“Too bad we don’t get any lifelines,” Kurt said, “I’d love to make a call right about now.”
“One more question,” the eighteenth Roosevelt said. “Tell us what is meant by The House That Ruth Built?”
Kurt smiled. His eyes fell on the old-style Yankees cap. Someone who’d influenced these men had loved baseball and had obviously been from New York.
“The House That Ruth Built is Yankee Stadium. It’s in the Bronx,” he said, and then added, to the judges hearty approval, “It was named for Babe Ruth, the greatest baseball player of all time.”
“He is correct,” the eighteenth Roosevelt said excitedly. “Only a true American would know these things.”
“Yes, yes,” the others agreed. “Now, what about the woman?”
“She’s with me,” Kurt said.
“And the man?”
Kurt hesitated. “He’s my prisoner.”
“Then he will be our prisoner,” one of the judges said.
“Our first prisoner,” the eighteenth Roosevelt proclaimed to the great excitement of those around the room. “Take him away.”
Ishmael looked shocked as two men with carbines rushed forward and grabbed him.
“He must be treated according to the Geneva convention,” Kurt said sternly.
“Yes, of course. He will be cared for. But he will be guarded night and day. We have never lost a prisoner on Pickett’s Island. Then again, we have never had one before. He will not escape.”
Without a chance to defend himself, Ishmael was dragged off. Kurt figured he would be okay. As the room emptied around him, he approached the bench.
The eighteenth Roosevelt extended a hand. “My apologies for your treatment,” he said. “I had to be sure.”
Kurt shook the hand. “Understandable,” he said. “May I ask your name?”
“I’m Tautog,” the judge said.
“And you’re the eighteenth Roosevelt of the island,” Kurt confirmed.
“Yes,” Tautog said. “Every four years, a new leader is chosen. I am the eighteenth. I have served for two years, defending the island and the Constitution of the United States of America.”
Kurt calculated backward. If each term lasted four years and Tautog had only served for two, that meant the first Roosevelt was chosen seventy years ago, in 1942.
World War Two. These islanders had come into contact with someone during World War Two and been turned into a small fighting force. It seemed like no one had bothered to tell them the war was over.
Kurt’s eyes traveled over the nautical equipment and the life vest. A faded name on it was impossible to read. “A ship landed here?” he said.
“Yes,” Tautog said. “A great ship of fire and steel. The S.S. John Bury.”
“What happened to it?” Kurt asked.
“The keel is buried in the sand on the east side of the island. The rest we took apart and used to build shelters and defenses.”
“Defenses?” Leilani asked. “Against what?”
“Against the Imperial Japanese Navy and the banzai charge,” Tautog said as if it were obvious.
Kurt caught her before she spoke. Tautog and his fellow islanders were extremely isolated and not just geographically. He didn’t know how they would respond to hearing that the war they and their fathers and their grandfathers had been hunkering down to fight had been over for six and a half decades.
“Who trained you?” Kurt asked.