decade of flying time 
ahead of him."
	"This should all work itself out after I save Harm 
Senior," suggested Sam.
	"I hope so. This is damn confusing. In the meantime, 
get some shuteye. You have an early start tomorrow. I'll 
see you then."
	"Right. Good night, Al."
	"Nighty-night, Sam."

	The next morning, Al talked Sam through his pre-
flight check, then placed himself behind Sam inside the 
fighter cockpit so that he could give Sam directions.
	"Just what I need," said Sam jokingly, "a back-seat 
driver. Or is that a back-seat flier?"
	"Yeah, yeah... just do what I tell you and you'll 
come through this okay."
	"Did they get the altimeter fixed?"
	"Sam, would you cut that out? This is serious..."
	"Hammer, you're up," came the radio control voice.
	"Roger," replied Sam.
	Al guided Sam onto the runway and into the air, the 
rising sun at their backs as they flew towards the North 
Vietnamese coast. There were three other planes in the 
fighter group, with Sam in the number three position as 
they flew echelon right. Sam muted the radio 
transmission so that he could talk to Al without being 
overheard.
	"So now what?" he asked.
	"Now, we fly. Don't worry, Sam, you're doing fine. 
Hey, Ziggy finally figured out what's with Harm Junior."
	"Oh?"
	"Yeah. Harm Junior grows up to be a pilot just like 
his dad. But in 1992, he crashed his Tomcat during a 
night carrier landing, and his RIO was killed..."
	"RIO?"
	"Radar Intercept Officer. The guy in the back seat. 
Anyway, he was diagnosed with night blindness, which 
ended his flying career right then and there. But 
instead of leaving the service, he went to law school 
and became part of JAG."
	"I knew there was a logical explanation," replied 
Sam. 
	"It's a damn shame, really."
	"What, that he became a lawyer?"
	"That too. But grounded in the prime of his flying 
career because of night blindness... and losing his RIO 
in the crash."
	"How's he doing as a lawyer?"
	"He's one of the top men in the JAG corps, according 
to the reports Ziggy dredged up. In fact, Ziggy 
forecasts a sixty-eight per cent probability that within 
20 years, Rabb Junior will make Admiral and become head 
of JAG himself."
	"So it seems he's doing okay for himself."
	"Yeah... but he had to grow up without his father. 
His mother remarried, a guy who eventually became a VP 
over at Chrysler. Not the worst fate for anyone... but 
if we can save Rabb Senior, we can spare his family a 
lot of pain."
	"Roger that, Al."
	"Ziggy's running more background checks on... LOOK 
OUT!"
	Sam reacted instinctively, moving the stick to the 
right as a ball of fire appeared forward and to the left 
of his plane.
	"Incoming fire!" cried Al.
	"I can see that!" replied Sam. "I don't see any other 
planes, though!"
	Al poked his head outside the plane to take a look, 
then returned.
	"Anti-aircraft guns."
	The radio crackled to life.
	"Hammer, on my wing," came the command. "Blackjack, 
Jaguar, watch for incoming aircraft. Hammer, you and I 
are going after those guns."
	Sam looked at Al worriedly, then acknowledged the 
command. A moment later, Sam, with Al's instructions, 
was diving toward the ground, towards a cleared area in 
the jungle. Around him, more explosions as whoever it 
was on the ground fired at the incoming targets. Sam 
lined up his gunsights on one of the anti-aircraft guns, 
and on Al's command fired them. A ball of flame erupted 
around the gun emplacement, and Sam pulled up and away.
	"Nice shot, Hammer," came the response via the radio. 
Sam noted that his partner in the air had missed his 
target. "One more pass ought to do it."
	"Roger," replied Sam.
	The voice of one of the others in the squadron came 
onto the radio.
	"Foxbat, this is Jaguar. Incoming enemy fighters at 
ten o'clock!"
	"Time?" replied Foxbat.
	"A few minutes."
	"Roger. Jaguar and Blackjack, head back to the barn. 
Hammer, you and I will make one more pass, then get the 
hell out of here."
	"Roger that," replied Sam nervously. 
	Again following Al's directions, Sam circled the 
plane for another pass. After that, continuing on the 
same course would take them back towards the Hornet; by 
the time the enemy fighters arrived on the scene, there 
would be a lot more than just a few American fighters to 
keep them occupied.
	But before Sam could get his shot away, the plane 
suddenly lurched and rolled; he heard Al's voice from 
behind him utter a string of curses and epithets which 
were almost enough to curdle milk.
	"We're hit!" exclaimed Al.
	"I know that!" replied Sam. Then, into the radio, 
"Foxbat, this is Hammer. I'm hit!"
	Sam looked toward Foxbat's airplane, and watched with 
horror as it suddenly became engulfed in a ball of 
orange flame.
	"Al," said Sam, choking on his own words, "was 
he...?"
	Al quickly checked the handlink.
	"Everything's going just as it happened in the 
original history," he replied. "Hammer and Foxbat were 
shot down; Jaguar and Blackjack make it back to the 
Hornet. I'm sorry, Sam."
	"So am I. I thought I was supposed to prevent this," 
he growled as he wrestled the joystick for control. The 
plane was belching smoke from its tail section, and 
although Sam was able to keep the wings steady, he was 
losing altitude. Fast.
	"Eject!" commanded Al. "Eject! Reach down and pull 
the..."
	Before he could finish, the cockpit canopy suddenly 
flew away, with Sam and the pilot's seat following a 
moment later. Al quickly punched commands into the 
handlink to stay with Sam as he flew into the air above 
the jungle treetops. A moment later, Sam's parachute 
opened, and Sam started drifting slowly toward the 
ground. A mile or so ahead of them, Sam's plane hit the 
treetops and exploded in a yellow-orange ball of fire.
	Sam floated downward toward the treetops a little 
faster than he would have liked. 
	"Brace yourself, Sam," warned Al, who was drifting 
downward along with Sam. "These emergency chutes aren't 
like a skydiver's. You'll hit the ground hard and fast, 
so try to roll when you hit."
	Sam cleared the top of the jungle canopy, and saw the 
ground coming up fast. He braced himself, trying to 
relax, then stopped suddenly about ten feet from the 
ground. A bit of slack on the lines came and went, and 
Sam was left swinging, his chute caught in the treetops.
	"Trees," said Al, apparently standing in mid-air next 
to Sam. "Trees are nice."
	"Great," replied Sam. "How do I get down from here?"
	"You unbuckle the chute and drop. Be careful, Sam, 
it's a long way..."
	Sam unbuckled himself from the harness and dropped to 
the jungle floor.
	"... down."
	Sam landed with a thud, rolling to one side. Al 
recentered himself to be next to Sam as he slowly got to 
his feet.
	"They say any landing you can walk away from..."
	"Thanks a lot, Al. You said that I had to prevent 
Harmon Rabb from being shot down. So now what?"
	Al scanned the readout on the hand link.
	"Ziggy forecasts a fifty per cent probability that 
you will be captured by the Viet Cong and taken 
prisoner."
	"And a fifty per cent chance that I won't, right? 
Might as well flip a coin."
	"At least you're still alive... if we can get you out 
of here before Charlie shows up, you're home free."
	"So which way do we go?"
	Al turned slowly in a complete circle, then pointed.
	"That way."
	"You sure about that?"
	"Of course I'm sure. "
	Sam started off in the direction Al pointed; Al 
scrambled to catch up with him, walking right through a 
large tree to do so, startling Sam as he came out the 
other side."
	"Remember, Sam, you have one advantage that the real 
Harmon Rabb didn't have when he was shot down."
	"And that is?"
	"Me. I can warn you about dangers, I can scout ahead, 
I can..."
	Suddenly, two men, Vietnamese, both wearing dark, 
ratty clothing, appeared in front of Sam. One brandished 
a knife; the other was reaching for a gun. The one with 
the knife shouted something Sam didn't understand. But 
before either could react further, Sam spun on one foot 
and kicked the second one, the one reaching for the gun, 
in the face with a well-placed roundhouse kick. The 
first one lunged with the knife; Sam sidestepped the 
lunge, grabbed the arm, and twisted it into a jiu-jitsu 
throw. The knife fell to the ground with a dull thunk 
sound at the same time as the man's head impacted into 
the side of a nearby tree. 	Meanwhile, the second man, his nose running with blood, steadied himself and raised his gun. Sam turned and kicked the gun out of the man's hand; the gun went off, the bullet going high into the trees. 
Sam followed up with three quick punches to the face, 
and the man went down for the count.
	"Nice work, Sam!"
	"I thought you said you could scout ahead for me."
	"Sorry, pal. Grab his gun and let's get out of here. 
I'll go ahead and try to clear you a path out of here."	
	"Uh-huh. Just how far is it to friendly territory."
	"Shouldn't be more than a hundred miles or so."
	"Al!"
	"We aren't going that far. If Blackjack and Jaguar 
saw your chute go down, they'll be sending a team to 
pick you up. All you have to do is get to the shore and 
watch the beach. Shouldn't be more than five, six miles 
from here. Maybe ten."
	"Ten miles. In the jungle."
	"About that. Twelve, tops."
	"Al!"
	"The longer you stand around here yakking, the longer 
it will take... and these joker's friends will be 
looking for them before long. Chances are, they saw the 
chute go down as well."
	"Swell," replied Sam dejectedly as he started off. 
"Any more good news?"
	"Yeah. Watch out for snakes."
	Sam shot Al a glare, but said nothing.

	A few hours later, Sam stopped to rest. The jungle 
looked the same as it did when he had landed, but Al 
assured him that they were now two miles from the coast. 
If they kept up their pace, Sam would make the beach by 
nightfall.
	"What do we do when we get there?" asked Sam.
	"Hide. And watch. If you see anything which is one of 
ours, you can try go get their attention."
	"Do you realize how improbable this sounds?"
	"Yeah, I know. But I can go out into the open and see 
things you can't when you're hiding... uh-oh..."
	"What?"
	"Down!" Al commanded.
	Sam crouched down behind some foliage, staying stock 
still.
	"There's a VC patrol coming by," Al explained. "Try 
not to move."
	Sam nodded but said nothing. A moment later, five 
men, all Vietnamese, all wearing the same kind of 
clothing the first two VC's Sam ran into, walked by, 
passing not more than a few years from where Sam waited, 
hiding. A moment later, they had passed by, deeper into 
the jungle. Al followed for a moment, then returned to 
Sam, still waiting.
	"You can come up now, but keep quiet."
	"Are they gone?" Sam whispered.
	"Yep. Let's move quietly this way... by the way, 
Ziggy now says that your chances of getting captured are 
down to thirty-six percent and falling."
	"That's good news. Let's go."
	Night came quickly, faster than Sam would have liked, 
and they were still in the jungle. He was tired, hot, 
and hungry.
	"How much farther?" he asked Al.
	"About a quarter mile... we're almost there. Want to 
rest a bit?"
	"No. Let's get to the shore, then I'll rest."
	The last quarter mile took nearly an hour, with Sam 
nearly falling off his feet toward the end. His chances 
of capture, according to Ziggy, had gone down to twenty-
two per cent. But beyond a clump of trees, through a 
clearing, Sam could see open space, white sand, and 
black water in the moonlight. He had made it. He sank to 
the ground, exhausted, in the clearing, out of view of 
the shore.
	"Now what?" he asked.
	"Now, we wait. If a friendly patrol boat goes by, 
take the small flare out of your pocket and open it. 
They'll spot it and reel you in."
	"I don't know if I can stay awake that long."
	"Don't worry, Sam. I'll stay awake and keep watch."
	"What time is it?"
	"About twenty-hundred, why?"
	"You've been with me since oh-six-hundred this 
morning... that's fourteen hours. And you're going to 
stay awake?"
	"I've got Tina making triple espressos to keep me 
going."
	"I'd almost kill for one right now."
	Al chuckled in response.
	"I hear you, pal," he said. "Try to relax. If I see 
anything, I'll let you know."
	Sam didn't respond. He was already fast asleep.
	
	"Sam!" shouted Al. "Sam! Wake up! They're here!"
	"Whuzz...?" answered Sam sleepily.
	"There's a SEAL team in a boat offshore... turn on 
your signal flare!"
	"How do you know they're ours?" asked Sam as he 
fumbled for the flare.
	"I went out and checked. They're true-blue, one-
hundred-percent ours. But if you don't signal them, they 
won't find you!"
	Sam walked to the edge of the rainforest, over the 
beach, and looked out over the water.
	"I don't see anything," he said.
	"Trust me! Turn on the flare!"
	Sam broke open the end of the flare and pulled the 
tab; a moment later, it sparked to life, throwing a 
bright orange glow. Sam waved it over his head slowly 
back and forth, still trying to see out over the ocean. 
But all he could make out was the first glimmer of dawn 
in the east.
	"They've spotted you, Sam!" shouted Al, almost 
jumping for joy. "They're coming in!"
	The flare suddenly went dark, spent; Sam tossed it to 
one side and waited. Several minutes later, he saw 
movement on the water, a dark shape moving in toward the 
shore. A moment later, the shape reached the shore, and 
two smaller shapes appeared beside it. Human shapes.
	"Now, Sam! Go! Run!"
	Sam ran for the shore, now able to see the small boat 
waiting. He had about fifty yards of beach to cover. But 
just as he reached the halfway point, a shot rang out, 
and Sam's arm suddenly felt like it was on fire. He 
staggered, then fell, hitting the sand, clutching his 
left arm.
	"Sam!" cried Al.
	One of the men in the boat responded with a burst of 
machine gun fire into the jungle, while another sprinted 
to get to Sam. There was some return fire from the 
jungle; the SEAL with the machine gun concentrated his 
fire on the spot from which it had come. When he stopped 
firing, there was no response. Meanwhile, a second SEAL 
was helping Sam, who had taken a bullet in his left arm, 
into the boat. A moment later, the boat was moving, away 
from the shore, with Sam lying on the bottom of the 
boat, and Al hovering over him -- literally.
	"How... bad ?" Sam gasped.
	"Just a flesh would, Lieutenant," replied the SEAL, 
the one who had helped him to the boat. He had cut open 
the sleeve of Sam's coverall and was applying a bandage. 
	"Yes!" shouted Al triumphantly.
	"How...?" asked Sam, still groggy.
	"Your squad mates saw your chute go down, so we were 
sent to look for you," replied the SEAL.
	"You did it, Sam!" Al exclaimed. "Harmon Rabb returns 
to the Hornet. After he gets the Purple Heart, he gets 
rotated back stateside. Eventually he winds up an 
instructor at the Top Gun facility in Nevada, and 
retires in 1990 at the rank of Captain."
	"Harm Junior?" asked Sam.
	"You'll see your son again, sir," replied the SEAL, 
thinking Sam was talking to him. "You made it back 
safely -- that's a great Christmas present, don't you 
think!"
	"He still loses his night vision in 1992, and he 
still becomes a JAG lawyer. But get this -- since his 
father returned home, he never became obsessed with 
finding him, so things turn out a little differently. 
According to the changed history, he marries one of his 
former JAG partners in the spring of 1999... that was 
just a few months ago..."
	As the light grew in the east, Sam could begin to 
make out the faces of the SEAL team in the boat -- and a 
Navy ship off in the distance.
	"Merry Christmas, sir," said the SEAL. "What's your 
name, anyhow?"
	"Rabb," replied Sam, reaching out his hand. "Harmon 
Rabb, USS Hornet."
	"Pleased to meet you, sir," said the Seal, shaking 
Sam's hand. "Lieutenant j.g. A.J. Chegwidden at your 
service..."
	Suddenly, time seemed to freeze, and things became 
tinged with blue, then surrounded with St. Elmo's Fire 
before vanishing into a white void...

... which, after a moment, resolved itself again into 
another scene. Another jungle scene.
	Oh, no, not another jungle... Sam thought. But before 
he could finish his thought, someone hit him over the 
head with something soft. Next to him, a portly, middle-
aged man in a blue shirt and white slacks was holding a 
hat, looking less than pleased.
	"Gilligan!" he bellowed. "You idiot!"
	Oh, boy...