A Final Broadside

by Buddy Worrell

  “Lovely,” Ken replied.

  The discussion continued for twenty minutes when a knock on the door took them away from the planning. “Gunslinger!” a voice called out. “It’s Bill from Sharkey’s. I got your pizza, salad, and tea!”

  Paul looked over at Ken and said, “Pay the man!”

  Ken chuckled and walked to the screen door and asked how much he owed for the delivery. “Gunslinger gets our special rate—$19.95 will do it.”

  Ken reached for his money clip and peeled off a twenty and a five. “Keep the change,” Ken offered. Bill smiled broadly, handed over the goods, nodded his thanks, and headed back to his car.

  Ken returned to the table to find Paul had gathered some paper plates, napkins, and plastic cups filled with ice. The pizza was still hot and very tasty, and the two friends tore into it with purpose.

  As they were finishing up the last slices, Paul admitted, “The only other problem is, where do we find a crew? The ship’s total crew was over 2,200 sailors. We don’t need that many, but we will need close to a hundred. I can round up about twenty volunteers, but they are all as old as I am.”

  Ken remembered the words of his father from the other night, and with a twinkle in his eyes, he said, “I think I can solve that one!”

  CHAPTER 53

  Architectural plans and construction specifications had been submitted and approved weeks in advance of Dr. Chin’s press conference in Wilmington announcing the battery production facility, and construction began within weeks of the announcement. A local contractor won the bid, and clearing of the site was quickly accomplished. The structure was to be built on a concrete slab foundation with the exception of a deep excavation in the center of the building—thirty feet long by thirty feet wide and sixty feet deep. This area was ostensibly for the blast-proof walls and doors. Construction of the metal exoskeleton of the building was quick and efficient. The area around the building was surfaced and paved, and interior finishing items were coming soon. The sixty-foot pit in the center of the building remained “roughed in” but was not progressing.

  It was at this point that a young engineer known only as Pak was dispatched from Far East Lithium to supervise the construction of the central pit. Pak brought with him a crew of five workers, also from Far East Lithium, to perform the actual construction. The first thing they did was wall off the pit to all other workers, citing industrial secrets and proprietary knowledge.

  The work continued for eight months, twelve hours a day, seven days a week, until the central pit was completed—blast walls erected; bombproof, hinged roof doors mounted; and a heavy-duty industrial elevator installed. Control rooms surrounding the core featured panels of lights, dials, and switches to remotely control the manufacturing processes and shield the workers from dangerous materials and potential explosions, or at least this was the story told to any inspectors from the state or city, and all accepted the very plausible explanations.

  In early November, the facility was completed with the exception of the last piece of automated equipment, central to the manufacturing process. A single large flatbed truck arrived carrying a single crated piece of machinery. A cable was attached to the top of the crate, and a rental crane, operated by one of the Far East Lithium crew, lifted the 20x20x20 crate off of the flatbed and squeezed it gently into the sixty-foot-deep central pit, where others of the crew unhooked the cable from the crate. As the freed cable cleared the roofline, the huge hinged bombproof doors swung closed.

  Pak instructed the crew to uncrate the machinery and proceed with the installation of what looked to be a huge microwave oven. But instead of a glass door, the “microwave” had four satellite dish–like structures, one mounted on each side. Unlike a traditional weapon, this carried no explosive residue that could be detected by mass spectrometers. Unlike nuclear devices, there was no telltale radiation being emitted.

  The EMP was in place and ready to be connected to the control panel. Pak instructed the crew to return to their headquarters—presumably to Far East Lithium, outsiders believed. He alone would complete the installation and testing of components. He alone would integrate his range solution into the EMP, making it the longest-range and most effective EMP weapon in existence. His orders from Dr. Chin had been very specific: the EMP must be installed and operational by December 4 in order to align with the extortion letter. Once the letter was received, the Americans would have to accept the terms or face the attack. Pak knew Dr. Chin favored the latter. But the pulse would need to happen quickly before any serious counterattack could be mounted.

  Pak worked for the next two weeks to complete installation and testing protocols. All was in perfect working order and ready to execute. Pak called Dr. Chin on his satellite phone to report the progress and seek his next orders.

  “Excellency,” Pak called out when Rithipol answered the call.

  “Pak, my dear boy. It is so good to hear from you. I hope you have good news on our facility’s completion?” Rithipol asked.

  “Yes!” Pak responded. “Installation and testing are complete. All is ready to begin production.” Pak used ambiguous terms as Rithipol had instructed, in case any phones were being monitored.

  “I am very pleased, Pak, and look forward to seeing you at home. I was also able to clear up that dreadful visa misunderstanding and am happy to tell you that your fiancée is here with Ariana and is awaiting your return.”

  Pak was overwhelmed but fought the urge to cry out with joy. Instead he said in a calm and level voice, “Excellency, how can I ever repay you for this gift?”

  Dr. Chin laughed over the satellite call and said, “I am sure we can arrive at a proper payment when you return. Travel safely and good-bye!”

  Pak ended the call and was unable to control the tears welling up in his eyes. But his happiness was tempered by Chin’s response regarding “proper payment.”

  A few miles away in the Wilmington Federal Building, Special Agent Joe Collins ended his monitoring of the satellite call. He had learned nothing that would validate Ken Hager’s suspicions. He had heard no threats, conspiracies, or even misdemeanors discussed with Dr. Chin. “So why does all of this feel just too innocent to me?” he thought aloud.

  CHAPTER 54

  As construction was beginning on the battery production facility, Ken and Paul were mapping out the necessary steps to secretly turn the USS North Carolina back into a weapon. Within a week of their meeting in Ocean Isle Beach, Ken and Paul were inside the turrets with flashlights, looking for traces of hydraulic fluid on the roller pan floor. They found none!

  Next, Ken squeezed into crawlspaces designed for much smaller men to inspect the hydraulic lines and pumps, looking for signs of corrosion or leaks. The lines showed signs of age and corrosion but no leaks! They inspected all three turrets, knowing that all they really needed was one turret to rotate and one gun to fire.

  “My biggest concern,” Ken admitted, “is what happens when we pressurize these ancient lines for the first time in over sixty years?”

  “Have a little faith, Master Chief,” Paul chimed in. “They say faith can move mountains.”

  “I don’t need to move a mountain, just one turret,” Ken sighed. “Did you check the turret locking mechanisms, Paul?”

  “Yeah, all three are rusted and corroded. The good news is they are all mechanical and made of forged steel that can be fabricated at any good machine shop. I know one up I-40, just past the I-140 bypass!”

  “Great. Call the shop tomorrow and get ’em out here to see if they can fabricate the pieces for us,” Ken said.

  At the end of the day, both men were exhausted and hungry. Before they left the memorial, Ken checked his office phone and found a message from Donna. She had been summoned into a departmental meeting and dinner with some potential donors to the marine sciences department. So she would not be home until after 9:00 p.m., but there were some frozen dinners ready
for him at home, she said.

  Ken turned to Paul and pretended to heave. “I was going to invite you to dinner tonight and ask you to stay with us and not make that drive home tonight. But I just don’t think a frozen Hungry Man is going to cut it!” Ken said.

  Paul thanked Ken for the offer but declined. “I’m dirty, and I probably smell. I didn’t bring a change of clothes with me either, but I would like a rain check on that offer if possible,” Paul said. “This time, I think I will go on home, get cleaned up, and boil me some crabs I caught in my crab pot last evening. Nothing like fresh crab!”

  “You’ll get no argument from me, brother,” Ken said as Paul waved and headed to his rusty Jeep.

  Ken went back to his office to gather some notes before driving home. They were solving some problems, and that was good. But would it be good enough? Ken knew that he must match the pace of construction at the battery facility because that creep Chin would employ that weapon as soon as he could. The ship must be ready, locked, and loaded the instant Far East Lithium revealed its true identity.

  Ken walked out to the parking lot and jumped into the Tiger. As he drove out of the lot, he turned and looked back at the ship in the fading sun. He could have sworn that he saw someone standing on the bridge, but when he looked again, the specter was gone.

  For the next eight months, Ken, sometimes alone and other times working with Paul and unknowing volunteers, polished, lubricated, tested, and worried over every critical step in preparing the old girl for her last battle. All nine barrels were uncapped and cleaned to reveal any scars in the rifling or obstructions that would prevent the shells from emerging properly. Hell, they could just as easily blow apart in our faces when fired the first time, Ken thought many times.

  When all nine barrels came out clear, with minimal damage to the rifling, Ken began to have more faith and less doubt. He repaired the North Carolina’s intercom so that he and Paul could communicate from remote parts of the ship, and that sped things up considerably.

  Fabricated parts were installed and tested, and a crucial challenge was overcome when the shell-handling apparatus operated cleanly and the interrupted screw system of the breech block and plug required only minor maintenance to operate like a Swiss watch!

  However, the projectile hoist that lifted the shell from the magazine to the gun deck was completely inoperable in all three turrets. Problem, Ken thought. How does one lift a 2,700-pound, super-heavy, armor-piercing Mark 8 shell without an operational projectile hoist—supposing one had possession of such a shell, which we do not? Paul’s words echoed in his mind: “Have a little faith!”

  In early November, Ken rented a monstrous diesel generator and had it delivered to Battleship Park. That night, he and the Gunslinger would attach the generator’s output cable to the ship’s power grid. If this worked, they had a chance. If not? Ken could not imagine that scenario. Paul would be stationed at the generator, ready to cut power if an overload or worse occurred. Ken would rig the power cable to a series of breaker switches used to regulate electric power being generated by the big steam turbines. He then would go inside the turret, unlock the newly fabricated locking mechanism, and send power to the motor responsible for turning the turret and elevating the gun barrels. They would test one turret at a time and pray that at least one operated cleanly. They would test in the dead of night so as not to reveal that the “Showboat” was almost ready for showtime.

  “Damn, it is getting chilly at night!” complained Paul over the walkie-talkie that night, with a small shiver thrown in for emphasis, as he manned the generator in the blackness.

  “Quit your bitchin’! I’m almost done,” Ken radioed back.

  “How far are you going to rotate these babies, if they rotate at all?” Paul asked, his voice crackling over the radio.

  “Ninety degrees right for turrets 1 and 2 and ninety degrees left for turret 3—almost dead-on to the battery factory!” he answered.

  Since turrets 1 and 2 faced the Brunswick River and several hundred acres of swampland, Ken decided to test those first; the risk of the movement being seen was almost zero. “Okay,” Ken said, “prepare to deliver one-fourth power on my mark. Three, two, one, mark!”

  Paul threw a switch on the generator, and the big diesel belched black smoke up her stack and electricity down the cable.

  An indicator light blinked on the motor control panel, and Ken turned the dial to ninety degrees right. The roller plate groaned in protest like an ancient beast awakened from its slumber, but it did not turn. Ken radioed to Paul to send one-half power down the cable. A moment later, the indicator light on Ken’s panel shined brighter, and the beast groaned louder but still did not rotate. “Open the son of a bitch to full!” Ken screamed into the radio.

  The indicator light shined fiercely, and the groan changed to a high-pitched whine as the huge turret and its three massive guns swung smoothly ninety degrees to starboard and stopped.

  The walkie-talkies were silent as Paul and Ken both remained speechless at what had just happened. Finally, Paul gave a small chuckle and said, “Congratulations, Master Chief. You just raised the dead!”

  Ken sat down on the gunner’s stool and broke into a huge grin. “Congratulations, Gunslinger. I am gonna get you some shells and let you blow some shit up!”

  They tested the other turrets, and all performed as well. The barrel elevation lifts operated smoothly, and at the end of the test, all turrets were returned to their original positions and locked down. Ken thought, We are almost ready!

  “What is open in Wilmington at 3:00 a.m.?” Paul radioed. “I’m starving!”

  “Secure the generator and meet me in the parking lot,” Ken answered. “University Diner on College Road and Oleander is open twenty-four hours. Best 3:00 a.m. eggs in the city … actually, the only 3:00 a.m. eggs in the city. I’m buying!” Then a thought occurred to him out of nowhere: We may have a broadside!

  CHAPTER 55

  Geneva, Switzerland, December 3, 9:00 a.m.

  Dr. Chin summoned Ariana to his office located within his home and called a friend in Thailand while he waited.

  The friend answered the call on the fifth ring, a prearranged safety measure, and said, “I hear the weather is beautiful in Phnom Penh this season!”

  Rithipol chuckled at the code answers and counter-answers demanded by his friend but complied without complaint. “Yes, it is beautiful there, but I hear it is wretched in Sweden. Perhaps we should send them a sample?”

  “Agreed,” the friend answered, and the line went silent.

  The threat—or as he liked to call it, the offer to purchase—would be delivered via diplomatic pouch from Thailand to the Swedish embassy in Phnom Penh the next day, Wednesday, December 3, by 5:00 p.m.

  The “offer” would contain detailed instructions regarding payment, terms, acceptance notice, and direct deposit. If the Americans would only regard this as a business transaction and not extortion, all would proceed very smoothly and peacefully. But Rithipol knew they would not accept his terms, and he was prepared for the contingency of demonstrating the EMP and raising the price to $2 billion.

  Ariana tapped at the entryway door, and Rithipol waved her in, smiling widely. “My dear, you look lovely as usual!”

  Ariana returned his smile and glided across the room to his desk.

  “All is proceeding as I have planned,” Rithipol told her. “Have you prepared all the details for our trip?”

  “Yes, sir!” she answered. “All arrangements have been completed, and all components are in place. We are scheduled to depart for the States and Wilmington, North Carolina, and arrive Thursday, December 4. Rental car and lodging arrangements at Figure Eight Island are confirmed.”

  “Perfect as always!” Rithipol exclaimed. “Did you make sure to include the special equipment I requested? Pak should have gathered it all by now.”

  “Yes, sir
, Dr. Chin. Pak loaded the remote control devices, incendiary bombs, automatic weapons, and self-destruct codes himself. I also assisted in the installation of the chaff packets in the rear section on the jet. Are you expecting trouble, Dr. Chin?” she inquired matter-of-factly.

  “No, my dear. But I am always prepared!” he murmured.

  Federal Building, Wilmington, North Carolina, December 3, 3:00 p.m.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hager, but I have nothing to corroborate your hunch about Far East Lithium. I shouldn’t even tell you this, but I have monitored the phone conversations and even showed up on site as a building inspector, but I’ve found nothing to cause me any alarm whatsoever,” Agent Collins said. “But I will tell you this—everything about that plant and the Far East crew is just too perfect, almost rehearsed. I also appreciate you not interfering with the investigation. I am usually a pretty good judge of character, and I thought you were the kind of guy who would be submerged in some conspiracy and plotting all manner of unsanctioned actions.”

  “Thanks for bringing me up to date, Agent Collins,” Ken said. “I know I did not give you much to go on, and I appreciate that you gave me the benefit of the doubt. I still believe to my core that Far East Lithium is a front for someone or some country to attack the United States. I also believe that your suspicions will be borne out and that you will bring assets to bear to defeat the threat. I just hope you are on time,” Ken said.

  Ken walked out of the Federal Building and down a path to meet up with Paul, who was sitting on a riverfront bench, staring at the docked Coast Guard cutter Diligence. Wilmington was her home port, and she was scheduled to remain in port for another two weeks.

  Ken stopped next to his friend and asked, “Thinking about enlisting?”

  Paul turned to greet Ken and said, “Nah, my time is past. Looks like everybody on that boat is eighteen years old except the chief, and he looks thirty. Did you know the skipper is a female?”