by Tim Washburn
The two Mark-48 Mod-7 torpedoes clock in at nearly 3,700 pounds each, 650 pounds of which are the high-explosive warhead. Traveling at sixty-three miles per hour, the torpedo can cut a ship in half.
“Four hundred yards to target,” White says.
“Are you worried about collateral damage?” Garcia asks.
“Hell no. They made their bed,” Thompson says. “If we’re lucky those three might catch some shrapnel.”
“I don’t know about shrapnel, but I’ll guar-an-damn-tee you they’re gonna piss their pants.”
Thompson smiles. “Carlos, trigger your periscope camera and keep it focused on those three. I’ll trigger mine and lock it on the frigate.” Once the cameras are activated, Thompson orders the feeds broadcast over the shipwide video system via split screen.
“Two hundred yards to target,” White says.
“If we’re lucky they’ll still have some heavy weapons on board,” Thompson says. “Be nice to detonate their payload.”
“One hundred yards to target.” And seconds later White announces: “Contact.”
A cheer erupts on the bridge and echoes of the same can be heard throughout the boat.
“Direct hit,” Thompson says, peering at the video screen. He glances at Garcia. “Cut that sucker in half.” The shockwave from the blast washes across the hull as Thompson and Garcia high-five. “Periscopes down,” Thompson orders. “Q, takes us down to two-zero-zero. Mr. Patterson, plot a course for Bermuda.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” the navigator, Mike Patterson, replies.
CHAPTER 51
Weatherford
After a grueling ten-minute climb, Henry and Gage reach the hub of the wind turbine. Gage cranks open the nacelle’s doors and the breeze offers a brief respite. They take a few minutes to catch their breath as Gage peers over the side, spotting the Reed residence a couple of miles away. He tries tracing the power grid wires from here to there, but loses track in a tangle of wires at the distribution station.
“This turbine was off-line when the EMP struck, correct?” Henry asks.
“Yes. I was planning to do some maintenance on it the following day.”
“That might have saved our bacon.” Henry pulls out his portable oscilloscope and begins checking electrical circuits. Gage threads one of the two ropes he carried up into the pulley system and hoists his toolbox up the tower and begins working to put the analog pressure gauge on the brake’s hydraulic system.
Gage glances up at the sky. “How long is this haze going to hang around, Henry?”
Henry pauses his work to look up. “Years, most likely. And it’ll play havoc on the global climate.”
“How’s that?”
“Ever hear of a nuclear winter?”
“Yes. A plunge in temperatures?”
“Exactly, and that plunge will have far-reaching effects. The decrease in global temps will wipe out growing seasons all across the planet. Not for a year or two, it could be a decade or longer. People like us, those that survived, will endure a famine of unimaginable proportions. Add in the deaths of millions of feeder cattle, hogs, chickens, and turkeys, and we could be looking at the end of life as we know it.”
“So why are we going to the effort to produce electricity if it’s all for nothing?” Gage asks.
“Because if we get a couple of these turbines working we could grow some crops under the grow lights I have stashed in the barn. And there should be pockets of wildlife that survived. I’m determined my first grandchild, along with my children and you, Gage, will survive. But our only hope is to get some of the turbines producing electricity.”
Henry returns to his task, checking the circuits in the power inverter. The inverter converts the power generated by the turbine from direct current (DC) to alternating current (AC), which is the type of electricity supplied to homes and businesses. With the oscilloscope, Henry uses probes to check the continuity of the various circuit boards. After an hour of probing, he pauses to stretch his back. “Gage, hold off on any more modifications. We may be in better shape than I thought.”
“How many dead circuit boards did you find?”
“Just three so far. If you’ll hoist my electronics case up, I have some spares to replace the damaged ones.”
Gage steps over to the pulley system and threads in the second rope. Henry’s bag weighs significantly less than Gage’s tools and it doesn’t take him long to bring them up. Once the case is on deck, the two break to eat lunch, which consists of pieces of thick-sliced ham from the Reed freezer and a hunk of cheddar cheese.
“Do you remember if there were any other turbines off-line on doomsday?” Henry asks between bites of ham.
“Just the one I was working on.”
“Which one?”
“Turbine twenty-three.”
“Damn, that’s a mile away. I was hoping to find two together so we could link them.”
Gage cuts off a slice of cheddar cheese, pops it into his mouth, and savors the tangy taste. “This cheese is good. How much do you have left?”
Henry nods toward the ice chest. “That’s the last of it.”
Gage cuts another smaller sliver and allows it to linger on his tongue before chewing. “Are you thinking the turbines that were up and running are toast?”
“Probably so. You told me they all stopped turning shortly after the first EMP. We’ll check a few of them later, but I’d be very surprised if any of the electrical circuits survived.”
Gage takes a sip of water. “So do you have this all figured out now?”
“I think so. On paper it works, and I see no reason it won’t in reality. All we can do is try.”
CHAPTER 52
Memphis
Zane exits off of I-40 in downtown Memphis and picks up 2nd Street going south, searching for a convenience store. Amazingly, most of downtown Memphis remains intact. Other than the damage caused by the looters, most of the structures are upright, and even the famous Peabody Hotel looks as if it could open for business—if they had running water, a working sewer system, and electricity. Zane and Alyx stop at the intersection of Beale Street. The well-known road is covered with trash and there’s a faint odor of soured beer that still lingers. There are some people out, but few are paying any attention to the truck.
Zane spots a plundered 7-Eleven and steers the truck into the parking lot. “I wished the damn cell phones worked. Looking for a map is a pain in the ass.”
“We only have one more state to cross from here. And I could drive most of it blindfolded.”
“Can you tell me where the nearest river crossing is?”
“That I can’t do. Never had any trouble on the freeway.”
“There you go.” Zane pushes open the door and steps out as Alyx climbs down with the shotgun.
Alyx pinches her nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Death.” Zane pulls his shirt up to cover his nose and steps through the shattered door. Zane counts four bodies before he stops counting. The store is thick with flies and the floor’s surface appears to be moving from all of the maggots. Zane spots a rack of maps on the front counter and reaches across to grab one, trying to avoid wading any farther into the store. He latches on to a map and freezes in place when he hears the throaty rumble of a dog’s growl. With his body still, Zane slowly turns his head to sees a pit bull three feet away. The dog’s face is dyed red, no doubt from gorging on the bodies over the past week. The dog’s hackles are raised and he looks ready to pounce. Zane’s eyes dart to the window, hoping Alyx is looking his way, but she’s not. She’s standing near the rear of the truck, her gaze focused outward on the surrounding neighborhood. For the first time, he curses Alyx for losing the pistol.
Zane, as slowly and as carefully as possible, makes a quarter turn to face the dog. With wide, heavily muscled shoulders, the dog is sixty pounds of nothing but muscle and bone. Moving only his eyes, Zane searches the front of the store for some type of weapon. Unless he’s going to fend the dog off with
a week-old magazine, Zane’s out of luck. “C’mon, Alyx,” he mutters. Zane changes tactics. He slowly extends his hand, palm down and says. “Easy, boy.”
He’s rewarded with a deep, throaty growl. The dog lunges forward a step, bloody drool dripping from his mouth. The overwhelming majority of people will tell you to never run from a dog, but Zeke is quickly running out of options. He takes two tiny shuffle steps toward the door, the dog tracking his every move. “Easy, boy.” Zane shuffles a little closer to the door. “Everything’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The dog snarls, his sharp teeth exposed.
Zane throws the map at the dog before ducking through the door. “Shoot,” he shouts as the dog charges out of the store. The dog, unbelievably quick for his size, is on Zane before he’s taken a second step. Alyx wheels around the back of the pickup with a horrified look on her face. That’s all Zane can see before the dog latches on to his lower leg and drags him to the ground. Zane kicks with his free leg, his boot thudding into the dog’s head, but the dog’s powerful jaws remain clasped to his leg. Zane rolls onto his back, still kicking, trying to cover his face with his arms in case the dog lunges forward. He hears a crunch and suddenly the pressure on his leg releases. He scrambles away as Alyx hits the dog again with the butt of the shotgun. “Shoot it,” he shouts.
Alyx reverses the shotgun and tucks the stock tight to her shoulder.
“Shoot,” Zane shouts.
Alyx begins to quiver and she lowers the gun. Zane hobbles over, takes the shotgun from her hands, and shoots the pit bull in the head. Zane glances around to see if the shot has attracted any attention as he pushes Alyx toward the pickup. “Get in. We need to get the hell out of here.”
Still dazed, Alyx clambers aboard as Zane tenderly slides behind the wheel. He drops the truck into gear and they roar out of the lot. He doesn’t stop until they’ve passed the city limit sign. He climbs out of the truck, pushes off his shoe, and pulls up his pant leg. His sock is soaked with blood and a large patch of skin is dangling from his calf.
Alyx kneels down for a closer look. “You need stitches.”
“I’ll make an appointment with my doctor.” Zane strips off his outer shirt, then his T-shirt, still stained from Alyx’s bloody nose, and hands it to her. “Bind it as best you can, for now.”
“Maybe we can find a doctor in town.”
“Not likely. Just bind it up.” Zane grimaces as Alyx tightens the T-shirt against his calf. “We’ll find a needle and some thread and you can sew it up.”
Alyx stands. “I can’t sew.”
“I’ll teach you. Let’s circle back to that store near the interstate and see if we can find one of those emergency sewing kits.”
“You need antibiotics, too.”
“One step at a time,” Zane says, stepping into his blood-filled shoe.
CHAPTER 53
Near Hog Island, Virginia
The going gets more difficult the closer Brad and Tanner get to the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. Unlike the West Coast, where the current moves from north to south, here the Gulf Stream current moves from south to north, pulling the warmer water and humid air out of the Caribbean. That same current is now pushing north a raft of debris that is miles wide.
And it’s not just the debris that’s a problem. The stench emanating from the pile is nauseating—it smells like equal parts rotting flesh, raw sewage, and a restaurant Dumpster seven days in the sun, and the worst part is it’s inescapable. Brad and Tanner are wearing strips from an old T-shirt across their faces to keep the smell from imbedding permanently in their sinuses. To the west, where Washington, D.C., once resided, smoke lingers from the continuing wildfires. From Brad’s vantage point, the land is scorched for as far as he can see, and the once-visible Washington Monument is a now a gap on the horizon. Brad turns away and trims the sails, steering behind a larger powerboat as if it were an icebreaker.
Across the water to the south, it doesn’t appear that Virginia fared much better than the nation’s capital. The Hampton Roads area is nothing but smoldering ruins. Naval Station Norfolk, the world’s largest naval station, which also houses the largest concentration of U.S. Navy forces, is absolutely obliterated. Brad had sailed this way several years ago and he’s astounded at the destruction. Several immense ships, which appear to have been making their getaway, are listing badly at the mouth of the harbor, abandoned and left to find their own watery grave. The fractured deck of an aircraft carrier points skyward, the black tarmac now a runway to nowhere. Most of the wrecks are still smoldering, and Brad can’t begin to fathom how many lives were lost. With God knows what littering the sea floor near the harbor, Brad diverts from behind the powerboat and heads out to deeper water.
Tanner comes topside to stretch his legs. He scans the surrounding area before turning to his father, his eyes wide. “Dad, do you think any of our warships survived?”
Brad ponders the question for a moment. Surely those ships at sea had some measure of protection, simply because they would be hard to find, especially if the low-orbit satellites were out of operation shortly after it all began. “Yeah, I do, Tanner. I don’t believe they could have targeted every ship in the U.S. Navy. Then you have the submarines, which are damn near impossible to detect on a good day. So, yes, I believe there are some remaining warships.”
“Where are they?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Maybe they’re marshaling their forces before sailing back stateside. Or it could be they’re remaining out at sea to avoid detection.”
Tanner takes a seat on the back bench. “Do you think there are any bombs left?”
“I sure as hell hope not, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were. I don’t know what’s left to bomb or what the point would be. You can’t destroy what’s already been destroyed.” Brad sighs. “Unfortunately, there’s a lot we don’t know and may never know.”
Tanner falls silent for several minutes, his gaze focused on something in the distance. He turns to look at his father. “What happened to their bodies?”
Brad, scanning for debris, takes a moment to collect his thoughts. After several moments of silence, he turns to face his son. “Your mother and Sophia?”
“Yeah.”
“They’ll be buried, son. I know there’s no closure for either of us.” Brad’s mind is clicking through explanations, something that might help alleviate his son’s pain, and comes up empty. “Maybe someday we’ll be able to have a memorial service for both of them. But, truthfully, Tanner, I don’t know what the future holds. We may never make it back home.” He wants to tell Tanner that millions of other families are dealing with the same issue, but decides against it. The statement won’t help Tanner overcome his grief. “I guess all we can do is persevere.” Brad reaches up and wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.
“Did Mom shoot that doctor?”
Brad struggles with the right answer. Maybe. I don’t really know. I didn’t see what happened. Tell my son his mother was a murderer? “Your mother wasn’t thinking, only acting. But to answer your question frankly, son, yeah, she did.”
“Because he killed Sophia?”
Can life get any more complicated? “Yes.”
Brad glances at his son. Tanner nods and appears to withdraw deeper within himself. “I’m sorry, son. I wished we could go back in time to change everything. But we can’t. Your mother was doing what she thought needed to be done. I couldn’t stop her and I don’t think anyone could have stopped her. It is what it is. All we can do now is move forward. You understand that, don’t you, Tanner?”
Tanner pushes up out of the seat. “Yeah, I understand.” He wipes the tears from his cheeks. “Can I take the wheel for a while?”
Brad stands and wraps his arms around Tanner. “I’d love for you to take the wheel, son.”
CHAPTER 54
Owatonna, Minnesota
Traveling via a truck is better than walking, but it’s still slow as McDowell
carefully maneuvers around dead automobiles without jostling those in the back. He pulls the truck over to the shoulder to work his way around a jam. As far as towns go, Owatonna isn’t very large. They pass a collection of stores that pop up in many small communities—a local drug store, a True Value hardware store, and a local coffee shop, along with the requisite number of churches. With most of the state’s population centered around the cities of Minneapolis–Saint Paul, Rochester, and Duluth, the towns along I-35 are spaced miles apart with nothing but farmland and lakes between them.
They make their way through Owatonna, and McDowell pulls the truck over to allow those in back a chance to stretch their legs. He steps out of the cab, slings the shotgun over his shoulder, and walks around to stretch his own legs, his eyes constantly scanning for threats. They continue to pass people walking along the highway and many have tried to flag them down. McDowell never taps the brakes. He steps off the highway and heads into the tall grass before unzipping to drain his bladder. Across a barbwire fence, a field of dried cornstalks rustles in the breeze. And that’s when it hits him—the immensity of the problems they’ll face in the future. Not only is food in short supply now, the prospects for any improvement are grim and the unharvested cornfield is a cold reminder. He zips up and returns to the truck, disheartened.
Once everyone has had a chance to answer the call of nature, they load back into the truck. Lauren is now riding shotgun, and at some point she and Melissa are going to have to learn how to drive a stick shift or all the driving’s going to be on McDowell’s shoulders. He glances at the gas gauge and shifts into first, steering down the center of the highway. He looks over at Lauren. “How much do you know about the aftereffects of a nuclear war?”
“Not as much as I wish I knew now. I did read Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. It’s pretty grim.”
“I made it about halfway through the novel and put it down. I grew up at a time when we practiced bomb drills in school. Like the desks were going to offer any resistance to a nuclear attack. The teachers should have just told us to bend over and kiss our ass good-bye.”
