Russell Moran: The Gray Ship

Decades into the future, theoretical physicists would label what the Gallatin had just gone through as “skirting the wormhole.” Of course that would be just a label. The actual phenomena would be explained by pages of mathematical formulas.

The Gallatin had just skirted the wormhole and remained in 2013.

It was 10:30 a.m. on April 10, 2013.

The California has been missing just over seven hours.

On August 14, 1861, the California had been executing seemingly endless circles in the ocean off Charleston, South Carolina. They had been doing this nonstop, day and night, since August 7, a full week. The weather was typical of South Carolina at that time of year, hot and humid. The ship’s speed was 15 knots, the exact speed she was doing when they hit the wormhole and the Daylight Event four months before.

Seasickness is a chronic malady; you either have it or you don’t. Modern science over the last few years has worked marvels to combat the problem, with patches you stick behind your ear, stuff you put under your tongue, or pills you swallow. But even salty veterans of sea duty on the California were feeling queasy. The turns every three miles were relentless. At 15 knots the ship turned every five minutes. Five minutes of relative steadiness before you had to brace yourself for another turn. Cheese and crackers was the meal of choice in the crew’s mess and the wardroom. One sailor, seeing a stew sloshing around in a pot on the chow line, had to make a dash for the nearest head.

In his morning report over the loudspeaker, Ivan Campbell tried to lighten things up a bit. “The uniform of the day will be service fatigues and barf bags.”

To relieve tension, Captain Patterson ordered that a Rolling Stones song be played over the PA system every 45 minutes. I KNOW, IT’S ONLY ROCK & ROLL, BUT I LIKE IT .

Would it ever end? Five minutes, lurch to port. Five minutes, lurch to starboard.

SEAL Petty Officer Pete Campo suspended his martial arts classes until further notice. Instead he organized a line dancing class. Hundreds of sailors discovered that, on Campo’s timed command, when they switched their weight from one foot to the other, it compensated for the ship’s roll. Petty Officer Simon Planck, the hero of July 2, joined the class. He was healing from his shoulder wound. Planck thought he may have a future in ballroom dancing, maybe with the lovely young Marine corporal he always lined up next to.

Ashley took her exercise bag down from its chain. The constant swaying nauseated her.

Commander Joseph Perino, the ship’s medical officer, attended to Petty Officer Bill Jordan, the man who suffered a severe heart attack in April. His condition has steadily worsened since then. His immune system is compromised, and he suffers one infection after another. He recently contracted pneumonia, and his condition is grave. Having lost over 40 pounds, he barely has the strength to speak. Perino had taken a liking to this poor guy, and the feeling was mutual. They would talk for hours about their mutual love, carpentry.

At 1355 hours, Jordan drew his last breath. Perino called the Captain to inform her. How sad, thought Ashley. The poor man would never see his old century again, not to mention his family. She called Father Rick. The chaplain’s office handled all arrangements for burial at sea.

At 1400 hours, 2 p.m., on a bright afternoon, everyone aboard felt it, a soft but distinct bumping below the hull. There wasn’t a sudden cheer. It was like watching a basketball game when the guy for your side just threw what could be the game winning shot. You hold your breath, not wanting to distract him.

Ashley was on the bridge.

“How’s our depth, Jim?” she asked the OOD.

“Perfect, Captain,” said the OOD, smiling, “300 feet. No Ma’am, we’re not going aground!”

Suddenly it was pitch dark. Yes, yes, yes could be heard throughout the ship.

After two minutes, the darkness returned to daylight.

The reaction on the California was not a crowd reaction. It was 630 individual reactions. Some screamed. Some prayed. Some cried. Some laughed. Some danced. All reached for their cell phones.

Medical Officer Perino stood next to Jordan’s body writing a Death Certificate for his friend. Jordan sat up and shouted, “What was that, did we go aground?”

“Are you okay, Bill?” asked Perino, as he dropped his clip board to the deck, his eyes like saucers.

“I feel great. What am I doing here?”

Any crew member of the Coast Guard Cutter Gallatin who was standing on the starboard side of the ship yelled, in unison, “Holy shit!” as if it were an official greeting.

There, not 200 yards off the Gallatin’s starboard beam, was the USS California . Hester, the Gallatin’s Captain, laughed. Then he cried. Then he laughed again. He grabbed his phone and made a call to Naval Operations at the Pentagon, a call he thought he would never make.

“Frank,” he shouted to the NavOps Duty Officer, with whom he had become friends in the last few hours, “the USS California , I say again, the USS fucking California , is steaming 200 yards off our starboard beam!” Orzo ran to Fran Talierco’s screen. There was that lovely blip they’d been looking for over the last seven hours.

A story in the world of 24-hour news cycles takes on a life of its own. With live TV newsfeeds available as apps on various computers, smart phones, and tablets, word gets out fast. The debris of the first plane to hit the World Trade Center had not yet hit the ground when the event became THE STORY .

News stories, like the stories in novels, can break different ways. There can be tragedy, as in a natural disaster or a plane crash. There can be heroism, where an individual or group saves the day. There are courtroom dramas, which, like sporting events, are riveting because we don’t know the outcome. The same can be said of political elections. There are scandals, which we love because they’re so shocking. Of course, there are war stories. Vietnam, the first “TV war,” was a story that was with us for five years, Afghanistan and Iraq for over 10.

But there is one kind of story that the world loves, a story of someone or some group that’s lost and in peril. When stories like that have happy endings, it’s as if the world has been given a treat. It’s a report that makes you want to clasp your hands, call a friend, fist pump the air, or shed a tear.

The safe return of the USS California was a story like that, a story like the lost baby who is found safe, or the injured hero who makes it home. It gave the world a break from the daily yada yada of life, and let everyone, if only for a short while, be happy.

TV news producers, writers and anchors had a special reason to be happy. They were happy because the BIG STORY had now broken down into a zillion small ones to talk about, angles to look at, people to interview, experts to book. The big story of the California was no longer one of finding creative ways to say, “nothing new to report.” It had now become, in a matter of hours, a story that could be its own TV series.

There was an even bigger reason for the news industry to be happy about the California incident. An 11,000 ton warship disappears for seven hours, and nobody knows why, or if they do, they’re not saying.

Now, that’s a story.

Ashley realized that there was a detail she forgot to think about. Her last orders were to proceed to Charleston Harbor, South Carolina and participate in the Fort Sumter reenactment ceremonies on April 12, two days from now, now being the year 2013.