A Final Broadside

by Buddy Worrell

  “Sure,” replied the tech, and he pulled the mask away from Ken’s face.

  “What happened to me?” Ken asked. “And where are we going?”

  “Call me Phil,” the tech said.

  “Okay, Phil, what happened to me and where are we going?” Ken repeated.

  “We are headed over to Cape Fear Memorial ER to have you checked out. My unit was dispatched by a 911 operator reporting a man down in the parking lot of city hall. When we arrived, we found you face down on the asphalt with what once was a very large breakfast out in front of you. At least when you passed out and fell, you missed that!”

  Ken shot him a look of disgust at the description and said, “Yeah, lucky me! What about my car?”

  “One of your friends got the keys and is following us to the hospital,” the tech answered. “Man! That is some piece of sheet metal!”

  The ambulance pulled into the covered ER entrance and screeched to a stop on the slick concrete drive. Within a few seconds, the driver swung the back door of the ambulance open, and Phil jumped out to help pull the gurney out and elevate the frame. They wheeled Ken through the double doors and into the ER’s reception area, where Ken turned over his wallet, driver’s license, and insurance ID card and got his hospital bracelet put around his wrist.

  The guys then wheeled him into a treatment area surrounded by medical equipment and pulled the curtains around them for a modicum of privacy. They transferred Ken from the ambulance gurney onto an ER bed and hung his saline bag on the IV pole attached to the bed.

  Phil checked the IV line and winked at Ken. “You are as safe as in your mother’s arms, man!” he announced.

  A young female wearing a white lab coat over surgical scrubs and wearing a stethoscope around her neck drew the curtains back and entered the treatment area. “Are you Mr. Hager?” she asked, checking his bracelet.

  “It depends on who’s asking,” Ken replied with a grin.

  She returned his grin and said, “I am Dr. Sydney Maraveyas, and I will be looking after you while you are here.” She studied the chart and Phil’s notes before hooking him up to a blood pressure cuff. Dr. Maraveyas checked his blood pressure, heart rate, and temperature, both side reflexes, his retinas, his ears, and his throat before studying his EKG graph printout.

  “The good news, Mr. Hager, is that there is no evidence of myocardial infarction, stroke, or infection. The bad news is that I have no idea why this happened to you. All of your vitals are perfect, and it is very irritating to me not to be able to make a diagnosis! Were you in a stressful situation?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. Just a fairly dull press conference at city hall,” he lied.

  She tapped her pen against the side of her glasses and said, “Well, I want to keep you here for an hour or so just to be safe, but after that you should be fine to go home. Take it easy for a couple of days and get back in here if something like this happens again.”

  She reached over to shake Ken’s hand, but he drew back, fearing that she might get some impression or vision as a result of the contact.

  Without flinching, Dr. Maraveyas balled up her fist and punched Ken in the arm playfully. “Okay, tough guy!” she said as she left the treatment area.

  After a moment, Phil broke the silence. “Man, ain’t she something? Bet you didn’t know she is also a champion surfer. You should see the way she fills out a wet suit for the winter championships!”

  Phil’s fantasy was interrupted when a nurse walked in announcing that his unit had just received a call.

  “Good talking to you, man. Stay well!” he said as he and his partner rushed out to their ambulance and sped off to the next emergency.

  Ken spent the next hour in the ER reception area watching an assortment of cuts and broken bones, pregnant women with impatient babies insisting on being born right now, and the occasional heart attack or stroke. The staff was efficient and well-trained, and they performed an incredible ballet of emergency health dances.

  Finally, Dr. Wet Suit came by to release him from ER purgatory. She was a lovely young woman, and Ken tattled on Phil and his opinion of her during winter surfing. Dr. Maraveyas laughed and said she thought her husband Nick might find this amusing.

  Ken remarked that the only thing worse than a jealous Greek was a jealous Scotsman! This time, he offered a handshake, and she accepted. “By the way, Dr. Maraveyas, what is your specialty?” Ken inquired.

  “I’m an ob-gyn,” she answered.

  Ken retrieved his driver’s license and other documents, as well as the keys to the Tiger, and walked into the parking lot to find his special “piece of sheet metal” and head home. He had not called Donna to tell her of any of the day’s events and was fully expecting her to tear into him for that.

  The trip home was quick, and Ken opened the garage door and docked the Tiger in its spot. Donna greeted him with a hug. “So how did the press conference go?” she asked.

  Ken poured two double Jack Daniel’s on the rocks and asked her to join him on the back porch for a rundown of the day’s events. Donna listened carefully, wincing only at the worst parts of Ken’s explanation before getting out of her chair, walking over to Ken’s chair, balling up her fist, and popping him a good one to the upper arm.

  “Does this mean you want to wrestle?” he asked.

  After dinner and another Jack Daniel’s, Ken went out again to the screened back porch and sat down in one of the white rockers. Donna came out and pulled the other rocker up close to him and held his hand. “Is today still working on you?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “This gift or curse of mine has made for some interesting times in my life. Who else do you know that talks to the dead and sees the future?”

  “Well, there is that lady from New Jersey who is a TV medium!” Donna teased.

  “Yeah, ever notice that neither the New Jersey lady nor I have ever picked a winning lotto or horse at the track?”

  “I noticed!” she said, teasing him again and hoping to lighten his mood.

  “Even with the warnings from Nate and Dr. Ninomya, I wasn’t prepared for this. I have never felt anything that evil. This man Chin is dangerous, and he does not care about the lives that will be lost when he fires that weapon. In his mind, we kill that many on our highways every year, so why be concerned?”

  Donna squeezed his hand tighter and asked, “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “The first thing I am going to do is contact Joe Collins at the local FBI office tomorrow!”

  Donna rose from the rocker and leaned over, kissing Ken gently. “I think that’s the right thing to do, Master Chief. I think I will call it a day. Want to come with me?” she asked.

  Ken shook his head and said, “Not yet, baby. I need to chew on this a little longer.”

  “Well, don’t chew too long,” she said as she turned to go back inside the house. “I love you, sailor,” she called back to him.

  “Love you too, short stuff!” he called to her.

  Ken sat rocking and sipping the Tennessee sour mash for another hour in an effort to make some sense out of the day’s events. Still restless, he got out of the rocking chair and walked over to the screen door and out into a brilliant, starry night. Visions of crashing planes and dying people would not leave him. They seemed to play through his mind like a loop of film, ending only to start again. He would do as he had promised and call the FBI tomorrow. Yet he sensed that his meeting with the agent would be useless. He was destined to be in Wilmington on the battleship and face the evil. But how?

  Ken heard the high-pitched whine of a hungry mosquito in his ear and decided to go back to the screened porch for protection. He first walked inside to the kitchen and poured another drink, hoping it would dull his mind and stop the horrifying visions. He then walked back to his rocking chair on the porch and plopped down, holding his face in his han
ds.

  He immediately sensed a movement to his right and glanced over to see Donna’s chair rocking ever so slightly, as if pushed by the wind. But there was no wind that night. Ken reached over and grasped the arm of the chair, and the rocking ceased. He withdrew his hand and was about to dismiss the event when the rocking resumed, this time with more force.

  Ken sensed that he was not alone, and being slightly irritated by the uninvited visitation (and a little tipsy), he called out, “Who are you, and what the hell do you want?”

  Several seconds passed with no reply to his challenge except the constant rocking of the empty chair. Ken reached again for the arm of the mocking, rocking chair to stop its infernal movement, but before he could touch the arm, the chair stopped abruptly.

  Ken’s hand wavered above it for a moment before he lowering and touching the arm. A voice rang out in Ken’s ears, causing him to flinch as if he had touched a hot burner. The voice called again. “Son?”

  CHAPTER 49

  Ken recognized his father’s voice and instantly relaxed his muscles and cleared his thoughts, going into a kind of self-hypnosis. “I hear you, Dad,” he said softly.

  The chair began rocking again in a smooth, rhythmic fashion, and Ken heard the voice emanating from the ever-rocking chair. “I’m sorry that you had to endure what you experienced today. All of us are angered and frustrated that this person is planning an unprovoked attack on the United States.”

  Ken’s breathing was deep and slow as he listened to the disembodied voice of his long-dead father. “I’m going to a guy I know at the FBI tomorrow. I will warn him about this Dr. Chin creep, and they can take him down.”

  “What will you tell him? How do you think he will react when you tell him about your visions—talking to the dead and telling of future events? He will either laugh you out of the office or file you away with the New Jersey lady.”

  “You heard that, did you?” Ken said accusingly.

  “Yes, and I apologize for eavesdropping. I have done it only a few times in your life and only when you have reached some cosmic crossroads, like at Tweetsie, when you saved the man’s life, and at the Arizona when I revealed my existence to you.”

  “So why now, Dad?” Ken pressed.

  “Your path in life has led you to this crossroads, son. Your childhood, your career, and your retirement have put you in this place where you can make a difference for thousands of people. Take the mission, son. Destroy that evil son of a bitch and his plans,” the voice pleaded.

  “But Dad,” Ken argued, “I am retired. I don’t have a fleet or special forces that I can apply to this threat. You tell me that the FBI won’t believe me, so what do I have to fight with? I have a widowed gift shop manager who makes good coffee and a bunch of young kids and old retirees who volunteer.”

  “You have a battleship!” the voice replied calmly.

  “A battleship? I have a museum piece!” he exclaimed, nearly screaming. “The steam turbines haven’t been fired up since 1946, so I have no power to maneuver, rotate the turrets, or elevate the guns. The ship is resting on the bottom silt of Cape Fear and is permanently docked. The Mark 6s haven’t been fired in anger in over sixty years, and I have no sixteen-inch shells or power bags. I have no range keeper, so I can’t aim the damn things. I have no crew, Dad!”

  The voice was silent, and Ken began to wonder if his complaints had gone too far. After several agonizing moments of silence, the voice returned and replied, “All these things, you can overcome if you take on the mission. Your life has been filled with wondrous things that you have seen and impossible acts that you have performed. Take the mission, and you will overcome the obstacles.”

  Ken calmed himself and tried one last time to explain to his father’s spirit that what he was asking was impossible. “Okay, Dad. Let’s say I can overcome most of the obstacles. But how in God’s name can I do all this without a crew? Can you tell me that?”

  The voice replied, “I have over 1,100 shipmates who will volunteer!”

  As that last thought settled into Ken’s mind, his skin erupted in goose bumps, as if he had suddenly been thrust into a freezer. Every hair on the back of his neck and down his arms stood at attention, and his throat went immediately dry. “You mean the crew of the Arizona?” he asked, as if begging the voice to answer no.

  The night was silent except for the trilling of the tree frogs and the sound of one set of rocker runners on a wood deck.

  “Dad?” Ken called. “Dad, are you here?”

  Ken noticed that the empty rocker had stopped moving. All of a sudden, tiredness descended on Ken like a blanket. His eyes fluttered, and as he stood up, he almost stumbled, catching himself on the ghostly rocking chair.

  “Bed … I gotta go to sleep,” he mumbled as he staggered inside. His intended destination was the bedroom, but he made it only to the living room couch before passing out cold.

  Donna came to get him several hours later but could not rouse him to come to bed, so she took off his shoes and covered him with a throw. “Too much Jack Daniel’s,” she mused.

  Back on the screened porch, one chair rocked gently in the silent night.

  CHAPTER 50

  Ken’s sleep was dreamless and deep. He awoke at 5:30 a.m. on the couch, fully clothed. Oh hell! he thought as he got up and tiptoed toward the bathroom. In the bedroom Donna was snoring lightly and did not appear to be disturbed by his movements.

  After the night on the couch, he felt rested and ready for whatever the day held. He showered and got dressed and then went into the kitchen and plugged in the coffeepot. Within a few minutes the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the house. He walked to the front door and opened it to a beautiful sunny day.

  The newspaper was waiting for him on the front steps. “Front-page news,” Ken said aloud. The paper’s banner headline was about the press conference and announcement of the battery factory. The article was followed by pictures of Dr. Chin and his assistant shaking hands with the mayor as several city council members and county commissioners tried to squeeze into the picture.

  When Ken returned to the kitchen, Donna was sitting at the table in her bathrobe with two mugs of fresh coffee in front of her. Ken leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “Good morning, beautiful,” he said, pulling up a kitchen chair beside her.

  Donna pushed a mug over to him. “Are you planning on telling me about last night? I found you on the couch in your clothes, passed out! I thought it must have been the drinks, but you didn’t have that much, did you?”

  Ken took a sip of the coffee and shook his head. “I had plenty last night, but that’s not what got me.” He told her the entire story about the encounter with his dad on the back porch.

  Donna listened intently to Ken’s explanation, and when he finished, she asked, “So what are you going to do, Ken?”

  “I am going to meet with the special agent at the FBI office downtown today, just like I promised you. I will lay out what I fear about this Chin character, hopefully in such a way that he doesn’t call for the nice young men in the little white suits to haul me off to some mental ward.”

  “What if the FBI dismisses what you have to say as conjecture and magic?” she asked dryly.

  “Then I will figure out how to intervene and stop the son of a bitch without the FBI,” Ken answered with a resolute tone that his wife had heard many times in the past. “I can’t turn my back on this. What if you or one of the boys were on a flight somewhere and were knocked out of the air by this weapon? I promised to protect this country from all enemies, foreign or domestic, and I can’t just switch that off because I am retired.”

  Donna took another sip of coffee. Putting down her mug, she reached over and took both of Ken’s hands in hers. “You do what you need to do, Master Chief. I would expect no less from you. I realize you are compelled to do this because that is the kind of man you a
re. Go see the FBI and get some help. You can convince them! And know that I am with you in any endeavor 100 percent, and I will not whine or cry or try to talk you out of it. But I do not have to like it!”

  With that, she stood up, turned around, and walked toward their bedroom, leaving him sitting by himself.

  Ken got up and headed toward the garage. The Tiger was ready, and soon the low rumble of the V-8 and the whine of the four-speed transmission in reverse filled his ears as he backed out of the garage and onto the driveway. Ken cast a last glance toward the house as he turned onto the street. There she was, standing on the front porch in her bathrobe, waving and calling out, “I love you, sailor!”

  He waved and grinned back at her before pulling onto Masonboro Loop and heading for town.

  Ken pulled into the Federal Building lot on Water Street and walked over to the building directory to find Joe Collins’s office number. Down the corridor and on the right was a glass door and a painted sign: Federal Bureau of Investigation, Regional Office, Special Agent Joseph Collins. Must be the place! Ken thought.

  He opened the heavy office door and walked up to a reception desk. A well-dressed man in his mid-twenties was manning the desk and peering at a computer screen when he saw Ken approach. “Good morning, sir,” the man said.

  Ken glanced at the nameplate on the reception desk: “Matt Fuller, Executive Assistant.” “Good morning, Matt. I am Ken Hager, superintendent of the battleship memorial.”

  “I recognize you, Master Chief,” Matt responded, surprising Ken. “I was at your welcoming ceremony when you came on board. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, first, thanks for coming to the ceremony, and I apologize for not remembering you,” Ken said sheepishly.

  “Please, no apology is necessary. I was just one face in three hundred in the receiving line. Now how can I help you, Master Chief?” Matt asked enthusiastically.

  “I was hoping to see or make an appointment to see Special Agent Collins. It is sort of an emergency.”