A Final Broadside

by Buddy Worrell

  CHAPTER 12

  Sara and Ken took the base shuttle to the main gate and walked over to the diner. It was midmorning when they were seated. Both felt pretty hungry in spite of all that had transpired in Commander Christenbury’s office.

  Sara ordered a short stack of pancakes with a side of bacon, fresh fruit, and coffee. Ken went straight for the three-egg western omelet, white toast, hash browns, and a side of sliced ham with a twenty-ounce glass of whole milk.

  Sara smiled and shook her head. “Are you ready to talk while we wait for breakfast?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I guess we should,” Ken answered, lowering his gaze to the white tablecloth.

  “You heard what Commander Christenbury said in his office.” Sara reached across the table and took Ken’s hand. “Did you see all of those things that the commander described? Did you hear the warning bells? Smell smoke and burning fuel? Did you hear banging on the hull coming from inside the ship?”

  Ken raised his eyes and met his mother’s searching gaze. “Mom, I saw, heard, smelled, and felt it all, just like he described. But there was more that I was afraid to describe because I scarcely believed it happened. When I fell with no pulse and stopped breathing, I became a part of what was happening on the ship. I don’t know how else to explain it, but I became one of them. I felt the explosion, felt the steel shrapnel rip through me. I was in the water drowning and trapped inside the hull. I looked out and saw you and the Japanese tourists. I saw my own body lying on the memorial deck.”

  Sara took several deep breaths to clear a faint gathering momentum and noticed that their waitress had delivered the coffee and Ken’s twenty-ounce milk. She took a long sip on the contents of the heavy mug, and her head cleared. “In psychology, we have studied near-death experiences and other types of out-of-body experiences reported by otherwise normal people and cannot explain scientifically what is occurring. But I do know, son, that you are not alone in these experiences.”

  “Dr. Ninomya said I had special gifts and talents. He considers them gifts. Sometimes I do too. But other times, these gifts are more like a curse,” Ken mused.

  Sara took another long drink from the coffee mug and said, “Did any of the visions of sailors on the Arizona communicate with you?”

  Ken glanced toward the double doors leading to the kitchen as the waitress plowed through them, carrying a large round tray with their breakfast orders. “Let’s eat first. Then we can finish this up on a full stomach!” Ken laughed, and Sara quickly agreed.

  Ken’s three-egg omelet was devoured before Sara could make a dent in her short stack. “Slow down, son,” she ordered.

  Ken feigned a huge disappointed expression.

  “I mean it!”

  Ken dropped the act and nodded in obedience. As they finished their breakfast and as Sara enjoyed her second cup of coffee, she asked Ken if she could ask just a few more questions. He agreed as he finished the last bite of sandwich that he had fashioned from two pieces of buttered toast and the side order of ham.

  “Did any of the visions of sailors communicate with you?” Sara asked again.

  “Yes,” Ken responded. “Nate told me that the man working on me was scared and wanted to flee. But Nate talked to him, and the man stayed and helped me. I didn’t know at the time that it was Dr. Ninomya. Then Nate told me I needed to leave the ship and return to the living. He told me that I had some special destiny to fulfill. Then he was gone, and I was staring up at you.”

  Sara acknowledged her son’s answer with a nod and said, “One last question … did you see your father?”

  Ken’s eyes dropped back down to the tablecloth as tears welled up and began to spill down his cheeks. “No,” Ken whimpered. “And I really wanted to see him, Mom.”

  Sara rose from the table and drew Ken up to a standing position. She hugged her son gently and said, “Me too.” After a moment, Sara pulled back and smiled at him. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get back to the hotel. We can hit the beach this afternoon and have dinner at the luau place down the street.”

  Ken and Sara left the diner, caught the bus back to the hotel, and prepared for an afternoon on Waikiki Beach. They had a great time swimming and getting a bit of a sunburn in the tropical climate. Ken even found a local giving surfing lessons for $5 per half hour. As the afternoon began to fade, Ken and Sara packed up and headed back to the hotel to clean up and dress for the luau.

  The dinner was a grand event. A pig was being roasted in a pit in the ground covered with wet palm fronds, producing frequent hissing of steam and the release of a most delicious smell of meat. A wonderful collage of traditional luau favorites such as poi, lomi salmon, opihi, and haupia and local beer accompanied the main course. Afterward, the hosts of the luau offered hula lessons to all comers, followed by a performance by a group in traditional costumes who danced and twirled flaming spears.

  It was a wonderful ending to a very eventful day, and Sara and Ken were exhausted by the time they arrived back at the hotel. They packed up in preparation for the next day’s midmorning flight back to San Francisco and then to Atlanta.

  Sara wished her son a restful night and admonished him to set the alarm clock for 5:00 a.m. Ken waved at his mom and adjourned to his room for the night.

  In his room, Ken undressed, carefully laying the colorful leis from the night atop a chair, and pulled on his short pajama bottoms. The night was a perfect temperature for sleeping, and the windows of his room were open, filling the space with the scents of flowers and roasted pig. His bed was soft and inviting, and he plunged into it as if performing a belly flop into a pool. Once in bed and with his pillows duly fluffed, Ken fell instantly to sleep. His dreams were pleasant, filled with memories of the beach and luau.

  Suddenly, his dream placed him back at the Arizona memorial. His mom was not there, and neither were the Japanese tourists. He did not see the forms of men in the water. He did not hear the screams of the wounded or the drowning. He did not smell the acrid smoke of burning fuel or see any visions at all.

  He did hear a voice that he had never heard before. It uttered one word. “Son?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Ken’s body jackknifed upward in his bed, and his brain snapped to full attention. His eyes, now wide open with pupils dilated, began to scan his darkened room in a sweep from left to right. All of his senses became completely attuned to finding who had spoken to him and from where the voice emanated.

  “Who is in here?” Ken growled as if confronting an intruder. His challenge was met with the sound of a gentle wind blowing in from the open windows and the rustling of a flowering shrub outside. He slid out of bed and reached for the lamp switch on the nightstand.

  “You have grown into a fine young man!” the voice said quietly, in almost a whisper. “I never got to see you the day you were born. I wanted to be there so badly.”

  The voice was coming from all corners of the hotel room, as if Ken were surrounded by a bank of speakers.

  “It was supposed to be the greatest moment of your mother’s and my life.”

  Ken pulled back from the light switch, and his eyes raked the room to find the voice.

  “I never knew you, and I never saw your mother again.” The voice sounded troubled. “Everything I loved and cared for was lost that day.”

  A dark form began to take shape directly in front of Ken. The shape wavered and contorted for a moment before refining into the image of a man in his mid-twenties, tall and dressed in a naval officer’s uniform from the World War II period.

  Ken’s skin rippled with gooseflesh, and he realized that he was shaking slightly. He tried to speak but managed only to exhale as his voice failed him. “Dad?” Ken finally asked, forcing his vocal cords to engage.

  The form floated several feet off of the hotel room floor, and the image continued to sharpen. “I have waited so long to see you and to hear the voice of my
son,” Ken Sr. said.

  Young Ken murmured toward the figure, “Are you real, or is this a dream?”

  “What you see is a residual image of me. I appear this way to you because it is the image of myself I remember.”

  “Why are you here, Dad?” Ken stuttered.

  “Most of the entire crew is unable to pass on to whatever eternity holds until we finish some work we were supposed to do. Most of the 1,100 of us who perished that day on our ship are here.”

  The gooseflesh on Ken’s skin seemed to increase as his trembling intensified.

  “Son, most of these men are trapped by their own will, including me. They swore to defend their country and their ship yet did neither before their death.”

  Ken was close to passing out but held on to the nightstand and raised his head toward the image. “How can I help, Dad?” Ken asked.

  “I don’t know the answer, son, but I do know that your powers of perception are strong. You will know what to do when the time comes. I can tell you that an evil will attempt another surprise attack on our country. This evil will be personified in one man. You will meet him, you will know who he is, and you will know what needs to be done to stop him.”

  “What can I do to prepare for this, Dad?” Ken stopped shaking and started to weep.

  “Live your life fully, and your destiny will reveal itself to you.”

  Young Ken thought about his father’s words and said, “That ain’t a lot of help, Dad!”

  Ken Sr. smiled and continued. “Another thing I can tell you is that the day you fight to defeat the evil, you will need our help.”

  “What kind of help can I get from a bunch of sailors who died almost twenty years ago?” he blurted out. “I am not understanding any of this.”

  Ken Sr. smiled again and said, “The energy of over 1,100 souls as they exist now is miniscule. The power of over 1,100 souls focused on an epic goal is unfathomable! Use it wisely.” The figure began to waver, and the sharpness of the image faded. “You will know when to call to me, and I promise to answer. Tell your mother I love her and will through all eternity. One other thing …” The image was almost gone as it whispered its last message.

  “Dad … Dad!” Ken called out, but he received no answer. Once again, the only sounds he heard were the gentle wind and the rustling of leaves on the flowering shrub outside his window. He realized that he was wet from sweat, as if a fever had just broken. Ken went to his bathroom and showered before climbing back into his bed and falling instantly asleep.

  CHAPTER 14

  The flight back home was long and largely uneventful. Sara and Ken left Honolulu in midmorning, arriving in San Francisco midafternoon. They had time in the airport to eat dinner and relax before catching a red-eye back to Atlanta, and then they took the midmorning Piedmont Airlines prop back to Asheville.

  The last leg of the trip was by Trailways Bus back to Boone. Sara and Ken had not talked much during the trek—mostly small talk about the conference, the wonderful Burmese food, the luau. Not a word was said about the occurrences on the Arizona or at the base hospital. Ken knew he had to tell his mom about the ghostly appearance of his dad and the words that had passed between them. But that could wait for a while.

  It took them several days to recover from the trip and time-zone changes, and Ken slept a lot. Sara was off from summer classes, so she was free to study and catalogue all of her white papers, presentation notes, and handouts from the conference. Once Ken finally began to feel normal and synchronized with his environment and current time zone, he returned to work at Tweetsie Railroad, taking tickets and greeting tourists.

  Soon it was mid-July, and even this part of the Blue Ridge was feeling the heat of summer. On a particularly oppressive, humid evening, Ken approached Sara, who was out in a rocking chair on the front porch with a hand fan in one hand and an icy glass of Jack Daniel’s Old Number 7 in the other.

  “Let me have a sip,” Ken urged, reaching toward the glass.

  Sara pulled the drink away, saying, “Not until you are twenty-one, young man.”

  “But Mom, I’m eighteen, and I am legal for beer and wine! I have a draft card, so I can be drafted into the army at any time. Why can’t I have a small sip? You know, like what Papa used to call ‘a wee dram.’”

  “Your papa was referring to his favorite eighteen-year-old Macallan single-malt scotch, and I have seen his ‘wee dram’ put lesser men under the table,” Sara said emphatically.

  Ken whined again, and Sara relented, handing the rocks glass to her son. “Don’t you dare tell anyone at church about this,” Sara warned.

  Ken promised and took a long, slow pull from the glass before returning it to the waiting hand of his mother. “Man, that is smooth,” Ken sighed. “Much better than that homemade hooch some of my friends drink!”

  Sara sprang from her rocking chair and faced Ken, who was still seated. “You know how dangerous it is to drink moonshine around here! Some idiots too cheap to buy a copper pot and coil distill it through old car radiators. How many times have you seen articles in the paper about some poor fool who died of lead poisoning from drinking this stuff?” Sara was mad but also alarmed that Ken might have tried some illegal white liquor from up in the hills.

  “Mom, it’s okay! This homemade white lightning is made by Frank Elliot.”

  Sara stepped back, and her look of alarm turned into one of utter disbelief.

  “Yep,” Ken continued, “same Frank Elliot that is a retired state trooper and ruling elder at our church.” Ken was now grinning widely at having successfully surprised his mom. “He has a legitimate copper still in his backyard and makes what he calls his ‘artisan shine’ for personal consumption. Sometimes, his oldest boy Frankie sneaks some out for a tasting.”

  Sara sat down and began to giggle. The giggle opened up to a chuckle and then to an all-out howl of laughter.

  “Does that mean I can have another sip?” Ken nudged.

  Sara raised her glass, proposing a toast. “Any friend of Elder Elliot is a friend of mine!” she exclaimed and took a full swig of the Tennessee whisky. After a mighty swallow, Sara handed the glass and the last ounce of Old Number 7 to Ken.

  Upon taking the glass, Ken raised his hand in a toast. “Here’s to homemade hooch made in Blowing Rock, Jack Daniel’s made in Lynchburg, and single-malt Macallan made in the Highlands of Scotland!” Ken expounded. He put the glass to his lips and turned it up, draining the last of the 90 proof elixir.

  As Sara was regaining her composure, Ken turned serious. “Mom, I need to talk to you about what happened to me on our last night in Hawaii.”

  Sara immediately changed emotional gears. “In the hotel room?” she clarified.

  He nodded in the affirmative.

  “Go on, son,” she said soothingly, wishing she had another drink.

  Ken told her about how he had gone to sleep quickly and easily with dreams that were gentle and pleasant. He told her about his dreams shifting to the Arizona, though no one was there with him. He could not see the apparitions or smell the acrid scent of burning fuel. He did not hear the banging from inside the hull. “But then I heard a sound from outside of my dream.”

  Sara interrupted. “What do you mean, outside the dream?”

  Ken thought for a second, struggling to come up with a coherent explanation. “It was like being asleep and dreaming, then hearing a real sound from outside your room that wakes you up. Mom, I heard someone call me ‘son.’”

  Sara contemplated what she had just heard and felt a small urge to throw up.

  “Mom, it was Dad!” Ken blurted out.

  Sara took a deep breath and told her boy that this was probably something manufactured as a part of the dream. She said she knew that Ken was stressed and that the occurrences on the Arizona had been vivid, thereby invading both his conscious and subconscious mind.

 
Ken looked at her and with all his strength said, “Damn it, Mom, stop analyzing me and listen. It was my father and your husband! He was in my room and talking to me! He told me of things to come and the role I would play in incredibly important situations. Jesus, Mom, it scared me to death!”

  Sara rose from the rocking chair and embraced her son. “Ken, I am so sorry. I know this is real to you, but I am having trouble processing this news from beyond the grave. All of my education and training in psychology is grasping for an answer for you.” Sara excused herself to the kitchen, where she poured three fingers of Jack Daniel’s in a glass with two ice cubes and retrieved a twelve-ounce PBR for her son.

  Ken took the beer and drained half in one long draft. Sara took a long pull from the rocks glass and said to her son, “So what did this apparition say to you?”

  Ken put the beer can down and told his mom that the apparition had said that he loved her and something else.

  “What else? Sara pressed.

  Ken took a deep breath and said, “He said that he bets you still have legs like Betty Grable.”

  Sara paused, took a breath, and burst into tears. The tears were angry, frustrated, and mournful.

  “I am so sorry, mom,” Ken said, but his mother was already raising her hand to interrupt.

  “No, son. I am sorry for doubting you and trying to squeeze you into some psychological definition. You continue to demonstrate how special you are, and I believe that your father communicated with you. I am scared, and I am jealous that you hear from him and I do not. Can you understand this?” Sara implored.

  Ken nodded and reached for his mother’s hand.

  “Listen to what your father tells you and fulfill your destiny. There are powers way beyond my comprehension that are at play here.”

  “One more thing, Mom,” Ken said. “Who is Betty Grable?”

  CHAPTER 15

  The summer days passed slowly, and Ken did not have any more paranormal experiences, which suited him just fine. He had reconnected with Donna, who had made the cut for the marching band at Carolina. She was excited that she was one of only three incoming freshmen who had qualified, out of eighty-five freshmen who had tried out at summer band camp. She would be leaving for Chapel Hill two weeks before first semester for an intensive set of rehearsals, and Ken would miss her. Their relationship was just in the beginning stages, but he thought there was a future with her. First semester at NC State would not begin until after Labor Day, and Ken was a little surprised that he was not as excited as he thought he should be. He did not think it was nerves or cold feet; something just did not feel right.