The Mississippi’s Secret

The amorous couple’s bed was hitting the motel wall in three-quarter time. Thunka thunk thunk thunk — the lonely man in the next room grabbed the TV remote and turned up the volume. Bradley Smathers longed to be home and hearing that wasn’t helping.  Nights like this made him miss his wife more than usual.  The light from a blue moon leaked through the heavy curtains.  He walked over to the window and peeked out. He peered down at the casino and the two bridges in the distance. The Mississippi River sparkled like it was wearing a diamond neckless. It was the first night of September in Vicksburg, Mississippi.

He opened his door and walked down the hall to the ice machine. The door behind him opened and out slinked the couple next door. She was wearing his shirt and it was untucked. Both had mussed hair and both were married — just not to each other.  Bradley tucked the ice bucket under his arm and gave them a slow clap — in three-quarter time, of course.  Both blushed and hurried down the hall.  Bradley thought of the self-righteous radio talk show host he had heard foaming at the mouth about the sanctity of marriage.  These two where doing their part to wreck it.  They hustled past him into night to their respective homes. Bradley got his ice and then returned back to his room for some peace and quiet.  A funky smell wafted into his nostrils as he walked through the door. He would have hated to scan this room with a black light.  He at on the bed, turned on Craig Ferguson’s Late Late Show and scooped some ice into his own cup (he never used the motel glasses).  He popped open a soft drink and watched as the foam raced over the top of the glass.  Watching the level go down reminded him why he was there.

The Mighty Mississippi had dropped to a record low and revealed a long-held secret: A Civil War-era ship.

A blockade runner to be more exact. A ship that had unsuccessfully tried to sneak past Admiral David G. Farragut’s gunships.  Three cannon balls ripping through its hull had stopped its quest dead.  The crew swam ashore and faded into the night.  The river swallowed its secret.  Until August 2012, that is. Because you see, what goes down must come up.  Even if it had taken a hundred fifty years.

Bradley had explored old wrecks for most of his life.  He was an underwater archeologist/naval historian and a damn good one.  He looked at the time on his Rolex Submariner.  Midnight.  It was time to get some beauty rest.

The next morning he drove down to the casino and parked in its vast parking lot. He watched as smoking ladies pulled their oxygen tanks into to gambling barge.  Lady luck would be too busy keeping them from exploding to give them any wins on the nickel slots, he thought.  He walked past the casino to a gate and gently pushed it open. It was unlocked as promised. There, past some heavy brush, through some concrete  and over the retaining wall, was a ladder. He gently climbed down and carefully put his feet on the sand bar.  “I’ve lived here 60 years and never seen so much sand,” said the engineer from the Corps who greeted him with a firm handshake.  “Name’s Colonel Frank Harrington.  Wait ’til you see this.”

They walked 100 yards downriver toward the a brown hulk.

The C.S.S. Holder lay remarkably preserved half buried in the sand.

“We’ve been able to enter her hold.  Found the usual things: Rifles, ammunition, uniforms, supplies and food.  We also found this.” The Colonel pointed at a small, watertight chest.  On the top of it were the letters, CSA. Inside of it was a German Luger pistol, a diary that at a Nazi Swastika on it, numerous history books and a photo of a German officer with a Confederate solider.

“What. The. Hell.” Bradley held the diary in his hand as his jaw dropped open.

“That’s why we called you,” said the Colonel. “You tell us.”

Later that afternoon, Bradley sat in his motel room with another soft drink and a box of fairly good take-out Chinese food.   He carefully read through the diary and was even more amazed as he turned each page.

It was the diary of Admiral Wolf Gunter, a Nazi special operations officer.

In 1941, Germany’s Adolph Hitler had tasked his scientists with a single mission: Figure out a way to destroy the United States before it ever could get into the war.  A group of scientists had taken the work done by Albert Einstein and experimented with time travel.  On December 18, 1944, Admiral Gunter had entered a two-story time chamber and travelled back to the time of American Civil War. He had sailed from Germany to New Orleans with plans, history books and tactics. He was to sail up the Mississippi River and meet up with spies who would take him to Richmond. There he’d meet with Confederate President Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee.  Part of his plan was to convince them that he knew the future. That’s where the history books came in. Change the outcomes of the Battles of Vicksburg and Gettysburg and you changed the outcome of the war. By allowing the South to win, there’d be no United States of America by 1941.

Bradley couldn’t believe what he was reading. The Nazi’s had mastered time travel. Incredible… but why was he just now reading about it?  He looked at the date again when the Admiral had left. It seemed so familiar. He Googled it. The next day a massive B-17 Superfortress bomber raid destroyed the scientific complex where the time machine had been located.  That left Gunter stranded in the past. Allied planners had seen the power lines and thought it was involved with the Nazi’s nuclear ambitions. Little did they know they put an end to something that could have changed the world even more abruptly.

“But the question was”, Bradley thought, “what happened to the Admiral?”  The crew had swam to shore.  That means the Nazi must have escaped. But he didn’t have the proof that he was from the future with him.  What became of him? He read the last entry of the diary one more time.

June 1, 1862: It’s a hot night on the Mississippi River. The people of this time are so crude, as is their technology.  The Confederates have the right attitude toward those of other races, though.  Looking forward to landing at Vicksburg so I can take the rail line to Atlanta.  From Atlanta, I will head to Richmond.  Look forward to completing my mission for the Fatherland and planting the seeds of the destruction of the United States of America.

The rest of the pages were blank.

What could have happened to him? Obviously his mission had failed. Bradley thought, “Where would be the next place to look?” The State Archives and History in Jackson would be the best place to start.  He called a friend in Jackson and booked a room at the King Edward Hotel. Like every good mystery, he needed some clues.  He finished off his noodles and egg-drop soup. The mystery of the South meant he had to head east on I-20.

He read old newspaper articles and old diaries. He scanned through official documents. So much from that time had been destroyed because of the war. But he knew the scrap of information he needed was there. The needle was in the haystack. He just had to find it.

On the fifteenth day, he found the needle. In 1863, the State of Mississippi had committed a man named Gunter to their mental hospital. Bradley looked at the microfiche and smiled.  According to court records, the patient claimed to be from the future. Six months later, Gunter hung himself in his cell with his sheets.  His secret was buried with him in his pauper’s grave.  Until the Mississippi betrayed him that August day.

Three cannon balls, a B-17 bomber and a sheet tied into a noose had saved his country. Bradley printed out the document and stuck it in his briefcase.

He smiled.  Here before him was the story how Germany almost won the war before it started. That night, he plugged in his laptop in the lobby of the King Edward Hotel. And then he began writing the book that would change history forever.  It would be the story how the Mississippi had revealed its most amazing secret of all.