MY CHANGES: Al's Leaping. We're going to pretend that Sam didn't have to Leap again in "A Leap Back" and therefore, Al is still the Leaper. That brings WWII into the available timeframe for possible leaps. (Al was born in '34, Sam not until '53) The revised version of "A Leap Back"'s ending is included as the prologue.

"Wow," Al said in a hushed voice, "when I get back, I think I'll take up tae kwon do or whatever that was."

"Suzanne's over here, Al!" Sam called, "She's hurt!"

All followed the voice, and knelt down beside the girl. "C'mon, honey," he said, hoisting her into a sitting position. Her head lolled sideways against his chest, and he brushed her her hair gently. He looked up at Sam, "How is she?"

Sam poked at the handlink, then answered, "Minor concussion, she'll wake up in seven point three minutes."

"And Clifford?"

"He'll wake up in two point four."

Al frowned over at his would-be killer. "Guess I'll tie him up then." He carefully took off he jacket, trying not to jostle Suzanne. He then gently disengaged from her, pillowing her head on the jacket before approaching Clifford. He next undid his narrow military tie, and used that secure Cliffords wrists behind his back. Al returned to the car and found a piece of rope. He dropped that next to a tree, then, without even attempting not bump the man around too much, Al dragged lifford over to the same tree and propped up against it. The rope was long enough to circle the wide tree and Clifford four times, Al learned by experimentation, then he tied the ropes ends together using a standard but reliable knot that he'd used many times in the Navy.

"How long til Suzanne wakes up now, Sam?"

"Six point one."

"How long will it take to find a phone, call the police, and get back?"

Sam fiddled with the handlink. "Thirteen point nine."

"I'll wait here then," Al said, kneelind down beside the girl and holding her again. When she came to, Al kissed her forehead and Leapt. When he was aware of his surroundings again, he was still in uniform, this time facing a skinny man with a monocle, a fat man with a rifle, and a handsome man with a serious look on his face. "Name, rank, and serial number only," this last said, prompting a glare from the monocled one.

"Albert Calavicci, Rear Admiral, USN, 09343902," Al replied immediately, snapping to ramrod straight attention and staring somewhere over the skinny man's head. He realized his mistake when the officer who had first spoken choked on something between a laugh and a cough. The balding man with the monocle glared at him, clearly not believing him. The white-haired fat man frowned, suspecting, but not convinced of, a lie. *Oh, boy,* Al thought.

Al studied each of them, and realized he was probably in Germany during WWII. If the Luftwafte uniforms of the two older men didn't give it away, the picture of Hitler on the wall beside the dark-haired man was a pretty good indicator. The younger man was American. An Air Force Colonel. Probably the ranking POW officer. *Why did he keep Leaping into POWs?* Al complained silently.

"Name, rank, and serial number. You do need to give them that much," the American said when he stopped laughing, coughing, whatever.

The Geneva Convention said so. Even the Germans were better at following that than the VC was. And the Germans probably wouldn't feed him rice. At least there was that. Al looked helplessly at the American. "Would you believe I don't remember?" he asked, desperately wishing Sam would show up to tell him.

"Considering you were not bumped on the head, no. Not really."

Figures. "Well, I'm, uh," he looked down at his own uniform, then blurted in surprise, "British?"

"Maybe he realy doesn't remember?" suggested the fat German. Al was definitely getting the impression the soldier was a very gullible guard, though so far he'd been the closest to being right. So, either stupid and guillible or brilliant and dangerous. By his uniform and Al's sketchy memory of German military dress, he placed the enlisted soldier tentatively as a field sergent; an almost impossible rank for a fool to attain. The other German was an officer, a colonel, if he had to guess.

"Let me see your dogtags," the American instructed. Dogtags. Right. They would give the requisite information. But where did the guy he leapt into keep them? Al patted his pockets, shook his wrists, then tapped his chest. He felt the warm metal touch his skin, so he drew out the chain around his neck. He undid the clasp and passed the tag and silver chain to the American.

"Edward, Winston L.,," the American read, "Flight Lieutenant, RAF, 64583180."

Al nodded. "Yeah, that's me," he agreed, readily.

"You're sure about that?" the American asked, deadpan.

"Uh," no. "Yeah." The American tossed the tag back to him. He read the name, Edward, Winston Darris The rest was as stated. He fastened the chain back around his neck and dropped the tag back under his shirt. "Close enough." The American kept his peace, but Al was sure the officer didn't believe him.

"What were you doing in Germany, Lt. Edward?" the monocled German asked.

"I don't remember," Al answered, giving his tone a hard edge, as though he were lying.

"You barely got his name, Kommandant," the American said, "I doubt he'll give you anything else."

The Kommandant scowled, but it more resembled a child's pout for all the threat and fear it instilled. Actually, Al suspected a child's pout could be the more threatening and frightening. The kid might start crying or screaming. "Very well," the German sighed. "Put him in your barracks, Hogan."

Hogan looked about to protest the bunking arrangement, but then he shrugged. The American jerked his head, an obvious request to follow him. A glance toward the Kommandant indicated that this was an acceptable thing to do, so he fell in behind the American. A building labelled "Barracks 2" stood directly across a clearing from the Kommandant's office. It was to this building that Hogan lead him. The American opened the door and ushered him inside. The place reminded him of a rustistic version of an orphanage. Five bunkbeds lined the walls, and a table and stove filled the center. A door led off of the main room, and Al guessed it was either a head or the senior POW's private quarters.

The room was filled men, reading on beds, playing cards at the table, talking in corners. Four of them converged on the door as Hogan stepped in. "This is Flight Lieutenant Winston Edward." Hogan introduced Al. "These are," he went around the circle, pointing first to another RAF man, "Corporal Newkirk," a red-shirted man shorter even than Al, "Corporal Lebeau," French, then, if the name was indication; a black man was next, "Sargent Kinchloe," the last was an eager-looking young man in a bomber jacket, "and Sargent Carter."

Remembering he was supposed to be British, Al nodded at each of them in turn, then said "Charmed," when Hogan stopped speaking. Newkirk grinned and Lebeau rolled his eyes. Carter nodded back at him with a wide smile and exclaimed, "Nice to meet ya, boy!" and caught Al's hand in an enthusiastic pumping handshake. This prompted Kinchloe and Newkirk to join Lebeau in rolling their eyes.

Hogan pointed out a bunk with only a mattress on it. "That one's yours. Sheets are in that bin over there," he pointed out a chest in one of the room's corners. "I'll be in my office if you need anything," He strode towards the door Al had noticed earlier. The four he had been introduced to followed, and he was left pretty much alone. He shrugged and went to find himself some sheets.

Hogan shook his head. "I don't know. I don't really trust him."

"Do you think he'll give us a hard time?" Newkirk asked at the same time Carter commented, "He seemed nice to me."

"Kinch get a report on him from London. The rest of you, talk to him. See if you can trip him up." There was a chorus of "yes, Colonel"s, then the meeting broke up. As the four men emerged from Hogan's room, three of them advanced on the newcomer, while Kinch moved to the far side of the room. When the other three had blocked Edward's view of him, he rapped twice on one of the bunks. The bottom bunk rose, revealing a hole and a ladder. Kinch climbed down, then anotherr soldier rapped on bed again, and it returned to its previous state.

Carter offered his assistance with making the Englishman's bed. Edward nodded and offered a side of the sheet. "Never had a top bunk," he said by way of excuse.

"Takes a little while to get used to making them," Carter agreed. "So, you got shot down?"

Edward shrugged. "Guess so."

"You guess so?" Newkirk repeated.

"Something like that."

"Where'd you land?" Lebeau asked, startling Edward by popping up on his other side.

"Germany."

"What squadron did you fly for?" Newkirk asked.

"Uh," he looked suddenly to his left, with obvious relief. "I fly for the squadron of . . ." he said slowly, then trailed off, still watching the same empty space to his left expectantly. Then his expression clouded angrily. "What do you mean, Ziggy doesn't know?! I've been here for almost half an hour! She should know by now what -" he stopped suddenly and looked sheepishly at the three Heroes. "I -uh -" he looked back to his left sharply. "Three days?! I might not have three days! Feed her faster!"

Newkirk slipped away at this point and entered Hogan's room. "He's looney. Keeps talkin' to a mite spot of thin air and tells it he might not have three days. Come see." Hogan followed the Englishman into the main barrack where Edward was indeed speaking to thin air.

"Then talk to the Visitor! He should be able to tell you what squadron he's from! . . . Just ask him, Sam! . . . Well, of course, he thinks he's a POW! He *is* a POW! Send somebody in uniform! He should recognize US Naval officers as friendly even if he is English."

Hogan waved Carter and Newkirk nearer than whisper an instruction to each of them. Then he stepped nearer the newcommer, and playing on a hunch said, "Admiral?"

Edward spun, annoyed, "What?" he snapped. Then his color drained. "I know that. Shut up," he whispered, as though he hoped Hogan wouldn't hear it. The words were obviously not directed at Hogan or any of the other POWs. Hogan cleared his throat. On cue, Carter called "Calavicci!" from one side while Lebeau yelled "Edward!" from the other. Winston Edward turned toward Carter, then cursed. He glared at a point of empty air. "Like you'd do any better in a similiar set-up."

Hogan put a hand on Edward's shoulder and steered him toward his office. "I think it's time for a long chat with you - do you mind if I call you Albert?"

'Edward' grimaced. "I prefer Al."

Carter, Newkirk, and Lebeau filed in behind 'Edward' and Hogan. Hogan sat the newcomer into a chair, and leaned against the table in front of him. The other three flanked their commander. "Ok," Hogan began, "The truth this time. Who are you?"

"Rear Admiral Albert Calavicci from the United States Navy."

"Carter, go tell Kinch to get information on Albert Calavicci, USN."

Carter stepped toward the door, but Calavicci shook his head. "He won't find anything," he said with certainty. "Whoever you ask will say I don't exist. Me and my project are top secret. You won't have clearance, nor will almost anybody you ask." He looked at the air beside Newkirk. "Thank you."

"Won't you introduce us to your friend?" Hogan interrupted the one-sided argument.

''Oh, uh, you can't see Sam. He's part of that top secret project I can't talk about. Suffice to say he's invisible and inaudible to everyone but me. That does not leave this room, I'm probably breaking reams of regulations just telling you that much."

"How did you get here? With Edward's dogtags?"

"I was performing a test run of Sam's invisiblity thingamabob as part of a servaillance exercise. We were working with the RAF. If something went wrong, I didn't want to have to explain what a US Navy Admiral was doing behind enemy lines, so the Flight Lieutenant and I switched dog tags and I put on one of his uniforms. This was before we even left England. Flight Lieutenant Edward wasn't even on this mission. I just knew him from the Officer's Club. I think he was flying a different mission the day after we left. Anyway, Sam and I were set down near - " he glanced toward 'Sam' " - Hammelburg where Sam tried walking around the town to see if anyone either saw him or had anything useful to say. He speaks German fluently. I don't. So when the two nozzles came up behind me while I was watching my partner, they figured out right quick I wasn't supposed to be there." He glanced at 'Sam' again, "Yeah, the uniform didn't help, either. But I never expected to be taken prisoner, so I never got around to memorizing Edward's serial number, or," he nodded at Hogan, "checking to see what his middle name was. That's why I couldn't recite it for the Kommandant."

Hogan nodded slowly. Then said, "You do realize you are in violation of the Geneva Convention?"

Calavicci shrugged. "I did give them the truth first. Is it my fault nobody believed me?" He frowned, "Actually the fat one might have."

"If you told Shultz you were Hitler, he might have believed you," Hogan laughed. "Don't worry about him." He turned serious again. "Now, it's not that we don't trust you, but we don't quite trust you yet. Can you and Sam give us a demonstration?"

Calavicci shrugged. "Sure, I guess. Hold some fingers up behind your backs, and Sam will peek for me." After a moment, he said, "Carter's got two, Lebeau has seven, you have four, and Newkirk has the Ace of Spades. Do you want that split into right and left hands, too?" The answer was obviously 'no' as the four Allies brought their hands in front of them. Carter held his two pointers in front of him as though he'd never seen fingers before. Lebeau demonstrated that he had held up five fingers on one hand, and two on the other. Hogan brought around a closed fist and four held up fingers. Newkrk grinned and showed off his card before making it disappear back under his sleeve.

"Wowee, boy!" Carter exclaimed, finally dropping his fingers to his sides. "That's pretty neat!"

"Do you know what I could do if I were invisible?" Newkirk asked, notes of wonder and envy in his voice.

"Observe," Calavicci said, sharply. "That's all he can do. Sam literally can't interact with his surrounding except by talking to me. He passes right through things if he tries to touch them. That goes for drawers, pens, women, anything."

Newkirk looked taken aback. "Oh. Well then I like being visible."

Calavicci stared in shock at a point of air. "I can't believe you just said that, Sam. Even I wouldn't have said it." He paused, listening. "No, I wouldn't have. And I'd welcome my mind back, thank you very much. I'm getting sick of these pure thoughts. You didn't see the Kommandant's secretary, but I had nothing but pure thoughts. It was disgusting." His eyes tracked something nobody else could see, "Sam! Get back here! And keep your mind out of the gutter . . . Well, you should be sorry. Does Ziggy have anything for me yet?"

"Who's Ziggy?"

Calavicci looked back at Hogan. "That's my radioman's codename. Sam's got a radio that's as invisible and inaudible as he is. Except to Ziggy who's back in England."

"You can contact England?" Hogan asked, leaning forward.

"I can contact Ziggy," Calavicci didn't answer. "Ziggy's in England but she isn't England," he explained. "If she told anybody anything there's no reason anybody would believe her."

"Why?"

"If you were a London official and a six year old girl told you her invisible radio told her that there was an Admiral and an invisible man in a POW camp do you think you would believe her?"

Carter stared at him with impossibly wide eyes. "Your radioman is a six-year old girl?"

Calavicci shrugged. "Who'd suspect her?"

"And I suppose Sam is her twin brother?" Hogan asked with a laugh.

"No. He's her father."

"Oh." There was a brief uncomfortable silence.

"What does her mother say about her daughter's job?" Carter asked, curiously.

"Donna," Calavicci began, then looked at 'Sam'. "Well, yeah, you'd best remember her next time that secretary comes up, You can't hide behind swiss cheese for an excuse anymore." He looked back to Carter. "Donna's very proud of Ziggy." Calavicci smirked at 'Sam'. "Ziggy's very proud of Ziggy, too." He looked abruptly towards Hogan. "Is there a head somewhere near here I could use?"

"Yeah. The outhouse is two buildings down to the right."

"Thanks," He roase and hurried from the room. The heroes exchanged glances as the door closed behind him. "What do you guys think of Albert Calavicci?" Hogan opened the discussion.

"I wish I had an invisible friend," Carter said wistfully.

Newkirk's expression turned suddenly thoughtful. "Yeah," he said dreamily, "Think of the poker games."

Hogan shook his head. "Can we trust him?"

"Well he's not RAF," Newkirk declared.

"He does answer to 'Admiral' and 'Calavicci'," Lebeau pointed out.

"And he knew what fingers we held up behind our backs," Carter added.

"Ok, so we're sure he's not Flight Lieutenant Winston Edward. We are pretty sure he is Admiral Albert Calavicci who has an invisible friend. But can we trust him."

"He worked on a top secret project, and that Sam could be real helpful with some of the stuff we do," Carter said.

Hogan nodded, "We know only as much about his project as was obvious once he started arguing with Sam. He gave a little too much away about Ziggy, though the names Sam and Donna may or may not be real."

"Sam, at least, is likely his real name," Lebeau said.

Hogan agreed. "He says it too often and too easily for it to be an alias, I think."

"Overall, I think I trust him. He's not working for the Jerries. I'd bet the crown jewels on that," Newkirk decided.

Carter and Lebeau nodded their agreement.

Hogan nodded slowly. "There's just one thing that bothers me about them."

"What's that, Colonel?"

"'I'd welcome my mind back, thank you very much.' I'd really like to hear them talk when they thought they were alone . . . Carter! Did you ever take down the bug in the outhouse?"

Carter looked into the middle distance. "No, I forgot to."

"Hook it up to the cofee maker."

"You got it, boy, uh, sir!" It took only a moment before the voices filled the room.

"What am I here for, Sam? If I'm supposed to make Edward fit in, I've miserably failed. Maybe we can get him transfered to another POW camp?" Several moments of silence then, "They were what? Sam! They're prisoners of war! Granted this place is a whole lot nicer than the POW camp I was in in Vietnam, but they can't just get up one morning and decide, 'let's go to Hammelburg tonight and blow up the ball bearings factory there.'" The heroes exchanged nervous looks.

"I don't think I trust him anymore," Lebeau whispered. "How does he know this?"

Before anyone could reply, Calavicci began speaking again, "Kick in the butt," he whispered in an awed tone. "And the German nozzles don't have a clue this is happening right under their noses?"

"Told you he wasn't German," Newkirk whispered into the short silence that indicated Sam was speaking.

"So what do I do, Sam? Stop them from going altogether?"

"'Not working for the Jerries,' eh?" Lebeau growled.

"Look, Sam, I might have been five years old when World War II started, but I was alive and I heard the radio reports about what those Nazis did in their concentration camps. My second - third? - wife was Jewish. If I can do something, I'm not going to spend this whole leap cooling my heels in a POW camp and preventing these guys from doing whatever they can to give the bastards what's coming to them."

"Not working for the Jerries," Newkirk repeated.

"I don't care what that egotistical pile of bolts says, Sam. People die in war. I like Carter and Newkirk, too, but they must know everytime they go out their putting their lives on the line. If I can convince them to bring me - and you - what are their chances of survival then?"

Carter and Newkirk exchanged glances. "Sounds like he knows we're gonna die."

"Well, capture is better than - oh. Yeah, I guess that would put the whole operation in jeopardy, wouldn't it? At least when they're dead they can't be tortured into saying that they hadn't escaped with no intention of going back or that Hogan was behind the whole thing."

"We wouldn't say that," Carter denied, "Even under torture."

"Ok, Sam, so assuming I can get them to bring me, suppose I do whatever it is they were doing when they were found. What are Ziggy's odds, then?"

"Crown jewels say Ziggy isn't a six year old girl," Newkirk said.

"No bet," Lebeau agreed.

"78's a whole lot better than before. Keep running scenarios. They'll start wondering why I'm not back yet. Oh, and keep working on the retreval program. This is only my second leap and I'm already homesick. That's probably more of your influence . . . Sam? You're sure I wasn't born in Elk Ridge? . . . Chicago's Little Italy. Huh. Was it nice there? Sam? Sam! I'm talking to you! Don't you dare close that door! Sam!" A sigh. "I suppose the answer is 'no', then, huh? That's what I did everytime I didn't want to answer."