The Violent Sea

by Russell Moran

  “Okay, the break’s over,” I said. “I want to thank Commander Barron for providing me with efficient escort duty. Hey, we all need to lighten up about this new Operation Escort stuff.”

  The sun was streaming through the porthole into my face as I was about to introduce Captain Brinkman for his report.

  Then it got dark—pitch dark. The ship rumbled as if we were steaming over logs. After two minutes, the rumbling stopped, and the daylight returned, but not as bright as before.

  Meg and I caught each other’s eyes.

  “Oh shit,” she said softly, “here we go again.”

  “Marty, make sure you get a good fix and a couple of backups,” I said.

  Everyone in the meeting stared at me.

  “What you just experienced is the sensation of traveling through a wormhole. That’s right. I won’t dance around the subject. We’ve just traveled through time. I need to make an announcement, so our crew doesn’t panic. This meeting’s over. That is all. Carry on.”

  “Captain, should I sound general quarters?” the OOD yelled over the squawk box.

  I looked at Marty Brinkman and shook my head.

  “That won’t be necessary, lieutenant,” Brinkman said. He then stood to go to the bridge. He didn’t need an assigned escort because two other officers went with him.

  Bob Flood, our communications officer, got to the mike before me.

  “Attention all hands, attention all hands. Stand by for Admiral Harry Fenton.”

  Before I spoke into the mike, I stepped onto the catwalk and looked to our stern. No ships were behind us. The Ford had crossed the wormhole by herself.

  “Good afternoon everyone,” I said. “You’re all aware of the strange journey that my wife, Lieutenant Meg, and I encountered a few years ago, not to mention our recent trip to the year 1942. Many of you have read our book, The Maltese Incident. I know you’re also aware of our visit from Admiral Spruance, who came here from 1942, having met me recently in that year. The world has come to understand that time travel is no longer just a subject of science fiction novels. It’s a real phenomenon although we still don’t understand it. The sudden darkness and rumbling that we just experienced are the classic signs that accompany a trip through a wormhole or time portal. So, congratulations, folks, you are now time travelers, and will never be without something to talk about to your kids and grandchildren. Expect to be invited to a lot of cocktail parties. We’re in no danger, at least none that we’re aware of. We’re simply in a different time. We could be in the past, or possibly the future. Because we can’t get a GPS fix, my guess is that we’re in the past. My objective is simple. To discover what year we’re in and then to head back to the coordinates of our strange event. The way to get back to where we came from is to go back across the same spot that got us here. We’re only a couple of hundred miles from Guam, so I’m going to ask Captain Brinkman to send a couple of jets to see what we can find out. Guam doesn’t answer our radio calls. Soon we’ll see what that means. For the time being, that is all. Carry on.”

  Captain Brinkman called Commander Gary Holman, the air ops boss.

  “Burt, prepare two flights and send them over Guam so we can get an idea of where we are in time.”

  ***

  Meg and I went to the bridge and stood next to the captain as we waited for radio reports from the Guam flyover.

  “We need to cut out this time travel shit, honey,” Meg whispered to me.

  “Show me how and I’m your obedient servant.”

  “Lima Foxtrot, Lima Foxtrot, this is Lieutenant Stover on flight 319.”

  “Read you lieutenant. Please tell us what you see,” Captain Brinkman said.

  “I’m switching on the video feed, so you can see what I’m seeing.”

  “The first thing I notice is that the repair facility where we just spent a few weeks is not there.”

  “Fly over the airfield, lieutenant,” I said.

  We saw dozens of World War II vintage fighter planes.

  “I got a radio call from the ground, sir. Apparently, they can’t get the channel we were on when we tried to contact them from the ship. The guy was freaking out over our Hornets. I just told him we were a couple of experimental planes, and he seemed to buy that. I asked him for today’s date—I made up a story that we had to adjust our clocks for the International Date Line. Today is August 20, 1944.”

  “August 20, 1944,” I said out loud. My naval history was coming back to me again. “The Japanese conquered Guam three days after the attack on Pearl Harbor. The island had been our possession since 1898 when we took it from Spain. From July 21 to August 10, 1944, we fought the Battle of Guam and retook the island. That was 10 days ago. From the looks of the aircraft it seems like we didn’t waste any time repairing the airfield and moving in. Two months from now, on October 23, the largest naval battle in history will be fought, the Battle of Leyte Gulf, led by Admiral Halsey.”

  “My God, you have a photographic memory,” Meg said.

  “I wish I had more pleasant photographs to talk about.”

  “Lieutenant Baxter and I are going to circle around and take plenty of pictures. This is Lieutenant Stover, reporting from the sky above Guam, over.”

  “I don’t know what you think, Marty, but I’m ready to say that our work here is done. Let’s head back to the wormhole coordinates a soon as we retrieve the planes.”

  After we retrieved our aircraft, Brinkman said, “Helmsman, steer course 230. All ahead one-third,”

  Chapter 29

  “Course 230?” I said. “Southwest? Let me see the wormhole coordinates on the chart, Marty.”

  He looked at an instrument in his hand, and then marked an X on the chart.

  “What? Wait a minute. We knew that we were about 200 miles northeast of Guam when we hit the wormhole. Now you’re showing me a position that’s 400 miles southwest of Guam. What’s going on, Marty? What’s that instrument I see you looking at?”

  “It’s an Automatic Position Taker,” the captain said. “I just hit a button, and thing marks the spot. It works flawlessly, or it did. I definitely hit the button as soon as the light show started.”

  “Well, if it works so flawlessly, why the hell does it show us 600 miles from where we know we are? Where are your backup fixes?”

  “I didn’t think we needed a backup fix because this device works so well—or did work so well.”

  “Okay, let’s retrace our course from the inertial navigation system,” I said, feeling totally pissed off at Brinkman.

  “Well, that could be a problem, sir. The Automatic Position Taker sends an electronic signal that rearranges the numbers on the inertial navigation system to conform to the fix it took.”

  My stomach was growling. I’ve been through enough wormholes to know that the way to get back is to pass over the same spot where you came in. The captain’s little plotting gadget fucked up big-time.

  “Where did you get that little thingamajig, Marty?” I asked the captain.

  “I got it on Amazon. Turns out, sir, it seems to have failed. It would be better if it didn’t take a fix at all rather than put out wrong coordinates.”

  “Follow me to my office, captain.”

  Meg leaned over to me.

  “Watch your temper, honey. Your face is beet red.”

  I sat behind my desk, with Captain Brinkman in the chair in front of me. Normally, for a one on one meeting with the captain, the two of us would sit on a couple of chairs around a small coffee table. But I wasn’t in the mood for being polite. I folded my arms across my chest and stared at Brinkman, adopting a pose that said, This better be good.

  “I’m sorry, admiral. That’s all I can say. I screwed up by trusting that instrument.”

  “And you didn’t take back-up fixes as I ordered. Did you need me to say, ‘That’s a direct order?’”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Because you chose to rely on a little gadget you bought on Amazon, you’ve managed to fuck
up an entire Carrier Strike Group. I thought of recommending you for a court-martial, which would be more than appropriate. In consideration of your normally competent service, I won’t. But my fitness report will reflect this incident in your service record. Because of what you’ve done, we only have a rough idea where the hell we are, and as I’ve explained, when trying to find a wormhole, a rough idea just won’t cut it. That is all. Carry on.”

  ***

  “How about a martini and a blow job?”

  I cracked up. I can always count on Meg to lighten me up when my mood is dark.

  “So how did your meeting with the captain go? I hope you weren’t too rough on him.”

  “Meg, you’re the most caring person I ever met. Here you are worrying that I was too rough on a complete asshole. Senior officers aren’t supposed to make mistakes like that. I told him that I considered slapping him with a court-martial, and what he did more than deserved it. But I said I’d just make a comment about the incident in his fitness report. What really pisses me off is that he relied on his little plotting piece of crap and ignored my order to take a backup fix, which is standard procedure anyway when something out of the ordinary happens—like steaming through a wormhole.”

  “Well, I figured it’s my job to show you this.”

  She handed me a piece of paper.

  “It was on the captain’s station on the bridge,” Meg said, “next to his plotting device. It looks like it’s the instructions for the instrument. Maybe you want to take a sip of water before you read it.”

  I read the instructions on the first page, starting with large block lettering.

  “CAUTION. This device is to be considered experimental ONLY AND should not be used for regular navigation IN THE UNITED STATES NAVY until it is approved by the OFFICE of Naval Operations.”

  “Your face is getting red again, honey. Take a deep breath.”

  “This piece of paper tells me that a court-martial would have been lenient. The words gross negligence pop into my mind. Gross negligence, dereliction of duty, reckless behavior. Hey, I won’t be able to sleep until I confront him with this. I’m calling him back to my office to let him know that I’m putting him on probation. One more fuck-up and he’s an officer without a job. You may not want to be here.”

  “I’ll wait, if it’s okay with you, hon. He knows damn well that I’m your aide and it’s my job to bring things to your attention. I’d like to see him deny that he read these instructions with the huge warning in the first sentence.”

  “Officer of the deck, may I help you, sir?”

  “Please ask Captain Brinkman to come to my office, lieutenant.”

  “He isn’t on the bridge, admiral. Do you want me to page him, sir?”

  “Yes, please do.”

  “While we’re waiting for the captain we should go over our situation, Meg. We’ve got a problem, a big problem. Because that little piece of crap instrument of his changed the vectors on our dead reckoning tracker, we only have a vague idea of where the hell we are. It’s overcast, so we may not be able to get a celestial fix tonight. His device puts us over 600 miles from our current position, which obviously makes any data from that instrument worthless. The only answer I can see is to make constant circles in the ocean, trying to pin the tail on the donkey without a pin. Thank God we’re nuclear so we don’t have to worry about running out of fuel. But our orders, my orders, are out the window. Right now, we should be steaming to meet with Japan and South Korea for an extremely important naval exercise. But here we are in the middle of the fucking ocean in the year 1944.”

  “Hey, hon, not to interrupt, but the captain hasn’t answered your call. It’s been about 10 minutes. You don’t think he’d adding insubordination to his other screw ups, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think about that guy, Meg. He’s a mystery to me.”

  “Officer of the deck, may I help you, sir?”

  “Make another announcement for Captain Brinkman to call me.”

  “While we’re waiting, Meg, give me some of that wonderful brain of yours. Any idea what I should do?”

  “If I know you, you’ve already concluded what we should do. How long to the Battle of Leyte Gulf, did you say?”

  “Two months. I think Halsey would appreciate some help.”

  “Hold on, Harry. Didn’t we always agree not to change history?”

  “I’m not talking about changing history. I’m just suggesting that maybe we should nudge it a little. Hell, Japan and Germany lose the war. We already know that. Although we’ll never know exactly how many, history tells us about 250,000 people died from the atom bomb attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Just about everyone, well Americans at least, agree that Truman made a wise choice to drop the nukes. The military planners gave him estimates that over 500,000 American troops would die if we invaded the Japanese homeland. That’s a lot of gruesome shit. And I’m not even mentioning the tens of thousands of lives that will be lost in the final battles of the Pacific war. What if we use the Ford to do some convincing so that the atomic bombs won’t be necessary. The bombs convinced Japan to surrender because they realized they had no options. What if I can convince them of the same thing—that they have no options—without a lot of innocent men, women, and children being killed. I don’t think that’s changing history. It’s just rearranging the pieces a bit.”

  “So here we are in the middle of a world war, and you’re thinking how many lives you can save, both theirs and ours. I love you, Harry.”

  “Now all we have to do is find Halsey and the Third Fleet.”

  “Not to mention finding Captain Brinkman. Where the hell can he be?”

  The ship’s horn sounded repeatedly, and the Ford began to turn. The three long warning blasts indicated a man overboard.

  “Hey, what’s the sudden turn all about?”

  “Bridge, this is Admiral Fenton. Why are we turning?”

  “I’m performing a Williamson turn, sir. There’s a sailor next to me who has something extremely important to tell you. With your permission, sir, I’m sending him to flag bridge with the JOOD.”

  The Junior Officer of the Deck, along with a young sailor, walked into my office.

  “Go ahead, sailor, tell the admiral what you told us.”

  “About five minutes ago I saw Captain Brinkman jump off the portside catwalk, sir. I had just gotten off watch and was heading to my compartment when I saw him.”

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  “Yes, sir. It was definitely Captain Brinkman. I also saw him hit the water.”

  “Did you hear him say anything?”

  “No, sir, he just climbed over the railing and jumped.”

  The OOD correctly ordered a Williamson turn, also known as a lifesaving turn. The idea is to perform a carefully executed fast turn and wind up in the opposite direction of where you were heading. But we all knew the obvious. Marty Brinkman was dead, apparently by suicide.

  “Thank, you Petty Officer Jones,” I said.

  Meg and I were alone again.

  “This is so sad, Harry. Remember when we went to the Army-Navy Game with Marty Brinkman two years ago? I’ll never forget when his son, Mike Brinkman, Navy’s quarterback, threw the winning touchdown in the last 30 seconds. I thought Marty would explode with pride. His son is going to be devastated, not to mention his wife.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Meg. Marty died here in 1944, remember? There never will be a Mike Brinkman, because his dad will have never existed when we get back to the 21st century.”

  Meg said nothing. She looked at the floor and gently cried.

  I felt like throwing up. Was I too rough on him?

  “Harry, I see it in your face. You’re blaming yourself. Hey, listen. The man made a mistake, a serious one. If you didn’t dress him down as his superior you shouldn’t be wearing those admiral’s bars. He knew he made a mistake, and he couldn’t shake the guilt. It’s over, honey, it’s over. Don’t dare beat yourself up abo
ut this.”

  “I need to use the head.”

  I didn’t just feel like throwing up—I threw up. Meg’s right. It was my job to correct him, to dress him down, but whatever analysis I came up with didn’t change the shitty way I felt.

  “Now I’ve got to appoint a captain. I’m thinking of Bill Norton, the executive officer. Any suggestions?”

  “Nonsense,” Meg said. “Hey, Carrier Strike Group 14 is down to one ship, the Ford. Your job as admiral is to appoint the best officer available. In case you haven’t noticed, that would be you. There’s nothing in Navy Regs that I’m aware of that says an admiral can’t be the commanding officer of a ship, especially if he’s lost the rest of his group.”

  “I guess you’re right. Will you still be my aide?”

  “You need to make an announcement, honey. I suggest that you have Father Sampson next to you to say a prayer for Captain Brinkman.”

  “Hello, Father Rick, it’s Admiral Harry. I’m sad to tell you that Captain Brinkman is dead, an apparent suicide. Please come to the flag bridge so I can make an announcement and you can lead us in prayer.”

  The bosun’s pipe blared throughout the ship.

  “Attention all hands, attention all hands. Stand by for Admiral Fenton and Father Rick Sampson.”

  “Good evening everyone. I have an extremely sad announcement to make. The Ford’s captain, Martin Brinkman, is dead, apparently by his own hand. Marty Brinkman was a good man, and we’ll miss him. I shall assume command as the captain of the Ford. My duties as Commanding Officer of Carrier Strike Group 14 are on hold until we find the rest of the group. Father Rick Sampson, Chaplain of Carrier Strike Group 14, is here to lead us in prayer for Captain Brinkman.”

  “Heavenly Father, we have just been reminded that, as always, we are in peril on the sea, and we ask for your guidance and protection. Please take care of the soul of Captain Martin Brinkman, a good man. In your holy name we pray, Amen.”

  “Father Rick, please stay with us for a few minutes. Meg and I would like to talk to you.”