Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

The crew is hungry. The last two meals have been soup with most of the alleged ingredients undetectable. After four hours of sleep, Captain Thompson is back on the bridge. He logs in to the computer and pulls up the navigational chart for the island. “Sonar, are you hearing anything?”

“Negative, Skipper,” Petty Officer Adams replies.

The captain is itching to ascend to periscope depth for a quick look. But even submerged under fifty feet of water, the silhouette of the six-hundred-foot-long sub is readily identifiable from any lofted position, including aboard an enemy ship. But desperate times call for desperate measures. “Q, take us up to periscope depth.”

Dive Officer Quigley verbally confirms the order as the XO, Carlos Garcia, joins the captain near the periscope. As the boat levels off, periscope one ascends from the floor. Thompson grabs the handles and positions his face in the eyecups and walks a 360-degree circle to get his bearings. He slows and positions the periscope on the docks of Ponta Delgada, a southern port city on the island. He dials up the magnification and his shoulders sag as he mumbles, “We can’t buy a damn break.”

“What is it, Bull?” Garcia asks.

Thompson steps away to allow Garcia a look. “You worried about the docked Portuguese Navy frigate?” Garcia turns from the scope to glance at Thompson. “Her radar’s not turning. Looks as if she’s mothballed.”

“Looks can be deceiving.” Thompson steps close to Garcia and lowers his voice. “We’re a sitting duck if we surface and that ship is active.”

“I don’t think we have a choice, Bull. We need food.”

Garcia returns to the scope. “It doesn’t appear the island has sustained any damage. Hell, there are people walking along the coastline. I think they docked the ship and said to hell with it.”

Garcia steps away and Thompson returns to the periscope and dials up the magnification, the frigate now looming large in his field of view. He triggers a button to activate the video camera. “Conn, put periscope view on the video screen.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” a petty officer manning the communication desk, replies.

Thompson moves away from the scope, and he and Garcia step toward the monitor. “They could be out of fuel,” Garcia says. “I’m not seeing any smoke from the stacks, either.”

Thompson turns to the Adams at the sonar station. “Hearing any engine noise?”

“Negative, sir. Quiet as a mouse.”

“I’m not seeing any activity aboard ship,” Thompson says, pointing to the screen.

“Want to try hailing the ship?” Garcia asks.

“We do that and we give away our position,” Thompson says.

“I’d rather let them know we’re coming than to sail in unannounced.” Garcia runs a hand across the stubble on his chin. “It’s decision time, Bull.”

The captain ponders the situation for a few moments and finds no easy answers. They’ll have to reveal their presence at some point if they’re hoping to resupply, but not knowing who’s playing on what side compounds the problem. Thompson makes a decision. “Conn, down periscope. Comms, release the communication buoy. Q, take us down to a hundred feet.” As the periscope slides down, Thompson glances at Garcia. “That will provide us some measure of concealment.” The two lean backward as the sub dives to the designated depth. Once the submarine levels off the captain orders the ensign manning the radio station to hail the Portuguese frigate.

After several unsuccessful attempts to contact the docked ship, Thompson and Garcia discuss the next steps. “I believe the Portuguese ship is unoccupied,” Garcia says. “I say we move a little closer, surface, and aim for the dock.”

Thompson, using his index finger, wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Even if that frigate is empty, they’ll be a passel of Portuguese sailors on the island.”

“Yes, but they’re not going to be hanging around the docks, are they?”

“They could be if the ship is being repaired.”

Garcia shrugs and steps over to the monitor, replaying the video from the periscope camera. “I’m not seeing any sailors.”

“Okay, Carlos, you win. We’ll dock, but the crew will remain aboard. Put together a security team of ten to man the deck and limit the number of rifles to every other sailor. I don’t want it to appear as if we’re invading their island.”

“The crew’s not going to be happy about not going ashore.”

“We’ll assess the situation when we see what type of reception we receive. If we decide on giving them a little R and R we’ll do it in shifts. I want the boat operational at all times.”

“How are we going to purchase supplies? There might be a couple thousand dollars if the crew pitched in all of their cash.”

“I’ll figure something out. But let’s not count our chickens just yet.” Thompson turns back to the helm. “Q, bring us back up to periscope depth. Mr. Patterson, come to a heading of one-five degrees. All ahead, one-third”

The captain’s orders are repeated and the boat begins ascending again. “Do you want the security team topside as soon as we surface?” Garcia asks.

“You bet your ass, I do.”

Lakeville

Stan McDowell is up just as the faint smudge of the sun breaks on the horizon. The students finally fell asleep after the shoot-out, the girls in one office and the boys in the other. Melissa, Lauren, and McDowell took turns standing guard, switching places on the sofa throughout the remainder of the night. But McDowell never could get comfortable and slept with one eye open. He pulls on his boots and, rather than traipse around inside in the dark, exits through the front door. He avoids looking at the bodies and circles around back. A light drizzle continues to fall as he eases the back door open and grabs a handful of keys from a pegboard screwed to the wall. He clicks on his flashlight and places it in his mouth as he scans the tags attached to the individual keys, but he can’t decipher the lettering system used to designate which key goes to which truck.

He removes the light from his mouth, stirs the coals to get the fire going, and ventures into the equipment yard. There are six trucks parked up next to the fence and another dozen parked helter-skelter around the lot. They’re all the same type—cab-over sixteen-foot flatbeds, probably in the four-ton range, with staked beds, meaning the back is enclosed by a set of rails. McDowell approaches the first truck and pulls on the door handle. It squeaks open, revealing a mud-splattered floorboard and two captain seats separated by the engine cowling. He tries the first set of keys with no luck. On his sixth attempt, he finds the correct key but the truck fails to turn over. He climbs out and continues down the line.

The problem is all the trucks are of recent vintage and thus more susceptible to an EMP. The prevailing wisdom is that anything electronic dies after an EMP, but that isn’t necessarily true. During a stint at Global Strike Command while in the Air Force, McDowell actively participated in various scenarios on the effects of an electromagnetic pulse. Whether a device, or car, or anything based on electronics is affected by an EMP is based on numerous factors, two of which are the altitude of the detonation and the wire length of the device. The power grids were the first to go, but smaller devices that have a shorter run of electrical wires often survive. McDowell is hoping that’s the case for at least one of the trucks.

Wearily, he climbs into the cab of another truck. He quit counting after ten and that was a while ago. The good thing is the pile of keys is much smaller. This truck appears to be older than the others, the vinyl seats are split and the dash is veined with cracks. After several attempts he finds the correct key. He pauses, says a quick prayer to someone, somewhere, and twists the key. The starter groans and he pumps the gas pedal. Finally, the engine coughs to life, spewing a stream of black smoke into the slate-colored sky. McDowell raises his fist and shouts, “Hell, yeah.” As the engine warms, he steps down and makes his way over to the sign shop.