A Final Broadside

by Buddy Worrell

  Rithipol took the paper from her and went directly to the employment section. He studied the pages closely and then raised one eyebrow, saying, “It appears that our American clients would like to see a demonstration of our solution.” With no other visible change in his expression, he said to Ariana, “After brunch, my dear, contact the pilot and have him refuel the jet and stand ready at the aviation hangar at 7:30 a.m. tomorrow. Make sure he has altered the tail numbers on the jet and tell him that under no circumstances should any electrical systems be operating on the jet when we arrive. Perhaps you should pack us a breakfast snack for tomorrow morning since we will be leaving directly after the demonstration.”

  Ariana nodded in agreement and set out the brunch with refills of mimosas.

  As Rithipol ate a bagel slathered with cream cheese and topped with a slice of smoked salmon, he congratulated himself on his planning and timing. A demonstration on Sunday, December 7, would be reminiscent of another demonstration by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor many decades ago.

  He smiled, then chuckled, and then laughed shrilly. What great irony! he thought. What perfect timing!

  Battleship Park, Cape Fear River, North Carolina, Saturday, December 6, 2:00 p.m.

  “Hi, Ken,” Donna said over the phone. “How are things progressing? Any news?”

  Ken never lied to his wife, but on several occasions he had “exaggerated” a fact or two. “Things are progressing well, and we got a great shipment from Sunny Point that will really add to the memorial!” he said.

  “Listen, the reason I called is that two of my colleagues want to go to Crabtree Mall in Raleigh to shop. They want to get a hotel and stay overnight before coming home. Are you okay with that?” Donna asked.

  “Fine, just fine,” Ken answered. “There may be a last-minute Pearl Harbor remembrance ceremony, and I will need to be here for that.”

  “Okay. Then I will see you on Monday. Love you, Master Chief!”

  “Love you too, short stuff!” Ken said. He realized that providence had given him a gift in that Donna would be far away from any possible activity on Sunday.

  Ken was about to hang up when Donna called out, “Oh, I almost forgot! Dr. Ninomya called. He is vacationing in Hawaii and wants you to call him. He sounded really shaken up. I hope he’s okay. He wants you to call him at 8:00 p.m. EST.”

  Ken wrote down the phone number and said he would call. After one more round of good-byes, they hung up.

  Federal Building, Wilmington, North Carolina, Saturday, December 6, 4:00 p.m.

  Special Agent Collins unlocked the outer office doors and strode over to unlock his private office. “Now where did I leave that phone?” he said to himself as he stepped inside and began rummaging through his desk drawers.

  “Okay, here it is,” he said aloud and pressed the power button to activate the device. The battery was all but drained, and the phone did not have enough power to turn itself on. He uttered a minor epithet and continued rummaging through the desk drawers for the charger, which was nowhere to be found. “It is probably at home,” he said with a sigh.

  He slipped the dead phone into his pocket and was starting toward his office door when he noticed a red light blinking on the secure fax line. Collins walked over to the fax machine and retrieved the dispatch. It was from the FBI Operations Center in DC. As he read the dispatch, his eyes widened, and his face reddened in alarm. “Oh shit!” he whispered, and he hurried to connect to the FBI Operations Center over the secure line.

  USS North Carolina Battleship Memorial, Cape Fear River, Saturday, December 6, 8:00 p.m.

  “Okay, Paul. Looks like we are ready. The shells are armed, and the propulsion bags are in place,” Ken said, breathing heavily with fatigue.

  “Ready?” Paul asked incredulously. “May I remind you that all of the projectile hoists are broken, and we have no crew to lock, load, and fire these babies?”

  Ken looked at his weary old friend and said, “A wise old man once told me to have a little faith!”

  Paul smiled weakly and said, “I’m taking what little faith I have and going to crash in the recliner in Ethel’s office.”

  “Sleep well, Gunslinger. Everything in me says tomorrow morning is showtime!”

  Paul waved and disappeared down the catwalk and into the gift shop.

  “Damn,” Ken blurted out. “I almost forgot to call Dr. Ninomya.” Ken reached for his cell phone and the number in Hawaii. He punched in the numbers and waited.

  After a distinct click, a voice answered. “Ninomya here. Who is calling please?”

  Ken answered, “Hi, Dr. Ninomya. It’s Ken Hager calling.”

  Ken had hardly finished his greeting before Dr. Ninomya began talking. “Young Ken, young Ken. You must hear this. It is inconceivable!” Ninomya said, almost shouting over the phone.

  “Calm down, Dr. Ninomya,” Ken said as soothingly as he could. “What has happened to upset you so much?”

  “Young Ken, my family vacations in Hawaii every year, but I have not returned to the Arizona memorial since we met there so many years ago. Today, I forced myself to go to the memorial, but the closer I got to the sunken ship, the more I was troubled by disturbing visions like the visions you saw there.”

  “Hold on, Dr. Ninomya,” Ken said. His attention was diverted to the bridge of the battleship, where waves of lights flickered on and off and small static electrical charges were dancing about. “I’m sorry, sir,” Ken said. “I am walking toward the bridge of the North Carolina to check out some electrical discharges. Please continue.”

  “The troubling visions were getting stronger and more terrifying when suddenly they stopped!”

  Ken left the bridge and went into the wardroom to find the same electrical light show occurring. “Maybe you are now free of the visions, Dr. Ninomya,” Ken offered, attempting an explanation.

  “Young Ken, you do not understand. I am not free of the visions of drowned sailors. They are not here! They have departed.”

  Ken was moving on deck and into turret 1. More discharges danced in front of his face, and dials and gauges snapped to life, the needles bouncing about the interior of each gauge. The hair on Ken’s arm was already beginning to rise when he saw the first of many shapes begin to form inside the turret. They were the dim shapes of sailors staring at him. Ken felt no fear or foreboding.

  “Young Ken, the spirits have left the Arizona!”

  Ken smiled at the shapes and said, “I think I know where they are!”

  CHAPTER 59

  USS North Carolina Battleship Memorial, Cape Fear River, Sunday, December 7, 6:00 a.m.

  Ken was cold and groggy after not sleeping well in the drafty old wardroom. A cot and a quilt were all he’d had to comfort him last night, and what sleep he had gotten had been interrupted by the flashing electrical discharges and the occasional chair moving across the room by itself.

  He dragged himself off of the cot and headed down to the gift shop, where at least he could brew some coffee. As Ken walked in the gift shop door, Ethel was walking out.

  “See you in about ten minutes,” she said. “I’m on my way to the fast-food joint in Leland and will bring you and Paul some sausage biscuits and coffee. Bye!”

  Slightly confused, Ken waved at Ethel and entered the gift shop to find Paul stretching in the recliner, covered with a wool blanket.

  “When did she get here?” Ken asked.

  “She was here when I got here last night, wrapped up in this blanket and asleep in the recliner. I apologized for waking her up, and she invited me to join her under the blanket. Best night’s sleep I’ve had in months!” Paul exclaimed.

  Ken shook his head and said, “Meet me in turret 1 in five minutes. The crew is here!”

  “The crew? What crew?” Paul asked as Ken disappeared out the door. Paul stumbled out of the recliner and struggled to put on his shoes.
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  A minute later, Paul made the short walk to turret 1 and opened the door to find it empty. “Ken? Ken? Where the hell are you?” Paul called.

  He walked over to the intercom and pressed the call button. “Master Chief, I am in turret 1. Where are you?” He released the call button and waited for a reply. Then he noticed what appeared to be random electrical charges arcing from one end of the turret to the other. Paul glanced at the electrical panel and saw the gauges and dials snapping on and off.

  The intercom crackled to life. “Paul, I am on the bridge and am about to issue an order to the crew in turret 1, and I want you to observe and report.”

  “Crew? What the hell are you talking about, Ken? I am down here by myself, and I think we have an electrical overload. The place is lit up with sparks and discharges shooting across the room. If one of those hits a powder bag, this turret will explode, and you won’t find enough of me to bury in a matchbox!”

  “Turret 1, this is Master Chief Ken Hager. Load one Mark 6 shell and six bags in each barrel!”

  Paul was becoming convinced that Ken had lost his mind when a surge of electricity hit him square in the chest and knocked him across the turret floor, dumping him unceremoniously on his butt. The surges and sparks intensified, casting an unearthly glow inside the turret. Then Paul’s old eyes saw a movement—and then another and another.

  His eyes widened and his jaw dropped as the breech plug of each barrel was extracted by invisible hands. One at a time, each 2,700-pound, armor-piercing Mark 6 shell was loaded into the chamber, followed by six propulsion bags, and then rammed into place.

  Paul leapt to his feet and dashed to the intercom. “Jesus Christ, Ken!” he screamed. “Something just loaded all three guns, and there ain’t nobody down here but me! What should I do?”

  Ken’s answer was calm and direct. “Stay out of their way.”

  Paul bolted for the turret hatch but turned for one more look just in time to see all three breech plugs slam into place. Paul turned to escape the creepy chamber and heard a chorus of ethereal voices sing out from inside the turret, “Locked and loaded, Master Chief!”

  Camp Lejeune Marine Base, North Carolina, Sunday, December 7, 7:00 a.m.

  Special Agent Joe Collins watched as two assault teams of twenty-two heavily armed marines assembled at the specified landing zone for a raid on a terrorist weapons cache. They were led by a battle-hardened lieutenant colonel, and all had seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Their orders were to attack a building hiding some sort of EMP device, neutralize any resistance, and capture the weapon before it could be employed. They carried anti-armor shoulder-fired rockets, capable of blasting through the blast-proof doors that they would encounter, and a case of C-4 plastic explosives if needed. The two squads boarded the two CH-3 Sea Stallion helicopters and waited for the order to depart for the twenty-minute flight to the target. Joe was dressed in FBI tactical gear and armed with an M-16. He hadn’t been in a Sea Stallion since the First Gulf War, and he tried hard to mask his growing anxiety.

  Air Force Two, 22,000 Feet over Eastern Virginia, Sunday, December 7, 7:17 a.m.

  The aide returned from the flight deck where he had been summoned only minutes before.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Vice President. Colonel Wright just received instructions for us to land in Wilmington, North Carolina, before continuing on to Charleston. The FBI has uncovered a terrorist plot to use an ultra-long-range EMP weapon. A marine assault team will be departing shortly to neutralize the plot, but the Secret Service wants us out of the air until the operation is completed. We have normal protection against EMP blasts but are unsure how this new weapon will affect our systems in flight.”

  Two Secret Service agents on the vice president’s jet walked up and confirmed the aide’s report.

  “Colonel Wright will radio ahead and have a security detachment of local and state law enforcement personnel meet us in Wilmington,” the aide said.

  Jet-A Aviation, Wilmington International Airport, Sunday, December 7, 7:30 a.m.

  When Ariana pulled the Escalade into the Jet-A parking lot, she parked in the most remote spot. The Gulfstream was already out of the hangar and parked on the tarmac. She waved at the pilot, who waved back in acknowledgment.

  Ariana exited the Escalade, circled around the vehicle, and got into the backseat with Dr. Chin. “Shall we begin, sir?” she asked.

  “By all means, my dear,” Rithipol answered.

  “This will take a few minutes, sir. Would you like some refreshments?” she asked.

  “Not now, my dear. I want to devote all my attention to the upcoming demonstration,” he said softly.

  Ariana went to work setting up the monitors, laptop, and remote controls. It was a little tedious, even in the huge backseat of the Escalade, but she would be ready before 8:00 a.m., as Dr. Chin had requested.

  USS North Carolina Battleship Memorial, Cape Fear River, Sunday, December 7, 7:48 a.m.

  Paul joined Ken and Ethel on the bridge after witnessing two more hair-raising occurrences in turrets 2 and 3. Ken was eating his sausage biscuit and telling Ethel to take the day off.

  Ethel greeted Paul, who went from terrified to sheepish in a microsecond, and then turned back to Ken. “This is so sweet of you, Master Chief. I have a date at the mall. You boys behave yourselves!” she said, shooting Paul a wicked wink.

  Paul’s face took on a purplish shade of red as Ken grinned widely. Once Ethel was gone, Paul looked seriously at Ken. “Okay, Master Chief, either you tell me what the hell is going on, or so help me, Hannah, I will crack your skull with this crowbar!” Paul said, nearly screaming.

  “Relax, Gunslinger. I will tell you the entire story in about ten minutes. But now, I need you to do your calculations to aim the Mark 6s and blow that son of a bitch to Mars.” Ken’s demeanor was one of total relaxation, accented with concentrated resolve, as he stared out a window of the bridge at the distant target.

  Paul pulled out his round plastic discs and plotted the direction, windage, and elevation. He took one more look toward the distant building, barely visible as a speck on the horizon. “Got ’em, Master Chief. Now what?” Paul asked.

  “Call ’em in to the turrets, Gunslinger,” Ken answered.

  “But who the hell—”

  “Just call them in,” Ken said.

  Paul picked up the intercom mic and transmitted the coordinates and barrel elevation. No sooner had he finished than he heard the big generator roar and belch black diesel smoke. All three turrets began to swing toward their objective.

  NBC Affiliate WWIL Channel 9, Shipyard Boulevard, Wilmington, North Carolina, Sunday, December 7, 7:55 a.m.

  The weather reporter was well into his morning forecast, which included a view from the news station’s battleship cam. “And for December, the weather will continue to be ‘Chamber of Commerce style.’ Sunny and sixty-five for a high today and only dipping into the lower fifties for tonight. Now let’s take a look at the Wilmington riverfront from the battleship cam,” the reporter said.

  The director switched the camera view to the battleship cam in time to see the number 3 turret rotate to the left. “What the …?” exclaimed the reporter before he could catch himself. After a moment, he said, “Folks, the battleship turrets are rotating, and I have no idea why. I’m being told that my producer is dispatching two camera crews to find out what is going on. One will go to Battleship Park, and the other will take a position on the Cape Fear riverfront … Ladies and gentlemen, we also just got a report from ILM that Air Force Two has just touched down. We have no idea why and no facts to report, but we will dispatch a third camera crew to the airport. Back to you, Bob, for high school sports.”

  Thinking his microphone was now off, the weather reporter exclaimed, “Does anybody know what the eff is going on?”

  Coast Guard Cutter Diligence, Cape Fear River,
Sunday, December 7, 7:58 a.m.

  “Skipper, Skipper!” screamed the morning watch Seaman O’Reilly. “Look at the battleship. For Christ’s sake, look at the battleship!”

  Commander Becky Weave stepped out of the cutter’s bridge and onto the deck in time to see all three turrets rotate and the barrels elevate.

  “What should we do, Skipper? It looks like the battleship is preparing to fire on something!” he called out loudly.

  “Sound battle stations, seaman, and radio over to the memorial’s superintendent asking if he needs our assistance.”

  “Where should we aim the chain gun, Skipper? At the battleship?” Seaman O’Reilly asked.

  “Are you out of your mind, seaman? Calculate where the battleship’s guns are aimed and do the same!”

  Jet-A Aviation, Wilmington International Airport, Sunday, December 7, 8:02 a.m.

  Ariana activated the monitors, and views of the facility appeared, to Rithipol’s delight. He made a scan of the perimeter, the interior of the building, and the central core containing the weapon. Suddenly, a call came in from the pilot. The airport was shut down to arrivals and departures due to the unexpected arrival of Air Force Two.

  “It would seem that we have some high-level company, my dear. I will activate the weapon immediately, and we shall depart with apologies to the vice president.”

  He activated the remote and hit “send” to raise the elevator and EMP.

  USS North Carolina Battleship Memorial, Cape Fear River, Sunday, December 7, 8:05 a.m.

  The guns were aligned and ready to fire. The Gunslinger stood at Ken’s side and waited for whatever would happen next.

  Ken noticed that images were beginning to form and take shape on the bridge. The Gunslinger saw nothing, but Ken saw the images sharpen into human form and become crystal clear. He saw Nate, Fleet Admiral Nimitz and his father.

  In his mind, he heard his father say, “This is your destiny. Deny the terrorist’s goal and free us to do our duty!”