The Violent Sea

by Russell Moran

  The Violent Sea

  Russell F. Moran

  The Violent Sea

  Coddington Press

  Copyright © 2018 by Russell F. Moran

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN-13: 978-0-692-03457-6

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission from the publisher or the author, except where permitted by law. Contact the publisher for information on foreign rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  www.morancom.com

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the men and women of the United States Navy.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As always, I thank my wife, Lynda, for her attentive reading, rereading, and editing of my many drafts, and for laughing at my jokes. I also thank my friend and editor, John White, for his keen editorial eye. And I especially thank my readers, many of whom are a constant source of inspiration and encouragement for me.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  You will find a Cast of Characters after the last chapter of the book. It can be frustrating to come across a character on page 150, who you first met on page 20, especially if you’ve put the book down for a few days. I’ve seen this done in Russian literature, and I happily add a cast of characters to The Violent Sea

  as well as my other novels.

  The Violent Sea

  Chapter 1

  “Here, drink this,” the nurse said. “You’re not taking in enough liquids.”

  Good idea, I thought. I was thirsty as hell. I downed the glass of water in two gulps. But where am I? I wondered. Well, in a hospital obviously, but why?

  “Excuse me,” I said, speaking loudly because the nurse was about to leave the room. The act of raising my voice caused a lightning bolt of pain to zing through my head. My eyes went blurry and I felt nauseous. She turned around and walked back to my bed.

  “I’m sorry, Nancy (she wore a name badge), but could you please tell me what I’m doing here. My brain is a bit scrambled.” Nancy was a pleasant lady, slender, about sixty years old. She wore an old-fashioned nurse’s cap, making her look like a nun. Her gray-speckled hair was done up like a woman from a 1940s movie.

  “A bit scrambled? You’ve suffered one of the worst concussions we’ve seen here in quite a while. That’s why you rate a private room. Here, take a look.”

  She held up a mirror. Holy shit, I looked like I collided head-on with a train. My forehead was swollen and my face was discolored, a pretty mix of purple, red, yellow, and could that be green?

  “Where am I? I know it’s a hospital, but where?”

  “You’re at the base hospital at Pearl Harbor.”

  Pearl Harbor? Sounds familiar, I thought.

  “Please explain what happened to me.”

  “You were in Building 19, God knows why, and you apparently tripped and slammed your head against an engine block. Pretty stupid of them to put an engine block in the middle of the floor if you ask me. The place has no electricity and the windows are boarded up. From what the shore patrol guy said, it seems that you walked off a step to a lower level and fell forward, resulting in what you just saw in the mirror.”

  “Why would an engine block be in a building?”

  “Building 19 is used for storage, because nobody seems to know what to do with it. I guess nobody told you but Building 19 is strictly off limits to everyone. Apparently, you didn’t read the signs all over it saying, ‘Keep Out.’ You’re lucky a shore patrolman looked inside and found you lying on the floor. We think you may have been there for over an hour. The doctors don’t think you have any permanent brain damage, thank God. Like I said, you were lucky.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Exactly one week. I’m glad to see that you’re talking. This is the first sign of consciousness you’ve shown. You had one nasty concussion.”

  “What was I doing in that, what was it, Building 19?”

  “Senior brass wants to know exactly that. The building is off limits because a man disappeared from there about three weeks ago. Nobody’s seen him since. It’s become known as the Mystery of Pearl Harbor. Hey, mister, you have a lot of questions. Do you mind if I ask you a few?”

  “Of course. Could I please have some more water?”

  “You can have as much water as you want. So, let me ask you a couple of questions. Who are you, and what’s your name?”

  Oh, my God. My head started throbbing again. I could not believe I couldn’t answer her simple question—and it was a good question. Who am I?

  “I’m sorry, Nancy, but I don’t have an answer.”

  “Don’t feel bad, sailor. Temporary amnesia is common with a severe concussion. Let’s just talk a bit and see if anything jars your memory. You were wearing what looked like an exercise suit when the shore patrolman found you. It was all sweaty. A name was stenciled on the upper right front, which leads us to believe that you’re in the Navy. No rank, just a name, a last name. Close your eyes and picture yourself in that outfit. What name appears to you?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t recall a name. But things are starting to come back to me.”

  “Well, sailor, you’re doing great, my friend. We’ll just keep talking, and your memory will come back to you.”

  “Nancy, sorry but I have another question. This room looks strange to me, sort of like, I think the word I’m looking for is old. Yes, this room looks like it’s from another time, like old pictures I’ve seen. I guess that sounds crazy.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about sounding crazy. You’re doing fine. Let’s just keep talking. I’m surprised you said this room looks old. It’s part of a new wing that was built after the old one was damaged in the attack.”

  “Attack? Somebody attacked a hospital?”

  “They attacked anything in sight, including this hospital.”

  “Who were they? Who attacked the hospital?”

  “The Japanese, of course.”

  Japanese? Pearl Harbor?

  “Nancy, please hand me that newspaper.”

  “Sure thing. Let’s see how your reading skills are doing.”

  I looked at the date on the first page. May 16, 1942. Shit, I must be hallucinating. But from what I know about hallucinations, you’re not supposed to be aware that it’s you doing the hallucinating.

  “Hey, sailor, you look pale. Do you want to rest a bit?”

  I dozed off. When I woke up, Nurse Nancy was walking into my room with another pitcher of water.

  “So, sailor, any new recollections you want to tell me about? Do you recall being in the Navy?”

  “Yes, I’m in the Navy.” My memory was starting to reassemble the pieces in my mind.

  “Are you stationed on a ship?”

  “Yes, definitely yes. The USS Gerald R. Ford, an aircraft carrier. It’s my flagship.”

  “Your flagship?”

  “Yes, I’m Rear Admiral Harry Fenton, the Commanding Officer of Carrier Strike Group 14.”

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, admiral. My name is Florence Nightingale. Now get some more sleep, sailor.”

  Chapter 2

  “Good morning, Admiral Spruance,” said Commander Mike Johnson, his chief of staff. “I know you’re concerned about the secrecy of our upcoming engagement and I thought you should know about a phone call I just got from the base hospital. It’s about that guy who was found unconsci
ous in Building 19, the guy with the name Fenton on his exercise gear. According to Nancy Munson, the head nurse, the guy claims that he’s an admiral named Harry Fenton. He said he was looking for a ship named USS Gerald R. Ford. Then he said that the Ford was his flagship.”

  “Do the nurses or doctors think the man is dangerous?”

  “No, sir. Nurse Munson says he’s a pleasant guy, although obviously a lunatic. I think his concussion may have given him more brain damage than they originally diagnosed. Should I arrange for shore patrol to transfer him to the lockup on base?”

  “Bring him to me first. As you know, we’re about to engage in a major deployment. I want to know if this character is a spy.”

  ***

  After two weeks in the hospital, my brain was finally unscrambled. Not only do I know who I am, but I’ve figured out what happened to me. I traveled through time. If I told that to the people at the hospital, I’m sure they would have transferred me to the psych ward. But I’ve time traveled before, and I know what it’s like. That Building 19 where they found me unconscious doesn’t exist in 2018, the year I came from. After a jog, I took a shortcut across a grassy area from the parking lot to the pier where my ship was berthed. The daylight turned dark and the ground rumbled. Next thing I knew I was inside a darkened building. I remember tripping over some debris on the floor. That’s all I remember about the incident. God takes good care of us by surrounding a traumatic event with amnesia. I didn’t know about smashing my head into an engine block, but they told me about it in the hospital. From what I saw in the mirror, I didn’t doubt what they said. According to the nurses and doctors, I suffered a wicked concussion. But I’m okay now, now being May 23, 1942, just 10 days before the Battle of Midway. I’ve just been released from the hospital and I’m being led up the gangway to the USS Enterprise—under armed guard—to see Admiral Raymond Spruance. I still sported a couple of black eyes, but my face was returning to normal and my headaches were gone. My guess is that Spruance thinks I’m a spy, having heard my story from head nurse Munson. I don’t blame him. I’d suspect the same thing given the circumstances. Spruance was the commander of Carrier Task Force 16, if I recall, and he was about to embed himself in the history books as the hero of the Battle of Midway. Impossible? I thought my situation was impossible on my last journey through time. That little trip took me and the passengers on my ship back over 100 million years. Long story. This time travel shit is getting old.

  I’ve got to call Meg, I thought. My wife, Meg, is the most important person in my life. Whenever I’m stuck on something, talking to her always leads me in the right direction. But how the hell can I call Meg? I’m in 1942 and she’s in 2018. The Navy pays me to take command and lead people through problems. But I didn’t feel like I was in command of anything, including myself.

  “Come with me, Mr. Fenton. Admiral Spruance wants so see you.” At least I wasn’t cuffed. Bad practice. If I were them I would have put me in handcuffs.

  Admiral Spruance wants to see me? Time travel can be fascinating, but what the hell am I going to tell him, I thought. “Oh, I just jogged here from the year 2018 and I figured I’d stop by to say hello.”

  “Admiral Spruance will see you now,” his assistant said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Fenton. My chief of staff tells me that you were just released from the base hospital. The head nurse, Nancy Munson, told us you have some interesting stories. Tell us about yourself.”

  Should I make up stories? No, I’ll just tell the truth and let him sort it out.

  “Yes, sir. I’m Rear Admiral Harry Fenton, commanding officer of Carrier Strike Group 14 stationed here at Pearl Harbor. Where I come from we no longer use the words carrier task force but strike group. Don’t ask me why. I think the Navy likes to keep us on our toes by changing words. My flagship is the USS Gerald R. Ford.”

  I could tell from the expression on his face, that Spruance thought I was a total nut case, and who could blame him?

  “And who, may I ask, is Gerald R. Ford, the man your ship is supposedly named after?”

  “He is, or rather was, the 38th President of the United States. He passed away in the year 2006.”

  “You realize Mr. Fenton, that your story is totally insane. The year 2006 is, let me see, 64 years from now. Please explain.”

  “I know you’re a serious leader, admiral, one of the finest in our Navy’s history. Therefore, I’m going to tell you the simple truth. I have traveled through time. I’m 44 years old and I came here from the year 2018, 76 years from now.”

  “Well, of course that clears it up, Mr. Fenton, you’re a time traveler. Why didn’t I realize that? Let’s stop with your fantastic nonsense and do me the honor of answering a few questions. To start with, who are you working for, the Japanese or the Germans?”

  “Neither, sir. I work for the United States Navy. I understand that you’re concerned that I may be a spy, and your concern is understandable. Ten days from now you will lead Carrier Task Force 16 in an attack on the Japanese fleet, an engagement that will become known as the Battle of Midway. You will succeed beyond anyone’s dreams, defeating the Japanese fleet and sinking four of their carriers and one heavy cruiser. You will inflict irreparable damage, and the battle will go down in history as the turning point in the Pacific theater of the war. You will be known as one of the finest admirals in American history. I also know that you have taken command after Admiral Halsey came down with a bad skin condition and is still hospitalized as we speak. I know that Admiral Halsey himself suggested to Admiral Nimitz that you replace him.”

  Spruance stared at me, his eyes not blinking. He stood, walked across the room and poured himself a glass of water. He held up a glass to me and asked if I wanted some. I said yes. He returned to his chair, handed me the water, and sat down with a thud. I thought I was freaking out this guy. I was right.

  “In your bizarre story, Mr. Fenton, you have managed to state some facts that are absolutely top secret, including the medical status of Admiral Halsey. Where did you get your information about Midway Island?”

  “Again, sir, I have traveled through time. My information comes from my reading of history, a history that I’ve read, a history that I’ve taught at the Naval Academy, a history that you haven’t lived through yet.”

  Spruance rubbed his face and then stood, his hands on his hips. He looked at me with a frown. “And how, may I ask, did you manage to come to us through time?” Spruance asked with a snide chuckle.

  “It’s called a wormhole, sir, also known as a time portal. I don’t understand the physics behind it, but it’s known among theoretical physicists as a thing called an Einstein-Rosen Bridge. In 2018, after a few well-known incidents of time travel, people came to realize that the subject is no longer a matter of science fiction. It’s a real phenomenon, and it happens, rarely, but it does happen, and it’s happened to me. I encountered a wormhole on a patch of grass by the pier as I took a shortcut to my ship. Suddenly the patch of grass was no longer there, and I found myself inside a building. That’s where I fell and got my concussion. I notice that my ship is no longer here.”

  “Of course. Maybe another time traveler stole it.”

  I could tell he wasn’t buying any of my story. Spruance is known as a calm analytical type, and I wasn’t giving him much to analyze.

  “If you allow me, admiral, I would like to go back ashore and try to find the place where I traveled through time. I want to recross the wormhole and return to the year 2018 and my strike group command. We have discovered, in 2018, that the way to get back to the present is to cross the same spot that brought you to the past.”

  “Not a chance, Mr. Fenton. Building 19 is strictly off limits by order of CincPac. I’m going to call your bluff. You will remain as a prisoner on the Enterprise as we go into battle. If what you said is true, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and return you to that wormhole thing. I will not send you to the brig but to an empty stateroom near my quarters. I will have a lot o
f questions for you. Your stories are fantastic, but everything about you seems normal. And you seem to know a lot of facts that will be helpful for our upcoming engagement. I want to know how you recall those facts, facts that haven’t occurred yet.”

  “Admiral, since we’re both flag officers, why don’t you call me Harry. Because you outrank me I will still address you as admiral.”

  He pressed a button on his desk and his chief of staff entered.

  “Take Mr. Fenton to the empty room next to my quarters. I want him under armed guard. I have a lot more to talk to him about. Good day, Harry.”

  Chapter 3

  “Where the hell is Harry?” I said to my assistant, Ensign Sandy Borman. “He should be back from his run by now. He doesn’t answer his cell phone or respond to my texts. This is totally unlike him.”

  “Don’t worry, Meg, I’m sure he’ll be back soon. I know you’re upset because you two are the closest couple I’ve ever met. My God, you even complete each other’s sentences. I hope I find a guy I can have a relationship with like you and Admiral Harry.”

  Sandy and I are more like a couple of girlfriends than we are superior and subordinate. She’s a good friend, somebody I can confide in. I insist that she call me Meg rather than lieutenant.

  “He’s going to sea in a few days for a deployment to the Sea of Japan,” I said. “He has a staff meeting in two hours. Harry would never miss a meeting.”

  “Are you going to be with him on the cruise as usual, Meg? I don’t know how you two convinced the Navy to allow you to go to sea with him.”

  “You know Harry. He can be persuasive as hell when he wants to. He convinced the Chief of Naval Operations that he needed to have me nearby to confer on plans. Hell, I am officially his aide. Flag Lieutenant Meghan Fenton reporting for duty.”