Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

The squawk box burst, “Captain Farway to the con.”

Trevor stared at his son. JB stood motionless just outside the open portal. Captain Farway pushed the ‘answer’ button.

“Farway here, go ahead.”

“Sonar contact to aft, sir. Closing fast.”

“Can you identify the contact?”

“Negative, sir.”

Farway ordered, “Call GQ, I’m on my way,” and he stood. So did Trevor.

For a split second JB blocked their exit.

“It’s here, Father. And we’ve nowhere to run.”

For the first time in five days’ worth of uneventful travel underneath the Atlantic Ocean, the bridge of the Newport News came alive. The helmsmen scanned their computer monitors keenly and gripped their steering controls with sweaty palms; the Chief of the Boat paced anxiously between sonar and fire control stations; the Executive Officer shoved a stick of ancient chewing gum in his mouth and worked his jaw as if biting on nails; and the rest stood in a pensive silence waiting for what would come next.

To Trevor’s eye the bridge appeared a strange combination of his expectations. On one hand valves, piping, cramped corners, and the periscope fit with his memories of World War II submarine epics such as Run Silent, Run Deep: a movie he and his father watched several times in the old world.

On the other hand, modern monitors, a vast array of blinking buttons and flashing lights, and the hum of electronics seemed more akin to Star Trek.

In any case, Trevor and his son stood near the Control amp; Attack Center and watched patiently, Jorgie having quickly changed from pajamas to shorts and a t-shirt but still held his wrapped bunny.

Captain Farway hovered at the center of the high tech bridge and tried to understand the situation.

“Chief, break it down for me.”

The Chief of the Boat-a broad shouldered fellow with the jaw of a Marine-answered while looming over the sonar operator’s shoulder, “Contact at two hundred yards and closing fast. Looks to be at fifty knots. Damn, that’s fast.”

“Target info?”

“A little bigger than a torpedo, sir, which is what its sonar profile resembles. Also hearing something secondary-engines of some type-maybe a type of jet propulsion like a Barracuda’s mag-drive.”

The Executive Officer-a thin man who could have appeared at home working in a bank or at an accounting firm-added, “We’re at thirty-five knots and it’s gaining. Helm, prepare for evasive maneuvers.”

“Aye.”

Farway: “Chief. Get on the horn with the engine room and make sure we’ve got everything she can give.”

“Aye, sir. Already did. We’re exceeding the safeties.”

The Executive officer mumbled, “And it’s still closing. One hundred and fifty yards.”

The Captain ordered, “Helm, wiggle our tail. Planesman, drop us another fifty feet hard then trim her out. Launch counter-measures.”

“Helm, aye sir.”

“Aye. Depth down fifty, thirty degree dive.”

Weapons officer: “Drones away.”

XO: “Grab hold.”

The nose of the sub seemed to fall nearly straight down by Trevor’s estimate while at the same time sliding from port to starboard and back again. He felt his heart thump faster and harder. Pencils, coffee mugs, and notebooks tumbled from perches; a few shouts of injury and frustration echoed through the corridors outside the control room.

After a several seconds the boat leveled again with what sounded like a groan of relief.

XO: “Sonar?”

Chief-looking over the Sonar operator’s shoulder: “Fifty yards-shit, it’s accelerating-and it matched our depth. Damn. Negative on the counter-measures. Whatever it is it’s locked on to us.”

“Torpedo room, load tubes one and two. XO, get me a firing solution-“

Chief: “Too late!”

The Executive Officer shouted, “Sound collision!”

The collision alarm echoed through the ship. JB held bunny in one arm and, with the other, clutched his father.

A voice from behind them in the corridor asked, “What’s going on?”

Trevor saw Rick Hauser standing in the passageway. The flat hair on the back of his head suggested he just woke up.

“I’m not sure,” Trevor told the pilot. “Looks like something is tracking us.”

“Me and you, Father,” Jorgie corrected. “It’s coming for me and you.”

Trevor knelt and placed his hands on JB’s shoulders.

“What do you know, Jorgie? What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know,” the kid admitted bashfully. “I sense it, I guess. I can feel it. Like-like he’s watching us. Looking for us…”

“Who?”

“Voggoth.”

Captain Farway’s voice sounded the slightest bit panicked: “Stand by for collision! All hands, brace for impact!”

Trevor wrapped both arms around his son and pushed them into a corner in the hall just outside the bridge. Hauser grabbed an overhead railing.

“Jorgie, whatever happens-hey buddy, I love you.”

“I love you too, Father.”

A sound like a gigantic gong banging carried through the vessel. At the same time, the entire boat felt shoved from behind, and up; a solid impact to the rear end of the vessel.

Lights flickered. Warning chimes sounded. Men fell from chairs. Curses and shouts. Trevor protected JB as the two of them were pushed first away from and then into the wall. Hauser fell over but managed to break his fall on the hard steel floor.

Then nothing. The submarine leveled. Sailors returned to their work stations.

Trevor waited for two seconds-three-four-he expected an explosion or a wall of water to pour through the ship. But nothing came.

XO: “Status report, all stations.”

“Contact lost,” the sonar operator said but everyone knew why.

The Chief moved between several stations and reported, “Helm operational. Nav on line. We’ve got power and propulsion, still on course and coming back up on thirty-knots. Depth holding.”

A voice came over the intercom, “Con, this is engineering. We’ve got a situation.”

Farway responded personally: “Go ahead engineering.”

“Sir, we’ve got an impact down here. A foreign object has penetrated the hull on the starboard side near the stern.”

“Are you taking on water?”

The XO actually answered first as he examined a gauge at the damage control station: “Slight drop in air pressure but nothing major. Hull integrity appears intact.”

“No water, Cap,” the engineer responded over the com system. “But it looks like-I dunno-some kind of torpedo head or something. But, well, not quite metal. Not sure, sir.”

JB pulled free of his father’s grasp and stepped fast toward the center of the bridge.

“Captain! Captain! Get them away from it! Get them away!”

The boy’s interruption surprised Farway. Before he could react, however, the engineer’s voice returned over the intercom.

“Captain, something is happening.”

The XO muttered: “Timed detonation. It’s gunna blow. Shit.”

“Engineering? What is going on?”

“Get them away!”

“Con, engineering, sir, the thing has opened up. It’s some kind of capsule. Movement!”

A sound came over the open microphone from the engineering room. Some kind of moan-and gurgle. Something-something sickening.

From the intercom: “What the fuck? What the hell is that?”

JB squeezed his head in his hands as if shutting out noise, closed his eyes, and pleaded: “Get away! Get away! Get away!”

Farway: “Report!”

“Con! We’ve been boarded! Oh shit…”

“Get away!”

Farway: “Engineering, get out of there!”

“Jesus Christ it’s got eyes-look at all the fucking eyes…”

XO: “All hands, intruder alert. Crackerjack, repeat crackerjack.”