Hannah's Moon (American Journey Book 5)

by John A. Heldt

  David put his fingers to his temples and searched his memory. Within seconds, he recalled a conversation that could not have sounded innocent to an eavesdropper.

  "He knows how this war will end. He knows what we will do to Japan."

  "What 'delicate matters' are you talking about?" David asked.

  Carter frowned.

  "The agent in question heard you mention Japan, the Navy, and living as fugitives in Mexico. Assuming that he heard you correctly, the conversation does not look good."

  "No. It does not."

  "Did you and Claire discuss these things?"

  David knew the second he heard the question that he had a decision to make. He could either tell the truth or lie. If he told the truth, he might help his defense but raise even more questions he did not want to answer. If he lied, he might put Claire at risk. He had no idea what, if anything, she had already told federal authorities. He looked at Carter.

  "Has Claire said anything to the FBI?"

  "She has not," Carter said. "I asked her to remain silent until I had a chance to speak with you and get to the bottom of this."

  David pondered the matter again. He now realized he had an opportunity to set the narrative and perhaps make things easier for Claire. He also concluded there was no chance the FBI had electronically recorded a conversation at a diner in 1945.

  "Claire and I have discussed the Navy and Japan many times," David said. "Like most Americans, we're concerned about our servicemen in the Pacific. So it's possible, even likely, that we discussed these things at the diner, but we did not talk about living as fugitives in Mexico. That's just nonsense."

  "I thought so," Carter said.

  David stared at his attorney.

  "Is that all they have on us?"

  Carter rubbed his hands together.

  "That's most of it. The FBI is also interested in Claire's frantic phone calls to Mare Island and your activities of the past several weeks, ranging from your frequent trips to the munitions factory to your recent visit with the wife of a former Oak Ridge engineer."

  "You sent me to the munitions factory," David said. "Each time I've gone there, I've gone on official business."

  Carter nodded.

  "That's what I told I told the agents."

  David took a breath.

  "So what is this about?"

  "I don't know. This is the strangest case I've ever seen."

  "How so?"

  Carter frowned.

  "Well, for one thing, the FBI has gone out of its way to keep this quiet. The Bureau has said nothing to the press and kept local law enforcement in the dark."

  "Why would it do that?" David asked. "One would think the FBI would trumpet the arrests of two 'subversives' trying to undermine the war effort."

  "One would think."

  "Why else is this case strange?"

  Carter leaned back in his chair.

  "It's strange because the feds are treating Claire differently than you, even though she is charged with the same crime. If they believed she was a threat to the nation, they would have opposed my request for house arrest."

  "So let me rephrase," David said. "What do you think this is about?"

  Carter leaned forward.

  "I think it's about keeping you and Claire under wraps. The feds don't have a case that would stand up in court. They don't have proof you passed secrets to the enemy or even made contact with the enemy. All they have is circumstantial evidence. My guess is that they don't want to prosecute you but rather detain you."

  David sighed.

  "Why would they want to 'detain' us?"

  "I don't know. I was hoping you could help with that," Carter said. "Can you think of anything you have said or done in the past few months that might give them the impression you are a threat to national security?"

  David laughed to himself. Other than travel through a time portal and carry a boatload of knowledge from 2017 to 1945, he couldn't think of a thing.

  "I can't," David said. "We've done nothing but go about our lives since coming to Tennessee. We support the war and our country. Ron is fighting for our country right now. This is nothing more than a misunderstanding."

  "I tend to agree," Carter said.

  "So where do we go from here?"

  "We plead not guilty to the charges on Monday and prepare your case."

  "Do you think this will go to trial?" David asked.

  "No," Carter said. "I don't. As soon as officials are faced with publicly prosecuting a young mother without sufficient evidence, they will drop the charges against both of you like a hot potato. As I said, I think they want to hold you and not imprison you."

  "I hope so."

  "Don't lose faith. I'll get these charges dismissed. In the meantime, I'll do my best to get you transferred back to Chattanooga. I see no reason for the Bureau to keep you here even one more day."

  "Thanks," David said.

  "Don't mention it," Carter replied. "It's the least I can do for my star employee."

  CHAPTER 56: RON

  Apra Harbor, Guam

  Sitting near the bow of a motor launch carrying sixty sailors to their ship, Ron Rasmussen held onto his seat and smiled at those around him. He smiled not only because it was a nice thing to do but also because it was an ideal way to hide the kind of seasickness that had plagued him since San Francisco.

  In part because of his lingering unease with the sea, Ron happily volunteered to accompany Captain Charles Butler McVay, a dozen officers, and forty sailors on a short shore leave. It was the first time in two weeks that the family man, business owner, and reluctant member of the Greatest Generation had stepped onto dry land.

  As the launch bounced its way toward the Indianapolis, moored in Apra Harbor, Ron studied some of the faces in the boat. Some were new. Others were not.

  The old faces belonged to McVay and those who had joined him on his round-trip journey from the cruiser to CINCPAC headquarters, a wooden, two-story building on Guam that overlooked the harbor and the sea. Some of the men were hardened veterans who had been with the Indy as far back as the New Guinea campaign of February 1942, one of the first U.S. initiatives of the war in the Pacific. Others, like Ron, were fresh out of Great Lakes.

  Many of the new faces belonged to men replacing those who had been reassigned to Guam or ordered to other stations. Though most were enlisted men, at least six were officers, including a trim lieutenant who had captured Ron's attention at headquarters.

  The officer, who appeared to be in his mid-twenties, had told a peer that he hailed from Nashville and was engaged to a Chattanooga teacher. Ron had no doubt that the lieutenant was Tom Pennington, Margaret Doyle's fiancé. He planned to introduce himself at the earliest opportunity and perhaps talk about a woman they both admired.

  Ron let his mind drift for a moment and then gazed at a man who guarded something more valuable than the captain himself: six canvas bags of U.S. mail. He envied any man who possessed something that hundreds of his peers considered priceless.

  He hoped that one of the bags contained a letter from Claire, but he was more pessimistic than optimistic. Mail moved slowly, even with new advances. He would probably not get news from home or anywhere else for at least another week.

  Ron wanted news. He wanted to know that Claire was coping well with a turn of events that was as surprising as it was troubling. He wanted to know that Hannah was happy and healthy and reaching milestones and that David was holding the family together.

  He smiled at the sailor with the mail, the keeper of so many treasures, and then turned his thoughts to the approaching ship and his mission. There was a lot to think about when you participated in one of the greatest military offensives in history.

  As a young man growing up in the age of cell phones, hybrid cars, and social media, Ron had rarely thought about the armed services. Though he respected people who enlisted and honored those who served, he did not feel compelled to follow their lead.

  Even as an eig
hteen-year-old on September 11, 2001, he did not hear the call to serve. He was a freshman at the University of Colorado, a savvy business major, and a football player with a promising future. Joining the military was something that others did.

  Now that he was in the military, he looked at things differently. The Navy was no longer a temporary annoyance. It was a means to an important end. In two months at boot camp and two weeks at sea, Ron had come to realize that there was more to life than convenience and expediency. There was duty, honor, and commitment. He wanted to return to his family, but he wanted to do it the right way. He wanted to make them proud.

  Ron turned again to the captain with the vaguely familiar name, the officers at his side, and the sea dogs, young and old, who made the Navy work. He wondered if they understood the importance of their roles, not only as engineers, machinists, electricians, and clerks but also as warriors in the war against tyranny.

  He suspected they did. Even in the short time he had served at sea, he had seen men change. He had watched frightened boys and disinterested men, people who did not know that peace was nearly at hand, come together and adopt a can-do spirit.

  Twenty minutes later, the time traveler climbed out of the launch, boarded the cruiser, and shifted his focus from the big picture to the small. World War II, he thought, could wait another day. The USS Indianapolis could not.

  He checked in with his division officer, received his instructions, and walked toward the stern. He headed not to the engine room but rather to the mailroom, where some swell guy had brought aboard ten thousand letters from Guam.

  Ron laughed at the irony but did not complain. Even if he spent the next twenty-four hours putting letters into boxes, he would still come out ahead. Compared to what others had done in four horrendous years of war, sorting mail was a walk in the park.

  CHAPTER 57: RON

  Philippine Sea – Saturday, July 28, 1945

  When Warren King called out the names of lucky sailors, the Indianapolis was a hundred miles from Guam and steaming toward the Philippines. Ron did not expect to hear his name called, but he listened anyway. There was always a chance, he thought, that the officer, a cocky, engaging man of thirty, had something for him.

  "Pierce! Write your mother," King said. "Jones! Pay your bills."

  The division mail petty officer reached into a bag and distributed letters, postcards, and packages like a Santa Claus with attitude. He seemed to relish every second. He shook boxes like rattles and treated bills like public notices. If he discovered a letter bathed in perfume or an envelope sealed with lipstick, he announced it to the world.

  "Giordano!"

  Tony Giordano stepped forward.

  "I'm coming."

  "Your girlfriend wrote," King said.

  Tony collected his letter.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Don't call me sir. I work for a living."

  Ron laughed as Tony retreated to his bunk and King made sport of Seamen Patterson, Martinez, and Green. When it became apparent he was not going to hear "Rasmussen" in the mail call — or at least hear it anytime soon — Ron walked to the back of the berthing compartment to check up on his friend.

  Tony sat on the edge of his bunk and held his mail with both hands. As he read the two-sided letter, he appeared to be glued to every word.

  "What did Carla write?" Ron asked.

  Tony looked up.

  "I don't know. I'm not done yet."

  Ron smiled and then returned his attention to King, who announced that Specialist Dennis Lane had three letters from "Gina" and Yeoman Marty Gray had a package from his "mama." He wondered if life in the Navy had always been this entertaining and suspected that it had. Even Hollywood couldn't make this stuff up.

  Ron sat down next to Tony and watched with interest as the New Yorker flipped the sheet and started reading the second page. He didn't know what Carla Romano had written this time, but he figured it must be something good. He laughed to himself when he saw his friend chuckle and then smile and then grin.

  "OK," Ron said. "Now you have to tell me."

  Tony lowered the letter to his lap.

  "Carla says she'll marry me. She wants to get hitched."

  "That's great. I'm happy for you."

  Tony took a deep breath, placed his hands at his sides, and looked at Ron with moist eyes. He had clearly expected a different kind of letter.

  "I am the happiest man on this ship."

  Ron put a hand on the happy man's shoulder.

  "I can't argue with that. When does she want to get married?"

  "She didn't say," Tony said. "She wants my thoughts on the matter first. Imagine that. I'm going to marry a woman who wants my thoughts on a matter. Am I lucky or what?"

  "You're lucky."

  "I didn't see this coming. I really didn't."

  "It doesn't matter," Ron said. "What matters is that you're going to get married to a wonderful woman and have a happy life."

  "I want you to be there, big guy," Tony said. "If you don't show up, I'll have my cousins hunt you down."

  Ron laughed. He didn't have the slightest idea how to handle that comment. For the first time since meeting Tony Giordano, he suspected he was more than a coffee vendor.

  "I'll do what I can."

  Ron started to ask a question but stopped when King shouted out his name. Just like that, his mail-call experience went from humorous to tender to mysterious.

  "Rasmussen? Where are you?" King asked.

  "I'm back here," Ron said.

  "Well, get your ass up here. Someone likes you."

  Ron popped up from the bunk and stepped toward the front of the quarters, where King waved a letter like a winning lottery ticket. He felt his heart pound as he closed in on his first mail in more than two weeks. A few seconds later, he took the letter from King.

  "Thanks," he said.

  Ron walked to a semiprivate corner of the compartment as the petty officer resumed his business and called out more names. He glanced at the beige envelope and saw that it contained a thin letter. It was a V-mail with "War & Navy Departments" stamped in the upper left corner, where one would expect to find the name and address of the sender.

  He quickly opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He needed only a second to see that the sheet was a reproduction of a letter from his wife.

  Ron started reading and found what he expected to find: confirmation that his last letter had arrived, a brief rundown of Hannah's accomplishments, and news about her health. Then he reached the end of the one-page letter and found something he didn't expect to find: a reference to a movie that would not be made for almost forty years.

  "Remember when Mel Gibson performed with Anthony Hopkins? Remember what he did when he reached paradise? I think you should do the same. Do it the next time you have the chance. Do it for Hannah. Do it for me. I have a sinking feeling you will not get another opportunity. Our resident historian agrees."

  Ron stuffed the letter in his pocket and slumped against a wall as he mulled the cryptic reference. Claire wanted him to do what Mel Gibson, playing Fletcher Christian, had done in the 1984 remake of Mutiny on the Bounty. She wanted him to step off his ship, like Christian had done in Tahiti, and never come back.

  Ron didn't need to guess why. Claire had all but spelled it out. With Okinawa in the books and the war on the verge of ending, only one possible threat remained.

  My ship is going to sink.

  CHAPTER 58: CLAIRE

  Chattanooga, Tennessee – Sunday, July 29, 1945

  Sitting in the recliner in her living room, Claire checked her watch for the fifth time in thirty minutes, fidgeted, and sighed. She had fidgeted and sighed a lot since figuring out that the USS Indianapolis, her husband's ship, would meet its end at eleven seventeen.

  At eleven oh five on this quiet Sunday morning, that gave her twelve more minutes to fidget, sigh, and worry as she waited for a disaster to unfold. She dreaded each second.

  "I hate
this," Claire said. "I hate every bit of it."

  "I don't blame you," Margaret said. She sat with Hannah on the sofa on the other side of the room. "I would go crazy if I were under house arrest."

  Claire laughed to herself. While obsessing about Ron's safety, she had forgotten that she was still confined to her home, separated from her brother, and headed for a trial that could result in years of imprisonment. She wondered if life could get any worse.

  "I was thinking about my separation with Ron, but I guess I'm not so thrilled about my legal situation either," Claire said. "This hasn't been the best of years."

  Margaret forced a smile.

  "I imagine it hasn't."

  Claire abandoned her vigil for a moment and studied the woman on the couch. Though she was happy to have her companionship, she was not as happy to have her silence. Margaret had said little to Claire since being cleared by the FBI to be her only unofficial visitor. For that reason alone, she approached the coming conversation with caution.

  "You haven't said much about my predicament," Claire said. "Is there any reason why?"

  Margaret frowned.

  "I don't know what to say."

  "Do you believe the charges against us have merit?"

  "No."

  Claire stared at her friend.

  "You don't say that with much conviction."

  Margaret smiled sadly.

  "I guess I'm a little confused."

  "I don't understand," Claire said.

  Margaret did not reply right away. She instead turned to Hannah, wiped her runny nose with a soft cloth, and handed the girl her favorite doll. When she was done attending to the toddler, she took a deep breath, gazed at Claire, and expanded on her comment.

  "I have a confession to make," Margaret said.

  "Are you a spy too?" Claire asked.

  "No. I'm worse. I'm a snoop."

  "You're a snoop?"

  "That's probably the kindest way to put it."