A Final Broadside

by Buddy Worrell

  “Yep, things have changed. But why are you staring at the cutter’s main gun?” Ken asked.

  “I was sort of dreaming that you and me could put on our old uniforms and get aboard long enough to get off a few rounds toward the plant with that chain gun.”

  Ken shook his head and said, “You only get about 3,000 meters’ range with that weapon, Gunslinger. That’s not even far enough to let them know someone is shooting at them!”

  Paul nodded. “I agree. But if we don’t get the shells and bags, we are just as impotent. With no shells, what are we supposed to throw at them, harsh language? How about the FBI? Will they help?”

  Ken patted Paul on the shoulder and said no. Had they done eight months’ worth of work and preparation for nothing? Ken simply could not bring himself to believe this, not after all the dreams, visitations, and warnings. The spirit of his own father had told him to use the ship. Had he misunderstood?

  “Let’s go. It’s late, and Donna is frying flounder tonight. Want to join us?” Ken asked.

  “Think I will wander off on home. I’m pretty tired and need to catch up on some sleep. I’m too old to be crawling around that ship with you all hours of the night.”

  Ken shook his old friend’s hand and asked gently, “Are you okay, Paul?”

  “Oh, hell yeah, I’m fine!” he answered quickly. “Just cranky!”

  Ken drove home, and during dinner, he told Donna about the meeting with Special Agent Collins.

  She was comforting but pragmatic. “So what is your plan if you don’t figure out a way to get the shells and powder bags?”

  “I don’t have a plan,” he admitted. “I don’t know what to do next.”

  Donna reached across the table and put her hands on his face. “Ken Hager, I have seen you pull stuff out of thin air before. Who knows the things you know? Who has seen the things you’ve seen or had the experiences you have lived through? I think you need to have a little faith, Master Chief!”

  “That’s running in short supply these days,” he said, getting up from the kitchen table and walking out to the screened porch.

  The night was cloudy and overcast with no moon visible as he walked out into the blackness. He took a couple of deep breaths of the cool night air to clear his head and then opened the screen door to return to the porch. He stopped short and blinked to make sure his vision was clear. Directly in front of him, he saw their two white rocking chairs, one still, the other rocking rhythmically back and forth, back and forth.

  CHAPTER 56

  Washington, DC, Thursday, December 4, 11:00 a.m.

  “Mr. Ambassador, this is John Jameson Thurgood, undersecretary of state. Thank you for your urgent contact. We are on a secure line.”

  “Mr. Secretary, thank you for your quick response. Today we received what we believe is a credible threat to the United States,” the Swedish ambassador began. “A letter was sent to our embassy in Cambodia from an unknown source in Thailand. It was contained in the normal diplomatic pouch along with routine correspondence from Thailand and other countries in southeastern Asia. Upon my direction, we copied and encrypted the letter before transmitting it to your office this morning. The original letter is following through normal diplomatic procedures.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. But tell me, why do you think this extortion letter is a credible threat?” Thurgood questioned.

  “As you know, we maintain a small consulate in Pyongyang. Over a year ago, sources friendly to us told us of the defection of a brilliant young engineer who was on the verge of a breakthrough in EMP weaponry range limits. But he did not defect to any country we can identify. He simply disappeared. We are also aware of an international criminal using similar threats—dirty bombs in particular—in the Middle East and African countries, especially those in the midst of turmoil or civil war. He goes by many aliases and is of Asian descent but appears to have been educated in Europe. This extortion letter bears marked similarities to others we have seen. Most important is that this criminal always follows through on his threats. We do not think that the disappearance of the engineer, followed by this kind of letter, is coincidental, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, the government of the United States appreciates and values the friendship and peaceful collaboration between our two countries. In respect for the neutrality of Sweden, no mention of your assistance will be made. All correspondence on this subject will be classified immediately. One last question, Mr. Ambassador: do you have any sense of timing on this threat?”

  The ambassador cleared his throat and said, “In our experience, when this criminal has made a threat, he is fully prepared to carry out that threat immediately!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador, and I look forward to our next meeting in January. Good-bye!” Thurgood hung up and immediately paged his aide.

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary?

  “Edward, please get me the director of the FBI and use the code word ‘imminent’ when prompted.”

  Sunny Point Military Depot, Port of Wilmington, Thursday, December 4, 4:00 p.m.

  JR Jenrette had had a long week processing dozens of shipments into and out of the depot and was ready for the weekend.

  JR was a civilian employee and enjoyed his job, but putting up with some of those tight-ass military types this week had really stressed him out. He had always been very detail-oriented and had never really screwed up an order or shipment, but he hated dealing with a bunch of second lieutenants and ensigns trying to impress the brass. “Recheck that address, Jenrette.” “Who signed for this, Jenrette?” “This is going to Admiral Whoever, so make sure the packing is sufficient, Jenrette!”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” he mumbled. “I got a Harley, a case of Bud Light, and a babe this weekend. You soldier dudes can go shine something or other on your uniforms!”

  JR peered at what would be his last order to process that day. Everything was filled out correctly and in triplicate. Why are these guys so in love with paper? he thought. The order was sizable and heavy too. “Hey, Manny,” he called out to his assistant. “Take this order and let’s get it picked, pulled, and loaded this afternoon.”

  Manuel Ortega, also a civilian employee, took the bottom copy of the triplicate form and headed toward the cavernous warehouse.

  “Hey, Manny,” JR called out again. “Be sure to use the heavy-duty handling equipment. This shipment ain’t a load of toilet paper going out,” he said, laughing at his own humor. “It needs to go to the battleship and weighs about 30,000 pounds, so use the autoloader and the trailer with the motorized lift!”

  JR looked at the order again and thought, Man, they have really been ordering the parts.

  Figure Eight Island, North Carolina, Thursday, December 4, 5:00 p.m.

  “The trip was especially tiring this time, my dear, and I think I will retire early. I want to be well-rested and energetic as we bring this project to its inevitable conclusion. But before that, what delicacies have you catered in for our dinner? Something not too heavy, I hope?”

  Ariana assisted Dr. Chin from the armored Escalade and walked with him to the rented home’s private elevator. “I thought you might prefer some lighter fare for this evening, so we shall be having a jumbo Gulf shrimp cocktail served with a horseradish-infused lemon-tomato compote, followed by chilled cracked crab with steamed asparagus and dill. For dessert we have a delightful orange sherbet drizzled with Grand Marnier and garnished with flakes of dark chocolate,” she cooed.

  “You always spoil me, don’t you, my dear?” As they reached the elevator, Rithipol reminded her, “After dinner, please remember to set the incendiary charges around the house. Once we leave, there should be no evidence of our presence. Save one for the car as well.”

  Ariana nodded and pressed “3” for the third floor.

  CHAPTER 57

  J. Edgar Hoover Building, Operations Center, Washington, DC, Fr
iday, December 5, 10:00 a.m.

  The chief analyst confirmed the authenticity of the encrypted message from the Swedish embassy and called the director’s office.

  “Sir, this is Chief Analyst Wendy Cox. I have confirmed the authenticity of the message and run it through our database, cross-referencing the Interpol database, using the Cray supercomputer. The analysis judgment is ‘credible.’ Do you need any further ancillary analysis?”

  “Thank you, Cox. That is all for now!”

  The director turned to his aide. “Get me Communications and inform the White House please! I want a threat bulletin issued to all regional offices and all state law enforcement agencies immediately. Points of investigation are construction of new production facilities, shipments of sophisticated electronic equipment, international involvement in construction, and movements of currency exchanges in excess of $10 million, especially to protected, confidential, and numbered account areas such as the Cayman Islands and Switzerland.”

  The director thought for another minute and said, “Check the itineraries of the president, vice president, senior members of Congress, and members of the Cabinet for domestic air travel in the next week.”

  “What about the ad in the Times, sir?”

  “We don’t negotiate with terrorists,” he answered.

  “Working, sir!”

  The aide turned quickly toward the outer office and was gone.

  Figure Eight Island, North Carolina, Friday, December 5, 10:00 a.m.

  “Did you rest well, sir?” Ariana asked as Rithipol emerged from the elevator onto the third floor, dressed for the day.

  “I did, my dear. Indeed I did!” he exclaimed. “But I was awakened by the most exquisite aroma of French crepes!”

  Ariana smiled and handed him a tall mimosa and a copy of the New York Times.

  Rithipol took in a deep breath, savoring the smell of the delicate crepes warming in the sauté pan. He flipped through the newspaper and upon reaching the employment section said, “Tomorrow will tell the tale. Employment ads in the Saturday edition are very limited, and we shall have our answer quickly.”

  Ariana beckoned him to the kitchen table and served the crepes along with fresh fruit and whipped cream. Crisp, applewood-smoked bacon strips accompanied the crepes along with fresh-brewed French press coffee.

  After breakfast, Ariana escorted Dr. Chin outside to the Escalade, where she had installed an eighteen-inch color monitor connected to a laptop. “If you will take your normal seat, sir, I will demonstrate the closed-circuit TV monitoring capabilities that are in place at the facility.”

  She went around the car and got in the backseat beside him and powered up the laptop and monitor. Four images appeared simultaneously on the screen: the facility perimeter, including the front entrance; the interior control panels; the EMP weapon situated on the elevator platform; and the back loading dock area. Ariana demonstrated how to rotate and telescope the closed-circuit cameras to view almost every angle of the facility. The perimeter camera could even be positioned to cover the highway traffic approaching the facility or telescoped toward the city, affording an excellent view of the Wilmington riverfront.

  “Excellent, my dear,” he hissed. “We shall be blessed with superb observation of the near-future events. For now, did I understand that this property’s pool is heated?”

  Ariana nodded in the affirmative.

  “How about a refreshing dip, my dear?”

  Ariana nodded again.

  Federal Building, Wilmington, North Carolina, Friday, December 5, 12:00 p.m.

  Matt Fuller knocked on Special Agent Collins’s door and was invited in.

  “Agent Collins,” Matt said, “it has been really slow today—no bulletins, no visitors, no phone calls, not even a wrong number.”

  “What’s your point, Matt?” Collins asked.

  “Can I take the afternoon off, boss? I just heard the surf is good off of Johnny Mercer’s Pier today,” Matt pleaded.

  “Sure, Matt. Hell, I may take a few hours off myself. My boy has been bugging me to take him fishing, and the weather looks perfect.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Matt said as he disappeared through the door.

  Agent Collins looked at the clock on the wall and then picked up the office phone and called his home. Joe Jr. was ecstatic and begged his father to hurry so as not to lose any daylight.

  Agent Collins made sure his cell phone was fully charged and left the office. Any bulletins or special alerts would be forwarded directly to his mobile phone, and the fish were waiting!

  J. Edgar Hoover Building, Operations Center, Washington, DC, Friday, December 5, 2:00 p.m.

  The aide knocked on the director’s office door and entered. “Director, the threat bulletin has been issued to all FBI regional offices and to state law enforcement divisions nationwide, regarding VIP domestic air travel in the coming week. Only the vice president will be traveling—flying to Charleston, South Carolina, for a Pearl Harbor Day remembrance and park dedication. Air Force Two is scheduled to land at Charleston Naval Air Station at 9:00 a.m.”

  “Damn! Contact the vice president’s office and ask if they will cancel or postpone the Charleston trip in light of this threat.”

  “Working, sir,” answered the aide, and he retreated to the outer offices.

  Battleship Park, Cape Fear River, Friday, December 5, 4:00 p.m.

  The big flatbed pulled into the parking lot and up to the loading platform of the USS North Carolina. Ethel heard the commotion and stepped outside to meet the driver and his delivery. It sure is late in the day for a delivery, she thought.

  She watched the driver backing his loader off the back of the huge flatbed and then saw the size of the delivery. “Hold on, young man. Let me get the superintendent out here to accept this,” she called. Ethel went back to the gift shop and called Ken on the newly installed ship’s intercom, and Ken, along with Paul Hodge, stepped out of turret 1.

  The driver called up to the ship, “Manny Ortega here, delivery from Sunny Point. Can one of you guys sign for it?”

  Paul and Ken walked over to uncover the first of several pallets, and both gasped quietly in surprise. “Sure, I’ll sign,” said Ken. “Can you use your loader to get the pallets on the deck? I don’t want to leave them out on the platform overnight.”

  “No problem, Admiral,” Manny said and began to unload the cargo, lifting each covered pallet onto the foredeck. The process took only about twenty minutes, after which Manny approached with the paperwork to get Ken’s signature.

  Ken took the clipboard and signed the form, and Manny tore off the bottom copy and handed it back to Ken. “Thanks, Admiral, and have a nice weekend,” Manny said as he got into the flatbed’s cab and pulled away.

  Ken handed the paperwork over to Paul and said, “I wonder who was able to order this and why that guy kept calling me Admiral.”

  Paul tapped Ken on the shoulder and handed the paperwork back to him. “This might explain it!” Paul offered.

  Ken examined the paperwork, and his eyes widened and jaw fell slightly open at the authorizing signature: “Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz.”

  CHAPTER 58

  Battleship Park, Cape Fear River, Saturday, December 6, 8:00 a.m.

  Paul had spent Friday evening on the phone, calling as many volunteers as possible to be at the ship at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday to help unload a shipment of defused and disarmed (in reality, defused, yes; disarmed, no) sixteen-inch shells and supposedly counterfeit propulsion bags. They would be used to demonstrate the loading mechanisms inside the turrets.

  Twelve volunteers showed up Saturday morning, and all were delighted that the loading demonstration would become part of the ship’s tour. “Where do you want ’em?” one of the senior volunteers called out to Paul.

  “Three shells and eighteen bags per turret!” Paul answered. “Those
shells are heavy as hell, and so are the propulsion bags. Be sure to use two-man crews and the hydraulic lift and chain fall to secure them before attempting to set them in the turret.”

  The volunteers waved and began the tedious process. Paul and Ken would install the fuses after everyone departed. Both of them knew there were both disarmed shells and armed shells at Sunny Point, so how had the two been switched? And who the hell would forge Admiral Nimitz’s signature? It seemed that if one was going to forge an admiral’s signature, one would pick an admiral who was still alive!

  Special Agent Collins’s Home, Wilmington, North Carolina, Saturday, December 6, 9:00 a.m.

  “I had a great time fishing with you, Dad!” Joe Jr. told his father as they were eating breakfast. “I’m really sorry about dropping your phone overboard when that king mackerel struck my line.”

  “I am not sure how I am going to explain to the bureau chief that a mackerel ate my phone, but it’s okay; I have a backup. Now all I have to do is find it!” Joe said.

  Joe’s wife reminded him that his backup phone was not at home, but at his office. “Don’t you remember taking it in last week to sync your contacts?”

  “Now I do,” Joe answered. “I’ll run into the office this afternoon and pick it up.”

  Figure Eight Island, North Carolina, Saturday, December 6, 10:00 a.m.

  Ariana pulled the armored Escalade into the driveway of the leased beach house and got out with a bag of New York–style bagels, smoked salmon, and cream cheese for their brunch. There was plenty of fresh fruit leftover from yesterday, and she had left Dr. Chin quite content sipping mimosas.

  She also had a copy of the Saturday edition of the New York Times. She had not looked to see whether the Americans had placed the advertisement indicating a deal. She felt that would have been impertinent. Instead, she would allow Dr. Chin to reveal the Americans’ response or lack thereof.

  “Ah, my dear,” Rithipol said as she entered. “You have returned with brunch and the Times. But no more suspense! Let’s see if our American clients wish to purchase the EMP range solution.”