Authors: Lars Teeney
“You what? You didn’t screw her, but
you’re talking about marrying the broad? What planet are you from, Burke?”
Jones mocked him. Burke thought about it and concluded that he was being a
fool. After all, the world is filled with broads. Wherever they go, any port
will be filled to the brim, with babes waiting for U.S. Navy sailors, to spend
their meager military wage. Burke reasoned that he could find an attractive,
“oriental” girl, waiting to be rescued and to be brought to the Land of
Opportunity. He reckoned that she would be dutiful and know how to treat her
husband, not like those frisky, American city girls, who’s only need was to
“tie one on”.
“Well, Christ man, I guess you are right,” he conceded with despair in his heart. What a damn fool he had been. He flagellated himself over being such a sentimental fool. Burke told himself to “man up”. He was a sailor, not a boy. He attempted to strike her from his memory; she was epoxied to the wall of his mind.
The emergency klaxon reverberated through
the cavernous war-ship. An emergency announcement rang out, “Attention all
personnel, action stations, we are under attack! This is not a drill!”
Instinct kicked in and Burke and Jones rushed to their positions. They began preparing shells for deployment and primed the projectile rammer. They waited for further instructions. As the tension mounted, another emergency announcement sounded, “Attention personnel, torpedo launch detected, brace for evasive maneuvers and impact!”
Burke rushed toward a railing and gripped
it for support. He wondered what was transpiring in the surrounding waters.
Burke speculated whether they were under attack by the Krauts. How did they
find the task force so quickly? Was there a spy in the flotilla? Burke was half
expecting to meet his end in this engagement. He could not help how he felt; it
was in his cynical nature.
On the bridge the helmsman was carrying
out the Captain’s orders, he steered the ship in an evasive course; a zigzag
formation. The rear of the ship deployed countermeasures, to create wake trails
in the water that attempted to “fool” the torpedo to alter course.
“I want to know who the hell launched that
torpedo!” Captain John McCrea barked out the order, readjusting his captain’s
hat.
An ensign on the far side of the bridge traced the trajectory back to one of their own, the ‘William D. Porter’, it was one of their own escort vessels. Could this be right?
“Captain, sir! It was discharged from the
‘William D. Porter’!” the ensign reported.
The Chief of Naval Operations, Ernest
King, was on the bridge following the drama, “What in Sam hell! Are they trying
to assassinate the President! Fucking Kraut spies!” He was red in the face.
Captain McCrea wiped sweat dripping into
his eyes, then blurted, “No dammit, that can’t be it! Train all batteries onto
the ‘William D. Porter”, and prep fire...but wait for my order!” He covered his
mouth with his hand, and wiped some more sweat away, then shouted another
order, “Hail the ‘Porter’, try to raise them. Use signal flags if you have to!”
The ensign acknowledged the order and
opened a radio hail to the ‘Porter’, but no response came.
Captain McCrea demanded a status report on
the path of the pursuing torpedo. It was found to only slightly alter course,
but on a collision course with the Iowa, but if they turned a hard to port, the
torpedo might hit the Iowa’s wake. The Captain ordered the maneuver and the
helmsman turn hard to port. Massive waves were generated by the ships sudden
turnabout, and the wake emanated out from the stern of the ship, creating a
wall under water. The torpedo skimmed through the depths at a stable speed. Its
warhead armed, detecting a moving object, but the object was the ship’s wake,
and so the torpedo detonated, sending a plume of water up. It created a
veritable tower. Shock waves careened through the murky abyss toward the Iowa’s
hull, slamming into it. The interior of the ship was rocked violently and
sailors lost their footing. One the bridge personnel were rocked to and fro.
The Captain braced himself on a table. The Chief of Naval Operatives fell onto
his rear end.
“Goddammit! Give me a damage report, right
away!” the Captain ordered under stress.
“Captain, you can not wait for
communication back from the ‘Porter’! You have to sink her right this minute!
She’s prepping another tube as we speak. I’m ordering you!” Chief King
demanded.
The Captain ignored the Chief who
struggled to get off his butt due to his huge gut. The Captain weighed his
options internally.
“Gunnery Chief! Stand by for a broadside
against the ‘Porter’! Ensign, keep hailing the ‘Porter’! Where’s my response!”
The Captain was furious.
Down in the Mark Seven, three-gun turret where Burke was stationed, he had just finished moving three shells from the hoist to the breach of each gun barrel. The rammer was prepped, and he was standing by for orders. Just one word is all it would take for Burke to send these shells flying toward the ‘Porter’; these guns could open her like a tin can. What if it wasn’t an assassination attempt on the President? What if it was just accidental fire? If that were the case he’d be sending fifteen hundred innocent sailors to their doom. But, even if it was an assassination attempt that meant innocent sailors would still pay the price. He mulled not carrying out any firing orders, to potentially save soldiers. Then he realized that the Porter could just as easily sink the Iowa, and what’s more, even if he disobeyed the order to fire, there were still two other Mark Seven turrets that would happily fire their guns, more than enough firepower to send the ‘Porter’ to the bottom. The ‘Porter’ was a destroyer and smaller than the Iowa. Burke waited in silence, and the chaotic thoughts swirled in his head.
“U.S.S. Iowa, BB-61, please respond! This
is the U.S.S. William D. Porter, BB-579! Stand down! Stand down! We are
confirming that the egg was rotten! I repeat! We confirm that the egg was
rotten! Do not fire!” A voice rang out over the radio from the U.S.S. William
D. Porter; they had finally broken radio silence. The ensign confirmed security
codes with personnel from the ‘Porter’.
Captain McCrea gave the order to the
Gunnery Chief to stand down. The Gunnery Chief used a speaking tube to relay
the orders to Burke in his turret and the other turrets. A chorus of sighs of
relief sounded out on the bridge of the Iowa. The Captain plopped into his
command chair, limp from stress exhaustion. The Chief of Naval Operations ran
over to the bay window to look out over the water in the ‘Porter’s’ direction,
he was not convinced that they were being truthful and still wanted the Iowa to
open up on the ‘Porter’. No one listened to him. An O.S.S. operative rushed
into the bridge, and demanded an update for the President, who instead of
cowering below decks had instructed his O.S.S. attendant to bring him on deck
and to the side of the ship in his wheelchair so he could witness the
detonation of the torpedo. They brought the O.S.S. operative up to speed, and
he departed to relay the information back to the President.
“Inform the William D. Porter that they
are expected to suspend all operations immediately. They are to assemble their
officers and crew on deck, where they will be taken into custody, pending an
inquiry into this matter. If they do not comply will we fire upon them,” the
Captain ordered the radioman to send the message. Chief King agreed with the
Captain’s orders and the message was sent to the ‘Porter’. The ‘Porter’ had
complied without protest.
Burke later learned about the conclusion
of the inquiry following the incident; it was revealed that the ‘Porter’ was
under orders to maintain radio silence, as to not attract the attention of
German U-boats. When during a training demonstration a lone torpedo tube
operator failed to remove the primer from the torpedo that he launched,
resulting a live round in the water in the direction of the Iowa. The William
D. Porter tried to signal with searchlights but signaled the wrong message. At
that crucial point, the Captain of the Porter made the decision to break radio
silence, which probably had saved the lives of his crew. The ‘Porter’ was
promptly boarded, the officers were relieved of command, and officers and crew
were all arrested.
Burke observed that the United States Navy had come closer than any of its enemies to decapitating itself, something that at most would have knocked America out of the war, and at the least delayed offensives until the leadership question was resolved. That figurative torpedo was dodged, however. Burke made the observation that the incident had been the first time in U.S. Naval history that one of its own vessels was boarded and the entire crew arrested. The lone torpedo tube operator who was responsible for the incident was made to fall on his sword and was sentenced to hard labor. Burke would later find out that President Roosevelt himself intervened on the man’s behalf to get his sentence commuted.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The task force of ships stopped in the
Canary Islands for resupply and respite. They had weighed anchor at Maspalomas,
and the crew of the Iowa was able to get shore leave. The President had been
unloaded and brought to an undisclosed villa. Burke had taken it upon himself
to see the sites of the island. Being a nautical history buff he had already
known some information about the island’s history. He was aware, that according
sources, the island been visited by ancient people such as the Phoenicians and
the Greeks. Explorers of antiquity that for their times were sailing beyond the
edge of the known world. The sailors and mathematicians of antiquity had a
pretty good idea that the Earth was curved, so these adventurers didn’t think
they were going to fall off a table top, but they did know they were venturing
into “aqua incognito”. When the Carthaginian explorer, Hanno the Navigator
reached the Canary Islands, he found sizable ancient ruins, even by his era’s
standard. These islands were ancient indeed. Burke wondered if the story of the
ruins found here contributed to the legend of Atlantis or Thule. He figured
that these Islands were in the Atlantic and that there were definitely signs
there had been civilization here before recorded history. The possibilities
overwhelmed him.
Burke referenced an old book on the ruins and geological sites of the islands, he was headed to a Guanche Sanctuary, named for the native inhabitants of the Islands. He thought of the possibility of a prehistoric material society with African roots, and the epic events that must have occurred before the ancient explorers made contact. Burke approached a strange, ancient structure, not unlike a miniature Stone Henge. In the center of several concentric circles of laid rocks, was a tower of black standing stones, roughly ten feet tall.
Burke wondered about the people who had built the rock structure, and the successive civilizations that had visited and colonized the islands, the Romans, the Mauritanians, the Islamic Berbers, the Portuguese, and the last in the race, the Spanish, who currently possessed the islands as colonies. Now here Burke stood, an American. He had come too late and lost the race by at least five hundred years. These days the islands were little more than a tourist trap. Colonialism, the slave trade, and economic exploitation had taken its toll, but the Islands still retained a primordial quality, timeless in nature.
The vast void of the Atlantic stood in front of Burke and the sun was plotting to conceal itself beyond the curvature of the earth. The light was fading. Burke walked back to the cab line, awaiting fares. He hired one to drive him back to town. The crew now knew where they were taking the President. The Iowa was to deliver him to Algeria, which would complete the first leg of the President’s journey. He was heading to Tehran, Iran for a conference with the leaders of his allies, Joseph Stalin, and Winston Churchill. Burke wondered if this voyage would be his claim to fame and how he would be known in the annals of history. It had been a wild ride so far, but he still felt unfulfilled. There must be something more. Burke was convinced that he had yet to play a larger part in the affairs of the world. History was not finished with him.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The advert for the Born Again Gathering
was bombastic, obnoxious, and tedious, but also unavoidable. When the Church of
New Megiddo sent out a broadcast over the [Virtue-net] there was no changing
the channel. The drug ‘Database’ worked on the same technology that the New
Megiddo church broadcast used, to make their broadcasts addictive. When the
broadcast commenced the neural implant of the user would interface with neurons
to release endorphins, this causing the brain to associate the broadcast with
pleasure. What better way for your congregation to feel the rapturous nature of
divinity?
The advert was like a mandatory public
service announcement. The B.A.G. occurred every ten years, with a pilgrimage to
local stadiums for an excessive rally for church and state.
“Bagger”, was the term the Apostates used for members of society that were devoted to the Church of New Megiddo and to the Born Again Gathering. The Apostates viewed these people like zombies because they had submitted wholeheartedly to the effects of the [Virtue-net] and the implants. They were just religious ‘Base’ heads. Never the less, they were the fodder that fueled the Regime in its days of waning power. As their grip weakened the fire and brimstone rhetoric intensified. That is what was so different about this year’s event. The adverts mentioned that the Second Coming of the Lord would occur on that day, and the Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright would initiate it.
The Arch-Deacon von Manstein had finished reviewing the B.A.G. advert on his retinal H.U.D. He wore a look of exuberance on his face. He was elated. Hardly being able to contain himself as he spoke to the church officials that were gathered around the massive donut-shaped table that surrounded a holographic display terminal. The terminal projected a three-dimensional representation of the Reverend Wilhelm.
“Reverend, cardinals, I say to you that
this announcement is what we have been waiting for our entire lives. The return
of our Lord, cometh to lead his flock home, beyond the reach of the Serpent!”
the Arch-Deacon proclaimed.
Arch-Deacon von Manstein was the highest ranking clergyman in the Church of New Megiddo, save for the Reverend Wilhelm. He was an elderly and sentimental man. Deep set, beady eyes were hidden behind thick variable magnification smart glasses, as he was nearly blind. He wore a black tunic that featured a white cross emblazoned on the front, the head of cross meeting the collar of the garment, the horizontal bar met the shoulders, the tail of the cross was extended beyond the crotch via an extension of the tunic that ran down to the knees. This was the uniform of the head clergy of the Church of New Megiddo. The Arch-Deacon von Manstein wore a black flat top cap, donned with the white cross that repeated all the way around the cap.
“Brother von Manstein, so I judge by your glee that everything is in place for the Gathering, and it will take place without a hitch? We must stay ever vigilant for any Apostate presence. They are always a threat,” the representation of the Reverend Wilhelm had asked, with the occasional snow and disturbance coursing through his avatar.
“Good Reverend, The Schrubb administration
has assured me that L.O.V.E. is tightening the noose around the Apostates and
should be commencing a final assault, soon,” Von Manstein happily reported.
“Brother von Manstein, you do realize that among the Apostates are former Regime members and that they have an informant somewhere inside the government. Rodrigo has informed the Regime about this fact,” the Reverend reported with an air of authority.
“Good Reverend, what can they possibly do? The military has been mobilized and L.O.V.E. is hot on their heels. They couldn’t possibly—” von Manstein was suddenly cut off, with a shocked look on his withered face.
“von Manstein, you do not seem to understand the stakes here. If we do not put a contingency plan in motion, in the event that the military and L.O.V.E fail, then that leaves the B.A.G. exposed,” the Reverend paused. von Manstein took the opportunity to interject, “Reverend, sir, the Church is sparing no expense to prepare for the B.A.G. and for the return of our Lord! Our coffers are empty! We cannot support any other operations besides the preparations. It’s not—” von Manstein was cut short, this time the Reverend was furious.
“Listen to me, von Manstein. You will appropriate funding for this problem. All of you holy men live like fucking Byzantine princes. Cut back on some of the wine and altar boys! You can go without for a while. Learn from those fuckin’ monks from the past. It’s the Second fuckin’ Coming, what do you think you’re gonna do with all this shit anyway?” The Reverend was red in the face, and the three-dimensional avatar release spittle from the mouth as it yelled.
The room was silent now. The clergy leaders looked at one another in confusion. The leadership of the Church did not know what to make of this directive. They had never been made to cut their expenses before. In an environment where dissent was utterly crushed, they had never been confronted with phenomena such as church reformers or splinter groups. If the Reverend was not their spiritual leader they would have just branded him an Apostate and had him executed. This went against all protocols and precedent. How could the clergy possibly go without worldly pleasures, especially right before the end of the world? It was a time to celebrate and let loose, not a time to conserve and be frugal. They had felt betrayed by the Reverend and his overbearing directives.
After a time of silence and muted murmurs,
Cardinal Zhukov, a squat, fat man with red cheeks, a bald head with overgrown
hair on the sides and back, and bushy eyebrows, spoke up, “Reverend Wilhelm, I
am sure that every cardinal and deacon will do their part to find funding for
any necessary actions by the church. I for one, recommend ordaining the Prelate
to take on the task of dealing with the Apostates,” the Cardinal suggested,
with a bushy eyebrow arched.
The representation of the Reverend peered
over the table at Zhukov and spoke, “That is an interesting proposition you
have there, my dear Zhukov. The Prelate has a perfect record, yes?
“Yes, Reverend, she has served the Church
on many occasions and has never failed us in the past. The Prelate may be able
to get this job done before L.O.V.E. has a chance to act. Thus we can ensure
that the Rapture goes ahead without the threat of terrorist attacks,” Zhukov
plotted.
“Cardinal Zhukov, you possess a certain
propensity for logic that y’all other holy men would be wise to learn from.
Make the arrangements to cut your budgets and allocate the funds to ordain the
Prelate.” The Reverend approved the plan.
Ordaining a Prelate was like contracting a hitman by the mafia, except these targets were the enemy of god. The Church of New Megiddo had worked with many Prelates in its existence. Most were completely inferior to the operatives of the government and so after many failures they shelved the practice. They did retain one highly successful Prelate for emergencies. They had made special accommodations for her, built a bunker safe house in some undisclosed location, paid an annual retainer fee, and had procured her a pre-war form of transportation. She was an investment that the Church needed right now, on the eve of the Second Coming.
“Well, gentlemen, I suspect that is all we
have to discuss today. I will require updates very soon. Y’all dismissed.
Except you, Zhukov, you stay here because I need a word.”
The rest of the cardinals and deacons
shuffled out of the conference room. There was Cardinal Montgomery, Cardinal
Badoglio, Vice Deacon Paulus, Cardinal Petrov, and lastly Church Treasurer
Bradley. They walked slowly and solemnly like dogs that had been disciplined
with a newspaper. What most stung is that they would be left out of any
intriguing machinations that may be brewing.
“Cardinal Zhukov, you have proven that you
can solve problems, potentially, and this shows me that you can be trusted with
other sensitive matters. My friend, as you know there is a mole within the
government that no one can pin down. Both ministries are throwing resources at
the problem, and I don’t think they are going to get anywhere. They only see
what’s in front of them. The Schrubb pups have a petty rivalry that blinds
them. The Apostates will dance rings around them like a mongoose does a cobra.
And, I fear, that our friends over at L.O.V.E. will simply not be enough to do
the trick. I just think that Rodrigo is not a pious man, and so his
organization will fail because God does not favor him. It would be disastrous
for us if it was not the Church of New Megiddo who brought the Apostates to
answer before the Lord’s court,” the Reverend preached, almost like he was
giving a sermon.
“Reverend, sir, I agree...that is why I
suggested ordaining the Prelate. Isn’t that what this is about?” Cardinal
Zhukov asked, puzzled.
“Good Zhukov, surely you have taken notice of Arch-Deacon von Manstein? He does not act decisively, he stalls, and he second-guesses my orders. In fact, I do not think his heart is in anything we are trying to accomplish. von Manstein clings to all his worldly possessions. He is afraid of the Lord’s return. I think he does not want it to occur. So, this has convinced me that he has cast his lot with the Apostates. I believe he is the informant within the Regime, but I need hard proof. I can’t just make the second highest official in the Church of New Megiddo disappear this close to our glorious day,” the Reverend was getting ahead of Zhukov.
“Yes, good Reverend, I suppose that makes perfect sense. We all should have seen that a long time ago.” Zhukov was a bit of a sycophant at this moment.
“Well, that’s quite alright, we’re all human, fallible in the eyes of the Lord. This is where you can redeem yourself. I need you, sir, to come up with hard evidence that von Manstein is in league with the Apostates. If you do this for me, then you will preside over the Church for its remainder of its time in this forsaken realm until the Lord’s glorious return.” The Reverend dangled the carrot.
“Reverend, I don’t think I am worthy of
this honor, von Manstein, and I know each other well, he will know...that...I
suspect him of something,” Zhukov protested as best he could, short of being
charged with heresy. Zhukov had spoken the truth. He and von Manstein had been
close. They had first met during childhood in one of the Church of New Megiddo
H.O.V.E.L.s for children. ‘Homes of Virtue, Education and Love’ were state
facilities where orphaned children of Apostates would be indoctrinated into the
system of the Church and Regime. Also, if they did not already possess a
networked neural implant, they would receive the operation there. von Manstein
and Zhukov had been children of an Apostate settlement in the ruins of Las
Vegas. Regime forces had reduced the settlement to rubble and detained most of
the Apostate population there for trial, the children were sent to H.O.V.E.L.s.
The two had befriended each other where they inhabited the same boarding room. Where most kids did not take well to the state re-education program, Zhukov and von Manstein thrived and embraced it. They were fascinated with the mythos and lore of the fabricated history of the Church of New Megiddo and that of the Schrubb administration. The pair could not wait to hear more of the story, like pre-adolescent boys in Twentieth-century America craved the adventure that superheroes had.
Once the two had finished the state
indoctrination program at the H.O.V.E.L., they had each become interested in
joining the Church at a young age, barely out of their teenage years. Zhukov
and von Manstein had parted ways but kept in contact. von Manstein entered the
lower level priesthood in a local church, where it was required for the male
clergy to live together to foster brotherhood. In this patriarchy, it was
expected that the junior membership would pay their dues to the Lord, by
submitting to late night visits by senior priesthood to their bed chambers, to
provide “guidance’ to the newly ordained members. The newly recruited members
had no defense against this practice, and going against the practice would get
one ousted from the church and labeled an Apostate.
Zhukov had followed a similar path up
through the ranks of the Church priesthood. He learned the ins and outs of
Church politics, but also took full advantage of the benefits of Church
membership. He gave his share of guidance to junior members of the priesthood.
As they got older, they both joined the central leadership of the church.
Zhukov and von Manstein had rekindled their friendship, plotting various Church
intrigues and sharing stories of “providing guidance” to junior members and to
young congregation members alike. von Manstein was usually the leader and
Zhukov the subordinate, a passive party to whatever schemes and adventures von
Manstein had dreamed up, true that Zhukov contributed to the details, but von
Manstein was the architect.
The pair had gotten to know each other, personality details, quirks, habits, and vices like a pair of siblings. So it was this detail that Zhukov worried about when he thought about attempting subterfuge against von Manstein. He would sniff it out like a boar to a truffle. Zhukov was in fear; he was stuck. He could not refuse the Reverend, which would be a death sentence. But it would also be so if von Manstein detected his betrayal. The Reverend would certainly not step in on Zhukov’s behalf and reveal his gambit.
“Cardinal Zhukov! Do I have your support
in this matter? It is very important that you do understand the weight of the
matter, and the pickle you’d be in if...” the Reverend trailed off.
“Yes, Good Reverend! I see the need for
concluding this matter!” Zhukov sounded distraught and nervous.
“Good, Good! This is marvelous. I am glad we could reach an accord, you and I! Do take care, I will hear from you soon,” the Reverend concluded and his three-dimensional avatar petered out into nothingness.
Cardinal Zhukov let out a loud sound between a sigh of relief and a groan of pain and collapsed on his knees to the floor. Thoughts raced through his brain and he poured through his options. Anyway, he rolled the dice he felt that he would end up dead in the end. Maybe he could go to von Manstein and confessed the plot that faced him. Maybe the two old friends could garner enough support within the Church to somehow take down the Reverend. But how would that work when no one knew the whereabouts of the Reverend Wilhelm. He was even better protected that John W. Schrubb. He came to the conclusion that it was fruitless. Zhukov must submit to the will of the Reverend, and what difference did it make? After all, the end was nigh. The Second Coming was around the corner and they would all be in a better place.