The Storm

“Never heard 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?”

“I have a feeling they’ve mixed up names and titles,” Kurt said. “Whoever came here must have told them the leader of the country was Roosevelt, the Vice President was Truman.”

“Is that why this guy is the eighteenth Roosevelt of Pickett’s Island?”

“I think so.”

“I feel like I’m in the twilight zone,” Leilani said.

So did Kurt. But he figured there were some advantages to the setup, and with his friend’s lives still hanging in the balance, he had no choice but to take advantage of them.

“What I’ve said is true,” Kurt insisted. “And I’m here on Pickett’s Island, looking as I do, because I’ve just escaped the grasp of some enemies of the United States.”

The men seemed impressed and began to whisper among themselves.

“How can we be sure he’s an American?” the second judge said.

“He looks a lot like Pickett,” the eighteenth Roosevelt said.

“He could be German. His name is Kurt.”

The eighteenth Roosevelt seemed to take this as a fair question, he turned to Austin. “You must prove it to us.”

“Tell me how?”

“I will ask you some questions,” he said. “If you answer as an American would, we will believe your story. If you speak wrongly, you will be held guilty.”

“Go ahead,” Kurt said confidently, “ask away.”

“What is the capital of New York State?” the judge asked.

“Albany,” Kurt said.

“Very good. But that was an easy one.”

“So ask a harder one.”

The judge knitted his dark brows together, squinting at Kurt, before asking the next question. “What is meant by the term the pitcher balked?”

Kurt was surprised. He’d expected another geography question or a history question, but in retrospect it made sense. History and geography were easy to learn, obscure rules of national sports were not. As it happened, Kurt had played baseball all his young life.

“A balk occurs many different ways,” he said, “but usually it’s when the pitcher doesn’t come to a complete stop before throwing the pitch to home base.”

The judges nodded in unison.

“Correct,” one said.

“Yes, yes,” another said, still nodding.

“Third question: Who was the sixteenth Roosevelt of the United States?”

Kurt assumed he meant the sixteenth President. “Abraham Lincoln.”

“And where was he born?”

Another good question, Lincoln so widely known as being from Illinois that most assumed he was born there. “Lincoln was born in Kentucky,” Kurt replied. “In a cabin made of logs.”

The judges nodded to one another. It seemed he was making progress.

“I feel like we’re on a bad game show,” Leilani mumbled.

“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.

“Captain Pickett and Sergeant First Class Arthur Watkins of the United States Marine Corps. They taught us