Men in green Army fatigues stood around them. Their uniforms were in no better shape than the huts. In fact, some of them looked like badly sewn replicas. The M1 rifles they carried looked authentic enough, Kurt had several in his collection at home, but they hadn’t been used by any soldiers he knew of since the Korean War.

Beside him, Leilani gave her name, as did Ishmael. Neither did so in the manner Kurt had. Nor did they list their countries of origin.

The eighteenth Roosevelt spoke again. “You are charged with trespassing, possession of weapons and espionage. You will be held as enemy combatants and prisoners of war. Tell us how you plead.”

“Plead?” Leilani blurted out.

“Yes,” the judge said. “Are you members of the Axis forces or not?”

Leilani tugged on Kurt’s sleeve. “What’s going on? What are they talking about?”

Kurt felt like he was playing catch-up. An idea began to form in his head.

“I think this is a cargo cult,” he whispered.

“A what?”

“In the Pacific, during World War Two, islands with tribal societies were suddenly caught in the middle of the largest war ever fought. Any island of strategic value was claimed and used for one purpose or another, often times for storage of supplies that came off ships in endless quantities. Stuff the soldiers and sailors called cargo.”

He nodded at the soldiers surrounding them. “For the people in the tribal societies the sudden appearance of men from the sky or out of great ships from the sea, bringing what seemed like endless amounts of food and manufactured goods, it was like the arrival of minor gods.”

“You have to be kidding me,” she said.

“I’m not. To garner the support of those on the islands, a great deal of stuff got handed over to the islanders like manna from heaven. But when the war ended and the soldiers left, it was a huge shock. No more stuff. No more cargo coming off the ships and planes. No more big silver birds dropping out of the sky.

“In most places life went back to normal, but on some islands the tribes started looking for ways to encourage the return of the soldiers and their cargo. They became known as cargo cults.”

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 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.”