The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

A second judge, who seemed lower in the pecking order than the eighteenth Roosevelt, grew impatient with Kurt’s whispering.

“The defendants will answer!” he demanded.

“We’re discussing our plea,” Kurt replied.

Kurt finished his explanation. “One common practice was mimicking what they’d seen on the American bases. Some of the cults were known to drill like soldiers in boot camp. Dressing like these guys. Carrying fake guns carved from wood. They did morning reveille, had flag-raising ceremonies, they even had ranks and medals and military-style burials. The most famous group I can recall was the John Frum cult on Vanuatu. Rumor had it, the cult got its name because the Americans would introduce themselves by saying, ‘Hi, I’m John from so-and-so.’ So the cult named themselves the John Frummers.”

“That’s just great,” Leilani said sarcastically, “but we’re not in the Pacific. And these guys aren’t carrying fake wooden guns.”

“No,” Kurt said. “Something’s different here.”

He noticed other items around the room. Charts lay spread across a desk, a compass, a barometer and a sextant were nearby. He spotted an antique gray life vest and a pair of dog tags in a spot of honor on the eighteenth Roosevelt’s desk. A faded Yankees baseball cap that had to be seventy years old sat nearby.

“The time for discussion is ended,” the eighteenth Roosevelt said. “You will make your plea or we will enter one for you.”

“Not guilty,” Kurt said. “We’re Americans like you. Well, at least two of us are.”

The judges looked them over. “How can you prove it?” one of them said. “She could be a Japanese spy.”

The statement riled Leilani. “How dare you call me a spy! Even if I was part Japanese, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Are you?”

“No. I’m an American, from the state of Hawaii.”

“She means the territory of Hawaii,” Kurt interjected.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Kurt insisted. “It didn’t become a state until ’fifty-nine!”

Leilani gazed at him with big chestnut-colored eyes. There was trust in that gaze, along with hope and confusion.

“Just let me do the talking,” Kurt whispered, and then turned back to the first judge. “What she means is, she grew up near Pearl Harbor. She’s been there many times to visit the Arizona memorial and pay respects to those who died on December seventh.”

The judge seemed to accept this. “And what about you?” he asked Kurt.

“I work for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Which is an ocean research section of the U.S. government. It was founded by Admiral James Sandecker.”

“Sandecker?” the second judge said.

“Never hea

rd of him,” a third judge said.

“He’s a real admiral,” Kurt insisted. “He’s a good friend of mine. I’ve been to his house many times. He’s now the Vice President of the United States.”

The judges’ collective eyebrows went up. “The Vice President is a good friend of yours?” one of them asked.

The others started to laugh.

The eighteenth Roosevelt shook his head. “It does not seem possible that the new Harry Truman would be a friend of such a dirty-looking man.”

Kurt considered his appearance. He was battered and bruised with four days of stubble on his face. The stolen uniform fit a little large and was torn in places. At the moment he was just thankful not to be sparkling.

“You’re not exactly seeing me at my best,” he said.

Leilani leaned close. “The new Harry Truman?”