by C A Bird
The captain looked beyond his men and saw the boat sliding across the calm sea toward the submarine. “We have no way of knowing if any of the other thirteen boats in the nuclear submarine fleet survived but we haven’t had any contact with any of them. After launching their full complement of submarine-based ballistic missiles I suspect most of them put off their crews and the boats were abandoned.” Dombrowski took a deep breath of the salty ocean air.
“We’ve continued to patrol the Pacific Coast to ensure the safety of the nation. After each seventy day mission we’ve returned to this platform to replenish our supplies and to try and contact the legally established government of this country. I’m sorry to say that each time we’ve returned to Vandenberg we’ve lost crew members who have gone ashore and not returned. Of the original one hundred and forty crew members and fifteen officers we have one hundred and three sailors and twelve officers. You men have had an opportunity to leave, but have stuck with me, and for that I thank you. Your dedication to duty is commendable. At some point in the future, when we determine there is no further danger to the United States, we may decommission this boat and everyone will have an opportunity to try and make their way home.”
“We’ve had trouble establishing communications with anyone since the war. But recently the ionosphere seems to be settling down and we have been getting squawks from what appears to be the East Coast. In the last transmission we were able to make out enough words to be able to tell it was a focused message meant specifically for us. And gentlemen, we think the message is from the President of the United States.” He paused to let that sink in. “It’s possible that we are about to find out if we have a mission.”
The Captain looked over at the Chief Petty Officer and nodded. “Atten…hut!” he shouted and the line of sailors snapped to attention.
“Chief, maintain our standard eighteen hour rotation but give one third of the men twenty four hours off the boat at a time.”
“As you were men,” The Captain said, and the men fell out to return to their duties. The twenty foot skiff pulled alongside the sub and sailors on the deck of the vessel extended a gangway to the sub’s deck. This boat would ferry the Captain to the gigantic oil rig 100 yards to port. Platform Harvest stood over the wellhead at a depth of 675 feet and stood seven miles from the mainland. It was one of twenty three platforms in federal waters that pumped oil from the Tranquillon Ridge oil fields.
The men held the gangway steady as the captain crossed over to the deck of the boat. The gangway was withdrawn and the boat slowly moved away for twenty yards and then accelerated toward the enormous oil rig.
Dombrowski moved forward along the edge of the boat, past the small cabin to the front, where he held on to the railing and felt the spray kick up as the bow sliced through the water. They had stopped the sub a hundred yards from the platform to ensure they didn’t collide with it if the seas became rougher, and to make sure they maintained a safe distance from the flexible piping that stretched from the wellhead to the platform. They had chosen Platform Harvest as their base of operations, at seven miles offshore, rather than Platform Irene, which stood just off Point Arguello. Although closer to shore, Irene had extended wellheads with underwater paraphernalia that could create a problem for the Louisiana. There was no way for the sub to approach the mainland, as this part of the Pacific was known as the Graveyard of the Pacific, due to underwater seamounts, rocks and the wrecks of over fifty unfortunate vessels that had crushed their hulls against those underwater obstacles.
The boat cut power and drifted under the floating city to a small dock. Dombrowski and several sailors climbed the stairs to a number of offices, including a small bunk room the captain used when in port. He walked behind the desk and examined a large map pinned to the wall. It showed the location of the oil rigs and the boundaries of the underwater oil fields with the mainland covering the right hand side of the map. Beyond point Arguello, running north along the coast was the 99,000 acres of Vandenberg Air Force Base.
Three months after the war, when they first surfaced, they cruised up and down the coast trying to find an intact port they could make their base. Radiation detectors indicated that their home port of Bangor had been hit, as well as San Diego. Unable to find any land based ports they eventually docked at Platform Harvest. After repairing the two boats they found moored at the oil rig they went to shore, discovering a small contingent of Air Force personnel maintaining the base.
Colonel Benjamin Packer was in charge and was very relieved to see the crew of the submarine approaching the dock. Aside from a couple of hundred civilians in Lompoc they had wondered if they were the only people left in the world. Since that time the sub crew had gone ashore on several occasions and found the Air Force personnel more than willing to assist them in gathering supplies for transport to the sub.
“Captain Dombrowski, the Air Force communications staff, and our technicians we left here in February, have completed the new antenna and it’s now operational. Sir, whenever you’re ready they will make another attempt to contact the government.”
“Mr. Holder, have the mess prepare lunch and ask the ship’s officers that are on the platform to join me. We will make the attempt at communication this afternoon.”
“Yes sir.”
Four of the ship’s officers met with Dombrowski for their first meal off the sub in over two months.
“Gentlemen it’s been a long 21 months, not knowing if we still had a country or a government. Hopefully today we will get some direction.”
“Yes sir,” Crane said, “but it still may take us quite a while to make contact. The messages have been clearer lately but we still haven’t been able to keep up the link for any length of time.” The short, thin, communications officer sounded worried.
“True, Mr. Crane, but I am prepared to stay here until that link is established.”
“Captain, the men are wondering how long we’ll continue to man this boat. I guess once we’re able to contact the government, we’ll have a better idea?” Weapons Officer Holder asked him.
“Mr. Holder, I’m sure that if the President and the government are still in place in the east, they have some weapons, but they’re probably small arms. I’d be willing to bet we have the only nuclear armament left on the planet. I could be wrong, of course, and hope we don’t have to find out. It’s naïve to think the government would allow us to decommission this boat at this time. What are you thinking? That there’s another submarine crew out there that can do what we do?”
“No sir. But we… I mean the crew and officers of this submarine can’t be expected to serve aboard this submarine forever. Do you think they might change our base back to the East Coast? Maybe back to King’s Bay or Norfolk? Maybe they could train another Blue crew.”
The captain laughed. “Do you remember the training you received, how intensive it was? Those facilities are gone, as are the instructors. And I’m sure Groton, Norfolk and Kings Bay were all primary targets. If the government still exists on the East Coast, and they have any kind of military left, they will have to guard our eastern shores. What they really need, is for us and Vandenberg to protect the West Coast from invasion.”
He put his napkin on the table and picked up his ball cap. “Come on gentlemen, let’s get up to the radio shack.”
They climbed up to the fifth story of the oil rig. Dombrowski could see the empty helicopter pad rising above the top floor in the corner of the massive structure. They crowded into the radio room, crammed with mostly inoperable electronic equipment. Before the war, this structure was completely self-sustaining. It had its own generators, desalinization plant and crews quarters with kitchens, dining facilities and recreation areas.
Once they’d made Platform Harvest their base, the Air Force and Navy personnel had managed to repair the generators and some of the radio equipment. The two boats they had found moored to the dock had been fixed the first time the sub had anchored here. The electricity would last as long as the
fuel in the reserve tanks lasted.
“Santana, please fire it up and let’s see if there’s anybody out there to talk to.” They waited patiently while the equipment warmed up and Santana fiddled with dials and switches. Almost immediately they heard bursts of static and, in the background the sound of faint voices. The signal faded in and out and the voices strung together into unrecognizable words. Santana continued to refine the signal when suddenly a loud blast of static occurred and then subsided. A single voice came through, loud and clear.
“This is Charleston. Hello? Vandenberg, this is Charleston. Do you read?”
“Charleston, this is Vandenberg. So happy to hear you. This is radioman Santana and I have Captain Dombrowski of the U.S.S. Louisiana and Colonel Packer, Commander of Vandenberg Air Force Base. Can you tell us your status? Is this a government agency?”
“Yes. We are located in Charleston, West Virginia, the capital of the United States of America. President Rissman… ” Another burst of static emitted from the speaker and the signal went dead.
“Dammit! Oh, sorry sir. I’ve lost the signal.”
“Keep trying to get it back Santana.”
The radioman continued to play with his dials, trying to reestablish the signal. “I’m not having any luck, sir.” Just as he finished that statement the radio came back to life.
“Yeehaw, I’ve got them back, sir. Charleston, Santana here. Captain Dombrowski would like to speak with President Rissman. Can we set up a meeting?”
“This is Charleston. The president has a standing order that if we contact anyone to give him 30 minutes to get here. That would be 1700 hours Eastern.”
“Understood Charleston. We will be standing by.”
The Captain turned and shook Colonel Packer’s hand. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.” The men all shook hands and patted each other on the back. “Santana, will we have any problem getting the signal back at 1400 hours, our time?”
“I sure hope not, sir. I would hate to keep the President waiting.”
At precisely 1400 hours Santana received the signal from Charleston. The static was worse but a voice could clearly be heard through it. “Dombrowski… Richard? This is President Rissman. We’ve been trying to contact military personnel throughout the country for months and you and Colonel Packer are the only people we’ve been able to get a hold of.” The voice faded out as the static became louder. Santana had sweat pouring down his face, soaking his uniform shirt.
“Take your time, Santana. Just get me my signal back.”
“… status. Dombrowski, did you hear me?”
“No, I’m sorry Mister President, we didn’t catch your last statement.”
They heard the president’s voice, barely audible, in the background, “Dammit Mister Miller, get them back.”
“I have them, sir.”
“Dombrowski, what is your status?”
“Mister President, the Louisiana is operational. I made the decision during the war not to fire our complement of missiles. I felt that enough firepower was being used to disable or destroy our enemies, so I made the decision to hold our nuclear armament in reserve in case it was needed later.”
“You mean… are you telling me you still have your missiles?” Rissman sounded surprised and excited.
“Yes, Mister President. We have been patrolling the Pacific Coast of the United States to ensure there wasn’t a follow-up attack. So far there’s been no sign of enemy action.”
“Well, we’ve heard some chatter in the past couple of weeks in Chinese. From what I’ve been told, as the ionosphere settles down it’s actually easier to get signals bounced around the earth than it is from closer up. My advisors feel that there may be an imminent threat from China. Our worry all along was that they started this war in the hopes of coming over here later and mopping up.”
“Do you have orders for me Mister President?”
“I certainly do Captain Dombrowski. I need you to deploy to China immediately. See if you can determine if they are launching an attack toward the United States. Communications are very poor and I don’t know if you will be able to report back what you find but I am giving you full discretion to launch an attack if you feel the Chinese are being aggressive and moving toward our country. There will be no launch codes, no authentication. Do you understand what I’m asking you Captain Dombrowski?”
“Yes sir. We’ve just arrived at Vandenberg and are resupplying as we speak. We will deploy as soon as we’re ready. As communications improve, we will try and stay in touch with Colonel Packer at Vandenberg. It may be easier for him to relay our communications to you.”
“Yes, yes. Try and stay in touch as much as possible. Get underway as soon as you can. We’re counting on you, Captain Dombrowski.”
“Thank you, sir. Vandenberg out.”
“Wow,” Packer said, “those bastards just never give up. I’m fairly relieved here, sir, that you kept your missiles.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t so sure it was the right decision at the time.”
The next few days were a flurry of activity as Packer’s troops assisted in gathering and transporting supplies to the boat that would deliver them to the sub. Shore leaves were cut short which produced some minor grumbling, but the men were actually relieved to have a purpose again. Four days after talking to the President, the Louisiana was prepped and ready to begin its mission.
“I have the conn, Mister Finney. Chief Petty Officer, let’s get underway.”
“Engine room, all ahead one quarter, bring us about to bearing 270.”
This was a time Richard Dombrowski loved, the sub underway, and about to descend into the depths of the cold Pacific.
“Dive, dive,” sang the Chief Petty Officer. “Take us to level 150.” The sub crossed the shelf break where the ocean bottom dropped off hundreds and then eventually thousands of feet.
Dombrowski turned to Carter and grinned “Take us to level 500. We have no GPS, so just point us toward China and try not to run into the Hawaiian Islands.”
10
The Horde left Vegas and traveled south toward the small town of Boulder City. Seventy-six motorcycles, four pickup trucks and a van roared through Railroad pass on Highway 93. The beds of the pickup trucks were crammed with supplies and bottles of water.
The men loved speed, but the pace set by Chase was too great even for them. Bing watched him pull away at well over a hundred miles per hour. They found him waiting for them twenty minutes later where the highway turned into Boulder City’s main street. He stood in the center of the highway, his arms crossed, and scowled as they pulled to a stop in front of him.
“Fucking pussies,” he growled, as he stood rubbing alcohol gel on his hands. “There’s a service station over there on the left. Everybody top off their tanks. I want you to go through this town with a fine tooth comb. Break down doors and bring me all the food and water you can find.”
They went through Boulder City like a plague of locusts. Splitting up into groups of three or four men, several groups rode down the main street of town, stopping and entering every store along the way. Others rode up and down residential streets checking every house for food and water. There were only a few residents stupid enough to be seen.
Nutts and Johnny rode their new motorcycles, taken from the men who had failed their initiation, and were shocked to see a man and woman walking toward them down Adams Street. They were probably in their 30s but looked much older. Pale and thin, they had dark circles under their eyes and their clothes hung on their frames like garbage bags.
“Hello. Can you take us with you?” the man begged. “We’re out of food. Please, we can’t stay here any longer.”
As the couple came within ten feet of them, Nutts pulled out his .45 caliber revolver and shot the man twice in the chest. The woman screamed. She turned and tried to run back down the street, but appeared to have an injured leg and could only limp away slowly. Johnny turned to Nutts and grinned. “You want to chase her down bro, or sh
ould I?”
“Wish I had a lariat. I used to do calf roping and it would be fun to take her that way. But you go ahead.”
The woman was darting for a gap between two of the buildings but Johnny easily cut off her retreat. As he rode by he reached out and slammed his fist into the side of her head. She collapsed like a felled tree. Whooping loudly, he slung the backend of the chopper in a 360° circle, sending clouds of dirt into the air. Nutts rode up, left the bike a few feet from the fallen, unconscious woman and quickly unfastened her pants, as Johnny grabbed the pant legs around her ankles and slid her jeans off.
“Hell man,” Johnny said, “I wish she was awake so she could fight us.”
“I don’t care about that. I’ll take her any way I can get her.” The two men spent the next hour making up for not having had a woman for many months. She regained consciousness after five minutes to find herself the playmate of two insatiable animals. When they finished with her, Nutts shot her through the head.
In other parts of town the bikers encountered a few other residents with the same result. They killed the men and raped the women. But just as everywhere else, they found no food and only a few bottles of water. The few residents that had survived had stripped the town clean.
Chase pulled into the parking lot of a motel, with a few of the bikes, the ones carrying the women, following him into the lot. He gestured at Carmella and she followed him to the door of one of the rooms. He tried the knob and found the room locked. Backing away a few feet he raised his leg and aimed a vicious kick at the door just below the lock. With a loud crack the door flew open, smashing into the wall behind it. Grinning down at the woman, he reached out, took her arm and pushed her into the room.
