John O'Brien - Conspiracy

Northern California has the least populated areas of any shoreline. Even though Leonard has a fair picture of what the Western Seaboard presents with regards to survivors, he holds to their course and speed rather than race south. Survivors can be anywhere, and he wants to give the watch the best chance at locating any. He senses the impatience of the crew to get to their base, but feels that these lesser populated shores may actually be the most likely places to find anyone.

They slowly pass the rocky shoreline without finding any evidence of life — of any kind. Leonard feels a slight relief at this as it would be hard to put Chief Krandle’s team ashore with the high bluffs and seas pounding against them.

The day wears on until the sun casts a fiery glow against the cliffs, creating diffused colors of yellows and oranges in the spray as the waves strike the rock walls. It’s the eternal struggle of an irresistible force against an immovable object. Rainbows dance above the waves where the spray leaves a mist.

The shadows in the crevices of the cliffs deepen, and the sky darkens as the sun gives a final farewell. In moments, with no lights on land to show the delineation of sea and shore, the features fade and go black as if a veil has been pulled over the land. Leonard hears the soft rustle of people moving as one shift relieves another. He rises.

“I’ll be in my cabin. Alert me if anything happens,” he says, leaving the control room.

The next day, the Santa Fe slides between the headland leading to Chimney Rock and the Farallon Islands, nearing the approaches to San Francisco. They enter the perpetual fog bank that keeps a solid hold on the straits. Leonard slows the boat to a crawl and surfaces.

“Bring us in on radar…slow and steady. Let’s not hit anything out here in this pea soup,” he says.

On top of the tower with two others of the watch, he feels the cold moisture gather on his exposed face. Droplets gather and run down his cheeks. He listens for the familiar fog horns in this area but hears nothing except the slap of waves against the hull. Periodically, his own fog horn blows low notes outward, rolling across the gentle swells; they are absorbed by the thick veil of moisture. The bow is only a faint, wispy sight in front as they draw closer to the inlet.

Radar picks up unmoving signatures of vessels floating at anchor ahead and they maneuver between and around the ships at rest. A few times during their approach, the mist clears to the extent that they can see the dark shapes of cargo vessels. The silhouettes slide past and are lost from sight in the fog.

Slowly, the Santa Fe creeps into the inlet serving the large city. Using radar to guide them, they pass the headlands of the strait. Several other cargo ships pass slowly by like wraiths loitering on the edge of sight. Without thinning, the fog brightens, changing from a consistent light gray to white. Patches of yellow mist appear overhead.

Without warning, the Santa Fe breaks into the clear. The fog hangs just behind like a sheer wall. Leonard orders a halt and orders the crew to keep the sub on station. Hills rise steeply on the left and parts of the city can be seen to the right. A breeze carries the tangy air associated with ports. That isn’t what captures the attention of Leonard however.

The large red pillars of the Golden Gate Bridge rise high above them and make their vessel seem miniscule by comparison. What is mesmerizing though is the large span between the towers. The incredibly large center span angles downward on either side from each of the tall support structures. The middle of the span is lost beneath the cold waters of the bay. One of the two large guides holding the suspension lines still spans the towers with the wires hanging down, swinging gently in the light breeze. The other guide has broken in the middles and trails loosely from each side of the towers, the wires still attached to the broken span.

Leonard edges the sub as close as he dares without running into debris or snagging loose lines. He wants to get a better look at the city and see if there is an indication that anyone still remains.

The high rises of the downtown area slowly emerge into view from around the guarding heights that encircle the city and lead to the bridge. Sunlight glints off a myriad of windows and the shape of the well-known TransAmerica Pyramid rises above all of the rest, a testament to humankind’s engineering.

Bringing the binoculars to his eyes, Leonard spots the long bridge connecting San Francisco and Oakland. It too has spans down. It looks like someone tried to isolate the Golden City from the rest. Leonard can only hazard a guess whether that was to fend off night runners coming into the city or to keep them from leaving. From all appearances, their endeavors failed as he can’t spot any movement or other indication of anyone surviving.

He hails on differing frequencies and has the fog horn blown several times, but nothing he tries elicits a response. Like Seattle, the city appears dead. He parks his boat for a couple of hours attempting all forms of communication and waiting for any reply while keeping a close eye on the fog bank behind him. As he well knows, that fog can sweep in quickly and he’s too close to the damaged bridge to make that a comfortable proposition.

After satisfying himself that he isn’t going to receive a response, Leonard directs the crew to turn the boat around and begin making headway to the south and San Diego. He’ll check Los Angeles on the way but feels that will be a moot foray as well. Looking at the receding city, he begins to think he won’t find anyone left in San Diego either.

As he descends, his comm officer approaches holding a piece of paper, “Sir, you’re going to want to take a look at this.”

All eyes look toward the phone as its ring intrudes upon the meeting. One of the officers reaches over and picks up the receiver on the second ring. He listens a moment and hands the receiver toward Gav, “It’s for you, ma’am.”

She grasps the receiver thinking, What could possibly be wrong now?

“Yes,” she says into the handset.

“Nahmer, we’ve located the Santa Fe . You were right to keep a watch on approaches to San Francisco,” the control supervisor states.

“I’ll be right there,” she says and hangs up.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she says to the commanders leading the battalion under her supervision.

With anticipation, she leaves the meeting and marches down a wide hall. The plan to take out their command failed. With her shooter being taken captive, she can only assume that her group is known — if not now, then it’s only a matter of time. They took their shot — literally — in an attempt to assimilate the group with hers, but that idea now lies in ruins. She has no choice now save for eliminating the group identified as A-US-1 as a whole, or at least to a point where the remaining ones won’t be a threat. Gaining command of her emotions, she slows as she nears the control room. With a deep breath to calm and center herself, she swipes her card and enters.

The large central screen shows sunlight glimmering off a strait between two bodies of land. Just ahead of a large fog bank, a dark cylindrical object lies in the middle of the channel. Notations to the bottom right of the screen denote the satellite and that the video is coming to them in real time.

The supervisor looks up from where he is conversing with one of the operators and acknowledges her arrival before bending back down and pointing at the monitor. Finishing with his instructions, he hurries over to Gav.

“How long have they been there?” Gav asks.

“They just emerged from the fog bank,” the supervisor answers.