The Maltese Incident Read online

  “What?” the three of us yelled in unison.

  “We’ve time-traveled.”

  “Bob, my friend,” I said. “Just about everyone on this ship has arrived at that conclusion, not that any of us understands it. We’ve found no other human contacts, and most important of all, we’ve encountered dinosaurs, which are supposed to be extinct for millions of years. We all seem to know, without any scientific background, that we’ve somehow achieved the impossible —we’ve taken a trip from one dimension of time to another. So please tell us the details of your conclusion.”

  “All of your assumptions about time travel are missing an important element,” Bob said, “how we did it. That’s my breakthrough idea, I hope. In my past readings about time travel, which I’d mostly forgotten until I focused on them for a couple of days, there’s a thing called a wormhole or time portal. You would need to be a physicist to understand the math behind it, but a wormhole is based on a concept in physics called an Einstein-Rosen Bridge, a portal from one time to another. Harry, you said that we did the impossible. But it only seemed impossible based on our knowledge and experience. It is mathematically possible to travel through time. Ask any theoretical physicist. And if it’s mathematically possible to travel through time, it should be physically possible. Well, my friends, it is, and we’ve done it. Think about a wormhole as a funnel leading from one dimension to another. From my past readings I recalled that a wormhole occupies a definite location in time and space. There have been various reports over the years of a ship or vehicle going through a day-to-night or a night-to-day incident, and the events lasted for about two minutes. Sound familiar? And here is some positive news—time goes by a lot faster in the past, and we’re living in the past. If we’re able to get back, we’ll find that we’ve hardly aged at all. That’s wonderful news for my arthritic hip. Bottom line, if you can figure out where you came in, you can figure out how to go back. I’m going to guess that you took a navigational position when the ship hit the bizarre night/day event.”

  “Of course, I did. It’s in my blood,” I said. “Anytime something out of the ordinary happens, I take a fix. Yes, I took one for the night/day event. It’s not precise because we were all busy freaking out, but it’s close. So, Bob, are you telling us that all we have to do is cross over the same coordinates and voila—we’re back to where we came from?”

  “In a word, ‘yes.’ I know it’s just a theory, but it’s a theory on which I’m willing to bet my reputation. We need to go back to the coordinates of the wormhole.”

  The three of us sat there saying nothing, as if somebody just offered proof that Santa Claus exists. Then Meg stood and threw a binder full of papers into the air. She kissed Bob and Randy, and then threw her arms around my neck.

  I wasn’t cheering. I stood and walked over to the chart desk and calculated the distance from our current position to the place where the event occurred, the spot that Bob Flowers calls the wormhole. Then I then double-checked my numbers. I showed myself what I already knew.

  “Hey, babe, you’re not smiling,” Meg said. “What’s up?”

  “You guys look to me for leadership and I hate to let you down. But I’m about to pour cold water on Bob’s hot discovery—it won’t work.”

  “I realize that I’m asking you to accept a theory that hasn’t been proven,” Bob said, “but every scientific bone in my body says that we can go home by passing through the wormhole, which is marked by the coordinates you recorded. What am I missing, Captain Harry?”

  “Fuel, Bob. You’re missing fuel. We’re missing fuel. The coordinates you want me to cross are over 1,000 miles from here. We only have enough fuel to steam for 250 miles at best. I love your theory, but it won’t work unless we can get there—which we can’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At 6:30 a.m. the Melody of the Seas sounded its horn, waking half of Lisbon. Her bow and stern thrusters pushed her gently into the middle of the Tagus River, which led to the sea. Lars often missed the old days of tugboats nudging a ship into its cruising position. Bow and stern thrusters put a lot of tugboat people out of work.

  “Forrest Sherman, Forrest Sherman, this is Melody of the Seas,” Captain Lars said over the radio. “Please come in.”

  “Hello, Lars, Jim Langdon here. We have our steaming directions and we’re good to go. I’ll keep station 1000 feet off your port stern. As we discussed, we’ll leave our radios on, tuned to channel 12. If you find yourself being humped by a giant shark, I’ll make a virgin out of him.”

  “I copy that, Jim. Glad you’re along for the ride.” Lars could breathe easier knowing that an American destroyer, armed with rockets, torpedoes, guns, and depth charges, would run interference for the Melody of the Seas. Would cruising at sea ever be the same? He wondered.

  At 9 a.m. the two ships passed the breakwater and headed for the open ocean. As was prearranged by the captain of each ship, extra lookouts would be posted and sonar scopes would be continually manned.

  At 10 a.m. Captain Lars introduced Father Rick Sampson, the ship’s chaplain, an Episcopal priest who was on an anniversary cruise with his wife, Janet. Father Rick asked for silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let us bow our heads in prayer for the repose of the souls of the crew and passengers of the ship Maltese, which was last seen in these waters almost two months ago. In the name of our Heavenly Father, Amen.”

  Captain Lars turned to his first officer and said, “I can’t believe it’s been two months since the Maltese went missing, Bob. With no contact or evidence, we have to assume that the Maltese will never be found. A ship full of people—all dead, including my friend Harry Fenton. Damn shame. Two months is a long time.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Ten years is a long time, Meg.” We were in our room in Malta Town, preparing for a double anniversary party—our10th wedding anniversary, and 10 years since we broke ground for Malta Town. Meg tightened the bow tie on my dress uniform.

  “Damn. This collar has gotten awfully tight over the years. I remember when it fit perfectly.”

  I pinched Meg’s bottom as she busied herself with my tie.

  “Hey, stop that. I’m too fat to pinch.”

  “You’re not fat, babe. You’re a woman in full.”

  “We’re both in full, honey. I’m 45 and you’re 51 years old and we should watch our diets. Ever since Bob Flowers figured out how to make that delicious pasta our waistlines have been expanding. It seems like a few million years ago when we were in our thirties, both young, slim, and newly married.”

  “A few million years ago? That should explain the dinosaurs,” I said. “Hey, we’re still young. If it didn’t take so goddam long to put this tux on, I’d say let’s take our clothes off and get into bed.”

  “I’ll take that as a date invitation, right after the party.”

  ***

  We held the celebration in “the ballroom,” as we jokingly call it. The space is large, 50 by 75 feet, and was designed to accommodate full meetings as well as the occasional party. Malta Town consisted of 25 buildings carved up into separate apartments on a 20-acre plot, adjoining a 30-acre farm where we grew fruit and vegetables. We constructed a one-story hospital next to the housing units, designed with the help of Dr. Theresa. An electric fence surrounded both plots, thanks to Meg’s foresight. Wally Bellino, the real estate development expert, drew up plans to allow for future growth. A key in designing space on Malta Town was that it be “defensible,” because some of the dinosaurs hadn’t gotten any friendlier. I laughed when I once asked Bellino what “DP” meant as noted on his blueprints. “Dinosaur-Proof,” Bellino said.

  Malta Town’s climate is moderate, with an occasional high of 80 degrees Fahrenheit and a low of 60. Because we had no air conditioning, the moderate temperatures made life a little easier.

  Randy Borg convinced me years ago to go through an election. They elected me Mayor of Malta Town, with over 99 percent of the vote. I would have gotten 100 percent, b
ut I wrote in Meg’s name when I voted. I won by a landslide mainly because I ran unopposed. Although I no longer have a ship under my command, everybody still calls me Captain Harry, which suits me just fine. Randy Borg is now 63 and as physically active as ever. The “triumvirate” of Meg, Randy, and me still exists after 10 years. So, I’m the mayor, and Randy and Meg are my council members, although I think of Meg as my deputy mayor. The three of us agreed, a few years back, that Malta Town needed some form of actual government, guided by a constitution, not by my whims.

  The population of our little town includes 10 lawyers, whom I appointed to form a committee to draft a constitution. The United States Constitution, a copy of which we found in the ship’s library, was used as a guide for the constitution of Malta Town. The committee agreed that they would draft the constitution in parts, writing first things first in order of need. The framers of the original United States Constitution wrote for their time and needs, and that’s what the framers of the Malta Town Constitution did. They realized, for example, that the Interstate Commerce Clause wasn’t necessary, so it disappeared from the to-do list. A lot of the United States Constitution was irrelevant to Malta Town, but significant parts were. They unanimously agreed on a First Amendment, guaranteeing freedom of speech and religion.

  They also agreed that a Second Amendment was essential. The United States Constitution provided, in the Second Amendment, “A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” The words became part of the Malta Town Constitution, except for the part about “A well-regulated militia.” Everybody in Malta Town carried a gun, so the committee figured they’d guarantee the right to bear arms. When you’re attacked by a hungry Velociraptor, gun control is the last thing you want to think about.

  The committee also realized that a constitution would be useless without a court system, and they provided for one. The court was comprised of Rebecca Flynn as Chief Judge, and two other lawyers who had experience in courtroom practice. Rebecca had served Malta Investments as in-house legal counsel. The members of the court also belonged to the 10-member constitutional committee.

  A legislative committee consisted of ten people, all of whom had some experience working in a legislature, even if it was a school board. William Orlando, who had once served as supervisor of a suburban town of 300,000 people, headed the legislative committee. Because a town supervisor and a mayor have a lot of duties in common, I relied on Bill’s advice over the years. At the first meeting of the legislative committee, all ten voted unanimously to elect an executive committee consisting of Meg, Randy Borg, and me. The committee also decided to hold only open meetings with no private executive sessions. They figured that openness was the most sensible way to ensure a robust, if small, democracy. The legislative committee worked closely with the constitutional committee.

  The Maltese was now abandoned but still afloat in 75 feet of water. Two chains led from her hull to a large tree on the beach. Over the years, the ship provided Malta Town with a steady stream of supplies, especially the building materials and tools left by the former owner.

  The tool shop was extensive, thanks to the foresight of the previous owner. The machine shop included metal lathes that we used to make wire for the electric fence to keep away hungry dinosaurs. The fence is the most crucial part of Malta Town. The manufactured wire, combined with Meg’s fabulous idea of hydroelectric power from the nearby waterfall, made it possible for us to carve out our little civilization. Without the fence we’d all be items on a dinosaur buffet. The machine shop also made wire to bring electricity to all the housing units and other structures.

  I knew that most of the people aboard the Maltese were smart, but I underestimated their ingenuity. A group of four people came up with a way to manufacture cement using local clay and limestone. We used the result to create foundations for the buildings as well as a septic system for each structure. We took the furniture from the Maltese and distributed the items among the various apartment units by lottery. Everybody agreed that I should own the captain’s chair from the bridge. A group of three men and a woman made up the town’s furniture-manufacturing group, replacing and adding to the existing stock as needed. The group consisted of talented amateur carpenters. Two of them were securities traders, one a programmer, and one was an accountant.

  James Truesdale, who was Vice President of Security for Malta Investments, served as a New York City detective before he joined the company. We appointed him Chief of Police and assigned four people to serve with him as police officers. Crime was a minor issue in Malta Town. Truesdale and his “department” spent their time on domestic and neighbor disputes. We designated one of the administrative buildings as a “lockup.” It was rarely used, except for the occasional citizen who had too much Malta Town distilled whiskey.

  A committee of 10 made up the monetary commission. Jake Mendenhall, Senior VP for Finance for Malta Investments, headed the committee. Jake, who stood in as Meg’s father at our wedding 10 years ago, is now 89 years old but mentally as sharp as ever. The committee included four economists, one of whom graduated from the University of Chicago, one from Columbia, and two from Stanford. Bob Flowers (Wacky Bob), Chief Science Advisor for Malta, was appointed to the committee, not for his knowledge of monetary policy, but for his overall intelligence and his memory. Meg, with an MBA from Harvard Business School, was also on the committee. A date was set three months in advance for the launch of Malta money, in denominations of “Malta Dollars.” The amounts would be set one week before launch, and the money would be distributed equally to each adult over the age of 18. One committee member wanted to peg the value of Malta Dollars to the price of gold, but he soon realized that we have no way to check its fluctuating value.

  Currently, the Malta Town economy is based on barter. With a monetary system we expect to see the beginnings of a real free enterprise system. Soon, every resident of Malta Town would receive a regular monthly income. I suggested at a regular meeting, that because people would now have cash, we should set up Brachiosaurus races in a specially designed track. Meg gave me an elbow which she often does when I crack a bad joke.

  Dinosaurs, our neighbors surrounding Malta Town, presented a serious problem, not so much for their ferocity, which was substantial, but for their stupidity. The giant Brachiosaurs never got the memo that the electric fence was designed to keep them out. During the building of the fence and for a long time after it was completed, Brackos (as we called them) regularly walked into the fence. When they received the shock, rather than retreat, the big dumb bastards pushed forward. Once a breach in the fence was opened, the Bracko would be followed by an assortment of local fauna, including the dreaded Velociraptor. Over a period of six months after the fence was “completed,” three people were killed by the local critters, two by Velociraptors, and one by a Tyrannosaurus. Jim Truesdale and his four-man police force would be called any time a dinosaur incident occurred. Frank Murphy, the town’s resident dinosaur expert, reminded Chief Truesdale that the animals are afraid of loud sounds. It took an enormous amount of ammunition to bring down a large dinosaur such as a Bracko or a T-rex, but the big beasts hated the sound of a shooting gun and the sting of the bullets. Large as they were, we managed to keep the local dinosaurs under control. Velociraptors were our biggest problem. Frank Murphy told anybody who would listen that Velociraptors are as intelligent as the smartest mammal. The fence maintenance people would find an answer to a safety problem, and then the Velociraptors would find a solution of their own. But as smart as they are, Velociraptors, too, are afraid of explosives and the sting of bullets. The executive committee (Meg, Randy, and I) decided to combat the problem by building lookout posts at six locations on the perimeter of the compound, much like guard towers around a prison. To save on ammunition, the guards would simply throw homemade firecrackers at the sight of an approaching animal. That system also kept the giant Brachiosaurs from stomp
ing on the fence.

  ***

  The band played and the room broke out in dance before the formal ceremony began. The eight- piece band, The Derivatives, played a sequence of popular dance songs from 10 years ago and longer. The band had been hired for the cruise. Little did they suspect that it would turn into a 10-year gig. When not playing, the band members taught music to anyone who wanted lessons. At Meg’s urging, they planned to launch the first performance of a small symphony orchestra in less than a year. An accomplished cellist herself, Meg loved the idea and practiced regularly with the orchestra. She also gave me private lessons. Before long I loved to play the cello, thanks to Meg.

  Just before the band leader introduced Randy Borg, the master of ceremonies, he led the entire group in Show Me the Way to Go Home, the theme song of Malta Town.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mike Malone, the band leader, “it’s my pleasure and honor to introduce Randy Borg, CEO of what was one of the most successful investment companies on Wall Street. He’s going to review some history of Malta Town, and maybe explain why nobody here has made a nickel in the past 10 years. After that, he’ll introduce our guests of honor, celebrating their 10th wedding anniversary along with our community, Captain Harry and Meg Fenton, the hearts and souls of the Maltese and Malta Town.”