A Final Broadside

by Buddy Worrell

  “Good luck is with you, sir,” Matt said as he pulled up the agent’s appointment calendar on the computer screen. “Agent Collins is free until 11:00 a.m. today. Let me tell him you are here. Maybe he can see you now!” Matt got up and disappeared behind a set of doors, his shoes clicking on the 1950s-style white tile floor.

  In a few moments, Matt reappeared smiling and saying that Agent Collins would be happy to see him immediately. Matt led Ken past the outer doors and to a private office with the agent’s name on the glass. Matt knocked, and a voice inside called them in.

  Special Agent Collins rose from behind his desk and thrust a hand toward Ken. “Hi, Master Chief. I’m Special Agent Joseph Collins. Call me Joe!”

  Ken grasped Joe’s hand in a firm but friendly handshake. “Thanks, Joe. I’m Ken Hager.”

  Joe stepped out from behind his desk and offered Ken a seat on a leather couch located on the side of the office and pulled up a side chair close to him. Joe was built somewhat like an armored vehicle—short, stout, and powerful! He had a thick neck, and his muscles strained against the starched white shirt and tie. The long sleeves of his shirt bulged out with heavily muscled arms, and his shirt buttons looked like they might fail at any time. His face was warm and pleasant, and his voice was a rich baritone, belying the body of a professional wrestler. Ken liked him immediately!

  “Matt said there was some sort of emergency, Ken. What’s going on?” Joe inquired.

  “Joe, I only know one way to tell this story, and that is from the beginning,” Ken said.

  “Hold on a second. I want to take some notes,” Joe said, grabbing a pen and notepad from a nearby table.

  Ken talked for over an hour, telling Joe about his special talents and how they had crafted his life. He told Joe about the warnings he had received regarding Dr. Chin and his plot and his physical and mental reactions to touching the man’s hand.

  Joe sat and listened, taking notes without interruption or telltale body language, until Ken finished. Finally, Ken said, “So are you having me escorted out of the building or hospitalized due to paranoid delusions?”

  “Neither!” Joe said firmly. He got up and walked over to a bank of four-drawer file cabinets. After searching quickly through one drawer, he withdrew a thick manila folder stuffed with various documents.

  Joe returned to his chair and sat down facing Ken. “I can’t show you this folder because it is classified. All of your security ratings were suspended when you retired, which is normal policy. But I will tell you, this is my folder with my investigative notes on one Dr. John Chin. Anytime a foreign national moves money in the amounts he does, we are interested. So are the IRS and CIA, and I fully expect they have investigative folders on our good doctor as well. The bottom line is that several agencies of the federal government are watching this guy. I can also tell you that in every investigation, Chin is as clean as they come. As far as I can tell, he has never run up against the law. Not even a parking ticket. From our standpoint, everything he is doing now and in the past is legit!”

  “So you are not going to do anything?” Ken asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” Joe countered. He stood up and took the folder to its cabinet home and shut the drawer. He then went to another cabinet and retrieved a second folder. Joe returned and waved the folder at Ken. “This folder is confidential and classified too. It’s your folder, Master Chief. This folder outlines all known paranormal activities we could find out about throughout your career. There are instances in here regarding precognition, extrasensory perception, and even communication with the dead. Sounds like The X-Files, doesn’t it? You really are some kind of spook, aren’t you?”

  Ken started to respond, but Joe held up his hand to stop him.

  “There are also documents on training records without blemish and Purple Hearts and Silver Stars awarded for service in Vietnam. You have multiple commendations and a solid history of dedication to the navy and the United States of America. Your career has been exemplary, and you ascended to the highest noncommissioned rank in the navy. Hell, Ken, people at your level don’t take shit from anybody under the rank of brigadier general or rear admiral! So the bottom line of all this is that I believe you feel this plot is going forward. Nobody can be as clean as John Chin. He is just too perfect. So I will continue to investigate. But know that I cannot get a warrant to search him or arrest him without evidence. I promise you that I will keep digging. But you have to promise that you will not interfere with him in any way. Don’t call him, talk to him, follow him, or confront him, or I swear by all that is holy, I will drag your ass back here and arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

  Ken smiled and reached out for a departing handshake. “I understand, Joe, and let’s promise to stay in touch. One quick question: were you in the Marine Corps?”

  Ten minutes later, Ken driving the Tiger back toward the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge and onto Battleship Island. Once there, he sprinted into the gift shop, waved hello to Ethel, entered his office, and found his ancient Rolodex. “One of these days, I will transfer my contacts over to the computer,” he said with a sigh.

  Ken thumbed through the individual indexes and, upon finding the heading “H,” located the card he wanted. “Paul Hodge!” he said. “Time to call the Gunslinger!”

  CHAPTER 51

  Ken picked up the phone and called Paul. His hope was to meet and get the Gunslinger involved at the outset of this mission. Paul would accept the paranormal visitations and visions even though he did not believe or understand them.

  Paul picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello?” said a welcome and familiar voice.

  “Hi, Paul. It’s Ken Hager.”

  A few seconds passed before Paul replied, “Master Chief! Well, damn, boy, it is great to hear from you. How’s my girlfriend and dance partner? I haven’t seen you since last Veterans Day when we had the party and reception at the memorial.”

  “That was a good time,” Ken remembered.

  “What’s going on, Ken? You have that ‘I need something’ tone in your voice.”

  “I do need something, Paul. I need you!” Ken blurted out. “I need to see you in the next day or two. I need to talk to you in person regarding the North Carolina and an impending threat to the States. Can I come down and discuss with you?”

  Paul thought a minute and said, “Ken, is any of this dangerous or potentially illegal?”

  “Probably both,” Ken answered. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

  Paul’s answer was resounding. “Oh, hell yeah!”

  That night, Ken threw a couple of rib eyes on the charcoal grill for dinner. A big baked potato, wedge salad, and homemade sourdough bread rounded out the meal. As he stood over the smoking kettle grill, basting the steaks with his special recipe, Donna came out holding two chilled martini glasses with three speared olives each.

  “Tito’s vodka?” he questioned.

  “Tito’s!” she assured him. Donna handed over a glass and raised hers in a toast. “Here’s to John Wayne! Patriot, hero, role model, cowboy, and taker of no shit. Kinda like my husband!”

  Ken raised his glass and echoed her toast. “John Wayne!”

  They both sipped and savored that first magical taste of the Austin-born spirit carrying just a hint of vermouth. Next to Jack Daniel’s Old Number 7, this was their favorite drink. They had run into Tito’s Handmade Vodka in a bar on Sixth Street in Austin, Texas. It was much easier on the wallet than the French, Polish, and even Russian premium brands, and it was superb.

  “Thanks for going to see Agent Collins today. It sounds like he is already investigating and is not looking for any help from you,” Donna said.

  “On that subject, he was quite clear!” Ken agreed.

  Donna took another sip of her martini. “But you are going to interfere anyway,” she said with a mock accusatory tone.

  “No,” Ken explained, �
�I am not going to interfere. But I am going to prepare to intervene if necessary.” Ken raised his glass again and said, “To John Wayne. Should’ve been a navy guy!”

  “John Wayne,” Donna echoed, raising her glass. “Why are you going to see Paul tomorrow? What are you two planning?”

  Ken raised the glass again and offered, “To Elmo Zumwalt, father of the modern navy and my youngest son’s namesake!”

  “Elmo Zumwalt,” she echoed. “You haven’t answered my question, Ken!” Donna jabbed.

  “To Chester Nimitz, fleet admiral and my middle son’s namesake and an entire class of US aircraft carriers’ namesake!”

  “Chester Nimitz!” she echoed. “Shall we toast to Bill Halsey too?”

  “Bill Halsey!” Ken repeated.

  Ken flipped the rib eyes, and Donna continued to question him about his intentions. “What mischief are you and Paul going to cook up?”

  “Mischief just short of treason, I hope,” Ken offered.

  “Treason?”

  “Seriously, Donna, I have no idea what I am supposed to do,” Ken admitted. “When I had the visitation from Dad, he did more than warn me about the potential. He asked that I get involved. He said I could fight this menace with the battleship. What am I supposed to do? Lure Chin over to the ship for a tour and push him overboard? Maybe Charley the alligator will get him! I just need to talk to Paul and see what he makes of all this.”

  Donna took Ken’s empty martini glass and headed to the kitchen for refills. She returned and handed the freshly filled glass to Ken. “Please tell Paul that I still love him and forgive him for stepping all over my toes at the last Veterans Day reception.” Raising her frosted glass, she toasted once more. “To the Gunslinger, navy man, hero, gunner of note, and world-class drunk!”

  Ken grinned. “To the Gunslinger!” After a sip, Ken said, “You realize that he will be terribly wounded by one of your descriptions … ‘gunner of note’ will really piss him off!”

  CHAPTER 52

  The next day, Ken headed out early to meet Paul and talk treason. He turned off of Third Street onto Wooster and drove across the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge into Brunswick County and toward Ocean Isle Beach. The overhead road sign read “US 17, Myrtle Beach Exit Only,” and Ken steered the Tiger westward toward the South Brunswick Islands.

  These barrier islands were south-facing beaches and it was always a little weird to be traveling west, but that was the pathway. US 17 was a divided four-lane highway that followed the coastline all the way to Charleston, South Carolina. Ocean Isle Beach was almost halfway from Wilmington to Myrtle Beach and served as a corridor from the wonderful Crystal Coast of North Carolina to the Grand Strand of South Carolina.

  The roadside was populated with mobile home lots, multiple Missionary Baptist Churches, fast-food restaurants, and a large Harley Davidson dealership, perpetually sponsoring a bike rally of some description. Donna was accepting of the Tiger but would not hear of a man’s need for a Harley.

  Ken took the NC 130 exit to bypass Shallotte and followed it to NC 179 and onto Ocean Isle Beach. He turned left at the crossroads of NC 904 and headed over the Intracoastal Waterway Bridge connecting the mainland and the barrier island.

  Paul had a small cottage on Laurinburg Street, with a canal and boat dock in the back and access to the Intracoastal. Ocean Isle Beach had grown ferociously since the 1950s, when only a handful of cottages and fishing shacks dotted the landscape. Now the beachside of the island was covered with multimillion-dollar homes, three stories in the air and complete with obligatory swimming pools. Despite the building boom, the island had been able to retain its “family atmosphere” and was an excellent counterpoint to the more theme park–style playground of Myrtle Beach.

  Ken pulled into the driveway and parked beside Paul’s rusty Jeep Wrangler. He climbed the single flight of stairs on the side of the cottage and knocked on the screen door.

  A voice from the back deck called out, “Master Chief? If it is you, come on in and join me on the back deck. Bring us a beer on your way!”

  Ken opened the screen door and walked over to the ancient refrigerator (harvest gold, no less) and retrieved two sixteen-ounce PBRs. He then walked over to the back screen door and saw his old friend perched in a white rocking chair, studying a tide chart and weather map.

  “Going out tomorrow, Slinger?” Ken asked.

  “Yeah!” Paul acknowledged. “There is a place about ten miles offshore where the Spanish mackerel are really hittin’ a line. I want to be there when the sun comes up. Wanna go with me?”

  Ken handed the old man the cold PBR, noticing two empties on the wood decking. “I would love to go, Paul, but I am in the middle of a scary situation that demands my attention.” Ken pulled up a spare rocking chair, opened the tall, chilly brew, and took a long, slow pull. “Want to hear about it?”

  “Oh, hell yeah!” he said, a familiar response.

  Ken took about forty-five minutes and another PBR to explain the situation and details to Paul, who listened quietly and intently. “Paul, Dad wants me to fight this Chin creep with the ship. Now how am I supposed to do that when my battleship is a relic from the late ’30s and early ‘40s”?

  Paul uncrossed his legs and brought his rocking to a standstill. He stood up and began to pace across the deck, holding the back of his neck as if in pain. He made about four more trips across the deck before wheeling toward Ken and saying, “I got an idea! Let’s go to the kitchen table, and I’ll lay it out for you. Oh, and call down to Sharkey’s and get us a sixteen-inch pizza for lunch—double cheese, sausage, pepperoni, black olives, and green peppers. Tell ’em to throw in a salad with blue cheese dressing. Fiber is important at my age!”

  “You want another beer?” Ken asked, feeling a definite morning beer-buzz.

  “No, I’ve had enough beer and need to think straight. Tell Sharkey’s to throw in a gallon of sweet tea,” Paul answered.

  “You are not going to spike the tea with Everclear, are you?” Ken asked.

  Paul ignored the question and asked, “So will you make the call, Master Chief?”

  Ken made the call to Sharkey’s and placed the order. “Do you need directions?” Ken asked the employee.

  “Nah, man, we know where the Gunslinger lives,” the young man replied.

  Ken walked over to the kitchen table and sat down across from Paul. Ken could see Paul’s head spinning with ideas and said, “Okay, Paul. What do you have in mind?”

  Paul looked up with a grin on his face and began. “Master Chief, you are coming at this problem all wrong. All of your thoughts are based on the North Carolina being a museum piece—a relic from sixty years ago.”

  Ken looked him straight in the eyes and said, “And that is exactly what she is, Paul. I know you love that beautiful hunk of steel, but like you and me, she’s old and obsolete!”

  Paul grinned again and replied, “What if I told you the old broad had some fight left in her?”

  “Then I would love to hear about it!” Ken said.

  “Let’s break this problem down,” Paul began. “Number one: the engines won’t start without a major dry dock overhaul.”

  “That’s true,” Ken agreed.

  “But you don’t need to go anywhere to hit a stationary target within range of the Mark 6s.”

  “True again,” said Ken, “but I need the power of the engines to turn the turrets, or I fire on Wrightsville Beach or Southport. I can’t see the city fathers of either place endorsing this plan. You know, poor form and all that!”

  “Are you done, smart ass?” Paul sneered.

  Ken threw up his hands and said he was done for now.

  “Those turrets are powered by electricity-running hydraulic pumps. All we need to do is rent a big-ass diesel generator and hook it up to the power grid inside the ship. Those hydraulic lines are sealed units, so if they ha
ve not leaked, we can turn the turrets. Seen any hydraulic fluid on the floor?”

  Ken admitted that he had not.

  Paul continued, “You also complained of not having an operable range keeper, meaning therefore you can’t aim the guns.”

  Ken nodded in agreement as Paul got up from his chair and walked over to a kitchen drawer, where he retrieved two clear circular discs attached to one another at the center so that they could rotate independently of each other. Both discs were printed with numbers, making the apparatus look like a circular slide rule.

  “Remember this from gunnery school? My handmade analog computer! If I can see the target, then with this thing doing the math”—Paul waved the discs in the air—“I can aim the guns and hit the target!”

  Ken was becoming more and more intrigued. The target would be exactly 14.23 miles from the ship. Paul would be able to see it from the bridge with binoculars.

  “All this is great, Paul. But what about shells and powder bags? They haven’t been manufactured for the Mark 6 in over fifty years!”

  “Right again, Master Chief. However, in 1944 when we were at Pearl for repairs, the Mark 6s were modified to fire a newer, armor-piercing shell produced for the new Mark 7s on the Missouri-class ships. Back then, we could throw more lead downrange than any ship except the Yamamoto. The eighteen-inch guns on that Japanese tub were so damn unstable, the gunners were terrified to fire ’em!”

  Ken started to object, but Paul waved him off. “Do you remember in 1996 when Congress called for at least two Iowa-class battleships to be maintained in full readiness for recall to the fleet?”

  Ken nodded.

  “Well, Master Chief, parts, supplies, and sixteen-inch shells were manufactured and stored to comply with the congressional act. The act was renewed in 2003, I think.”

  “I suppose you know where these parts, supplies, and shells are stored?” Ken asked warily.

  “At Sunny Point Military Ocean Terminal about five miles south of the North Carolina memorial,” Paul replied. “You will have to figure out how to get the stuff out of the terminal and over to the ship.”