The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

  “Conn, all stop,” Thompson orders. “Q, slow ascent to periscope depth.”

  As the sub drifts upward, Thompson stands and waits for the sub to level off. Once it does he orders the periscope up. He steps over and catches the handles as they rise from the floor. With a flick of his finger, he switches the scope’s view to night vision and positions his eyes on the scope. He walks a circle, getting his bearings. After triggering the periscope camera, Thompson zeros in on the Chinese ships and curses. The two warships are stacked one against the other with the broadside of the nearest ship facing outward. They are positioned about 500 yards from shore and the tanker is anchored a hundred yards to the south. He spins around, searching for nearby ships and spots a sailboat anchored a mile offshore, opposite of Cape Lookout Lighthouse. He nudges the scope toward shore and finds the beach lined by a shantytown of pop-up structures, but nothing within a thousand yards of the three enemy ships. They should be safe from collateral damage, Thompson thinks as he steps away from the scope. “Scope down,” he orders in a low voice. “Q, slow descent to one-five-zero.”

  He walks over to the attack center. “You see the video?”

  “We’re studying it now, Skipper,” White says. “Not an ideal situation, but doable. I assume we’re coming back for the tanker.”

  “You assume correctly. Will you be able to, at minimum, disable the ship tucked behind the first one?”

  “We’re aiming to sink both, Skipper. Give me thirty seconds to refine the firing solution.”

  Thompson looks over at the bridge. “Conn, stand by, flank speed, hard left rudder,” he says in a low, clear voice.

  He receives a nod for his answer.

  White looks up. “We’re ready, Skipper.”

  “Fire all tubes.”

  CHAPTER 106

  Near Cape Lookout Lighthouse

  The wind conditions improved during the afternoon and the EmmaSophia made good time until the wind died, along with the light. Like all previous evenings, the gray sky made it dark early and Brad dropped anchor opposite the Cape Lookout Lighthouse, a mile offshore. It had been, though, a good day for fishing. Nicole bagged four extra fish that are tied to a stringer off the stern. Now Brad, Nicole, and Tanner are situated around the cabin table, polishing off a portion of the day’s catch and being serenaded by the hiss of the propane lantern hanging from a hook in the ceiling

  Brad gathers up the dirty dishes and stands. His right foot is on the first step of the ladder when the first explosion rips through the night. The plates slip through his hands and crash onto the floor, sending shards of pottery skittering in every direction. Before the mishap can register in his mind, another massive explosion erupts just as the blast wave from the first races across the water and slams into the boat. Nicole shouts, but she’s drowned out by a third thudding explosion, followed closely by a fourth. “Grab something and hold on,” Brad shouts as the aftereffects from the second explosion batter the boat, keeling her hard to starboard. Brad neglected to latch the spice cabinet closed and bottles of spices rain down like leaves in autumn.

  As the boat begins to settle back in the water, the concussive blast wave from the last two explosions plows into the boat, pushing her hard over to starboard again. Brad’s hand slips off the handrail and he goes tumbling head over ass, banging his head on the table base before thudding into the far bulkhead. He lies in a heap, but before the pain can register in his brain, the propane lantern flies off the hook and shatters against the far wall, igniting a curtain. Brad pushes to his feet and stumbles forward as the curtain blooms with fire. He yanks it from the wall and singes the hair on his arms as he balls it up, trying to smother the flames. His efforts prove fruitless and he lurches toward the ladder, tossing the flaming curtain through the hatch and wobbling after it. Stumbling and fumbling upward, he belly flops onto the deck and scrambles to his feet. As the boat begins to settle, he grabs the flaming curtain and tosses it overboard.

  Brad sucks in a lungful of air and bends over, his hands on his knees, trying to regain his breath after it was crushed from his lungs when he slammed into the bulkhead. Nicole and Tanner scramble up the ladder and onto the deck as the boat finally comes to rest. After several deep breaths, Brad stands on shaking legs and grabs the rail for support. Back to the south, it looks and sounds as if hell has surfaced on earth as the roaring wall of flames shoots skyward, accompanied by the agonizing screams of those engulfed in the fire.

  Nicole turns away from the ghastly scene and clicks on a flashlight, pulling Brad close. “You’re bleeding.” She shines the light across his upper torso before moving to his head. “You have a nasty scalp laceration. Probably needs stiches, but you’ll live.”

  “Thanks, Doc. I’ll stop in at the next urgent care cent—”

  His words are clipped by another enormous explosion. They scramble to find a handhold as the giant wave races across the sea and slams into the boat. Again the boat keels over and just when it feels like the boat is going to overturn, the wave passes and the EmmaSophia settles back in the water. It takes a few moments before the three can regain their footing.

  “What was that, Dad?” Tanner asks.

  Brad shuffles unsteadily toward the back and sinks onto the vinyl bench. “That, Tanner, was payback.” He walks his fingers up his skull, searching gently for the wound and groaning when he finds it. “And before you ask, I don’t know who.”

  “I bet it was one of ours,” Tanner says.

  “Or the Russians, or the Iraqis, or the Turks, or whoever is left in this godforsaken world,” Brad says, his voice laced with pain. “Let’s just be grateful the Chinese were on the receiving end this time.”

  Nicole sits down next to Brad. She pulls his probing fingers away from their exploration. “You’re going to get it infected if you don’t stop.”

  “It hurts.”

  “I know it hurts. But digging your dirty fingers in it isn’t going to help. Do you have rubbing alcohol and bandages?”

  “There’s a first aid kit in the bottom drawer, left of the sink.”

  Nicole releases his hand and climbs down the ladder, returning moments later with a small mesh pack and a bottle of alcohol. “Tanner, will you hold the flashlight while I patch up your father?”

  Tanner reluctantly turns away from the carnage and grabs the flashlight, clicking it on. “I still think it was one of ours.”

  “It could be. I don’t see any other surface—ssshh-hhiiiittt,” Brad shouts, jerking his head away from Nicole’s hand. “You could have warned me.”

  “It’s done now.” Using a patch of gauze, she delicately cleans the wound on Brad’s head. “You were saying?”

  Brad scowls at Nicole. “I was saying, we haven’t seen any other surface ships. And we didn’t see any telltale signs of incoming missiles. That leads me to believe a submarine attacked the enemy ships. If that’s the case, we may never know—”

  His words are drowned out by another massive explosion.

  CHAPTER 107

  1.5 miles off the tip of Cape Lookout

  “Fire tube two,” Captain Thompson orders. The sub shudders as the second torpedo explodes away from the submarine and tracks toward the Chinese tanker.

  “One minute to target,” Weapons Officer White says as the blast wave from the first explosion ripples across the submarine.

  Thompson is standing in the middle of the attack center. “Mr. White, load tubes three and four and stand by.” Thompson lifts his cap, wipes his brow with the back of his hand, and resettles the cap on his head. Immediately after firing the initial salvo, the USS New York ran hard and deep for two minutes before slowing. With no return fire, the sub made a long, looping turn and began sneaking into position, a mile north and another mile east from their original firing location.

  “Mr. Adams, anything from the two destroyers?”

  “A few subsequent explosions, Skipper.”

  “Damage estimates from the first torpedo?” Thompson asks.

&nb
sp; “I can confirm detonation on target, sir.”

  “Thank you. We’ll go up for a peek after the second torpedo detonates.”

  “Ten seconds, Skipper,” White says.

  The crew waits in silence. Seconds later there’s an explosion, followed by a much larger explosion.

  “We hit their fuel storage, Skipper,” Adams says.

  Those on the bridge offer a muted cheer before the sub is rocked by a succession of blast waves, the second one actually rocking the boat from side to side. “Q, take us to periscope depth,” Thompson orders as he steps over to the chart table.

  Garcia walks over to join him. “Good shooting, Bull.”

  “Not me. It’s our crew.” Thompson pulls up a map of the area and widens the view. “How many torpedoes still in inventory?”

  “Eight. Hopefully we’ll get to hang on to them for a while.”

  “You and me both, Carlos. I’m weary, you’re weary, and the crew’s weary. We need a game plan.”

  “What are the odds we run into more Chinese ships?”

  Thompson sits. “Fifty-fifty, maybe. This group was positioned well. It allowed them to roam up and down the eastern seaboard, at least the parts that still exist. Could be there might be another pod off the coast of southern Florida, but I find that unlikely. Most of Florida would have been obliterated.”

  “So the odds are better than fifty-fifty,” Garcia says, taking a seat next to Thompson.

  “Maybe. But we don’t know who else may be lurking out there. If it looks good through the periscope, I think we should sail offshore a couple miles and surface to let the crew stretch their legs and get some fresh air. I don’t want to risk resurfacing until we’re a mile off the coast of the Virgin Islands.”

  “What about searching for survivors from the Grant?”

  Thompson winces and glances at the clock. “Any survivors would have been in the water for hours now, not to mention the hours it would take for us to return to their position. It rips my guts out, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

  Garcia nods. “I concur. And Myrtle Beach?”

  Thompson sighs and lets the question linger for a few moments. Finally, he says, “I won’t put the crew at risk. I’ll find my way back if I can. I’m hoping if they’re still alive, they’ve assimilated with other families. Or that’s what I choose to believe.”

  Once the sub levels off, Thompson stands and orders the periscope up. He waits for it to ascend and positions his eyes in the eyecups and triggers the video camera. With the ensuing fires there’s no need for night vision. He walks a circle, getting an overall impression of the situation. The tanker is nothing but a ball of fire and the two destroyers look as if a giant had cleaved them with an ax. Both are entirely destroyed and partially submerged, their bows and sterns pointing skyward at a thirty-degree angle. “Comms, put the periscope feed on the video monitors.” He magnifies the image until the three destroyed ships fill the entire frame, and steps over to one of the monitors on the bridge. The cameras are high-definition and the image is as clear as if seeing it through the naked eye, maybe better.

  There are Chinese sailors in the water and he wonders, briefly, what will happen to them. Nothing good, he surmises, turning away from the monitor and stepping back to the periscope, curious about the sailboat he’d seen earlier. After clicking the periscope camera off, he positions the periscope on the sailboat and dials the magnification to the max. Technology is an amazing thing. Although the boat is nearly a mile away, the roaring fires produce enough light to read the facial expressions of those onboard. On deck are three people—a man, a woman, and a younger person, probably a teenager. He feels the pang of loss watching the three interact like a normal family. After observing their interactions for a few more moments, he nudges the scope to the right, trying to discover the boat’s name. All he can see from this angle is the word Emma.

  “Scope down,” Thompson orders. “Mr. Patterson, nudge us out to sea another mile or two and we’ll bring her to the surface. Carlos, put a topside security team together.”

  CHAPTER 108

  Near Cape Lookout lighthouse

  Down in the galley, Brad ducks into the head to check his wound in the mirror. There’s nothing much to see other that a large wad of gauze held in place by a piece of tape. He exits and grabs another bottle of wine and pulls the cork. After retrieving two glasses, he makes his way up to the deck, where he pours a glass and hands it to Nicole. “Medicinal purposes,” Brad says, pouring a good amount into his glass.

  Nicole clinks glasses with him. “For both of us. I think my nerves are shot. Tanner, you want some?”

  “Uh, no,” Tanner replies without turning, his gaze focused on the mayhem near the shore.

  Brad sinks onto the seat and Nicole sits down beside him, the distant flames casting an orange light across the deck. “Think that’s the end of it?” Nicole asks.

  “I sure as hell hope so.”

  They sip their wine in silence for a few moments before Nicole says, “What’s the ultimate goal, Brad?”

  Brad shrugs. “I’m hoping we can make it to Key West, where we could anchor offshore for a while. If not there, we’ll work our way down to the Bahamas. There has to be a place in the world that hasn’t been bombed to hell.”

  “You keep saying we. Do you mean you and Tanner?”

  Brad glances at the burning ships for a moment before turning to face Nicole. “No, we means all three of us. That is, if you want to tag along with us.”

  “I would like that very much,” Nicole says.

  “Good,” Brad replies.

  Seconds later they hear a splash, which is followed moments later by a large swell that rocks the boat. Brad hands his wineglass to Nicole. “Will you hold that for a sec?” He stands and grabs the binoculars off the helm, stepping to the back of the boat. It felt like the swell started off their stern, and he puts the binoculars to his eyes and scans the ocean surface. On the first pass he doesn’t see anything so he returns to his starting point and tries again, scanning very slowly. He stops midway and rolls the focus knob. “I’ll be damned,” he mutters when he sees a very large silhouette just visible in the flickering light. He marks the location in his mind and lowers the binocs. “Tanner, pull the anchor.”

  He hurries back to the helm. “Nicole, will you grab a couple of flashlights from below?”

  “What’s going on?” Nicole asks.

  “Maybe an answer to a prayer.”

  Nicole offers a bewildered look before ducking down the hatch to the galley.

  Brad clicks the key to check the fuel gauge again. The needle hasn’t changed—it’s still hovering near the empty mark. “Screw it,” he mutters, twisting the key and firing up the engine.

  As soon as Tanner has the anchor aboard, Brad shouts, “Hold on,” and gooses the throttle. He turns the wheel until the bow is pointed out to sea and looks through the binoculars again and adjusts his course.

  Nicole climbs the stairs and returns to the deck. “What do you want me to do with the flashlights?”

  “Just hold on to them for a second.”

  He puts the binoculars to his eyes and makes a slight course adjustment. After running at full speed for a few moments, the engine begins to sputter and Brad eases up on the throttle. He shouts into the wind, “Tanner, come stand back here with us.”

  Tanner scampers across the deck and climbs down into the cockpit, taking a position next to his father. “What are we doing, Dad?”

  “You’ll see in just a moment.”

  Tanner and Nicole share a confused glance.

  Brad stands on his tiptoes to look over the top of the boat. “Nicole, turn on the flashlights and hand one to Tanner. I want you to point them up at our faces.”

  Nicole glances at Tanner and both shrug. They click on the lights and turn them so the beams wash upward across their faces. Brad eases back on the throttle, nudges the wheel to the left, and holds course. A minute later, a light as bright as
the sun hits them in the face. All three raise their arms to shield their eyes.

  A loudspeaker clicks on and a voice says: “You are approaching a U.S. naval vessel and are hereby ordered to change course.”

  “What the hell, Dad,” Tanner says. “Are you crazy?”

  “Maybe,” Brad says. He nudges the throttle forward.

  The voice over the loudspeaker is booming when it says: “We will not issue a second warning. Change course immediately or we will fire on your vessel.”

  Brad pulls the throttle to neutral and cups his hands around his mouth. “We are American citizens. I would like to speak to the captain.” They’re close enough now to see a row of sailors on the deck of the submarine—a row of rifles pointed in their direction.

  This time when the loudspeaker sounds, it’s a different voice. “What is the name of your boat?”

  “The EmmaSophia,” Brad shouts.

  Almost instantly the bright light is switched off, but it’ll be a while before Brad’s night vision returns. He hears something thud against the bow of the boat and he scrambles forward, searching. He feels around the deck and finds a thick, heavy rope.

  “Tie it off to your boat,” the same voice says, this time from nearby and not over the loudspeaker.

  Brad ties the rope to one of the cleats on the bow, and the boat begins to move forward, bumping up against something hard.

  Flashlights kick on, revealing two men standing on a deck about eight feet above the sailboat. Both men are smiling. “I’m Captain Rex Thompson and this is my executive officer, Carlos Garcia. Sorry you were caught in the middle of our little war.”

  “I don’t think little begins to describe it,” Brad says before introducing himself, then Tanner and Nicole.