Box Set - The Time Magnet Series Page 3

  “I’m used to it, ma’am. It happens all the time. I try not to let it bother me.”

  “But does it bother you?” His eyes started to fill up. He’s tall but Ashley’s taller. She leaned over and gave him what people called an Ashley Patterson Eye Job. Ashley has large expressive eyes, eyes that can express anger, concern or, as in this case, sympathy. “Listen sailor, this is my ship and it’s your ship. Nobody in my command gets treated with anything but respect.”

  Ashley then shared a plan with the sailor.

  “SEAL Petty Officer Peter Campo is a martial arts instructor with the SEAL team. He runs a regular class for all ship’s personnel twice a day. Martial arts are great training for a person’s body, but it’s also a way to improve your attitude. He won’t turn you into a SEAL, but he’ll do wonders for your head, not to mention your body. I could recommend this to you sailor, but I’ve decided to give you a direct order. Join Campo’s class starting tomorrow.” Another Eye Job: “You’re a good person, Simon.”

  “Aye aye, Captain” said Planck.

  “And ma’am...”

  “Yes, Simon?”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Planck felt dizzy. She even used my first name, he thought. He had told the Captain that he got used to bullying, but that was a lie. His life was a living hell. But somebody noticed, somebody didn’t think that it was okay for people to treat him like a dog. Somebody cared.

  Nobody tortures a wounded bird on my watch, Ashley thought, as Planck left the bridge.

  Chapter 6

  At 2030 Lieutenant Conroy and the seven other SEALs lowered their boat over the side of the ship and headed toward Charleston Harbor. Their Zodiac inflatable boat was 20 feet long and equipped with a quiet battery driven motor. The temperature was 55 degrees Fahrenheit. It was clear and the winds calm. They had no idea what they may encounter, so stealth was essential. It was also second nature to a SEAL.

  At 2045 they passed Fort Sumter at the entrance to the harbor. Something wasn’t right. Fort Sumter was totally dark. They expected to see a museum, and none of them could figure out why there were no lights. “Don’t museums need security?” Conroy observed. “Why no floodlights?”

  Smitty pointed out that when he was in Charleston five months ago, Fort Sumter was visible from the shoreline at night. “It was lit up like a carnival,” Smith said.

  They continued on to the main pier at Charleston Harbor. It looked nothing like the photographs they had seen. Instead of a modern dock with a steel frame and rubber cushioning devices, the pier was all wood, with the salty smell of tar and seaweed. The area was lit by what appeared to be gas lamps. A few vessels were tied up along the waterfront. They all looked like they were from the nineteenth-century, not the typical boats you expect to see tied up next to a modern pier. About a dozen workers were on the dock, all dressed in period costumes.

  “These people take their historic reenactments seriously,” whispered Conroy.

  They motored slowly along the docks until they found a deserted area with no activity. They came to a narrow indentation in the dock, and Conroy ordered the boat to be pulled into the opening. The Zodiac fit under the dock, completely hidden.

  “Okay, let’s have a look around. Move out.”

  They wore night camouflage, which is excellent for lurking in the shadows, but if they walked among the crowd it would be obvious that they weren’t part of the upcoming ceremony.

  Conroy spotted a flat roofed building that was totally dark. At four stories tall it would make a good place to recon the entire area. An exterior stairway on the side of the building led up to the roof. The area was unlit, so they climbed the stairs without fear of being spotted. From the southwest corner of the roof they had a perfect line of sight to a downtown business district that bustled with activity, mainly people staggering from bar to bar. Gas lamps lit the street.

  The area bustled with people and horse-drawn carriages. Everyone they saw wore a period costume.

  “We’re here to observe and to report,” Conroy said. “ ‘What the fuck?’ does not count as an observation.”

  “Okay, I want each of you to tell me what you see. I’ll dictate your observations into my recorder. You guys chime in when I call on you. If you see something that you want us all to look at right away, just speak out.”

  Conroy spoke first. “I’m observing a scene that looks like a Hollywood set. There are no motor vehicles in sight, only horse drawn carts and carriages. I can’t see anything that appears to be electric light, only gas lamps. Although the Civil War reenactment ceremonies don’t begin until the day after tomorrow, all personnel in view are wearing nineteenth-century costumes. Anything look familiar, Smitty?”

  “Yes and no, sir. My cousin lives right near the waterfront, but almost everything looks different. I see two buildings that I remember from my visit, but they’re painted different colors. I saw a whole bunch of modern buildings, the kind you see in any city. But they’re not here now. What really blows me away is that I can’t see the Cooper River Bridge. My cousin is an engineer, and she loves that bridge. The thing was built in 2005, just eight years ago. It had these huge diamond shaped towers, and I remember her saying they were 575 feet tall. The bridge was beautiful when lit up at night. It should be right there,” said Smith, pointing southeast. “It’s not there. It’s not fucking there.”

  Conroy asked Smitty if he could locate his cousin’s building.

  “From where we are, my cousin’s apartment building is about four blocks away – I think.”

  They continued surveying the crowd on the street, all decked out in their nineteenth-century finest.

  Petty Officer Cyrus Durbin said, “Maybe these people went to method acting school and they’re just getting into their characters for the ceremony.”

  “I know you meant that as a joke, Durbin, but I’m willing to listen to any observation or impression you have, and that’s not a bad one.”

  Petty Officer Rick Donnelly spoke. “The smell is incredible. It’s a combination of horse shit and raw sewage. I just saw a guy dump what looked like a bed pan out a window. How authentic do you have to get?”

  Petty Officer Emilio Juarez called out. “Look, here come a bunch of guys on horseback all dressed up like rebel soldiers. And check out the cannons they’re dragging behind them. This is going to be one hell of a reenactment.”

  A cavalry unit of about 40 horsemen strode into view and paraded past the building heading toward the dock area. Behind the column were six artillery caissons each drawn by a team of two large work horses. The column passed by the building just beneath them.

  Petty Officer Walter Reilly called out. “Look at the barrels on that cart. They’re tied up next to a couple of goats. I can see the word ‘milk’ on them. Where I come from, the county health department would go ape shit over that.”

  “Okay, listen up SEALs,” said Conroy. “I think it’s accurate to say that none of us can figure out what’s going on. Maybe Durbin is right. We’re looking at a bunch of reenactors getting into their roles. But we need to go into that crowd and mingle so we can get some information. I want to know what they thought about the Daylight Event and whether they know something that we don’t. With all of the military bases around here, I’m sure they’ve seen combat fatigues before, but if we just walk into the street in uniform, the conversations will turn to why we’re wearing modern fatigues and not Civil War costumes. We need to blend in.”

  “Look at the store next to the theater,” Conroy continued. “It says Morton’s Dry Goods. I’d be surprised if they don’t stock period clothing. The store looks closed, so we’ll have to do some personal shopping. I have cash, so after we rob the place I’ll just leave what we owe.”

  Reilly chimed in. “Better not leave any fives or fifties, Lieutenant. If these nut jobs see bills with Lincoln or Grant on them they may totally freak out. Wouldn’t want to ruin their show.”

  “Not a bad point.”

  Enteri
ng a locked building is a minor challenge for a SEAL. Before breaking the lock they looked for any wires or evidence of an alarm device.

  “The place doesn’t have any kind of alarm system at all, Lieutenant,” said Chief Jackson. “This store would never make it in South Philly.”

  They each picked out trousers, a shirt, a coat, boots, and a hat. The clothing didn’t fit well even though the sizes were marked, but judging from the wardrobes in the crowd they should blend in perfectly.

  Conroy found a cash box and withdrew the contents, about $75. “Like you said, Reilly, these bozos are playing this authenticity bit so hard they even stock antique bills and coins.”

  “Smitty, I want you to take Reilly with you and see if you can find your cousin’s apartment building. Let’s hope she and her husband are home. Maybe they can explain this. If they’re not home, walk around the neighborhood and record your observations.”

  “Okay, move out. Side arms only. Leave all rifles, grenades, and other equipment here. We’ll rendezvous back here at 2300. Juarez, you’ll stay here to watch our gear.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  They left through the back door.

  “Okay SEALs, we’re heading for that saloon over there, the one called Gabbey’s. Order beers only and sip slowly. I want everybody’s nerves and minds sharp. Here’s some cash for each of you. Go in two at a time. I don’t want to look like we’re a group. Giordano will go in with me.”

  “Should we talk with southern accents Lieutenant?” asked Tony (Geo) Giordano, a native of Brooklyn.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Geo. Probably half the people we’ll see are from up north, here to enjoy the reenactment. Your Brooklyn accent will do just fine.”

  “Fuggeddaboutit,” said Giordano.

  Conroy and Giordano entered the saloon. “Just act casual, Geo,” said Conroy.

  “How else can you act in a gin mill, Lieutenant?”

  Just as on the street, everyone in the bar wore period costumes. A guy in the corner wore a straw hat and played old Dixie tunes on an upright piano. As they approached the bar, they noticed one of the customers let go of a great gob of tobacco juice into a spittoon.

  Giordano leaned over to Conroy and said, “These fucking people need a life, Lieutenant.”

  “I think you have a point, Geo, but I want more specific observations.”

  The two men walked up to the bar and ordered their beers. The bartender sported a handle bar mustache, a striped shirt with garters holding up his sleeves, and a white apron. Conroy turned to a man at the bar who wore a bowler hat and well tailored clothes.

  “How are you this evening?” said Conroy.

  The man responded with a refined southern accent, “I’m doing just fine sir, enjoying the springtime weather. If you don’t mind me asking, sir, you sound like you’re a Yankee. Where are you from?”

  Conroy sensed that the man was friendly so he figured he’d loosen things up with humor. “I’m from Wisconsin, and I prefer the Milwaukee Brewers.” The man didn’t get the joke, having never heard of the Milwaukee Brewers. “Are you from around here friend?” asked Conroy. The man told him that he was a native Charlestonian, and volunteered that he was the president of the local bank. Great, thought Conroy, a guy with his finger on the pulse of the city. Conroy decided to jump right in.

  “Were you awake for that crazy light event last night?” He tried to sound casual about the most amazing thing he had ever seen.

  “What light event, sir?”

  “Well at about 0300, er, 3 a.m., the darkness suddenly became bright daylight. It lasted for about two minutes.”

  The man looked puzzled. He shouted down the bar, asking anyone in earshot if they saw the night turn to daylight in the early morning hours. Nothing but shrugs and confused looks.

  Conroy decided to change the subject. “So, it looks like all you folks are ready for the big reenactment.”

  “Reenactment? Of what?” asked their banker friend.

  “You know, the reenactment of the Battle of Fort Sumter.”

  “Sir,” said the banker, “between the daylight at darkness and your talk of something being reenacted, you have managed to confuse me. There have been rumors, God knows, that General Beauregard intends to fire on Fort Sumter, but most of it is just irresponsible war talk.”

  ***

  Back at Morton’s Dry Goods store, Petty Officer Juarez patrolled the shop and noted his findings. He hit the record button.

  “This is Petty Officer Emilio Juarez reporting from Morton’s Drygoods store in Charlestown, South Carolina. The time is 2205 on April 10, 2013. Pursuant to orders from Lt. Conroy I’m recording my observations and impressions. Although the light is dim, I can see my surroundings from the gas light outside the store. As we’ve been saying, these reenactors take their job very seriously. This store is decked out to look like something from the Civil War era. I just can’t understand why they didn’t just put out some old stuff for tourists to photograph and keep the regular goods in a corner or another room. The floor creaks like you would expect from old lumber. There isn’t a piece of tile or linoleum in sight. I’m now looking behind the checkout counter. I expect to see a computer or at least a laptop under the counter. None. There is no adding machine, no cash register and no electronic gear of any kind. I can’t find any electric outlets either. Wait, here’s a newspaper.” Juarez took out his flashlight, turned off the recorder, and walked behind a wall so he wouldn’t be seen from the street. The headline read:

  “War Talk Grows Louder”

  The newspaper was dated April 10, 1861. Holy shit, thought Juarez. These reenactors don’t miss a trick. He turned the recorder back on and dictated his findings from the newspaper, minus the “holy shit.”

  Petty Officers Smith and Reilly were looking for Smitty’s cousin’s building. Five months ago, thought Smitty, this street was absolutely charming, a typical block in a prosperous city that tried to look antique, but with all the modern amenities. Five months back, every other group of shops had a name that ended in “Mews” or “Commons.”

  “There it is,” said Smitty. “I remember her building’s next to that old firehouse. I remember the beautiful carvings.”

  After they passed the firehouse Smitty froze. Instead of the upscale condo building that he had visited a few months before, there was now a warehouse. He recalled his cousin telling him that condos often were built in old warehouses, a common tool of an imaginative real estate developer. The facade of the building had the same shape and stonework it did five months ago, but it wasn’t modernized. He recalled polished mahogany paneling around the doorway inlaid into a stainless steel frame. Now it’s just a warehouse with a plain entrance of stone. He remembered that he had a perfect view of the Cooper River Bridge from this very spot. But there is no bridge.

  They continued to walk the neighborhood, snapping pictures and dictating their observations. A few of the houses had small yards. Instead of the sounds of urban traffic he heard five months ago, all they heard were cows mooing and chickens clucking. They came upon an area with a fenced-in enclosure of split rail fencing. Inside the enclosure were about a dozen passenger buggies in various states of disrepair.

  “I guess this is what a used car lot used to look like 152 years ago,” Reilly said.

  Smitty turned on his recorder and described the “used buggy lot.” He added, “I wonder why, for a reenactment, people would set out a bunch of broken down carriages.” They were about to cross a street but had to stop for a large cart drawn by two huge horses that looked like they came from a Budweiser commercial. They crossed the street after the cart had passed. A man sat on a bench smoking a pipe.

  “Good evening,” said Smitty.

  “Ready for the war, boys?” said the man.

  “War?”

  “Everybody’s talking about it,” said the man, tapping his pipe. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it happens any day now.”

  “You don’t mean the reenactment ceremon
y at Fort Sumter tomorrow do you?”

  “Reenactment of what?”

  Smitty wished the man a good evening, and the two walked on.

  ***

  Lieutenant Conroy continued his conversation with his new banker friend at the bar. Petty Officer Durbin joined them. “So why are Yankees so unpopular around here?” Conroy asked as pleasantly as possible, looking for information.

  “I have a number of Yankee friends and business associates,” said the banker, “all of whom are fine people. The problem is those damn, meddling Northern politicians, especially Abraham Lincoln.”

  Conroy and Giordano glanced at each other. Giordano chimed in. “What do you think of Barack Obama?”

  “Who?” said the banker. The look on the man’s face, as both Conroy and Giordano would later agree, belied any pretense, faking, lying, acting, or reenacting. This man had never heard the name Barack Obama, the President of the United States.

  Petty Officer Durbin struck up a conversation with three guys who looked like fishermen, judging from their clothing and scent. One of the men asked him, “Have you seen the Gray Ship?”

  “No I haven’t,” said Durbin. “What is it?”

  “That thing is about 1,000 feet long,” said the fisherman. “It had a big white number 36 painted on each side of her bow. I couldn’t see the name on the stern because the ship was so fast.”

  Another fisherman spoke. “One thousand feet? Shoot, the damn thing was at least 2,000 feet long.”

  Durbin asked, “Was it a Navy ship or some kind of merchant?”

  “That thing is definitely military,” said one of the men. “It had guns that must have been 100 feet long and a foot wide.”

  Conroy glanced at his watch, which he kept in his pocket. It was 2245, almost time to rendezvous at Morton’s. They exchanged pleasantries and departed their new banker friend. As he and Giordano walked for the door, Conroy gave a head motion to Durbin, who politely broke off his conversation with the fishermen.