Walter Greatshell - Apocalypso

“A sighting… sure.”

“Periscope depth.” The command flitted through the ship like a dead leaf. Flesh and metal moved fluidly to comply.

“Periscope depth, aye.”

“Raise periscope. She’s all yours, Lulu.”

My stone-cold hands seized stone-cold handles, my stone black eyes drank in daylight. I walked the periscope in a circle, taking a series of pictures, then quickly lowered it.

“Anything to report?”

“Just that bridge causeway, about zero ten degrees. Visibility is bad.”

Coombs said, “It’s gonna take a miracle to get past that thing.”

“What exactly is the Bridge Tunnel?” I asked.

“You’ve never seen the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel? It’s only one of the engineering wonders of the world: twenty miles of highway crossing the mouth of the Chesapeake, with three elevated bridge segments and two offshore tunnels. The center bridge is actually out of sight of land and has a rest stop on an artificial island. I’d bet dollars to donuts they’ve got the north passage netted and probably mined.”

“Reapers again?”

“Or somebody more legitimate. Either way, they’re bound to not like us.”

“So what do you think?”

“You speak for the skipper. What does he think?”

“He thinks we don’t have any choice. They’re doomed if we leave them like this.”

“Concur. So how do you propose we get past their defenses?”

I consulted with Cowper, closing my eyes and putting my hand on my forehead like a cheap psychic communing with spirits. “The captain proposes that we look closer.”

“It’s risky. We’re out of range of their sonar buoys out here, but any closer, and they might ping us.”

“We need to know what we’re up against.”

“Long as we don’t find out the hard way. Once they know we’re here, we lose all our advantage.”

“Oh, not all our advantage… ”

We proceeded south on the surface, the submarine’s fair-water silhouetted against the sun as it approached the bay’s south entrance. Coombs and Robles climbed up to the bridge cockpit and scanned the sea with binoculars. Neither shore was visible, but the elevated causeway crossed the horizon, abruptly cut short where it dipped underwater-a bridge to nowhere.

Nearing the deep channel, we submerged, running silent right to the mouth of the bay. It was strange to think of that huge tunnel passing beneath us, cars and trucks driving beneath the bottom of the sea. Just beyond rose a strange black tower, jutting into the sky like a gigantic sentinel.

Before we could discuss it, I heard a high-pitched whirring noise from outside the hull. The unmistakable whine of a high-speed propeller.

“What is that?” I demanded.

“Torpedo,” said Vic Noteiro. “MK-60. We must have triggered a CAPTOR mine.”

“Everybody brace for impact,” said Robles.

Before we could brace or do much of anything, a massive shock wave ran the length of the ship, causing floors to buckle and loose objects to go flying. We also went airborne, banging around the works like crash-test dummies, which probably would have killed some of us if we weren’t already dead. But everyone just got up and went back to work, leaning right to compensate for a sudden list to port.

“Full reverse,” ordered Coombs.

“Full reverse, aye.”

“Won’t they hear us?” I asked.

“Can’t possibly make more noise than we already have. Damage reports.”

Phil Tran said, “Looks like we caught a torpedo broadside, port midships, between frames sixty and seventy. Pressure vessel is intact, but there’s a breach in the outer hull-we’ve lost the main port ballast tank. We’re also losing hydraulic pressure on the aft port stabilizer. Reactor efficiency is down by sixty percent and still dropping-looks like damage to the fuel rods.”

“Any sign of pursuit?”

“Not yet. The mine was probably a stray.”

“Just in case, get us below the thermocline and play dead.”

“If we go too deep in this shape, we won’t have to play dead.”

“We have to risk it.”

We stabilized the boat as much as was possible at the bottom of the sea. The damage was severe, but not immediately critical; we could still limp along.

Under cover of darkness, we tested the buoyancy and hydraulic controls, surfacing the periscope and slowly cruising the northern Virginia coast, studying the barrier islands at full spectrum and full magnification. We knew from the charts that there were many quaint tourist towns and fishing villages all along these shores, but not a single light was visible. The place looked deserted. It felt deserted.

The only aura of human life came from the south entrance to Chesapeake Bay, a dim glow like an untended storm lantern. As we got closer, we could see the glow was coming from a black tower sticking out of the water. It was the giant structure we had seen just before being torpedoed. My thought was, One if by land, two if by sea.

“Well, this is it,” said Lieutenant Robles. “Looks like somebody’s home.”

“I recognize that thing,” said Alton Webb. “That’s Petropolis. What they call a spar platform-some thirty wellheads doing directional drilling. In normal operation, it can pump around sixty thousand barrels of oil a day. What you see there is only the tip of the iceberg; there’s a lot more of it underwater, fixed by catenary mooring lines to the bottom.”

“Since when is there oil drilling at the mouth of Chesapeake Bay?”

“There isn’t. It’s been moved here from the Gulf of Mexico.”

“Why?”

“Probably to guard the entrance to the bay.”

Coombs said, “If there are sentries in that platform, I think we can assume the Chesapeake is being defended. We’ve already run into one torpedo, it would be foolhardy to go any closer.”

“Concur,” said Robles. “So what’s next?”

Robles and Coombs looked at me, though they were really looking through me to the invisible presence of Fred Cowper.

I said, “We have to get to those guys in the tower.”

Coombs was hesitant. “If we do anything to give ourselves away, their defenses will zero right in on us. They’re broadcasting on ULF, so we know they intend submarines to hear them. We should be prepared for a trap.”

“I doubt they’re expecting anyone like us. Besides, we don’t have much choice at this point. What else are we here for? If we have to abandon the boat, this is as good a place as any.”

“It’s your call.”

I hated this passive-aggressive stuff. “You guys are the experts. Tell me how we can get aboard that thing.”

“My suggestion is we don’t go aboard at all but just sink it from a safe distance and move in to collect the sentries.”

“Assuming they’re not drowned, burned up, or blown to bits.”

“Chances are they’ll survive, or spontaneously Xombify.”

“It’s too big a risk.”

“Then I think we should forget entering the bay and just go ashore somewhere along the coast, like we did before. Bypass the sea defenses entirely and head overland to DC.”

“I have a better idea,” I said.

Dead men can’t drown. Hence the sea held no terrors for us.

The boys had gotten used to regularly crawling along the boat’s great hull, collecting mussels and gooseneck barnacles, filling their bags with unearthly delicacies while others trailed at the end of long tethers, spearing bottom fish or netting crabs and scallops. I, the sole girl, watching from atop the bridge, my black hair flying in the current as I mentally ticked off minutes of exposure versus mandatory items for the menu. It wouldn’t do to have the boys freeze before they could complete the grocery list. It was a novelty to them, this strange blue harvest; a welcome change from the sordid grotto of the sub. Despite the darkness and the cold, they were glad to do it, or maybe because of the darkness and cold.