Hannah's Moon (American Journey Book 5)

by John A. Heldt

  Tom stared at his new acquaintance.

  "She's your neighbor? You're from Chattanooga?"

  Ron nodded.

  "Claire and I moved to Tennessee from California in March to adopt a baby and check out the business community. We live right across from Margaret on St. Elmo Avenue."

  "That's incredible," Tom said. "How is she? I haven't seen her in three years. We were going to marry in forty-two, but we postponed the wedding after I joined the Navy."

  "She's fine," Ron said. "As I'm sure you know, she's teaching at the high school and volunteering once a week at the USO. According to my wife, she's also babysitting a lot. I guess she's really taken to Hannah, my daughter."

  "I believe it. She loves kids."

  "Well, she loves mine."

  "Is she happy?" Tom asked.

  "I think so," Ron said. "She looked happy the last time I saw her. She spoke about you often. She's looking forward to seeing you again and getting on with her life."

  Tom sighed.

  "That makes two of us."

  Ron nodded. He started to ask Tim Bates, the boy with the burns, if he had a girl back in Tampa, but he stopped when he heard a noise that shook him to his core.

  Somewhere in a cluster of sailors about a hundred yards away, a man screamed in a sickening way. He screamed and then shrieked and then stopped.

  Ron looked at his peers and saw that every smile had morphed into a frown. Six hours after the Indianapolis had plummeted to the bottom of the sea, life for its survivors had taken an unpleasant turn. Feeding time had begun.

  CHAPTER 61: DAVID

  Knoxville, Tennessee – Tuesday, July 31, 1945

  David didn't consider the timing of the meeting to be a good sign. He had expected to see Carter Galloway later in the week — after he had been transferred to Chattanooga and maybe absolved of all charges. Now he didn't know what to expect.

  So he waited and wondered. He waited and wondered until his attorney walked into the meeting room wearing a crisp gray suit, a dark blue tie, and a frown.

  "We meet again," Carter said.

  "How is Claire?" David asked.

  "She's fine for now."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means we have a lot to talk about."

  David slumped in his chair as his hired hand claimed the other seat at their table. He had feared bad news. Now it appeared he would get it. He looked at the boss.

  "Does the government still think I'm a spy?"

  "They think you're something," Carter said. "What matters is whether they can prove you're a spy in open court. I still don't think they can."

  David took a breath.

  "You seem less certain than the last time we met."

  "I am."

  "Why? What's changed?"

  Carter opened his briefcase, pulled out what looked like a classified telegram, and placed it on the table. When his client didn't react, he pushed it forward.

  "This has changed."

  David sank again as he read the telegram's primary paragraph. It was a word-for-word copy of a passage he had helped his sister compose.

  "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."

  "Where did you get this?" David asked.

  "The boys at the Bureau gave it to me," Carter said. "They got it from Naval Intelligence. The passage was gleaned from a roll of V-mail microfilm in Guam. It is part of a letter that Claire sent to Ron, a letter that somehow slipped past censors here in the States."

  "Have you shown this to Claire?"

  "I have. I showed it to her this morning."

  "What did she say?" David asked.

  "She said the passage was a warning," Carter replied. "She said she had a feeling Ron's ship was going to sink and tried to warn him before it was too late."

  "She's right."

  "I suspect there's more to this."

  "There's not," David said.

  Carter leaned forward.

  "The Navy thinks otherwise. So does the FBI. They think you and Claire are privy to information that may affect the nation's security."

  For the second time in four days, David realized he had a decision to make. He could tell the truth or lie. Neither option was appealing. Both invited trouble.

  David could only imagine how the Navy and the FBI viewed the passage. Claire had urged her husband to desert a ship carrying the first atomic bomb. She had also told David in April that Ron knew how the war would end and what America would do to Japan. As smoking guns go, her letter and her comments were howitzers on fire.

  Yet what could she do? What could he do? They could not tell authorities they were time travelers from 2017. To do that would be to violate a trust and invite even more trouble.

  The more David considered the matter, the more he became convinced he had to do what Claire had done. He had to play this close to the vest and put the burden on the FBI to prove he was a threat to national security.

  "The authorities are wrong," David said. "I'm not privy to sensitive information. Neither is my sister. She is not a spy. She is not a subversive. She is someone who gets strong hunches and acts on them. In this case, she acted to save her husband's life."

  Carter rubbed his chin.

  "Are you telling me she's some sort of seer?"

  "That's exactly what I'm telling you. She's been this way her whole life," David said. "She has an ability to spot trouble before it happens. Claire is literally clairvoyant."

  "That's catchy. It might get jurors to laugh, but I doubt it will motivate them to acquit Claire — or you — if prosecutors can string any more of these 'coincidences' together."

  "I understand."

  "I hope so," Carter said, "because your freedom may depend on it. I had hoped to get these charges dropped this week, but now I'm worried about getting them dropped at all. I'm going to need more time and a lot more cooperation."

  "I'm not going anywhere."

  "You're not this week."

  David laughed to himself at the understatement. He would be lucky if he were able to leave federal custody before the end of the summer. He looked at his lawyer.

  "Can I ask you a question about the letter?"

  "Of course," Carter said. "I may not be able to answer it, but I'll try."

  "When did the Navy get its hands on it?"

  "My guess is Saturday. The microfilm reached Guam last Wednesday. The mail itself was printed on Thursday and picked up on Friday. Naval Intelligence found Claire's letter over the weekend and contacted the FBI yesterday. They shared the passage with me only because they thought I might be able to persuade you or Claire to come clean. Something is coming up that has them worried. Do you know what that something might be?"

  "No," David lied. "I don't."

  "Then that's what I'll tell them."

  "Thank you."

  Carter eyed his client.

  "Do you have any more questions?"

  David nodded.

  "I do. I have a big one, actually."

  "Yes?"

  "Did Ron get the letter?"

  "I assume that he did," Carter said.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "I say it because Ron was part of a contingent that came ashore in Guam, picked up the mail, and brought it back to the Indianapolis."

  David closed his eyes.

  "Are you sure about this?"

  "I'm positive. I asked about it myself."

  CHAPTER 62: RON

  Philippine Sea

  The sharks that came on Monday did not go away. Many struck in groups, terrorizing sailors for hours. Others hunted alone, picking off individuals with reckless abandon. Some gave warning by approaching along the surface. A few struck without notice from the depths. By sunset on Tuesday, the cold, conscienceless killers h
ad maimed or consumed dozens of men and harassed or terrified countless more.

  Ron was fortunate. He had had just one close encounter with this new enemy. Shortly before noon on Tuesday, as hopes of a quick rescue began to fade, he came face to face with a fourteen-foot tiger. The shark drew a bead on his group from fifty yards out, moved toward the sailors with increasing speed, and then descended as it approached. Four of the men, including Ron, felt the shark's dorsal fin pass between their legs.

  Victor French, the Fresno waiter, survived that encounter but not the next. His luck ran out two hours later when he swam away from the raft to secure a floating crate of oranges. A white-tipped shark tore him to shreds as he reached the fruit. In the blink of an eye, the group of eight became a group of seven.

  Motivated by the tragic death of his comrade, Ron tightened the knot on the fifty-foot tether and helped Tony and the others paddle their raft to the relative safety of a larger gathering. Once there, they linked up with three other rafts, several assorted flotation devices, and more than fifty men to create a new community of survivors in the open sea.

  Though sharks posed the biggest threat to the Indy's crew, they did not pose the only threat. The elements also took a toll. Some men died from the blistering heat of the day, others from the deceptive cool of the night. Those in the eighty-five-degree water after sundown lost an average of one degree of body heat per hour.

  Hopelessness compounded the sailors' physical trials. Men who gave up on a timely rescue gave up on life. Some slipped out of their life jackets and floated away. A few offered themselves to the sharks. Still others, dying of thirst, succumbed the siren song of seawater.

  Ron looked on in horror as some men perished before his eyes. He saw lips turn blue, noses foam, and eyes roll back. Those who didn't die from violent fits fell into comas and drifted off to places from which there was no return.

  Ron tried not to let the senseless deaths affect his own will to survive. As darkness fell yet again on the Philippine Sea, he focused on the reasons to fight his way through another day. He thought of his courageous wife, adorable child, and resourceful brother-in-law. He thought of all the things he wanted to do and still could do if he managed to stay alive until help arrived. The reasons gave him comfort and strength.

  Even so, he was not oblivious to the challenges ahead. He knew from his classes at Great Lakes and his own experience that the human body could go no more than a few weeks without food and a few days without water. If a distress message had not been sent before the Indianapolis sank, those limits might be put to a test.

  Tired, sunburned, and waterlogged, Ron tied his life vest to the rope on the raft and visually assessed the others. Tony and Al signaled their resolve with sad smiles. Jeff and Walt appeared dazed but unbroken. Lieutenant Pennington seemed defeated. He stared blankly into space. Tim Bates, the kid with the burns, wept quietly. When he slid a hand over the side of the raft, Ron clasped it and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  The oldest member of the diverse group did what he could to prepare for the night. When he heard yet another unsettling scream in the distance, he ignored it. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to dream of a better day.

  CHAPTER 63: CLAIRE

  Chattanooga, Tennessee – Wednesday, August 1, 1945

  Claire opened the drapes of her living room window, peeked through the glass, and saw two vehicles parked by the curb. Each was a metaphor for her troubled life.

  The first car, an unoccupied Hudson Six sedan, reminded Claire that her husband, the owner of the car, was no longer around. Ron Rasmussen was no longer around to drive his pride and joy, spend time with his wife, or watch their daughter grow.

  The second car, an occupied black Lincoln, reminded Claire that she was no longer free. She was a woman under house arrest, a subject of surveillance, and a person with limited access to other people, information, and the outside world.

  Claire eyed the driver of the Lincoln and noticed that he looked tired and bored. She wondered what he thought of his job. She did not hate the man or even his superiors. She knew they were only trying to protect the nation. Were the circumstances different, she might have invited the agent into her home for coffee and cake.

  But the circumstances were not different. Six days after the FBI had served her with a warrant and taken her downtown, she still faced the same ridiculous charges and frustrating challenges. Even as a person who had suffered through stillbirths and miscarriages, she could not remember a more difficult time in her life.

  Though she ultimately believed she would prevail in any legal proceeding, she was not as confident as she had been only a few days earlier. She was not confident at all.

  With the discovery of her cryptic letter to Ron, the government now had all it needed to bring its case forward. It had its Exhibit A, the perfect prop for its kangaroo court. It had a strangely worded missive that looked like something a real spy would send.

  The only question now was whether that same government would actually proceed. From the beginning, Claire had wondered why the feds had not shouted the news of her arrest — or David's — from every hilltop. Did they doubt the strength of their case? Did they fear public backlash if they failed to convict a heinous young mother?

  Claire did not know. All she knew on the first day of August was that she faced more trouble than any person should ever have to face. She thought about the past several weeks and wondered how her life could have deteriorated so quickly and drastically.

  As Claire stared out the window, she also thought about people. She thought about her brother, who faced his own legal hell, and her precious daughter, who was now as vulnerable as ever. If she did nothing else in the coming weeks, Claire would do everything in her power to secure Hannah's safety and happiness.

  Claire also thought about the Bells. She wondered if they had reached any of the embassies or collected their mail. She hoped so. If there is one thing she needed now, it was an aunt and an uncle who knew how to get out of a time-travel mess.

  Most of all, Claire thought about Ron. She thought about his physical safety, his state of mind, and his ability to adjust to circumstances beyond his control.

  Claire did not doubt that Ron had survived the sinking of his ship — if, in fact, it had sunk. If, as Carter Galloway believed, he had received her cryptic letter, he would have certainly acted on it. He would have stayed close to the deck, remained alert, and taken every possible measure to stay alive. He would have done what she had wanted him to do.

  Even so, Claire worried. She worried that even a strong man with the advantage of foresight could not prepare for everything. If Ron, in fact, was floating helplessly in the Philippine Sea, he was as vulnerable as any man. Nothing, save the grace of God and perhaps a bit of luck, could save him from a fate that awaited hundreds of others.

  Claire thought about all the possibilities, both good and bad, until she heard a cry in the distance. She stepped back, closed the drapes, and walked toward the small bedroom.

  For a few blissful moments, she set aside FBI agents, criminal trials, and imperiled husbands and focused on something more immediate. At ten after two, Hannah Rasmussen needed a bottle and a diaper. Claire Rasmussen just needed a hug.

  CHAPTER 64: RON

  Philippine Sea

  Ron did not even flinch when the shark, a ten- to twelve-footer, brushed against his side as it circled the perimeter of his flotsam island. He did not flinch or move or pull up his legs because he knew it did not matter. If the shark wanted him, it would have him.

  Ron had reason to be glum. He had seen more death, violence, and futility in the last thirty-four minutes than he had in his first thirty-four years. After three full days in the water, he had resigned himself to whatever God, fate, and nature had in store for him.

  For Ron, the men in his group, and the other survivors, the third day had been the worst. It had been the day they had either stepped up or given up, the day they had asked themselves wheth
er another twenty-four hours was worth it.

  For all too many, the answer to that question had been no. All throughout the day, men and boys, officers and enlisted men, had called it a day and called it a life. Some took charge of their fates and offered themselves to the sharks. Others quietly removed their life vests and surrendered to the sea. Few had expected their ordeal to last more than a day. When it approached three, they made their peace with their maker.

  Many of those who fought for their lives still came up short. They fell to the sharks, succumbed to their wounds, or simply expired from exhaustion, dehydration, or exposure.

  The strongest of the survivors did their best to help others. They comforted the weak, urged wavering sailors to carry on, and shared whatever resources they could find. Many promised to contact the loved ones of their dying peers. All did what they could to make an unbearable experience a little more bearable.

  The noblest men attended to the dead, including the ship's medical officer, a tenacious lieutenant who did what others would not do or could not do. For several hours on Wednesday, the doctor checked motionless sailors for signs of life. When he came upon a dead man, he removed his dog tags, freed him from his vest, and said a blessing before releasing him to the sea. He attended to two members of Ron's group around noon.

  Jeff Baines, the ranch hand from Wyoming, and Walt Kowalski, the Minnesota meatpacker, had not survived the night. Each had succumbed to hyperthermia.

  Using all the strength he could muster, Ron pulled himself onto the raft and checked on the kid with the blistered arms. Tim Bates appeared stable but weak. When Ron whispered to the youth, he mumbled something about his father and went back to sleep.

  Ron lowered himself into the water and looked at his remaining companions, who clung to debris at his right. In each of their faces, he saw hopelessness, despair, and resignation.

  "Be strong, guys," Ron said in a weak voice. "We can do this."

  Al Rossi, Tony Giordano, and Tom Pennington all turned toward Ron and stared at him with defeated eyes. Each let his gaze linger for several seconds, as if punishing their elder for making such a stupid statement. No one said a word. No one had to.