by Bob Mayer
“You’ve just got a touch of the flu, Mike,” Doc said. “Wait here, please.”
He turned and walked over to Tremble, Jack at his side.
“We need to isolate him,” Doc said in a harsh whisper.
“We need to exile him,” Jack said.
Tremble held up his hands. “Whoa, hold on. Slow down. What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s got a bug,” Doc said.
“Okay,” Tremble said. “So he’s got the flu. I can understand keeping him isolated.”
“We can’t have the flu going through this place,” Jack said. “We’re packed in here. Too close. We need to kick him out.”
“We’re not kicking anyone out,” Tremble said. “Are you crazy? We keep him here. Stop anyone from coming in and seeing him. Isolation.”
“What if all the security comes down with the flu?” Jack asked. “Those people are still up there. I’ve got two of my men in the sniper nest and they’ve had to do some shooting and—“
Tremble held up a hand, remembering the blood-spattered sign in the car. “Do what you need to do up there. Down here, we act civilized. We act like everything is fine.”
Jack shook his head. “Everything isn’t fine. We’ve got no clue what’s going on. There are hundreds if not thousands of people on top who will do anything to get in here.”
“But they won’t get in, will they?” Tremble said. “We can abandon the sniper nest and lock down completely.”
Jack grimaced. “I don’t want to lock down unless we absolutely have to. We’ll be blind.”
“We’ve got the video feeds.”
Jack snorted in disgust. “Those will be taken out first.”
“By who?” Tremble asked.
Jack stared at him. “You don’t get it, do you? I saw refugees climbing on top of each other trying to get out of Aleppo on a chopper. Stepping on kid’s heads.” He pointed up. “Those people are willing to die to get in here.”
“Then we lock down.”
“I can still control it,” Jack said. “I’m more worried about what the fucking aliens have planned than the humans. I can handle the known.”
“All right,” Tremble said. “But you made my point. We can’t exile anyone. We need these people in here calm. Is that clear?”
Jack replied. “I don’t think—“ the lights flickered. Went out. Darkness for several seconds. Screams from the theater.
Then the back up generator kicked in and power returned.
“I have to calm the clients,” Tremble said. “Keep Mike isolated,” he added as he exited.
WARDENCLYFFE, SHOREHAM, NEW YORK
Sparks begin to crackle at the top of the tower as power surged.
“Sound off,” Shear ordered.
Jim and Linda reported their status: ready.
Shear did a quick check of his own systems. “I’m green.”
“Are we targeting the closest one?” Jim asked.
Shear had been considering that. “Negative. We target the ships dropping toward New York City.”
“That’s low,” Linda said. “The angle will be extreme and the plasma will scorch the land nearby.”
“It’s doable,” Shear said, having helped design the cannon. “I want to hit hard. We’re only going to get one shot at each ship. We have to do as much damage as possible. I don’t think anyone is standing around close by.”
The intermittent news since the arrival of the Core indicated the world’s population in complete panic. Most social media and news platforms had broken down at the approaching threat. People were faced with an unanswerable quandary: where to run, when the threat is worldwide?
“One minute,” Jim reported.
Shear looked at his display. The Core filled the sky to the west and was rapidly approaching, spewing warships. Images flickered as different video feeds went black.
“It’s affecting those feeds,” Shear said. “There’s some sort of electromagnetic interference.”
“Roger that,” Linda said. “I’ve picked up some weird readings. Something is putting out a steady, EMP pulse along the crescent of its approach.”
The black dots were spreading out from the Core.
“Forty seconds,” Jim reported.
“We’ll only get a couple of shots,” Shear repeated, glad he’d ordered the extreme angle firing. He peered at the screen. “Hold on, hold on. They’re stopping.”
To the west a layer of warships hovered high in the sky. As the Core passed by, the warships coming down did the same.
The Swarm warships were all halted at the same altitude. New York City had warships with barely a half mile between the closest extensions. Over Antarctica there was one over McMurdo Station and just enough evenly spaced to have horizon line of sight at twenty thousand feet on the horizon to each other.
“Shut down!” Shear yelled, throwing the master switch as the Core approached overheard.
The air crackled and the tips of the weapons arms on the warships horizontal to the surface of the planet flickered with energy. That energy coalesced and reached out to the horizon. They couldn’t see it, but the entire network of warships was now linked.
A blanket of powerful electro-magnetic pulses were sweeping the surface of the planet, transmitted from warship to warship to the surface, wiping out everything electronic. Not just every weapon system utilizing electronics and computers, but the world’s electric grid, was shut down. Cars stopped. The planes still flying lost all power. Most crashed. Ships at sea went silent as their powerful engines ceased.
Inside Wardenclyffe sparks flew from consoles and the Tesla coil at the top of the tower glowed, then there was an explosion. Jim was thrown thirty feet through the air and landed with a heavy thud. His hair was smoking and he didn’t move.
Shear ran to him, but knew it was too late. The eyes were fixed and glazed.
Linda was frozen, staring at the body.
“Are you powered down?” Shear asked.
She didn’t reply.
Shear walked over and placed himself between her and the body. “Are you powered down, Linda?”
She nodded.
“We have to repair everything that’s shorted,” Shear said.
“Why?”
Shear was surprised. “’Why’?”
She shivered, then met his gaze. “Why, Reuben? What are we going to do against these things? Look outside. There are hundreds that we can see. They’re all over the world. What are we going to do? Jim is dead. We’re going to be dead soon.”
“It was EMP,” Shear said. “Very effective. We prepared for this, though. We’ve got backups for everything. Mrs. Parrish and Professor Leahy were quite anal about backing everything up.” He pointed up. “They’re holding for some reason. We don’t know how long. They’ll come down eventually. Then we’ll kill them. Let’s get to work.”
Linda laughed manically. “’Work’? Sure. Let’s get to work.”
Shear grabbed a tarp and spread it over Jim’s still-smoldering body.
SS SAROV, THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA
“Bad move, Vladimir,” the Captain told his political officer.
Vladimir hadn’t let go of the chess piece and froze, considering the comment and the tactical implications laid out on the board. “I do not see the problem.”
“That is why you are just a government lackey and I am in command of this ship,” the Captain said, but his tone was genial. He pointed to one of his bishops. “Do you see?”
Vladimir squinted.
“In six moves,” the Captain said.
Vladimir sighed and took his hand off the piece. “I do not see it and every time you make a prediction it is inevitable, regardless of what I do.”
“You give up too easily,” the Captain said.
“I see no point to wasting time,” Vladimir responded.
“What else do we have now, except time?”
The Sarov was coffin quiet, a term a submariner would never use because everyone who served in that unique arm of t
he navy, regardless of country, in the back of their head, knew there was a chance the metal around them could easily be their coffin one day. The ocean, especially as one went deeper, didn’t give second chances. One mistake and it could be over in a flash, the walls around them imploding.
“’Time’?” Vladimir considered that. He appeared distressed, but who didn’t?
There was only one Sarov class sub in the Russian navy—this one. It had evoked interest by western intelligence agencies when the first grainy images of it were uncovered. Those images had been a mistake, published by the regional governor’s office near its home port after he had a meeting with the Captain.
Such mistakes were not uncommon in Russia. The Captain wasn’t sure the disclosure was a mistake, even though the governor had been relieved. The President was always doing publicity stunts trying to make the west more afraid of Russian military might than the reality dictated. The west, especially the Americans, played into it quite willingly so they could build more of their own weapons. It was a game that made profits for the ruling classes and kept the world on the edge of disaster.
The Sarov’s hull was based on the Kilo class, an attack submarine. But it was modified in several key ways. The most immediate that western intelligence had focused on was a pronounced overbite in the bow of the ship. Given that the ship was named after the secure Russian city, Sarov, where nuclear weapons were produced, this gave rise to speculation about why the front, where torpedoes were normally stored, was larger than usual. Certainly not for a missile which would launch vertically. Perhaps a larger than normal torpedo? A nuclear tipped one? Then, not so accidently, the Russian President boasted publicly of a new mighty weapon in the country’s arsenal: a doomsday device.
Technically it was called the Status-6 Ocean Multipurpose System. That was too dry sounding and it was christened Poseidon. The Americans, who always had to rename everything, code-named it Kanyon.
“How much longer?” Vladimir asked, glancing upward, as if he could see through the steel and dark water to the surface above them.
“’How long’?” the Captain repeated. He shrugged. “I do not know. I am in a quandary, my friend.” He paused as there was a light rap on the thin door to his cabin. “Yes?”
His steward, a plain-looking young female sailor, dark hair cut unfashionably short, cracked the door open, holding a steaming pot of tea. “Sir?”
“Certainly, Tasha,” the Captain said. He waited as his cup was refilled. “Thank you.”
Tasha turned to Vladimir. “Sir?”
The political officer looked at her. “Do you play chess?”
Tasha lowered her eyes. “No, sir.”
“Are you proud to be among the first women to serve on board submarines?” Vladimir asked.
“Of course, sir. I am proud to serve Russia.”
Vladimir glanced at the Captain. “And if we were still the Soviet Union? Would you be proud to serve?”
Tasha appeared confused. “Soviet Union?”
“She was born after the break up,” the Captain pointed out.
“Yes, they taught you of that in history books, correct?” Vladimir asked.
“Yes, sir. But we are Russia now.”
The political officer shook his head. “You do not belong here.”
Tasha looked to the Captain and he nodded. “You may go.”
The door shut once more.
“Still peasants,” Vladimir said with digust.
“Peasants are the spine of Russia.” The Captain sipped his tea. “She serves well in a difficult situation, being the only woman on board.”
“She is bad for morale,” Vladimir said. “And what could she do in an emergency?”
The Captain shook his head. “We need more brains and less brawn.”
“She is just a steward,” Vladimir pointed out.
“She is learning. She will move on to larger roles.” The Captain peered over the rim of the tea cup at Vladimir. “Why are you on board?”
Vladimir frowned. “Excuse me, sir?”
“You are a leftover from the Soviet Union. We are not communists any more, are we? So there isn’t even the political façade to deny that you are a spy for the SVR, is there?”
Vladimir shrugged. “I am here more as an intelligence officer than a spy.”
The Captain laughed. “Too many have read that American book about, what was it called, Red October? Afraid I might give this mighty weapon to the Americans? Or perhaps the British? Personally, I’d hand it over to the French. They have prettier women.”
“We have Tasha,” Vladimir said. “She is plain, but she will do in a pinch.”
The Captain ignored that. “You know, of course, that the story the American wrote was based on an actual event? A mutiny on one of our nuclear armed cruisers? The crew very nearly took control from the captain. He was a bastard, granted, but at sea, one must bear with a bastard.”
“I had heard something about it,” Vladimir said.
“Mutiny is the worst crime at sea. Punishable by immediate death on the Captain’s orders. Did you know the Americans founded their Naval Academy, their Annapolis, as a response to the only mutiny they ever had in their Navy?”
“I did not,” Vladimir said. “But, of course, our navy played a large role in the Revolution, did it not?”
“I believe that is why you are on board,” the Captain said. “A check and balance on both me and the crew.”
Vladimir said nothing.
“They made a movie out of the book,” the Captain continued.
Vladimir was confused. “’Book’?”
“Hunt for Red October,” the Captain said. He pointed up. “They even filmed some of the action right here, in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. They used a submarine from our war mission target.”
The SS Sarov was on the ocean bottom on the international boundary between the United State and Canada in the Strait. Just north of the Olympic Peninsula and south of Vancouver Island. A violation of both countries’ territorial waters; or, as could be politically argued, neither.
Vladimir seemed to have something else on his mind. Something more immediate than women in the Navy or old movies and books or even politics.
“’How long do we wait’?” The Captain said, picking up the conversational thread. “The quandary is this: my last orders from Moscow were to be prepared to use our special weapon as needed. The parameters of ‘as needed’ were left vague. Along with against whom.”
“The enemy, of course,” the political officer said.
“’The enemy’?. But they, the aliens, are not in the ocean, are they? And we are.”
“Who knows where they are now? Or who the enemy is?” Vladimir showed his first slight hint of annoyance. “We have had no word in over twenty-four hours.”
The Captain shrugged. “But my orders were to be prepared to insure the survival of Russia. That is also vague. And how am I to insure that Russia goes on? There is only one Tasha and fifty-one men. I see a logistical problem. She is a pleasant young woman, as you noted and would do in a pinch, but I don’t believe she is that pleasant.”
“You cannot make a decision,” the political officer pointed out, “without further information.”
“You are too impatient,” the Captain said. He indicated the board. “That is why you play so poorly. You are anxious to win. Often winning requires waiting.” The political officer’s eyes shifted and the Captain tensed. “What is it, Vladimir?”
“I am not supposed to tell you.”
“But you have already decided to do so,” the Captain pointed out. “What is it?”
“Moscow’s last orders.” Vladimir grimaced. “There was more to them.”
The Captain sighed. “On my own ship, secrets.”
“I received my own set of orders,” Vladimir said. “Direct from the President himself. There was nothing vague about them or subject to interpretation.”
The Captain waited for the bad news.
“I ar
med Poseidon,” Vladimir said.
The Captain’s hand went to the key on the chain around his neck. “You cannot arm it without—“ he stopped himself and exhaled. “I am the fool now. Of course you can. Does my key even work?”
“Yes, it works,” Vladimir said.
“But yours works with mine,” the Captain said. “Would mine work without yours?”
Vladimir did not answer.
“Once Poseidon is armed, it can’t be disarmed,” the Captain said.
Poseidon was, for once, almost as real as the President had boasted. Although not quite a doomsday weapon, it was very, very powerful. In the bow overhang was a torpedo twenty-four meters long and two meters in diameter. It was unprecedented. Even the Americans did not have an intercontinental, nuclear armed, nuclear powered, undersea autonomous torpedo. Once armed, targeted and launched, the boast was that it could travel at a speed of over 100 miles an hour for over 6,000 miles. When it reached its target, the warhead would detonate. Not only was the torpedo unprecedented, so was the warhead: estimated to be 100 megatons.
The largest man-made nuclear detonation in history had been Tsar Bomba, detonated by the Soviet Union on 30 October 1961. That had been 50 megatons, exploded at 13,000 feet above the Novaya Zemlya Archipelago in the Arctic Ocean. The fireball from that blast almost wiped out the plane that dropped it at an altitude of over six miles. It was visible from over six hundred miles away. The mushroom cloud went up forty miles and into the mesosphere before peaking out. Despite being detonated at altitude, it still caused a shock wave in the Earth that registered 5.25.
Poseidon was designed for the water. The warhead was capable, it was estimated since it had never been tested, of producing a tsunami 1,600 feet tall. Capable of wiping out a port city and a substantial portion of coastline. It could also easily dispatch an American carrier task force.
“What is the target?” the Captain asked.
“The same target we had when we sailed. Naval Base Kitsap.”
The Captain would have laughed if this hadn’t been so serious. “I thought the aliens were the problem.” Kitsap was one of two home bases for the most powerful part of the American nuclear triad: their Trident missile submarines. It was located well inside Puget Sound, along the Hood Canal. The theory was that the Sarov would fire Poseidon, the torpedo would race through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, then turn south, navigate the difficult channels among the islands of Puget Sound and enter the Hood Canal and then detonate. Such a massive explosion in the narrow channel of the Canal would devastate everything along the shore and wipe out the submarines in their pens and the entire base.
