by Tim Washburn
Zane turns into the drive. “I’ll settle for a bed.”
“That, too,” Alyx says. She’s tapping the dash with her hand and pumping her right leg. “Do me a favor, Zane. Will you hold off the others until I have a chance to see my family?”
“Absolutely. He wheels into the circle drive and kills the engine. Alyx kicks her door open and races toward the house. She takes a deep breath then twists the knob and barges into the house. “I’m home,” she shouts. The initial response is not what she was expecting, and Alyx’s gaze sweeps the room. Her sister is sitting on the couch, cradling a screaming infant and crying, while their mother looks on, her face a mask of worry. After overcoming her initial surprise, Alyx’s mother stands from her chair and hurries across the room, wrapping her older daughter in an embrace. “What’s going on?” Alyx whispers to her mother.
“Holly’s milk hasn’t come in and we have nothing to feed the baby. Been going on most of two days. Your father and Gage are out looking for baby formula.”
Alyx kisses her mother on the cheek. “Hold on.” She turns, sticks her head out the door, and shouts: “Zane, bring the baby formula.”
“You have formula?” Susan Reed asks, her eyes as big as Frisbees.
“Yes. We got some from Sarah—never mind, it’s a long story that’s going to have to wait.”
“And Zane?”
“Not a long story—he’s the one.”
Zane enters, carrying two cases of infant formula. “Where do you want them, Ms. Reed?”
“It’s Susan, and on the kitchen counter.” She and Alyx follow Zane into the kitchen as Holly pushes up from the sofa and hurries over, the baby still wailing.
“You must be Holly,” Zane says, leaning forward to grab a clean bottle from the windowsill over the sink. He twists off the nipple, adds water to the bottle, and adds a scoop of powdered formula.
“I’m Zane.” He screws on the nipple and shakes it up before handing the bottle to Holly. “Alyx says you haven’t yet decided on a name for your baby.”
Alyx sidesteps her mother and wraps an arm around Zane’s waist.
Holly inserts the nipple into the baby’s mouth, and the sudden quiet is a welcome relief. “Olivia, Zane. Her name is Olivia.”
“A beautiful name, for a beautiful little girl.”
“Thank you,” Holly says. “I hope my sister keeps you around for a while.”
“Me, too,” Zane replies, glancing at Alyx. “You tell your mother yet?”
“Wha—no. Mom, we’re not the only ones to show up on your doorstep today.”
Susan’s eyes open wider. “What do you mean?”
“Look out the window.”
Susan strides to the window, glances out, and gasps. “Is that Stan?”
Alyx and Zane join her at the window. “Yes,” Alyx says, “and believe me, that’s another long story.”
CHAPTER 110
Weatherford
Gage is seething. They’ve been to two different neighborhoods and Henry still can’t recall exactly where Dr. Stone lives.
Henry glances at Gage. “It’s not my fault, Gage. I bet I haven’t seen Dr. Stone in five years or more.”
Gage white-knuckles the steering wheel.
“Let’s try that new neighborhood north of town. Now that I think about it, I recall him telling me that he and Harriet had moved out there.”
Gage wants to yell, Why didn’t you think of that sooner? but doesn’t. Clenching his jaw, he steers onto North Washington Avenue, mashing the gas. He jerks the wheel to veer around a dead truck then jerks the wheel back, the tires on the old truck barking.
Henry rubs his injured arm. “We’re not going to be a damn bit of good to anyone if we’re dead.”
Gage glances over at his father-in-law and eases up on the gas. “We really don’t have time to be driving all over town.”
“She’s my only grandchild, Gage. We’re all on the same team, here.”
Gage exhales a long breath. “I know. I just feel so damn helpless.”
“I know and I feel the same. The only thing we can do is find that baby some formula.”
They ride in silence for a few moments, passing another neighborhood, then the high school, before Gage turns into the new addition. “Do you know which street?” Gage asks.
“No. Drive around a bit. Now that we’re here, I think we came to a Christmas party at his house several years ago. I’ll know it when I see it.”
Gage stifles his sigh and drives down one street, turns, and drives up another.
Henry scoots to the edge of his seat and leans forward. “I think we’re getting close. I remember he had a big oak tree in the front yard.”
Gage makes a right turn at the end and pulls down another street.
“There it is,” Henry says, pointing.
Gage’s heart plummets. He pulls into the drive of a fairly large home, a FOR SALE sign staked in the middle of the yard. “Goddammit,” Gage mutters.
“I’m sorry, Gage. I had no idea.”
Gage slams the truck into park. “Now what?”
Henry scoots back in his seat.
“Know any other pediatricians?”
Henry shakes his head. “Have you tried the hospital?”
“No.” Gage reverses out of drive and returns to the main road. After a couple of miles he pulls into the parking lot fronting the hospital and eases up to the front door. The glass is shattered, the fragments scattered all around the entry area. Gage puts the truck in park and grabs the pistol off the seat.
“Want me to come with you?”
Gage pushes open the door and climbs out, grabbing a flashlight from the door pocket. “No. You stay with the truck. Somebody steals it we’ll really be screwed.”
Henry nods and pulls the shotgun closer.
Gage steps through the shattered door and clicks on the flashlight. The corridor is littered with desks, beds, chairs, dead bodies, and trash. Gage pulls his shirt up over his nose and takes it a room at a time, trying to tamp down his growing nausea while flinging open cabinet doors and searching for infant formula. The hospital is a reflection of the town; neither is very large. Gage darts down another corridor. The door to the hospital pharmacy is hanging on by a hinge, and he ducks inside. Nothing but empty shelves—not even a box of hemorrhoid cream. He returns to the corridor and continues to search. After ten minutes, he’s covered the entire hospital. Nothing. He hurries back to the truck and climbs in.
“I’ve been thinking, Gage. I have an old phonebook back at the house. We can use it to find another pediatrician.”
Gage drops the truck in gear. “About the only plan we have left.”
They skirt the edge of town and Gage turns onto Main Street, which transitions into Highway 54 outside of town. They cover the next three miles in silence. He makes a right then a left into the drive and brakes hard.
“Who the hell is that?” Henry asks.
Gage eases off the brake, steering around an old flatbed truck and a gold rusted-out pickup. “Keep that shotgun handy.”
Gage parks, grabs the pistol, and steps out. Henry piles out the other side, the shotgun up and ready for action. “What do you want to do?” Gage whispers.
Henry glances toward the barn. It doesn’t appear anyone is out there. “You go for the door and I’ll cover you.”
Gage eases up next to the house. The windows are covered by curtains, but he can hear voices, and a lot of them. Are we being raided by a gang of killers? He inches closer to the door, waving Henry to the other side, where he’ll have a clear field of fire if someone steps out. Gage puts a hand on the doorknob and takes a deep breath. He plays the scenario in his mind based on what he’d seen on Law & Order. They always go in low, so Gage squats down, turns the knob, and pushes the door open. He pivots inside, the pistol an extension of his arm. It takes him a moment to process what his eyes see, and then his brain kicks in—it’s Alyx holding Olivia. He points the gun toward the ceiling and stands. He ducks his he
ad outside and calls Henry toward the house. “You’re not going to need the shotgun.”
Henry looks at him, bewildered. Gage steps aside, and Henry nearly sags to his knees at the sight of his older daughter.
ONE WEEK LATER
CHAPTER 111
Tehran, Iran
After weeks underground, the ayatollah is looking forward to a little fresh air—and some time away from his bickering wives. Buried deep, the bunker has been sealed since the first shot. The last contact the ayatollah had with the outside world was confirmation from General Mohammadi that the attack was under way. The ayatollah stops on the stairs and adjusts his turban. As the mastermind, and the first to initiate talks with the North Koreans, he’s now ready to receive the well-deserved adoration from his people.
After a furious argument with his security detail this morning, he will be stepping into the light alone. He climbs to the next landing and pauses to catch his breath. Members of his security detail did, for the first time, venture outside earlier in the day. They returned grim faced but had little to report. What the ayatollah doesn’t know is that they were reluctant to tell their leader the truth. The last security guard to report bad news had been shot on sight. The ayatollah looks up to see one more flight of stairs. The light spreads down the shaft, warming the leader’s face. He smiles and continues to climb. On the next-to-last step, well out of view of his people, he pauses to straighten his turban again. He takes a deep, calming breath, spreads his arms wide to welcome his flock, and ascends the final step.
His arms drop to his sides when he sees the utter devastation around him. The stench of rotting bodies is nearly overwhelming, and he puts a hand over his mouth and nose to keep from gagging. Slowly, he turns a circle. His beautiful palace, furnished to his exacting tastes, had occupied the space over his bunker. It is now rubble—as is all of Tehran. He stops turning when he spots a man in a tattered military uniform digging through a pile of stones. The man looks up, stands, and approaches, dragging his left leg.
It takes a while for the man to cover the distance, but the ayatollah waits patiently for him to arrive. When the man is within four feet he stops, and rather than defer to the Iranian leader, he stands tall.
The ayatollah is somewhat taken aback by the man’s brazenness. “What is your name, my son?”
“My name is Saman Rezaei. And I’m not your son.”
The ayatollah shuffles back a step. He looks at the insignia on the man’s uniform, but he’d never really learned to differentiate the symbols of the lower ranks. “Where are you posted?”
“I was stationed at the Semnan Missile and Space Center.”
“Why aren’t you with your unit?”
“There is no more unit. It took me six days to dig out of the rubble. I am the only survivor.” Rezaei limps forward a step. “Do you know what it is like to spend six days underground? Not in a bunker where you’re well fed and surrounded by your family, but six days, digging and scraping, no food and no water, and not knowing if you are going to live or die?”
The ayatollah glances around to see if any of his security detail had followed him up despite his orders not to do so. But the Iranian leader remains alone. He straightens his robe and squares his shoulders before turning back to Rezaei. “I’m proud of your service to our great country.”
“Your great country no longer exists.” Rezaei limps forward another step, the distance between them now narrowed to arm’s length. “I spent more than a week making the journey to this city. And even then I had to wait.”
“What were you waiting for, my son?”
Rezaei slowly reaches behind and pulls out his service pistol. “For the sniveling dog who started all this to show his face.” Rezaei raises the pistol and fires, punching a hole in the ayatollah’s forehead. As the Iranian leader crumples to ground, Rezaei calmly tucks the pistol behind his back and turns, limping back through the rubble.
CHAPTER 112
Charlotte Amalie, Saint Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands
“Steady as she goes,” Thompson tells the helmsman, Roy Wisdom, who’s standing next to him on the sail. “The last thing we need to do is wreck the boat after everything we’ve been through.” They surfaced at the mouth of the bay and are now maneuvering toward the Havensight Point pier on the east side of the bay.
“Yes, sir,” Wisdom replies.
Spread out before them is Charlotte Amalie, the capital city of the U.S. Virgin Islands. Located on Saint Thomas, the irregular-shaped bay is surrounded by a string of heavily forested, low-rise mountains with homes perched at various levels before spilling down to the bay. The town itself is situated on the floor of the valley and spreads the width of the bay, the red tile roofs in stark contrast to the luscious greenery that slopes upward behind the town. It’s a spectacular sight, especially after everything the crew of the USS New York has endured.
Two large cruise ships are tied up at the pier and, from the looks of them, are still functioning—at least partially. Towels and swimsuits are draped over balcony railings to dry, and people are milling about on deck. A group has formed at the stern of the nearest cruise ship, watching the New York approach.
The Havensight Point pier juts out into the bay nearly a thousand feet, and that’s exactly where Thompson is planning to dock the boat. “Mr. Wisdom, I want the sail lined up on the edge of the pier.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Wisdom replies as he works the controls from the upper bridge. “Sure wished we had a tug, sir.”
“You and me both. But we don’t. Take her slow and steady.”
The sub is two hundred yards from the pier when Wisdom idles the engines. The forward momentum allows them to coast the rest of the distance. Sailors from the crew jump onto the pier to handle the dock lines. Thompson climbs down the conning tower and returns to the bridge. He and Garcia are outfitted in their dress uniforms. The next item on their list is a meeting with the territorial governor who resides in the Government House, located in the center of town.
“You sure you don’t want a security detail on deck?” Garcia asks.
“I’m sure.” He turns to Lieutenant Commander Quigley. “Q, make sure the security team is assembled and ready to go just in case. But keep them below deck for now.”
Garcia and Thompson make their way to the forward hatch and climb up to the deck. The crew has secured the gangway and they walk down to the pier—their first contact with solid ground in almost four months. Along the pier is a collection of restaurants and stores, many of them open. The aroma of grilling burgers makes Thompson’s mouth water.
“What are they doing for money?” Garcia asks.
Thompson shrugs. “Maybe it’s a barter economy.” “Wonder what I’d have to give up for a burger and a beer?”
“Don’t know. But I bet we find out later.”
The two cruise ships are enormous, towering over the pier. People are coming and going up the gangways, in various states of dress, as if they were on a normal vacation. Some of the crew members from the ships are hanging out on the pier, and Thompson is tempted to stop and talk to them to get the lay of the land. But he doesn’t. Best to make an official appearance first. At the end of the pier they find a line of bicycle cabs and they climb into the one at the head of the line and tell the driver their destination.
People are out and about as if it were any normal day. The journey to Government House is short and the driver pulls up to the front steps. Garcia pays the tab and they don their caps and climb the red-carpeted steps toward the front door, bracing for the unknown. The building is a white three-story structure with wide expansive balconies on the first and second floors. An ornate iron balustrade runs the length of both balconies and each section is separated by a row of stately round columns. The double doors open inward when Garcia and Thompson arrive. They remove their hats and step inside.
A butler leads them to an ornate office and a large black man moves from behind the desk, a smile on his face and his hand outstretched. G
arcia and Thompson relax.
“I’m Territorial Governor Charles Knapp. Welcome to Saint Thomas.” He shakes their hands and offers Thompson and Garcia chairs. After working his way back around his desk, he sits. “Not very many people on the island have ever seen a submarine.”
“Not very many people, period, have ever seen a submarine,” Thompson says. “We kind of like it that way.”
Knapp laughs. “I suppose that’s right.” He steeples his fingers and leans back in his chair. “I assume you’re looking for safe harbor.”
“Yes, and more importantly, a place to live,” Thompson replies.
“We’ll find a way to accommodate you and your crew.”
Thompson’s shoulders sag with relief. “Thank you,” Thompson says, “We were beginning to think we’d never find a place to call home.”
“We saw a lot of businesses and restaurants open. Are you operating a barter economy?” Garcia asks.
“No, it’s a cash economy.”
Garcia scoots to the edge of the seat. “The crew, ourselves included, has very little ready cash available.”
“Not to worry,” Knapp says. “We’re running everything through the island banks. I’m willing to allocate twenty-five hundred dollars for each enlisted crew member and five thousand for you and your officers. The local government is also willing to provide free room and board for the first three months to allow your men time to find employment on the island.”
Thompson and Garcia share a surprised glance before Thompson turns back to Knapp. “What’s the catch?”
Knapp laughs. “No catch. We are a United States territory and you are members of the United States Navy. Did you think we were going to throw you to the wolves?”
“We didn’t really know what to expect,” Thompson says, thinking back to Ponta Delgada. “But we were bracing for the worst. Where will you house my men?”
