A New World: Storm

by John O'Brien

  The first shot hits dead center. A mass of smoke rolls upward, with tongues of flame visible within. In a similar manner to the trestle, chunks of concrete fly outward and up, splashing into the water. Upon clearing, a section of the bridge, most of the two lanes on one side, have vanished into the depths of the river. The roadway still extends out into the river and is connected by a thin strip of pavement and concrete.

  A second round explodes closer to the northern side, followed by a third on the southern shore. The three blasts succeed in dumping the bridge into the river. Unlike with the trestle, there isn’t anything for the current to carry. Large masses of concrete can be seen below the surface, with ripples in the stream showing where many have come to rest. On either end, the concrete supports terminate with twisted rebar jutting out. Chunks of pavement droop downward at the edges, some gradually sagging farther until they fall into the current below.

  “Hit the rubble in the water again,” I direct.

  I don’t want to give the night runners any possibility of crossing. It would be just my luck to come back tomorrow and find that they were able to rebuild the bridge. Large geysers appear from the large caliber rounds hitting the water and exploding. When the river settles, I don’t see anything that would allow anyone to ford the channel.

  By the time we finish, the rain has engulfed the interstate bridge. Although we have the capability to target and fire in inclement weather, I opt to wait for the weather to clear. So, we loiter as the shower slowly passes through. The grayness of the day has deepened as the sun, hidden by clouds, heads toward the horizon.

  Come on, come on, come on, I chant internally, trying to will the shower farther east.

  It doesn’t listen and moves along at its own pace, shattering my dreams of being able to control the weather. I remember the days when I’d be driving down the highway and do the same thing with the cars in front of me. It’s probably a good thing that I wasn’t at the controls of a Spooky in those moments. I’m pretty sure I would have been easy to track by the litter of smoldering vehicles along the sides of the roads.

  I guess that’s the only good thing to come about from this mess. There’s no more traffic, I think, waiting for the gray mass falling from the clouds to move on.

  It seems like forever, but before long, the bridges over the interstate reappear. Their surfaces are slick with rainwater, which washed some of the debris to the sides where it formed into small piles. The interstate isn’t nearly as dusty as the roads near Mountain Home. For one, we don’t have that much bare dirt around; and two, we are using the highway more than they are.

  Banking the aircraft around, we set up for the last bridge. I’ll be interested to see what happens with the superstructure, but I don’t have high hopes that we’ll be able to drop it entirely. It may be that we expend our entire supply on board in order to not leave a footbridge across.

  A vibration lets me know that the first shell is away and I look downward in time to see it hit. Like the highway bridge, the spans vanish behind smoke from the blast. The roiling, dark cloud is pushed off to the side quickly by a breeze. Left behind, twisted girders near one end of the bridge are angled mostly outward from the explosion. The road itself appears to have been left mostly intact although it seems to be canted. That could be my imagination. A second round hits from a different angle, tearing a hole all the way through the middle of the superstructure. We now have access for a shot directly to the paved surface.

  Robert waits until we circle around before delivering another round. That way, he can hit the highway from nearly the same angle and try to sneak one through the twisted mass of girders. Two more rounds go out in quick succession. When the smoke clears, I see that the middle of one of the two bridges has collapsed. Each end is sloped downward toward the water, held just above the surface by the remains of the superstructure.

  “Tenacious, aren’t they?” I call over the intercom.

  “They’re going down if I have to jump out and kick them,” Robert replies.

  Circling, we continue hammering shells into the bridges, eventually sending both of them crashing into the river. The channel is deeper in this location but I can still see quite a few of the twisted green girders sticking out of the river, more so toward each of the shorelines where the water is shallower. Robert sends a couple of rounds directly into the water in an attempt to further destroy the bridge. It works to an extent, but mostly we only manage to displace water for seconds at a time. Looking at the wreckage we leave behind, I don’t see how anyone could cross it. However, I’ll want to take a better look at it from the ground tomorrow.

  Turning back toward the compound, which is immediately off our nose, I quickly set us up for a landing. Puget Sound, off to the side, is a gray not unlike the clouds overhead. The wind has started blowing harder, causing whitecaps on the waves rolling across the steel-colored surface. I leave the throttles up, trying to beat a rain shower that is streaking directly for the runway.

  Of course, now they move quickly, I think, lowering the gear.

  We land just ahead of the shower, which begins pelting the aircraft with large drops of water as we taxi in and shut down. Four Humvees bounce across the muddy road leading to the airfield to pick us up, water splashing from the tires as they plow through puddles. Leaving the aircraft, gusts of wind drive the downpour into a sheet of rain, immediately soaking all of us.

  Now, I’m not made of sugar, not even by the slimmest of definitions. And I live in the northwest. But that doesn’t mean that I enjoy getting wet, nor have I become used to it. I would have waited out the shower if time wasn’t pressing and nightfall further off. I’d like to be airborne over Tacoma when darkness falls in order to get a picture of where the night runners are coming from, and in what numbers. The Spooky has to be reloaded and refueled, and there are still other things that need to be done before we can leave again. Frank meets us at the door as we pull up and enter the building.

  “What the hell? Did you take out one of the bridges by crashing into it?” he asks, eyeing my dripping wet form.

  “I’m not sure I could get this wet by swimming,” I reply, trying to shake off the moisture.

  Outside, the hissing of the downpour carries through the doors. A long, hot shower followed by a dry set of clothing sounds like the best thing in the world. We weren’t in it for long, only having to run from the aircraft to the vehicles parked close by, but in that short period of time, we all managed to get soaked to the skin. And with it comes the kind of chill that even a hot shower can’t get rid of.

  “The bridges are down. You can look at the tapes and I’ll brief you later,” I tell Frank, almost chattering as I walk toward the showers.

  The rest of the crew are all in the same condition and we leave a wide swath of water behind. I’m so soaked that I feel that stepping into a shower will actually dry me off some. The only thing I wish for at that very moment is a hot water tank the size of the state. Even then, I’m not sure it would be large enough.

  Later, drier and a little warmer, but still feeling a chill in my bones, I brief Frank and the others.

  “I’m pretty confident about the railroad and highway bridges, but I want to take a closer look at the interstate ones tomorrow,” I state, finishing.

  “Oh, Harold radioed while you were showering. He said it wasn’t important but asked that you call him back when you were able,” Frank comments.

  In the control room, I look at the time and see I still have a little before I have to contact Leonard, according to our arranged schedule. It doesn’t take long to get Harold on the other end of our satellite link.

  “Nice work on the bridges,” Harold says, beginning the conversation.

  “You know about that already?” I ask, knowing that he had the satellite overhead but unaware that it was feeding information.

  “Yeah. I watched the whole thing live while validating our feed,” he answers.

  “I guess it’s working, then,” I state.
<
br />   “It is. I’ll send you some preliminary data, but it’s not really that useful as we only have imagery from the past couple of hours. I’ll be able to pass the live feed to one of your monitors here in just a few minutes. Just have one of the techs set the monitor you want to use to feed number three. Is the recording equipment in place?” Harold asks.

  I look to Frank, who nods affirmative.

  “Frank says yes,” I answer.

  I can almost see Frank drooling at the prospect of the first chance to get live feeds from the night runners up north. Well, maybe not quite drooling, but he’s obviously eager to have that available.

  “Okay, give me a few minutes and I’ll forward it to you,” Harold says.

  “You know, with this, we’ll hopefully be able to piece together a trend. And watching them retire near dawn, we’ll be able to locate night runner lairs to hit. We may actually have better luck hitting those locations during the day rather than hunting them down in smaller packs during the night,” Franks muses.

  My thoughts center on using the Spooky during the day and night. We’d need two of them, along with two trained crews. Having a single gunship operating day and night would be a mechanical disaster. The maintenance issues would more than double and we could find ourselves without the capabilities of the Spooky altogether. I’ll have to think about that one. However, it will be nice not having to go aloft at night for our only source of intel. Instead, we could just begin hitting them where they sleep during the day.

  “Okay, you should have it now. Can you verify?” Harold radios.

  “Standby,” I reply, watching Frank leave the control room to check out the monitoring equipment.

  He returns a short time later and states that the monitors and recording equipment are working as advertised. I relay the information to Harold.

  “Okay. Oh, and Jack, I may have those images you requested on the group in northern Canada tomorrow. There’s no promise on that, though,” Harold says.

  “Copy that. I’ll look forward to getting them, whenever you are able,” I respond. “Have you had any luck contacting them?”

  “No. I haven’t had any response as yet, but I’ll keep trying,” he answers.

  “All right. We’ll talk tomorrow, then,” I say, and sign off.

  Now it’s a matter of waiting for the call from Leonard.

  * * * * * *

  “Surface clear,” the sonarman states.

  “Bring us up to periscope depth,” Leonard orders.

  “Aye, sir, periscope depth,” the XO acknowledges.

  The deck in the control room tilts as the Santa Fe creeps toward the surface and levels just below the Pacific swells. With another confirmation that the passive sonar isn’t picking up any additional traffic, Leonard raises the periscope and conducts a 360-degree sweep to confirm it visually. Only then does he order the radio mast raised in order to keep the prearranged schedule of communication with Captain Walker.

  The sub, crew, and three other boats motor along slowly waiting for contact. The Maine, at the same depth as Leonard, also monitors the radio traffic, while the two remaining vessels loiter a mile to the rear, listening on their passive systems. Near the surface, the only indication the two boats will receive if any hostiles are in their area will be the transient noises of the attack boats readying their systems and firing. It’s not a position Leonard feels overly comfortable with, knowing that there is the potential of two additional operational Russian subs; and the likelihood that they could be sharing the undersea world with a host of other nationalities as well.

  A bright, blinking light just over the tops of the swells catches Leonard’s attention. Switching places with the XO, he orders: “Raise the Maine on the radio. I think they have a message for us.”

  “Santa Fe, do you hear that?” Jorgenson asks once they establish contact.

  “Hear what?” Leonard asks in return.

  Jorgenson radios a frequency to tune in to. Leonard nods to the signalman, who dials it in. The speaker overhead comes to life with a broadcast. It’s a repeated signal that orders all Pacific naval vessels to return to Pearl Harbor.

  “Check who owns the frequency,” Leonard asks the signalman.

  “Sir, it’s a US Pacific Fleet channel,” the signalman answers a moment later.

  The message repeats and appears to be automated.

  “We hear it,” Leonard responds to Jorgenson.

  “We should meet,” Jorgenson replies.

  “We can opt do that in Bangor while we resupply. We’ll be there in a couple of days,” Leonard states.

  “We may not have the luxury of that much time,” Jorgenson says.

  “Sir, Captain Walker is calling on the other frequency,” the signalman whispers.

  “Okay, let’s get the others together. Captain Walker is hailing us. We’ll be over shortly,” Leonard comments, signing off and switching frequencies.

  “Captain, I have to make this quick. We started picking up an automated message out of Pearl and we’re about to meet to discuss what to do about it,” Leonard says, relaying the contents of the broadcast.

  “Okay. Let us know what you decide,” Walker replies.

  “We will. We’ll touch base tomorrow. Santa Fe out,” Leonard radios.

  Later, cold, and each captain accepting an offered cup of hot coffee, they take seats and settle in the mess room. Jorgenson begins by explaining the automated message they picked up on military channels specifically reserved for Pacific Fleet traffic.

  “So, the question is, what do we do about it? It’s my opinion that we turn around and check it out,” Jorgenson states, finishing his quick brief.

  “I think we have to first see if we have the supplies to make it there and back to Bangor. We are all in need of a refit,” Leonard comments.

  All of the captains indicate that they have enough to make it to Pearl Harbor and return to Bangor.

  “We’re short, but we should be able to make it…barely, but enough,” Castagne states, referring to the condition aboard the Jefferson City.

  “We need to take maintenance into the equation as well. All of our boats are old and need the maintenance and parts that a depot like Bangor will be able to provide,” Leonard mentions. “We can’t be sure of what we’ll find at Pearl, but the population of night runners will be greater. Meaning, we may not be able to service our boats there.”

  All of the captains nod. No one wants to become stranded because of a maintenance issue – or for any reason.

  “While that’s true, I don’t see that we really have the choice but to risk it. We have four boats, and if one breaks down, we can disperse the crew to the other ones. It will be crowded, but as I mentioned, I think we have to take the chance,” Jorgenson says.

  “If that happens, we’d lose a fourth of what we have. We’d lose one of the boats…permanently. Can we really afford to run that risk?” Leonard asks, almost rhetorically. “And, how do we know this is a real message? It’s automated and could have been triggered by anything.”

  “My feeling is that it just came online, for whatever reason, and it may be that we are running on limited time to check it out,” Jorgenson states.

  “Why would it start up now?” Castagne muses quietly. “And, if someone did manage to activate it, why wouldn’t they respond to our radio hails? We all sent messages and have yet to hear anything back.”

  “I don’t have the answer to that,” Jorgenson responds. “There’s the possibility that this is the only method available to them. Maybe the radio equipment was taken out or they can’t utilize it for some reason. All I know is that it is coming across on a NavPac frequency with the correct codes. It just started so perhaps someone is regaining control, although I know this doesn’t address the lack of radio communication. I think, though, that we have a duty to see what is happening; that it’s our responsibility as naval officers, as perhaps the only naval units remaining, to check it out.”

  “I agree with what you’re s
aying, but is it worth putting our boats at a higher risk, from a maintenance standpoint?” Leonard asks.

  “I think it is,” Jorgenson comments.

  “I think we should check it out as well, but with the caveat that we agree at this point that we don’t do anything more than appraoch and take a look. Going ashore is something completely different. Even though Leonard has a SEAL team, I know we aren’t equipped or trained to go ashore in what I’m sure is a hostile environment,” Castagne says.

  “Azarov, you’ve been quiet. What are your thoughts?” Leonard asks.

  “Gentlemen. I can see both sides. It’s imperative that we see to our boats. They are our home and what keeps us alive. A message from your naval command does not have a real bearing on me or my crew. If the message were from my command, I think I would need to investigate. But, as it is not, my boat and crew come first,” Azarov states.

  Seeing Jorgenson’s expression, Azarov holds up a hand. “I will finish. Even so, I think it is important that we stick together. So, I will defer to what you decide. After all, it is your resupply base we are heading to. If I was to show up without you, and someone was actually around, they may not take kindly to us stealing supplies.”

  “Okay, we turn around and head for Pearl,” Jorgenson says.

  “Only under one condition, and this is critical. If we see any indication that maintenance will become an issue, for any boat,” Leonard states, giving a slight nod toward Azarov, “then we abandon our movement toward Pearl and head to Bangor. After a refit, we can resume our course.”

  All captains nod. They finish with the sun halfway down the horizon and the sky to the west blazing reddish-orange and yellow, as if on fire. The glow highlights the sides of the clouds to the north and northwest in pinkish shades. A short time later, the four subs submerge beneath the waves, setting a course to the southwest.

  * * * * * *