by C A Bird
Rissman thought for a minute and held up his hand to the soldier. “Sergeant, you can put your weapon away.”
Mitchum’s shoulders slumped as the tension left his body.
The president stared at Mitchum trying to decide whether he wanted to use him as a spy, or satisfy his own need to avenge the affront he’d experienced when the workers had escaped.
“Do you think we can trust him?”
“It’s not like he can run away. He’ll be one of the workers, and if he doesn’t play his part well, they’re likely to kill him.”
The president looked over at General Ladner. “Put him on the train
23
Farmington was two different cities.
During the day there were a few thousand citizens who were learning to make their way in the new world, working in the fields, or the marketplace, and some were beginning to try and restore the refineries and power plants. Their children went to school.
But at night it was a different place. Downtown Farmington rolled up the sidewalks when the sun went down and people tucked in their children for the night. After dark, the marketplace lit up with oil lamps and lanterns and the night people came out to play. Across the street from the marketplace Jillian’s bar was closed, but the old hotel next door was open for business, a lantern with a red glass hanging beside the doorway. A steady stream of men went in and out of the doorway.
“Damn fool kid,” Jimbo said, scratching his beard, as he saw Danny enter the building. “He’s gonna catch something and there isn’t anything we can do to cure him. Especially since we’re not gonna have a doctor for the rest of the trip.”
“He’ll be okay. Once we leave here we may not find another town like this one. Let him have a good time. I’m gonna go find out what’s going on in those tents,” Einstein told him. The stalls were empty for the night but a rock band was playing on the stage. There were a couple of rows of folding chairs most of the way around the band, with rough looking men and women singing along, bottles of liquor and beer in their hands. With the weather warming up, the women were scantily clad, some sitting on men’s laps.
Mark, Jimbo and Matthew wandered over toward the tents where they heard shouting and cheering. The oil lamps cast an orange glow through the night and Mark felt like he’d been cast back through time to the early days of San Francisco and the Barbary Coast.
The three men ducked through the flap of the door, in time to see the final few seconds of a bareknuckle, boxing match, as one of the fighters slammed a vicious hook into the ear of the other, and sent him crashing to the ground. Loud cheers and groans were heard, and silver coins changed hands, as the winners collected their bets. The interior of the tent was lit by oil lamps hanging in the center of each of the four walls, with two others attached to the supporting poles. Flickering shadows of the patrons in the raucous crowd were thrown on the canvas walls of the tent.
Mark could see blood running from the nose and ears of the man that had lost the match, as two burly men grasped him under the arms and hauled him toward the back of the tent, the toes of his boots digging grooves in the dirt. The winner, eyes wild, had his fists in the air and was shouting, “Who’s next? Who wants a piece of Maxwell?”
A young woman came up to Mark and thrust her hips at him seductively. She was dressed in a leather halter and shorts, and was wearing a belt with holsters, tooled with a piece of leather that held a bottle of tequila on either hip.
“You want a tequila shooter?” She laughed and shook her blonde, wavy hair back from her shoulders. “Or maybe you want a little something else?”
“I’ll take the shooter. How much?”
She pulled out a jigger and filled it to the brim with tequila. “Just one little ol’ silver dime, cutie.”
Swallowing the tequila Mark almost choked. “Whew, where’d you get that tequila?”
“Bobby makes it. Says it’s about 160 proof. You want another?”
“Sure, why not?” He handed her two pre-1964, silver dimes.
A small, greasy-looking man with a pockmarked face shouted out at Mark and the others, “Hey, you guys want to take on Maxwell?” The three men shook their heads vigorously, not wanting any part of Maxwell. A fit looking man pushed his way through the crowd.
“Let’s get it on!” he yelled, and before Maxwell could react, the challenger swung a vicious uppercut to the giant’s jaw. He screamed as he bit down on his tongue, and blood squirted from his mouth. The crowd cheered their appreciation, as Maxwell staggered backward into the ring of spectators. They grabbed him by the arms and pushed him back into the center of the ring where the newcomer aimed a double blow at Maxwell’s rock-hard abdomen. Oohs from the crowd indicated that was a mistake… as Maxwell didn’t even appear to feel it.
Maxwell grinned and smashed his forehead into the other’s. The man stepped back, shaking his head. Stunned, he fell to his knees. A roundhouse kick to the side of the man’s head, knocked him unconscious to the ground.
Again, shouts and cheers went up as money changed hands. Maxwell stood in the center of the cleared space, grinning, with blood running down his chin onto his chest.
Someone pushed Mark from behind and he tripped forward toward the fighter. When he tried to retreat, the man shoved him again.
Mark turned around and saw a knife at the man’s throat.
“I think you want to leave us alone, friend.” Matthew said softly.
The troublemaker hesitated and then nodded his head. Matthew stepped aside as the man, scowling at him, left the tent.
“I think we better get out of here before we’re forced into a fight with the big guy,” Mark said. Matthew nodded in agreement and they quickly went out into the cool, night air, Jimbo reluctantly following them.
The next tent had an even larger crowd, around a four-foot-high, wooden railing encircling the center space. Mark and the others made their way around to the far side of the tent where the crowd was thinner. Working their way forward, they saw two red roosters fighting in the center of the ring. Razor blades had been attached to the rooster’s spurs and one of the cocks was bleeding profusely from his head, where his comb had been nearly sliced off. The crowd was yelling over the sound of the birds screeching, and the fluttering of wings. Feathers flew into the air above their heads
Mark glanced over at Matthew. His dark eyes were swirling pools of anger and disgust. This time Jimbo willingly followed as they circled back around to the entrance and escaped the tent.
“I’m pretty much a libertarian,” Mark said, “but some things ought to be illegal.”
Matthew nodded. “For now, men will do as they please. As the population grows, and governments get bigger, there will be more attempts to regulate behavior. I’m not looking forward to the day when we see a proliferation of laws like we had before the war.”
They walked around the field, enjoying the cool night air. Finding seats by the stage, they sat for a while, listening to the music. It seemed strange, a rock bank singing heavy metal to the music of acoustic guitars and a set of drums.
Mark drank several more tequila shooters as the girls with the holsters circulated through the crowd. “Come on Matthew, live a little,” he told the young man and tried to get him to drink a shot. Matthew had been nursing the same beer for the past hour.
“No, I think I’m good.”
“I don’t think I’ve had this much to drink in a dozen years, but I sure am having fun.” Mark’s crooked grin seemed to be permanently attached to his face.
Jimbo matched Mark shot for shot, and Matthew had a rough time getting the two of them back to the wagons. “Hey, wait Matthew. I’m staying at the hotel,” Jimbo tried to tell him, as Matthew half carried him to their camp by the river.
“Not tonight my friend. You’re just going to have to spend another night on the ground.” Matthew threw a sleeping bag down on the ground and Jimbo was asleep the minute he stretched out on it.
Lori had climbed down from her wagon when she hea
rd the men returning, and casting Mark a disapproving look, said “Boys night out, huh? I should have gone with.”
Mark stood in the dark, weaving slightly. “We had a wunerful time. Jush me and the boys.” He burped loudly.
“Saw a cockfight.”
“Oh, that’s just great. Come on then. And try not to wake the kids.”
As she hoisted him into the wagon, he said, “Tomorrow night you can come with us.”
“Not a chance. I doubt if you’re gonna want to go out tomorrow night either.”
She turned as she climbed over the tailgate. “Thanks Matthew,” she called out softly.
“No problem,” she heard from the darkness over by the horses, and wondered what they would have done without the quiet, young man.
24
In two days, the sub had distanced itself from the Chinese fleet by a thousand miles.
“Bring us about, Carter.”
“Aye, Captain. Coming about to 260 degrees. Depth seventy five feet.”
“Periscope up. Check out the surface Mr. Finney.”
Looking through the eyepiece of the periscope, the XO turned 360 degrees and found nothing but endless blue water.
“All clear, Captain.”
“Bring us to the surface, Carter.”
“Yes Captain.”
The sub surfaced hundreds of miles from the nearest land, surrounded by wide-open ocean, but no one took pleasure from the open air or the tiny waves lapping at the side of the vessel.
By the time the captain climbed onto the deck, preparations had been made for two events to take place. A shrouded body lay on the deck at the forward end of the boat, the remains sewn in canvas and weighted down for the long descent into the depths. “The Navy Hymn – Eternal Father, Strong to Save,” was playing from a boom box on the deck.
Captain Dombrowski presided over the ceremony for Ensign Cravitz’ burial at sea.
“Unto almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the deep…”
When the prayer was finished the captain nodded at the seamen who stood alongside the body, and they turned it and eased it over the side of the submarine where it slid beneath the smooth surface and disappeared from view, as it descended into the dark waters.
Dombrowski turned to Commander Morris. “Bring the prisoner on deck. And turn off the music.”
Seaman Canfield’s head appeared in the hatch as he was led above to face his punishment. His eyes sought out his captain’s, hoping to see some sign that Dombrowski had decided to show compassion or leniency.
He saw only a cold, dark stare.
Pushed from below, he continued the climb to the deck where his hands were again secured behind his back. Captain Dombrowski personally led the frightened young man to the forward end of the sub, where the body of the man whose death he was responsible for, had lain only minutes before.
He raised his voice so the others on deck could hear him. “Seaman Canfield, you are to be executed for dereliction of duty, resulting in the deaths of Ensign Cravitz, Commander Holder, Lieutenant Baraza and Petty Officer Perryman, and endangering the lives of every man on this boat. Not to mention, had we been destroyed, potentially allowing the invasion of the United States of America.”
“But Captain. We don’t know Holder, Baraza, and Perryman are dead.”
“No, but they’ve probably been captured and tortured by the Chinese. And if they’re still free, they are about to be die by our own hand.”
He attached a concrete block to Canfield’s ankle with a small, leather strap. Taking out the music device he’d found when Phil had fallen at his feet, after jumping down the hatch, he shoved it in front of Canfield’s face.
“You were listening to music and not paying attention to your duties, allowing the Chinese fleet to approach our position, and almost getting us trapped in the harbor. Seaman Canfield, turn around and face out to sea.” The captain reached behind him and pulled a black, cloth hood from his back pocket and reached up to put it over Phillip’s head.
“I don’t need that,” Canfield said, ducking his head away.
“As you wish, Seaman Canfield. Turn around.”
When Canfield turned back, he wished he’d put the hood on, as he faced five men who had come on deck with rifles. Leaving him standing there alone, Dombrowski walked along the deck until he stood behind the firing squad.
“Ready!” he called out. The rifles were brought up in unison. Seaman Canfield raised his head and stuck out his chest.
“Aim!”
“Fire!” The five weapons fired simultaneously, kicking backwards, white puffs of smoke rising from the barrels, as Phillip Canfield dropped like a stone to the deck.
Captain Dombrowski had hoped Canfield would fall into the ocean, but he lay in a heap on the forward deck. He walked to the body and knelt down to check for a pulse. Finding none, the six-foot, three-inch captain, and twenty-two-year veteran of the U.S. Navy, with tears streaming down his face, shoved Phillip Canfield into the sea.
Rising to his feet, he stood looking out over the water until he had regained his composure, and then turned back to his men.
“Let’s get this job done,” he said as they slid through the hatch and re-entered the sub.
“I have the Conn, Mister Finney. Carter take us to firing depth.”
They leveled off at 75 feet, the sub facing toward the west and the enemy they’d left behind.
“Well, gentlemen, this is it.” Dombrowski stood in the red light of the combat alert status, surrounded by the officers and crew of the U.S.S. Louisiana. “It turns out our decision not to fire our missiles during the war, was a good one. At that time we had received launch codes, and thanks to Mister Albright and his programming skill, those codes are still operational.”
He looked at the men that had followed him for two years, through a nuclear war and the aftermath, not knowing until recently if they had a reason to stay aboard the boat.
“It’s obvious now that the Chinese started the war so they could invade the U.S., and probably other countries as well, once the war was over. There was intelligence that suggested they had shelters for a large number of citizens, that would allow them to survive a nuclear war. Boldonado detected twenty-four, different ship’s signatures. Several are military vessels. They are using fishing boats, and even commandeered cruise ships as transports. Each of those cruise ships can carry three thousand people… more if they cram them in. I believe they held off firing missiles at us, because they needed the fueling facilities and stored food at Pearl for all those ships and people. We were lucky to get away. They couldn’t possibly imagine that we still have nuclear missiles.”
The captain looked troubled as he continued, “That fleet probably carries at least 20,000 individuals that are ready to invade and take over the United States. They may have other fleets heading to Southeast Asia or South America. We can’t worry about them. We have to protect what’s left of our own country.”
“Captain, many of those people are civilians,” Mr. Finney said. “We can’t just kill them. We can use torpedoes to take out the military vessels, and then we can escort the civilians to California.”
Dombrowski seemed to consider this. “They, the civilians included, consider themselves an invading force. I’m sure they were hand-picked by their government to survive, and would cause considerable trouble once they arrived in the United States. Our citizens don’t need to fight a ground war against the Chinese, who have superior numbers and weaponry. We have orders from the President of the United States to take out that fleet.”
Finney raised his voice and stepped toward the captain. “Military officers have the right, and the responsibility, to question orders. This isn’t right. You can’t just blow 20,000 people to pieces. That would be a war crime.”
Dombrowski’s face darkened. “Mr. Finney. We can discuss your philosophical objections to our mission in private. You will not question my orders in front of the crew or I wil
l have you confined to your quarters. Am I clear?” Dombrowski was over a half-foot taller than his XO and stood glaring down at him.
Finney moved back a couple of feet and lowered his voice. “Sir, what is the worst that can happen? If they get to America, in another twenty or thirty years, they will be assimilated and the population will be homogeneous. There will be peace. We don’t have to murder these people!”
“They won’t be assimilated. They will conquer. A country and its people have a right to exist. They have the right to defend themselves with all possible means. And we, Mr. Finney, are those means. Your relatives lived in the South. What if they had survived and lived in Northern California or Utah? Would you be so quick to let the invaders onto our shores?”
Finney looked stubborn but didn’t answer the question.
The captain glared at Finney. “Weapons room. Prepare missiles one and twenty four, for launch. You have the coordinates.”
The weapons officer responded over the comm, “Preparing missiles one and twenty four, for launch.”
The XO made one more objection. “What about Holder, Perryman and Baraza?”
“My orders were to get no further than a quarter mile from the dock, with the exception of the watch at Hickam. They disobeyed those orders and unfortunately will pay a dear price. They may even have been captured by the Chinese. I will take it to my grave that we had to leave them behind. That is all, Mr. Finney.”
The captain stood stock still for a full minute.
“Fire missile one! Fire missile twenty four!”
***
The Louisiana spent the next two weeks circling the Hawaiian Islands, checking for any sign of the Chinese fleet. Captain Dombrowski had been concerned that the fleet would have left the islands before they had fired their missiles, so they had targeted the second one east of the islands.
Cruising at periscope depth to allow them protection from the radiation, they circled in a counter-clockwise direction, their instruments taking readings through the periscope mast. As they approached from the east, the radiation became detectable.
