The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

  Brad’s brother, Bobby, and his family, lived in the Raleigh-Durham area before moving to Seattle and Brad has spent a fair amount of time in the state. He knows about the large military installations. North Carolina is home to Fort Bragg, the largest military base in the world, and is also the home to the U.S. Special Forces. No doubt that had been target 1-A for the Russian ICBMs. Add in the Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune, and there’s a high probability that most of North Carolina is nothing but smoldering ruins. Brad runs the numbers in his head. The state is, or was, home to over nine million people. The number of initial deaths must have been staggering, probably well in excess of six million people, Brad guesses by looking at the devastation. And that’s probably on the low end of the spectrum. Brad lowers the binoculars and shakes his head. If that’s the death toll for one state, what’ll it be for the rest of the country?

  As if reading his father’s thoughts, Tanner asks, “Dad, how many people do you think are left?”

  Brad sags onto the bench seat. “Who knows? Maybe ten to twenty percent.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the U.S. population.”

  “Which is?”

  “North of three hundred eighteen million people.”

  Tanner takes a moment to do the math, the blood draining from his face. “That can’t be right, Dad. That would mean over two hundred seventy million people were killed?”

  “We may never know the exact numbers, but that’s probably in the ballpark. And that’s just the United States. Globally, the number will be much higher. And, this is important to remember, Tanner, the death toll will continue to climb as famine sweeps across the globe.”

  Tanner is silent for a moment, trying to absorb the enormity of the situation. “Why? Why a nuclear war?”

  Damn it. First questions about his mother and sister and now this? Is Tanner focusing too much on death? Are we all thinking too much about the past instead of preparing for a harsh future? “I don’t know what the instigating event was, but things obviously spiraled quickly out of control. There is no rational answer for what happened, Tanner. And trying to find one is a waste of energy. All we can do is survive.”

  “What happens when we run out of food?”

  Brad sighs. “I don’t have all of the answers, Tanner. Hell, I don’t even know all of the questions.” Brad stands and steps over to his fishing pole. “What I do know is we have an ocean full of fish. Going hungry should be the least of our worries.” Don’t ask. Please don’t ask, Brad’s brain is screaming.

  “We haven’t caught a fish yet.”

  Brad slowly releases his held breath, happy that Tanner didn’t ask about the freshwater situation. “Fishing is all about luck and timing. Do you want to give it a try?”

  “I suck at fishing.”

  “You can’t suck any more than I do. Hopefully, now that we’re past the worst of the debris, the fish will begin to bite. Hey, how many times did we watch those TV shows where the crews go days without catching one of those monster tuna?”

  “Those were shows you watched, Dad.”

  “Okay, but those guys fish for a living. Everyone hits a rough patch every now and then.”

  Tanner shrugs. “I don’t really like fish all that much, anyway.”

  “You just haven’t had it cooked the proper way.”

  “That’s what Mom used to say.”

  A sudden silence descends at the mention of Emma Dixon. Brad rushes to fill the gap. “You just wait until you taste my fish. You’re going to love it.”

  “You have to catch one first, Dad.”

  CHAPTER 61

  North Atlantic

  The USS New York is momentarily stationary at a depth of 380 feet. The control room is quiet, as is the rest of the submarine. The captain ordered all current maintenance work stopped immediately and the crew remains at battle stations. The last thing they need is a mechanic dropping a wrench against the hull. Underwater, even the smallest sound can travel for miles. And with a Russian warship in the vicinity, the wrench hitting the deck could be a fatal mistake.

  Captain Thompson steps over to the sonar station. “Status, Mr. Adams,” he asks.

  “Ten miles and closing, sir. She’s turning thirty knots.”

  “Bearing?”

  “Coming in on our starboard, Skipper. If she holds true to course, she’ll pass two miles off our bow.”

  Thompson turns to Garcia, who is following the Russian ship on the computer. “Think she’s hunting or just traversing the seas?”

  “They haven’t pinged their active sonar. Yet. And we haven’t been topside since Ponta Delgada. I don’t think there’s any way they know we’re here.”

  “Unless they switch to active sonar.” Thompson turns in Adams’s direction. “Any way to tell if they’re towing a sonar array?”

  “I can detect it, Skipper, but I’m not seeing one at present.”

  “Conn, ahead one-third, hard left rudder.”

  “Putting some distance between us?” Garcia asks.

  “Yes.” Thompson walks over to the chart table and pulls up the electronic chart for their current area. Garcia stands and follows. Thompson uses his index finger as a pointer. “We’re just west of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. If we can run for a couple of miles, we can nestle down into the rift valley. Even if they go to active sonar, they’d have a very difficult job of detecting us.” Thompson glances up at his XO. “The next question is, do we want to let her pass and come up behind her and fire the torpedoes?”

  Garcia rubs the stubble on his chin. “I don’t know, Bull. Might be best to let sleeping dogs lie. We don’t have a clue if there are other ships in the vicinity. If it’s a Russian destroyer, nine times out of ten, she’s traveling with a battle group.”

  “That scenario was true before this clusterfuck began. Battle groups may no longer exist. I want to agree with you, Carlos, but I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for however long we’re under way. If we take her out now, that’s one last thing to worry about.”

  “And we could be stirring up a hornet’s nest. Let’s wait to see how the ship reacts as it gets closer. If she starts acting erratic with course and speed changes then we’ll know she’s on the hunt. If not, I say let her go.”

  Thompson allows Garcia’s comments to ping around his brain for a few moments. “Okay, we’ll play it your way for now.” Thompson pivots. “Mr. Patterson, I want to park the boat in the rift valley running along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. And I want it done quickly.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper,” the navigator, Mike Patterson, says.

  The boat begins to descend as Patterson inserts the new course into the computer.

  “Sonar, distance?”

  “Seven miles and closing at thirty knots.”

  “Roger,” Thompson says. “She’s running awfully fast, Carlos. It’s almost like she’s in a hurry—”

  “Another contact, Skipper,” Adams says.

  Garcia and Thompson share a surprised look.

  “Bearing two-nine-two degrees, thirty-one miles and closing at thirty-five knots, sir.”

  “Another Russian ship?”

  The sonar tech turns and smiles. “Negative, sir. One of ours.”

  Sailors on the bridge exchange silent high fives.

  “I’ll be damned,” Thompson says. “Carlos, she’s not hunting, she’s running. Mr. Adams, what type of ship?”

  “An Arleigh Burke–class destroyer, sir.”

  “Son, how certain are you the second contact is a U.S. Navy ship?” Thompson asks.

  “One hundred percent, Skipper. If you give me a few minutes I’ll probably be able to tell you exactly which one.”

  “Roger.” Thompson glances at Garcia. “What do you think now, Carlos?”

  Carlos smiles. “I say we go hunting, sir.”

  Thompson moves to the middle of the bridge. “Mr. Patterson, belay my last order. Conn, right rudder, thirty degrees. All ahead full.” He steps over to the attack center. “Mr. Whit
e, mark that Russian destroyer and plot a firing solution. Tubes one and two are loaded. Load three and four.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper,” Weapons Officer White says.

  “Range to target?” Thompson asks.

  “Six miles, Skipper,” Adams replies.

  With a range of twenty-four miles, six miles is cake for the Mark-48 torpedo. But it also allows time for the enemy to evade or destroy the approaching torpedo.

  Thompson turns to the attack center. “Mr. White, you have your target?”

  “We do, sir,” White replies.

  “Stand by. We’re going to sneak up behind her.”

  After maneuvering for several minutes, the submarine is now less than a mile behind the enemy ship.

  “Fire tubes one and two,” Thompson orders.

  “Firing tubes one and two, Skipper.” And seconds later, White says, “Fish away, fifteen hundred yards and closing.”

  “Conn, steady as she goes.”

  With the torpedoes traveling at 63 miles per hour, it’s a tense fifty-second wait. “Mr. Adams, any countermeasures from the Russian ship?” Thompson asks

  “Negative, sir. Ship’s course remains steady.”

  The bridge grows silent as they await the blast wave from the two torpedoes.

  “Contact, torpedoes one and two.”

  A small cheer erupts on the bridge.

  Seconds later the submarine shudders from the blast wave. Thompson turns to Adams. “Status of the Russian ship?”

  “Multiple sonar contacts from debris, Skipper.”

  “Any other contacts on the screen?”

  “None, other than our ship.”

  “Dive, take us up to periscope depth.”

  As the sub’s nose ascends, Thompson turns and steps over to the communications area to instruct them to use all available means to contact the American destroyer.

  As the sub levels off, the captain orders periscope one up and waits for the tube to finish rising. He takes a deep breath, triggers the video camera, and leans in for a look. “We scored a direct hit. The Russian destroyer is listing heavily to port and taking on water. Conn, periscope down.”

  “Sonar,” Thompson says, “any progress in identifying our destroyer?”

  “Yes, sir. I ran the screw signature through our onboard computers. She’s DDG-79, the USS Grant.”

  Garcia and Thompson high-five. The captain of the USS Grant is Wayne Murphy, one of Thompson’s classmates at the U.S. Naval Academy.

  CHAPTER 62

  Story City, Iowa

  With no map, McDowell has no idea of the name of the town they’re approaching. If there had been a sign welcoming them to such and such, it’s gone now, as is the entire town. The trip from Clear Lake to wherever this is had been nothing but scorched earth. The only thing identifiable here is the metal framework of a sign that paints a vivid picture in McDowell’s mind—the brightly colored golden arches that can be seen all across the globe. Just seeing the remnants of the sign has his mouth watering for a Quarter Pounder and a large fries.

  McDowell eases the truck to a stop in the middle of the highway for a potty break. With no cover, McDowell stays with the boys at the back of the truck while Melissa and Lauren take the girls around front. Everyone is in a solemn mood as they shuffle to their designated areas. A few people are coughing and sputtering and a burnt stench hangs in the air. McDowell can taste the ash residue on his tongue. He unzips his pants and watches a moment as his urine cuts a trail through the ash-covered asphalt.

  Lauren asks for the all clear and McDowell confirms the boys are finished and zipped up. She steps to the back of the truck and takes McDowell by the arm, leading him away from the group. “Is this ash or radioactive fallout?”

  “A majority of the fallout will have decayed by now, except in the hot zones. This is mostly fire ash.”

  “That’s a small modicum of relief,” Lauren says, “but still, we’re eating a lot of ash in the back of the truck. The rear tires are kicking it up by the buckets.”

  “I noticed some of the kids are coughing. We need to fashion some type of masks.”

  Lauren glances around the barren landscape. “Out of what?”

  “We’ll cut up the extra clothing. Only choice we have.” He and Lauren return to the back of the truck and open the suitcases. McDowell pulls out his uniform jacket and spreads it out on the bed. He removes the scissors from their supply suitcase and, with a small pang of regret, begins to cut. Lauren digs through their suitcase and pulls out her paisley knit top and a long knit dress belonging to someone else. Most of the rest are jeans or shorts, too dense to be of much use. With the other pair of scissors she sets to work.

  Melissa steps in to help distribute the strips of material. When she hands a random strip to Hannah, the girl freaks out.

  “Who gave you permission to cut up my dress?” she screams.

  Melissa sighs. “The clothes are our communal basket. They no longer belong to the individual who donated them.”

  “Bullshit,” Hannah shouts. “That was my dress. Mine!”

  Melissa grabs her by the arm and leads her away from the group. “Hannah, we needed the dress to keep from suffocating.”

  “I don’t care. Cut up someone else’s dress.”

  Melissa plants a hand on her hip. “It’s done. Get over it.”

  Hannah rushes in and pushes Melissa. “Do you know how much that dress cost?”

  Melissa regains her balance. “Frankly, I don’t care.”

  “Well, I do!” Hannah shouts. “You cut up a thousand-dollar dress for a bunch of rags.”

  Melissa grabs Hannah by the upper arm and squeezes, pulling the girl closer.

  “I don’t care if it cost a million dollars. You will tie that piece of precious material around your nose and mouth. Is that understood?”

  “I hate you,” Hannah mutters.

  “Join the crowd. Now, straighten your ass up and act like a young woman.” Melissa turns away and continues handing out material as Hannah stomps back to the truck.

  Once everyone has their makeshift masks in place, they climb back into the truck. McDowell adds one of the five-gallon cans of diesel to the tank and climbs behind the wheel, Lauren joining him in the cab.

  “Has that girl Hannah been this way the entire trip?” McDowell asks.

  “You have no idea. I’ve wanted to strangle her more than once. You’d think the current situation would humble her, at least a little.”

  McDowell shifts the truck in gear and steers down the road. “It’s her defense mechanism. She from a wealthy family?”

  “What was your first clue? Yes, her family is one of the wealthiest in Lubbock. And that’s saying something with all the oil families in town.”

  “She an only child?”

  “No, she has an older brother. I think he got tangled up with drugs.”

  “That makes sense. He probably consumed most of the family’s emotional resources, leaving Hannah feeling left out.”

  “You a psychiatrist in addition to being a pilot?”

  McDowell chuckles. “No, but when you’ve lived fifty-six years on this earth you learn a thing or two.”

  “Did you grow up in Dallas?”

  “No, Wichita Falls. We moved to Dallas when I was a sophomore in high school. Talk about culture shock. What about you? Has Lubbock always been home?”

  “Yep. Born and raised there. I’m sure there are far more glamorous locations, but home is home, right?”

  “You’re right. I’ve not had the pleasure of visiting your hometown.”

  “Pleasure would be a stretch.”

  Both chuckle. Lauren glances around the decimated landscape. “I just hope I have a home to return to.”

  “What are the prevailing winds out in Lubbock?”

  “Ninety percent of the time, the wind is out of the south. Why?”

  “There’s not much out there to bomb, militarily wise. Unless they targeted the oil fields in the Permian Basin.” />
  Lauren twists in her seat. “You think they might have?”

  “Not knowing which targeting packages were selected, I can’t say for sure, but unlikely. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for Dallas.”

  “Would they have bombed Dallas?”

  “Most likely. Even if they didn’t, there are enough military installations around the area that the collateral damage would be significant.”

  “So why are you going back?”

  McDowell sighs. “I don’t know where else to go.”

  “You still have family there?” Lauren asks.

  “My parents are long gone. My ex still lives in Dallas, but thankfully our children don’t.”

  “How many and where do they live?”

  “Two. My son, Matt, is a senior at the University of Colorado in Boulder. I think he went there for the skiing and not the school. My daughter, Charlotte, the oldest, is working on a master’s at Stanford.”

  “Are they safe?”

  “I sure as hell hope so. Boulder’s a good distance away from the big military bases, and Palo Alto is right on the coast. California was probably hammered, but the coastal breezes would have pushed most of the radiation inland.” He pauses. “What about you, any children?” McDowell asks.

  “Are you kidding? Teaching middle school is one of the best forms of birth control on the planet.” They both share a laugh.

  “No Mr. Thomas?”

  “Nope. I was in a relationship for a year and a half, but things went downhill when he got transferred to Houston.”

  McDowell winces. Houston is a huge population center. “Long-distance relationships are difficult.”

  “Yes, they are,” Lauren says. “You never remarried?”

  “No. Once was enough for me. I’ve had a couple of relationships, but it’s difficult with the amount of travel I do. Or did, I should say.”