Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Now six hundred yards from the docks, Thompson picks up a radio handset to play the role of navigator, while keeping a close eye on the shoreline. He relays course corrections and speed changes to the helm as the six-hundred-foot behemoth closes in on the docks. “All stop,” he orders via the radio. “Send a helmsman up to the bridge. Might make things easier. And send up the tenders. I see some lines lying on the dock.”

After making his way up the sail, the helmsman takes the wheel and the submarine resumes forward progress. Thompson lifts the binoculars to study the dock area and the surrounding shoreline again. After a world-wide nuclear war, life on the island appears mundane. The captain triggers the microphone. “Carlos, who’s the big kahuna on the island?”

After a delay of a few minutes, Garcia answers. “Ponta Delgado is the seat of government for the Azores and I assume the president has an office somewhere in the city.”

“Is there any other information in the computer?”

“I’ve looked, Bull. I can’t find any more about who or where and I can’t exactly call the State Department. I guess we’re winging it.”

“Let’s just hope he’s a winging-it kind of guy. Anyone on board speak Portuguese?”

“I’ll peruse the personnel records, but I highly doubt it.”

“What are the chances we have a consulate in the city?” Thompson asks.

“Hadn’t thought of that. We should have some information if we do. I’ll check.”

“We’re about two hundred yards from the dock. Check fast.”

The submarine slows to a crawl as the boat moves closer to the dock. On the surface the USS New York drafts thirty-eight feet, compared to a ship like the Portuguese frigate, which probably drafts twenty. The captain is hoping the charts are accurate and sediment hasn’t built up over the years. As the submarine inches closer to the dock, three officious-looking men appear at the entrance and begin striding down the pier. Thompson raises the binoculars to his eyes for a closer inspection. Two are dressed in some type of official uniform, the third is dressed in camouflage fatigues and a beret, common among the Portuguese Navy. Thompson zeros in on the navy man. Although he’s unfamiliar with Portuguese insignia, the epaulets on his uniform suggest he’s some type of officer. All appear to be unarmed. Thompson lowers the field glasses to make sure none of his security people are tracking the men’s progress with a rifle barrel. Wouldn’t do to shoot a government minister of the host country before even docking.

Two young seamen make a nimble jump across to the dock and ready the lines. The helmsman puts the engines in neutral and the submarine slowly coasts up to the pier. “Well done, Ensign Taylor. You’re a hell of a boat driver,” Thompson tells the young man at the controls before disappearing down the ladder. He makes his way over to the main hatch, calling for Garcia to join him. “We probably should have put on our dress uniforms.”

“A little late for that,” Garcia replies. “I think they’ll forgive our rudeness, considering the situation. And I checked, there is a U.S. consulate in Ponta Delgada.”

Thompson nods and starts climbing. On deck he orders a gangway be brought across from the dock. The security personnel form a loose perimeter around their captain and XO as they navigate their way down the long black deck. The trio of uniforms is now about fifty yards away and one of them is waving his hand, and not in greeting. “Hold up,” Thompson shouts to his men working the gangway. In a lower voice, he says, “Security team, fan out along the deck.” He turns to Garcia and says in a low voice, “What do you think that’s about?”

“Well, they’re not rolling out a red carpet, that’s for damn sure. And from their grim expressions they don’t appear to be in a cordial mood, either.”

“Any Portuguese speakers on board?” Thompson asks.

“Negative.”

The trio, eyeballing the security detail, stops when they’re twenty feet from the sub. The hand-waver speaks first, using broken English. “You not welcome here. Leave.”

“All we want to do is resupply,” Thompson says.

“We not have supplies. Leave.”

“We are NATO allies. I would expect your cooperation.”

“No NATO now.”

“We’re still bound by a signed treaty.”

“No more.”

“I would like a word with someone at the United States Consulate.”

“No more consulate. I order you to leave.”

“May I have a word with the gentleman from the Portuguese Navy?”

The three men are all shaking their heads. “No speaking. You leave.”

Thompson’s face turns a deep shade of crimson and the veins in his forehead are visibly throbbing. “Or what?” His words spark the security team into action. Those with rifles are now pointing them at the three men.

The waver raises his arm and flicks his hand. The sound of loud footfalls reverberates along the pier as a group of Portuguese sailors march toward the submarine, their rifles at the ready. Thompson estimates the number at fifty or more, but regardless of the actual number, his small security force is seriously outgunned. And it’s way too late to summon more men. “Tenders, free the dock lines and board the boat. Security team, lower your weapons and return inside.”

Disgruntled, the security team makes their way to the main hatch. The only two now left on deck are Thompson and Garcia. “Thank you for your hospitality,” Thompson says, his middle finger extended. He glances up at the helmsman. “Reverse engines, Ensign Taylor.” He and Garcia make their way toward the hatch. Captain Thompson is the last man down the ladder. When his feet hit the deck he orders, “Sound the general alarm—battle stations, torpedo. Conn, recall Ensign Taylor and secure the hatches.” He walks over to the attack center and orders tubes one and two loaded.

“Conn, periscopes up.”

The two periscopes slide up from the floor and Thompson takes one and Garcia the other as the boat continues to retreat from the dock. Thompson turns the periscope to focus on the group on the dock “You bastards,” he mutters. “Q, tell me when we’re deep enough to dive.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” the dive officer, Lieutenant Commander Quigley, replies.

Thompson is calm on the exterior, but inside the anger is raging. And the farther the submarine retreats, the more his anger builds. “So much for human compassion, Carlos.”

“Yep. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Affirmative.”

After a few more minutes, Quigley reports the water depth at 225 feet.

“Thank you, Q. Take us down to periscope depth.”

“Dive, dive, dive,” Quigley says, as a shipwide horn sounds and the submarine slips beneath the surface.

Thompson dials up the strength on the periscope. “Those assholes going to stand there all day, Carlos?”

“I think they want to make sure we’re leaving.”

“Well, I’ve got a parting gift for them.” He turns toward the attack center. “Mr. White, torpedoes loaded and armed?”

“Yes, sir,” replies Weapons Officer David White.

“You have the target?”

“Yes, sir.”

Thompson rotates the periscope to the Portuguese frigate. “Fire tubes one and two.”

“Roger, firing tubes one and two.” The ship shudders as the two torpedoes are propelled out of their tubes.

“Fish away. Eight hundred yards to target,” White says.

“Roger,” Thompson says.

The two Mark-48 Mod-7 torpedoes clock in at nearly 3,700 pounds each, 650 pounds of which are the high-explosive warhead. Traveling at sixty-three miles per hour, the torpedo can cut a ship in half.

“Four hundred yards to target,” White says.