Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

Later that evening, back in the hangar, things were unusually quiet. There hadn't been much talking since the shooting, and no more work was getting done. For once the boys had all the time in the world to goof off… but nobody was in any mood for the usual teenage horseplay.

That's it, isn't it, Dad? We're all going to die.

Everybody dies sometime, Sal. And if they're lucky, they stay dead.

I bet they're planning on running out on us. The white hats. They know this place is going to turn into some kind of feeding frenzy, and they're not gonna want to stick around and wait for it to happen. They're taking that sub and all their people and guns and all the food and-

Sal, stop!-it's no use.

Well, are we just gonna sit here and let it happen?

You saw what they did to Bob Martino. As long as they needed us to work, we had some bargaining leverage… or thought we did. But now the job is done; we're disposable. I don't expect we'll see or hear from management ever again. We'll be lucky to see daylight ever again.

Well, we have to fight back!

How? Fight who? We're locked in, son, and I'm not expecting any more lawn parties in the near future. Best we can hope for now is that they all pull out and leave us in peace. Then we can use the tools we've got and break out of here-survive as best we can. It's not much of a hope, but it's better than nothing.

Why not bust out now and fight them?

With Beau Reynolds and his people guarding the gate? We'd get about two feet before they mowed us down.

What about Uncle Sammy? He wouldn't shoot us.

Your uncle can't help us, Sal. He's out there, and we're in here, end of story.

So that's it, then. That's the plan? Just let them abandon us.

Unless you can think of something better. I'm afraid I'm shit out of ideas. I tried, Sal. I'm really sorry.

It's fine, it's okay, Pop-you did great. Don't worry. Listen, I gotta head over to the john, maybe see how the guys are doing. I'll be back before lights-out.

Sal left their small, curtained space and walked across the concrete floor, his steps echoing in the cavernous assembly building. Nestled among gigantic submarine components was a maze of crisscrossed tarps and drying laundry, damp sheets glowing with light and the flicker of cookstoves-a hobo jungle beneath a soaring ceiling of I-beams and corrugated steel.

As he traversed the alleys and flaps of this indoor bazaar, Sal thought, It looks like a refugee camp. And then: You're a refugee, stupid-it is a refugee camp.

People paid no attention as he intruded briefly on their private spaces, even stepping over their legs or belongings as he went. Whatever modesty had not been expunged by a month in these close quarters was now stone dead from despair, killed along with Bob Martino.

Men and boys sat staring into space or either wept or consoled the weeping. This place, which had up to now been a clamorous hive of industry, was now hushed as a cathedral during funeral services. Instead of studying, as the boys had been accustomed to doing since they first arrived here on New Year's Eve, they were feeding sheaves of submarine blueprints and technical manuals into pyres, burning their home-work. Their fathers, grandfathers, uncles, older brothers-all dedicated employees of the company-did nothing to stop them. Black flakes floated down like snow.

They think they're already dead, Sal thought.

As he waited his turn to take a leak, he noticed he was standing beside the one person likely to help him take his mind off all this crap: Tyrell Banks.

Yo, Tyrell, he said. How you doing, man?

It's all good, Sal. Scored me my cup of Jonestown Kool-Aid-gonna be rockin' that Grape Ape like a motherfucker. Better than drag-assin' around here waiting for the fucked-up Donner Party shit that's gonna go down.

Yeah, it sucks.

Phew, you the king of understatement tonight, Sal-next you be tellin' me that Armageddon is bogus, go ahead.

No, seriously, man, I was thinking we gotta do something to snap everybody out of this. I'm not ready to lie down and die.

What you got in mind, man? Hey, I know! You into that extreme sports shit-why don't you hook us up with a little postapocalyptic BMX exhibition? Fuckin' Agent X Games.

Tyrell was joking, and Sal laughed along, but something in the corner caught his eye: a rack of granny bikes used for light deliveries around the plant.

Why not?

It was time to go ashore. Officers Phil Tran, Dan Robles, and Alton Webb organized them into two teams, twenty boys to a team, and assigned each team a raft-a large, semirigid inflatable boat. The rafts were designed to carry as many as forty men apiece, plenty of room for the loot they were expected to bring back. The boys would have to paddle out, but lines would connect the rafts to the submarine so that they could be quickly retrieved.

"There's no time for speeches," Lieutenant Tran said brusquely, ushering them aboard.

Out of Webb's earshot, Robles pulled Sal DeLuca aside, saying softly, "Bring them back in one piece."

"Yes, sir."

Tran said, "We know you, Sal-you're the smartest kid we have. I shouldn't even be sending you, but somebody's gotta have their shit together out there. I'm sorry."

Sal's teeth chattered with excitement. "That's okay. I want to go."

"I know." Tran sighed. He gripped the boy's shoulder as if reluctant to let go, then pushed him away. "Your dad would have been proud of you. Don't waste any time, all right? In and out."

Sal was already gone, clambering aboard the boat to join all the other yellow life vests. Looks like a damn summer camp, Tran thought furiously. Then they were pushing off with their paddles, awkwardly scudding away. "Watch the time!" he shouted after.

"Bon voyage, kiddies," Webb said smugly, paying out line.

Phil Tran could only shake his head, too angry to speak. The asshole hadn't even let them take a radio or a gun. "Mission-essential, too valuable to risk," he had said. Unlike those kids' lives? You just better hope they come back, Tran thought. Otherwise, we are going to have a serious problem, Webb. You and your bogus captain.

At his shoulder, Dan Robles said, "It's okay, Phil. We've done everything we can for them. We just have to trust in God."

Tran nodded, red-eyed. "Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition," he said.

Cut 'em loose-that was Lieutenant Alton Webb's opinion of those kids and all their would-be adult benefactors… including a few fellow officers he could think of.

Civilian refugees didn't belong on the boat. He for one had been furious to learn that Harvey Coombs ever let them aboard. Webb witnessed firsthand the nightmare that had been unleashed belowdecks as a direct result of Fred Cowper's treachery, and neither he nor any other man who had lost friends and fellow officers in that fight could think of these people as anything other than hijackers. And then to let that filthy traitor declare himself acting commander while Coombs was down, filling the control section with armed thugs like Gus DeLuca and Ed Albemarle, forcing good NavSea officers like Rich Kranuski to kiss his ass-it was just incomprehensible.

Then there were the collaborators: Dan Robles, Philip Tran, at least a dozen others. Webb could think of a few choice things he'd like to do to them. If they hadn't lined up behind Cowper instead of Kranuski, the takeover wouldn't have been possible in the first place. Couldn't they see that even if that retired son of a bitch was the most senior officer on board, he was no better than a terrorist? His actions had cost the lives of a dozen crewmen and two Marines, not to mention fatally compromising the mission. Better the boat should have been scuttled than put him in charge. By the time Coombs recovered and arrested the old coot, it was too late. The damage had been done.