Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

Emerging on deck, pale and thin as convicts from a dungeon, the boys wept at their first glimpse of daylight in months. Not since they had first taken refuge in the factory had they felt actual sun. Or the touch of a gentle breeze. Or seen green grass and trees on the shores of a beautiful shining city, close enough to make out the red word BILTMORE on one of the buildings. They were home again. It was a wonderful morning to be out on the water, a wonderful time to be alive. Whatever happened, they were glad to be going ashore.

While the rafts were being inflated, Sal DeLuca had a vivid memory of looking out over this bay with his father at the final company picnic. It was the last meal they ever shared together.

Barbecue grills made from steel barrels, flickering and smoking, the stiff breeze wafting the smell of sizzling chicken and steak across rows of crowded picnic tables. Whitecaps surging up Narragansett Bay like runs of bluefish. The sun had set on the land, but a cruciform black monolith rose high enough out of the water to be transmuted to gold under the purpling sky. It was the fairwater or sail-what laymen would call the conning tower-of an Ohio-class nuclear submarine.

Cries of seagulls and blustering wind were the only sounds as all in attendance had watched a bearded man in a baseball cap climb the hastily erected dais. The man gripped the podium in both hands as if drawing support from either the wooden stand or the dynamic company logo on its face. Those closest to him could also make out the dolphin crest on his hat.

First of all, he began, I'd like you all to give yourselves a hand for continuing to work and serve your country under the most difficult conditions imaginable. You are all American heroes, and will surely be honored as such by posterity.

The crowd applauded, though not as one. There were islands of stony discord.

What's going on? Sal whispered to his father, sensing trouble.

Ssh!-just pay attention.

The speaker continued: When we got the contract to refurbish this decommissioned vessel from ballistic capability to tactical uses, all of us were relieved: It meant our jobs were safe. People chuckled. We never imagined that this boat might be the only cradle of whatever hope is left to us in this world.

Gloom descended, and the man paused a long time, the bill of his baseball cap hiding downcast eyes. When he continued, it was in a somber tone. So many things could have made this chance impossible. Imagine if instead of being refurbished, the boat had been scrapped. Or if the harbor had never been dredged deep enough to float a boat this size, and we still had to barge them to Groton piecemeal. Or if the OEM's SPAM mission hadn't come along, providing us with everything we've needed to remain operational behind these gates, including fuel for the boat's reactor-we couldn't have done anything without that power. We have Chairman Sandoval to thank for these things, and I hope you'll all join me in giving him a round of applause.

There was a wary smattering of applause.

I know how hard you've all worked, pulling out those old missile tubes and launch systems, retrofitting that compartment for cargo, going over every system on the boat with a fine-tooth comb. And I know what you've been hoping to get in return-it's the same thing we've all been hoping for: safe passage out of here for ourselves and our families. The boat seems ideal for the purpose: a big, empty submarine with a reactor good for twenty years. Who could blame us for thinking-

Noah's Ark, a man yelled. Scattered amens were heard.

The speaker smiled wanly. Exactly, Bob. Noah's ark. I hear you, believe me. And I know a number of you folks have been determined to launch her with that very name. Unfortunately, she is still the province of the U.S. Navy, and as they have not granted us official license to rechristen her, she will remain nameless for the time being.

Some people made muted resentful sounds. The one named Bob, a burly man with white hair and a yellowed beard, said, It's okay to steal it, but not to name it? Come on, the Navy's out of business-they don't care how we use this thing.

Nobody's stealing anything, Bob. In fact, that's why we've assembled you all here this evening. As many of you may know, the supply barges have stopped coming. We suspected something was wrong in New London last week, when our tug couldn't raise anyone on the ship-to-shore. We've also lost radio contact with COMSUBLANT, with Secretary Clark at Norfolk, with Admiral Stillson at NavShip, and with the USS McNabb, which means the Coast Guard is effectively out of commission. We've had no substantive communication with any military or government authority for eight days now; the lines are all down.

Damn, said Gus DeLuca, Sal's father, as a ripple of anxiety swept the crowd.

Raising his voice, the speaker admonished them not to panic. When they had subsided a little, he said, Now I know a lot of us had high hopes that we could use this vessel as a means to secure our families until the crisis stabilizes. Listen to me. But because of the loss of outside support, we are simply not going to have the provisions that we thought we would. Listen, please! The contingency plan now is to move the boat offshore with a minimal Navy crew and to have her remain at a classified blue-water station until otherwise ordered… as a matter of national security-He had to shout above the sudden, furious din. Listen, please-as a matter of national security! Please, there is no sense in all of us starving at sea! Not when we have a secure compound and everything we need right here-

Better we should starve on land? someone yelled. Or worse?

Oh my God, that's it, said Mr. DeLuca, eyes welling with tears. It's all over.

I knew it, said Sal.

The bearded man, Bob Martino, stood up in the encroaching twilight, and shouted, Are we gonna take this, people? We busted our asses for the last month making that tub into a safe haven for our sons, so they wouldn't have to end up the way our wives and daughters did. And these bastards have known all along that empty promises were the only leverage they had to keep us working here. And now they think they're gonna take that hope away from us, buy us out for the price of a chicken dinner! Well, we got news for them, don't we? They got another think comin'! They got-

There was a sharp little crack-just a twig snapping, barely audible over the hubbub-and Bob Martino abruptly toppled backward, falling between the benches. A few men and boys cried out or cursed; the rest went dead silent. It was far from the first sudden death they had witnessed.

Gentlemen, said the ashen-faced speaker, I am so terribly sorry. It's a horrible thing… a horrible thing to have to do. But Bob knew, as we all do, that the security of this compound depends upon our complete cooperation. The security personnel seated among you are trained professionals who are under strict orders to prevent this facility from falling into chaos. Try to remember that it's for our own safety. Please let us respect and thank these men for their courage in… executing this most difficult of duties. Thank you, Officer Reynolds.

Officer Beau Reynolds nodded grimly, still brandishing his pistol. The other ex-Special Forces men at his table cast hard looks back at the crowd, searching for defiance. Two of them wasted no time trussing Bob Martino's limbs and dragging him away in a plastic bag-to be burned, Sal knew. It was the only way. He had heard of the same thing being done with stray refugees who tried to enter the compound; a matter of blunt pragmatism-you never knew who was going to come back. As the bag started to bounce wildly, Sal felt his father grip him by the arm. Don't look at it, Sal. His dad choked out the words. I'm so sorry to put you through this.

It's okay, Dad, it's okay, Sal said. I've seen worse.