Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“I’ve got a couple of old analog pressure controllers left over from the oil patch. We could hook them into the hydraulics of the braking system. Pressure gets too high, it’ll lock the turbines down.”

“That might just work.”

Off the coast of the United Kingdom

Having shot their wad, the crew of the USS New York made a deep and hurried run to the Norwegian Sea. Now, a week later, the sub is meandering off the coast of Great Britain at a depth of 300 feet. Towing the communication buoy, the radio room has tried to contact U.S. Strategic Command (USSTRATCOM), other surface ships, and even other submarines, to no avail. Captain Thompson doesn’t know if the radio masts were damaged during the launch, or it they are the only people left on earth. Either way, Thompson has no intention of surfacing to find out. They are slowly working their way toward the U.S. Naval Submarine Base Kings Bay, off the coast of southern Georgia.

The mood aboard ship is melancholy. You don’t launch 192 nuclear warheads, each twenty-five times more powerful than the bomb dropped on Hiroshima, and not wonder about the lives lost. Captain Thompson continues to suffer from nightmares that are too graphic and violent to render into words. Weary from lack of sleep and concerned about his family back in Georgia, he stands from his chair and arches his back. When he’s finished stretching, he grabs the ship’s phone and makes a call. “Dan, can you meet me in the wardroom?” He receives a reply and hangs up the handset.

Thompson appoints an officer of the deck and exits through the hatch. Taking the ladder down one level, he turns toward the bow and enters the officers’ wardroom, sagging wearily into a chair. Moments later there’s a light knock, and Senior Chief Petty Officer Daniel Ahearn pushes the door open and steps into the room. Of Irish descent, Ahearn, with a headful of shaggy red hair, is a large man for submarine duty. Thompson overlooks Ahearn’s nonregulation hair because he’s the best damn chef in the navy. It took the captain six months of coaxing and prodding to persuade the big man to come aboard the boat.

Thompson waves to a chair. “Have a seat, Dan.”

Ahearn pulls out a chair and sits.

“What’s the food situation look like?” Thompson asks.

“We’re running on fumes, sir. I planned for a ninety-day tour and we’re already well past that. Are we heading for port?”

Thompson takes off his cap and rakes a hand through his hair. “There may not be a port, Dan.”

Ahearn rears back in surprise. “What do you mean, no port?”

“This stays between us, but we haven’t received so much as a hello since the launch order. We’ve tried every available method to contact USSTRATCOM and there’s been no response. Hell, we’ve tried to contact other ships and still haven’t had any luck. How long can you stretch the food stores?”

“Two days.” Ahearn pauses to think. “Might could cut the rations in half and stretch for a couple of more. Anything much beyond that and we’d be facing mutiny. We pride ourselves on serving the best food in the navy, and the crew has grown accustomed to that.”

“We’re now living in a different time, Dan. For now, make it half rations. I’ll deal with the crew.”

Ahearn pushes to his feet. “I’ll do what I can, Skipper.”

“Thanks, Dan. That’s all any of us can do.”

Ahearn pulls open the door and exits. Thompson stands and makes his way over to one of the ship’s computer terminals and pulls up a chart for Great Britain. Thankfully, the shipping lanes in this part of the world have been used for centuries and the charts are accurate to within a foot for sea depths all around Great Britain. Thompson, having docked in England before, knows the country has three naval bases. Using his index finger as a pointer, he traces out the three locations on the monitor. Her Majesty’s Naval Base Clyde is the closest to their position, but also the most difficult to navigate. HMNB Blyth is on the other side of the country, on the shores of the North Sea. Farther south, along the southern coast of the country, is HMNB Devonport, providing much easier access. “Devonport it is,” Thompson mutters. He flags the location on the map and picks up the phone. “Carlos, set a new course.” He relays the coordinates. “Keep her slow and silent.”

“Where are we headed?”

“Her Majesty’s Naval Base Devonport,” Thompson replies.

“Think it’s still there?”

“Don’t know. Won’t know until we get there.”

Minneapolis–Saint Paul International Airport

When the terminal quiets down for the evening, Lauren and Melissa gather up the kids and herd them toward the bookstore. The last shift ended fifteen minutes ago and three of the students are working via flashlight to put the place back in order. Once all of the students are inside, Melissa grabs the hook, pulls down the rolling metal screen, and twists the lock. Lauren takes the flashlight from Lindsey Scott and covers most of the lens with her palm. “Kids, have a seat on the floor,” Lauren whispers.

Once the kids are settled, Melissa steps into the wash of light. “We’re leaving in the morning.”

Her statement is met with a chorus of moans.

“We don’t have any choice. The last of the food was passed out this evening.”

“Where are we going?” one of the girls asks. She’s beyond the cone of light but Melissa can tell from her voice it’s Hannah Hatcher, daughter of Alexander and Meg Hatcher, one of the wealthiest families in Lubbock.

“We’re going home,” Lauren says.

“How?” Hannah asks.

“We’re walking.”

Hannah scoffs. “You’re joking. We have zero chance of walking home.”

“There are no other alternatives. We stay here, we starve to death.”

“I don’t care. I’m staying,” Hannah says. “You two aren’t my parents and you can’t tell me what to do.”

Melissa sighs. “You’re wrong, Hannah. You are all under our care until you’re returned home to your parents. You will do what we say, when we say.”

There’s an audible huff from the rear of the group.

“Now, moving on,” Melissa says, “I want you to round up all the empty water bottles you can on the way back to our area of the terminal. You will pull out one extra set of clothes, one pair of extra shoes, and a jacket if you have one.”

“What about everything else?” Caleb Carson asks. “I’m not leaving without my iPad.”

Melissa shakes her head. “Your electronic devices stay behind, as does everything else in your luggage. We’ll consolidate all the clothing and shoes into a couple of the better suitcases. Food and water will go into two additional suitcases. If you have a backpack and would like to take it, you may. But keep in mind, no one else is going to carry it for you.”

“This is stupid,” Hannah says.

“That’s enough, Hannah. I don’t want to hear another word from you. Is that clear?”

A mumbled “whatever” is Hannah’s response.

“We are going to do all of this without attracting any attention to our activities. Pull out the items you wish to take and we’ll pack everything in the morning. Once we leave this store, there will be no mention of our leaving. Is that understood?”

The kids acknowledge Melissa with a few scattered nods.

“We are starting a dangerous journey, but if we stick together we can make it. Remember, no talking about what we’re doing. The plan is to be out of the terminal building before dawn.”

“Hey, what’s going on in there?” a man shouts from beyond the locked screen.