The Gray Ship

by Russell Moran

  "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."

  Jackson 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, Chief."

  Entering 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, Chief, 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," 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 dark 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 f
enced-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 ceremony at Fort Sumter tomorrow do you?"

  "Reenactment of what?"

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

  ***

  Jackson and Donnelly entered the bar last. Jackson noticed that he was the only black person in the place. A tall, slim man with a beard and a Stetson hat walked up to Jackson, along with two other men. Jackson imagined a movie director calling a casting agent and saying, "Send me three people who look like characters from Deliverance."

  The tall man with the Stetson squared off in front of Chief Jackson and said, "Wachoo dewin heah boy?" SEALs are trained to act fast and think faster. They're also trained to keep their emotions to themselves and to concentrate on one thing: the mission. Jackson's first inclination was to turn this cracker's face into meatloaf, but he stopped short. He thought to himself: We've been sent here to look, observe and report. Our recon mission does not include busting up a bar. It's time to role play.

  "Pahdin me, suh," said Jackson, "my massa done tole me to come here to look see if I kin find his brotha. I ain't seein him, so I'll be gittin on." He walked out the front door. Conroy had seen the encounter and motioned with a flip of his head to Donnelly, indicating that he should follow Jackson. Donnelly slipped out a side door and strolled a distance behind Jackson, who was walking back toward Morton's Dry Goods. Donnelly's eyes scanned the street to make sure that the three primitives from the bar were not in pursuit. He didn't notice that the three had run across the street behind a large cart, which blocked his view. As Jackson walked down the alley toward the rear door, the three jumped out in front of him.

  "Ah thought ya'll was fixin to go back to yo massa, boy. Looks lahk ya'll needin some whuppin."

  Jackson stopped role playing. He said with his dialect-free voice, "Ah, Mr. Meatloaf Face, so nice to see you again."

  "Wachoo call me, boy? It's time for you to meet yo maker," said the man as he drew a large hunting knife with a 6-inch blade. His companions drew theirs at the same time. Jackson realized he was about to be murdered. Suddenly, Mr. Meatloaf Face saw a dark four knuckled piston rocketing out of the darkness toward his eyes. The karate punch caved in his nose, fractured both eye sockets, and drove the resulting mass of tissue and bone into his brain. As his lifeless body fell, Jackson delivered a high arcing kick to the temple of the second man, crushing his skull and causing a massive brain hemorrhage. The third froze, as Jackson caved in his solar plexus with four rapid punches. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

  Petty Officer Donnelly came running up the alley. He saw the entire confrontation even though he sprinted. "Are you okay, Chief?"

  "I'm doing better than these guys." The two men dragged the bodies into a nearby clump of bushes. Hearing the commotion, Juarez ran to the alley, his M4A1 carbine at the ready.

  ***

  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 ship?"

  "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.

  The SEALs met at 2300 as planned. Chief Jackson debriefed everyone on his encounter with the thugs in the alley. Donnelly said that he had seen the entire thing and would give a written report to Conroy when they got back to the ship. They were SEALs, not cops, but they were on a surveillance mission with no clear Rules of Engagement.

  "We'll change into our fatigues back at the boat," Conroy said. "Grab any other piece of clothing you can find on the shelves. Something tells me we may need a change of outfits down the road. Also bring ladies' garments. Captain Patterson or another of our female crew may visit the shore at some point. It will be tight but I want to bring as much stuff as we can fit on the Zodiac. Anything that doesn't fit we'll stash in the bushes and pick up later. I hope Mr. Morton has insurance."

  "Lieutenant," Chief Jackson said, "are we going to plan to be back at the ship at 0300 or sooner?"

  "We've accomplished our mission," Conroy said. "Hanging out any longer may be a problem, especially since your encounter with those thugs. The boat is about a 20 minute walk from here. On our way to the boat I want everyone to take as many photos as you can. Let's empty the shelves and move out."

  Chief Petty Officer Jackson, age 35, had seen intense combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. He had been wounded and had taken many lives. But he had just gone through the most amazing experience of his life, and now his very presence was changing the mission. He grew up in a racially mixed neighborhood in Philadelphia. He had white friends and black friends, white neighbors and black. He never gave race much thought. Although he'd seen prejudice in his life, he was never obsessed with it. But he had never experienced sheer hatred as he did from those thugs in the alley. He had to kill to save his own life.

  On their way back to the ship they noticed much heavier boat traffic in the harbor. "Carbines ready, lock and load." Conroy didn't want any trouble with "reenactors." He decided to break radio silence, as was his option. He didn't worry about anyone in this strange place intercepting a radio transmission. "Lima Juliette, Lima Juliette (The radio call sign of the USS California) this is Tango Xray.

  "This is Lima Juliette, go ahead Tango Xray."

  "Please advise the Captain that we're returning to the ship, ETA 20 minutes"

  "Roger, Tango Xray, Lima Juliette out."

  They knew they were heading for a debriefing. A debriefing that may change history, Conroy thought.

  Chapter 7

  When they returned to the ship, Conroy and his fellow SEALs were ordered to report to the Captain’s office. Besides t
he SEALs and Captain Patterson, the others present were Executive Officer Phil Bradley and all department heads. Captain Patterson also invited Commander Rick Sampson, the ship’s chaplain. Ashley and Chaplain Sampson were long-time friends. He was a history buff, like her, and she wanted his input into the bizarre events of the last few hours.

  "Lieutenant Conroy, please proceed and tell us about your findings ashore."

  "Captain, I’ve assembled my notes and will write out a more detailed report, but we can give you a good idea of what happened now while it's fresh in our minds. I’m going to ask my men to jump in and add anything that I may have missed."

  Conroy reviewed their few hours ashore. He discussed the period costumes, the lack of anything electrical or electronic, the absence of motor vehicles, and the architecture, which was nothing like modern photos of Charleston. He reported the burglary of the clothing which he deemed a mission necessity. He also discussed Chief Petty Officer Jackson’s encounter with the attackers and his need to dispatch them. Chief Jackson answered a few questions about the incident. Conroy then handed Captain Patterson the newspaper that Juarez found, with the headline, “War Talks Grow Louder.”

  "Petty Officer Smith was here in Charleston five months ago to visit his cousin," Conroy said. "I believe I mentioned that before we left. I'll ask Smitty to fill you in on what he saw today and what he saw five months ago."

  Smith recounted his futile search for his cousin's apartment, telling them about the familiar building that was a condo complex five months ago and is now a warehouse. He also discussed the Cooper River Bridge, the most prominent structure in Charleston, which has simply disappeared.

  “Lieutenant Conroy, please give us a one sentence conclusion of your findings,” Captain Patterson said.