CHAPTER EIGHT
FIELD TRIP
Crisis management was an oxymoron. Virtually every relevant government entity succumbed in the first few minutes: The Federal Emergency Management Agency, the Department of Homeland Security, the National Guard—all folded instantly. Before midnight, there was a functioning body known as the Pentagon—after midnight, there simply wasn’t. The building was still there, just as imposing, but within it was a chamber of horrors—a thousand-room death trap. There is evidence that a number of male employees locked themselves into offices, restrooms, closets, or any other hiding places they could find, desperately attempting to call out. As we have seen, this was as ineffectual as the popguns wielded by security personnel. The phone lines were jammed, no help was forthcoming. A voice believed to be that of Army Chief of Staff Bernard Tate recorded this phone message: “All the women staff are (unintelligible)—they’re taking over the building! Send troops, send (unintelligible)! We’re trapped in the utility room behind the General’s Mess, but they know we’re here. Oh my God . . . oh my God—(unintelligible)—mania of some kind, chemical warfare. It’s spreading like wildfire, infecting the men. They don’t stay down! Get away from the door! Get back, get back, shit—(unintelligible screams).”
—The Maenad Project
Three hours, that was all they had. Squinting out at the clear light of dawn, they knew it wouldn’t be long enough. Not nearly long enough.
Emerging on deck, pale and thin as convicts from a dungeon, the boys wept at their first glimpse of daylight in months. Not since they had first taken refuge in the factory had they felt actual sun. Or the touch of a gentle breeze. Or seen green grass and trees on the shores of a beautiful shining city, close enough to make out the red word BILTMORE on one of the buildings. They were home again. It was a wonderful morning to be out on the water, a wonderful time to be alive. Whatever happened, they were glad to be going ashore.
While the rafts were being inflated, Sal DeLuca had a vivid memory of looking out over this bay with his father at the final company picnic. It was the last meal they ever shared together.
Barbecue grills made from steel barrels, flickering and smoking, the stiff breeze wafting the smell of sizzling chicken and steak across rows of crowded picnic tables. Whitecaps surging up Narragansett Bay like runs of bluefish. The sun had set on the land, but a cruciform black monolith rose high enough out of the water to be transmuted to gold under the purpling sky. It was the fairwater or sail—what laymen would call the conning tower—of an Ohio-class nuclear submarine.
Cries of seagulls and blustering wind were the only sounds as all in attendance had watched a bearded man in a baseball cap climb the hastily erected dais. The man gripped the podium in both hands as if drawing support from either the wooden stand or the dynamic company logo on its face. Those closest to him could also make out the dolphin crest on his hat.
First of all, he began, I’d like you all to give yourselves a hand for continuing to work and serve your country under the most difficult conditions imaginable. You are all American heroes, and will surely be honored as such by posterity.
The crowd applauded, though not as one. There were islands of stony discord.
What’s going on? Sal whispered to his father, sensing trouble.
Ssh!—just pay attention.
The speaker continued: When we got the contract to refurbish this decommissioned vessel from ballistic capability to tactical uses, all of us were relieved: It meant our jobs were safe. People chuckled. We never imagined that this boat might be the only cradle of whatever hope is left to us in this world.
Gloom descended, and the man paused a long time, the bill of his baseball cap hiding downcast eyes. When he continued, it was in a somber tone. So many things could have made this chance impossible. Imagine if instead of being refurbished, the boat had been scrapped. Or if the harbor had never been dredged deep enough to float a boat this size, and we still had to barge them to Groton piecemeal. Or if the OEM’s SPAM mission hadn’t come along, providing us with everything we’ve needed to remain operational behind these gates, including fuel for the boat’s reactor—we couldn’t have done anything without that power. We have Chairman Sandoval to thank for these things, and I hope you’ll all join me in giving him a round of applause.
There was a wary smattering of applause.
I know how hard you’ve all worked, pulling out those old missile tubes and launch systems, retrofitting that compartment for cargo, going over every system on the boat with a fine-tooth comb. And I know what you’ve been hoping to get in return—it’s the same thing we’ve all been hoping for: safe passage out of here for ourselves and our families. The boat seems ideal for the purpose: a big, empty submarine with a reactor good for twenty years. Who could blame us for thinking—
Noah’s Ark, a man yelled. Scattered amens were heard.
The speaker smiled wanly. Exactly, Bob. Noah’s ark. I hear you, believe me. And I know a number of you folks have been determined to launch her with that very name. Unfortunately, she is still the province of the U.S. Navy, and as they have not granted us official license to rechristen her, she will remain nameless for the time being.
Some people made muted resentful sounds. The one named Bob, a burly man with white hair and a yellowed beard, said, It’s okay to steal it, but not to name it? Come on, the Navy’s out of business—they don’t care how we use this thing.
Nobody’s stealing anything, Bob. In fact, that’s why we’ve assembled you all here this evening. As many of you may know, the supply barges have stopped coming. We suspected something was wrong in New London last week, when our tug couldn’t raise anyone on the ship-to-shore. We’ve also lost radio contact with COMSUBLANT, with Secretary Clark at Norfolk, with Admiral Stillson at NavShip, and with the USS McNabb, which means the Coast Guard is effectively out of commission. We’ve had no substantive communication with any military or government authority for eight days now; the lines are all down.
Damn, said Gus DeLuca, Sal’s father, as a ripple of anxiety swept the crowd.
Raising his voice, the speaker admonished them not to panic. When they had subsided a little, he said, Now I know a lot of us had high hopes that we could use this vessel as a means to secure our families until the crisis stabilizes. Listen to me. But because of the loss of outside support, we are simply not going to have the provisions that we thought we would. Listen, please! The contingency plan now is to move the boat offshore with a minimal Navy crew and to have her remain at a classified blue-water station until otherwise ordered . . . as a matter of national security—He had to shout above the sudden, furious din. Listen, please—as a matter of national security! Please, there is no sense in all of us starving at sea! Not when we have a secure compound and everything we need right here—
Better we should starve on land? someone yelled. Or worse?
Oh my God, that’s it, said Mr. DeLuca, eyes welling with tears. It’s all over.
I knew it, said Sal.
The bearded man, Bob Martino, stood up in the encroaching twilight, and shouted, Are we gonna take this, people? We busted our asses for the last month making that tub into a safe haven for our sons, so they wouldn’t have to end up the way our wives and daughters did. And these bastards have known all along that empty promises were the only leverage they had to keep us working here. And now they think they’re gonna take that hope away from us, buy us out for the price of a chicken dinner! Well, we got news for them, don’t we? They got another think comin’! They got—
There was a sharp little crack—just a twig snapping, barely audible over the hubbub—and Bob Martino abruptly toppled backward, falling between the benches. A few men and boys cried out or cursed; the rest went dead silent. It was far from the first sudden death they had witnessed.
Gentlemen, said the ashen-faced speaker, I am so terribly sorry. It’s a horrible thing . . . a horrible thing to have to do. But Bob knew, as we all do, that the security of this compound depe
nds upon our complete cooperation. The security personnel seated among you are trained professionals who are under strict orders to prevent this facility from falling into chaos. Try to remember that it’s for our own safety. Please let us respect and thank these men for their courage in . . . executing this most difficult of duties. Thank you, Officer Reynolds.
Officer Beau Reynolds nodded grimly, still brandishing his pistol. The other ex-Special Forces men at his table cast hard looks back at the crowd, searching for defiance. Two of them wasted no time trussing Bob Martino’s limbs and dragging him away in a plastic bag—to be burned, Sal knew. It was the only way. He had heard of the same thing being done with stray refugees who tried to enter the compound; a matter of blunt pragmatism—you never knew who was going to come back. As the bag started to bounce wildly, Sal felt his father grip him by the arm. Don’t look at it, Sal. His dad choked out the words. I’m so sorry to put you through this.
It’s okay, Dad, it’s okay, Sal said. I’ve seen worse.
Later that evening, back in the hangar, things were unusually quiet. There hadn’t been much talking since the shooting, and no more work was getting done. For once the boys had all the time in the world to goof off . . . but nobody was in any mood for the usual teenage horseplay.
That’s it, isn’t it, Dad? We’re all going to die.
Everybody dies sometime, Sal. And if they’re lucky, they stay dead.
I bet they’re planning on running out on us. The white hats. They know this place is going to turn into some kind of feeding frenzy, and they’re not gonna want to stick around and wait for it to happen. They’re taking that sub and all their people and guns and all the food and—
Sal, stop!—it’s no use.
Well, are we just gonna sit here and let it happen?
You saw what they did to Bob Martino. As long as they needed us to work, we had some bargaining leverage . . . or thought we did. But now the job is done; we’re disposable. I don’t expect we’ll see or hear from management ever again. We’ll be lucky to see daylight ever again.
Well, we have to fight back!
How? Fight who? We’re locked in, son, and I’m not expecting any more lawn parties in the near future. Best we can hope for now is that they all pull out and leave us in peace. Then we can use the tools we’ve got and break out of here—survive as best we can. It’s not much of a hope, but it’s better than nothing.
Why not bust out now and fight them?
With Beau Reynolds and his people guarding the gate? We’d get about two feet before they mowed us down.
What about Uncle Sammy? He wouldn’t shoot us.
Your uncle can’t help us, Sal. He’s out there, and we’re in here, end of story.
So that’s it, then. That’s the plan? Just let them abandon us.
Unless you can think of something better. I’m afraid I’m shit out of ideas. I tried, Sal. I’m really sorry.
It’s fine, it’s okay, Pop—you did great. Don’t worry. Listen, I gotta head over to the john, maybe see how the guys are doing. I’ll be back before lights-out.
Sal left their small, curtained space and walked across the concrete floor, his steps echoing in the cavernous assembly building. Nestled among gigantic submarine components was a maze of crisscrossed tarps and drying laundry, damp sheets glowing with light and the flicker of cookstoves—a hobo jungle beneath a soaring ceiling of I-beams and corrugated steel.
As he traversed the alleys and flaps of this indoor bazaar, Sal thought, It looks like a refugee camp. And then: You’re a refugee, stupid—it is a refugee camp.
People paid no attention as he intruded briefly on their private spaces, even stepping over their legs or belongings as he went. Whatever modesty had not been expunged by a month in these close quarters was now stone dead from despair, killed along with Bob Martino.
Men and boys sat staring into space or either wept or consoled the weeping. This place, which had up to now been a clamorous hive of industry, was now hushed as a cathedral during funeral services. Instead of studying, as the boys had been accustomed to doing since they first arrived here on New Year’s Eve, they were feeding sheaves of submarine blueprints and technical manuals into pyres, burning their home-work. Their fathers, grandfathers, uncles, older brothers—all dedicated employees of the company—did nothing to stop them. Black flakes floated down like snow.
They think they’re already dead, Sal thought.
As he waited his turn to take a leak, he noticed he was standing beside the one person likely to help him take his mind off all this crap: Tyrell Banks.
Yo, Tyrell, he said. How you doing, man?
It’s all good, Sal. Scored me my cup of Jonestown Kool-Aid—gonna be rockin’ that Grape Ape like a motherfucker. Better than drag-assin’ around here waiting for the fucked-up Donner Party shit that’s gonna go down.
Yeah, it sucks.
Phew, you the king of understatement tonight, Sal—next you be tellin’ me that Armageddon is bogus, go ahead.
No, seriously, man, I was thinking we gotta do something to snap everybody out of this. I’m not ready to lie down and die.
What you got in mind, man? Hey, I know! You into that extreme sports shit—why don’t you hook us up with a little postapocalyptic BMX exhibition? Fuckin’ Agent X Games.
Tyrell was joking, and Sal laughed along, but something in the corner caught his eye: a rack of granny bikes used for light deliveries around the plant.
Why not?
It was time to go ashore. Officers Phil Tran, Dan Robles, and Alton Webb organized them into two teams, twenty boys to a team, and assigned each team a raft—a large, semirigid inflatable boat. The rafts were designed to carry as many as forty men apiece, plenty of room for the loot they were expected to bring back. The boys would have to paddle out, but lines would connect the rafts to the submarine so that they could be quickly retrieved.
“There’s no time for speeches,” Lieutenant Tran said brusquely, ushering them aboard.
Out of Webb’s earshot, Robles pulled Sal DeLuca aside, saying softly, “Bring them back in one piece.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tran said, “We know you, Sal—you’re the smartest kid we have. I shouldn’t even be sending you, but somebody’s gotta have their shit together out there. I’m sorry.”
Sal’s teeth chattered with excitement. “That’s okay. I want to go.”
“I know.” Tran sighed. He gripped the boy’s shoulder as if reluctant to let go, then pushed him away. “Your dad would have been proud of you. Don’t waste any time, all right? In and out.”
Sal was already gone, clambering aboard the boat to join all the other yellow life vests. Looks like a damn summer camp, Tran thought furiously. Then they were pushing off with their paddles, awkwardly scudding away. “Watch the time!” he shouted after.
“Bon voyage, kiddies,” Webb said smugly, paying out line.
Phil Tran could only shake his head, too angry to speak. The asshole hadn’t even let them take a radio or a gun. “Mission-essential, too valuable to risk,” he had said. Unlike those kids’ lives? You just better hope they come back, Tran thought. Otherwise, we are going to have a serious problem, Webb. You and your bogus captain.
At his shoulder, Dan Robles said, “It’s okay, Phil. We’ve done everything we can for them. We just have to trust in God.”
Tran nodded, red-eyed. “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” he said.
CHAPTER NINE
NUBS
Cut ’em loose—that was Lieutenant Alton Webb’s opinion of those kids and all their would-be adult benefactors . . . including a few fellow officers he could think of.
Civilian refugees didn’t belong on the boat. He for one had been furious to learn that Harvey Coombs ever let them aboard. Webb witnessed firsthand the nightmare that had been unleashed belowdecks as a direct result of Fred Cowper’s treachery, and neither he nor any other man who had lost friends and fellow officers in that fight could think of these peop
le as anything other than hijackers. And then to let that filthy traitor declare himself acting commander while Coombs was down, filling the control section with armed thugs like Gus DeLuca and Ed Albemarle, forcing good NavSea officers like Rich Kranuski to kiss his ass—it was just incomprehensible.
Then there were the collaborators: Dan Robles, Philip Tran, at least a dozen others. Webb could think of a few choice things he’d like to do to them. If they hadn’t lined up behind Cowper instead of Kranuski, the takeover wouldn’t have been possible in the first place. Couldn’t they see that even if that retired son of a bitch was the most senior officer on board, he was no better than a terrorist? His actions had cost the lives of a dozen crewmen and two Marines, not to mention fatally compromising the mission. Better the boat should have been scuttled than put him in charge. By the time Coombs recovered and arrested the old coot, it was too late. The damage had been done.
Webb could still hear the old man’s infuriating Rhode Island accent, so folksy and misleading: We’re gonna have to let ’em below soona or later. Might as well be soona.
He should have killed the man himself, that first night, but like everyone else, Webb was in shock, clinging for dear life to obsolete notions of military discipline. Focusing on the task at hand. Helping fish those two injured Marines out of the water and carrying them below, where they were laid out on the wardroom table. He thought they were more stunned than anything, having been knocked overboard when Cowper crashed a huge truck into the brow, plunging the whole gangway into the water. But when Corpsman Lennox opened their clothes to check their vitals, it was instantly clear that something was wrong. This man’s not breathing, Doc said urgently, and began administering CPR. Those were the last words Webb ever heard out of Pete Lennox. Then the shooting began topside, and all available hands were ordered to assist up there.
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