Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“Roger.” Thompson glances at Garcia. “What do you think now, Carlos?”

Carlos smiles. “I say we go hunting, sir.”

Thompson moves to the middle of the bridge. “Mr. Patterson, belay my last order. Conn, right rudder, thirty degrees. All ahead full.” He steps over to the attack center. “Mr. White, mark that Russian destroyer and plot a firing solution. Tubes one and two are loaded. Load three and four.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Weapons Officer White says.

“Range to target?” Thompson asks.

“Six miles, Skipper,” Adams replies.

With a range of twenty-four miles, six miles is cake for the Mark-48 torpedo. But it also allows time for the enemy to evade or destroy the approaching torpedo.

Thompson turns to the attack center. “Mr. White, you have your target?”

“We do, sir,” White replies.

“Stand by. We’re going to sneak up behind her.”

After maneuvering for several minutes, the submarine is now less than a mile behind the enemy ship.

“Fire tubes one and two,” Thompson orders.

“Firing tubes one and two, Skipper.” And seconds later, White says, “Fish away, fifteen hundred yards and closing.”

“Conn, steady as she goes.”

With the torpedoes traveling at 63 miles per hour, it’s a tense fifty-second wait. “Mr. Adams, any countermeasures from the Russian ship?” Thompson asks

“Negative, sir. Ship’s course remains steady.”

The bridge grows silent as they await the blast wave from the two torpedoes.

“Contact, torpedoes one and two.”

A small cheer erupts on the bridge.

Seconds later the submarine shudders from the blast wave. Thompson turns to Adams. “Status of the Russian ship?”

“Multiple sonar contacts from debris, Skipper.”

“Any other contacts on the screen?”

“None, other than our ship.”

“Dive, take us up to periscope depth.”

As the sub’s nose ascends, Thompson turns and steps over to the communications area to instruct them to use all available means to contact the American destroyer.

As the sub levels off, the captain orders periscope one up and waits for the tube to finish rising. He takes a deep breath, triggers the video camera, and leans in for a look. “We scored a direct hit. The Russian destroyer is listing heavily to port and taking on water. Conn, periscope down.”

“Sonar,” Thompson says, “any progress in identifying our destroyer?”

“Yes, sir. I ran the screw signature through our onboard computers. She’s DDG-79, the USS Grant .”

Garcia and Thompson high-five. The captain of the USS Grant is Wayne Murphy, one of Thompson’s classmates at the U.S. Naval Academy.

Story City, Iowa

With no map, McDowell has no idea of the name of the town they’re approaching. If there had been a sign welcoming them to such and such, it’s gone now, as is the entire town. The trip from Clear Lake to wherever this is had been nothing but scorched earth. The only thing identifiable here is the metal framework of a sign that paints a vivid picture in McDowell’s mind—the brightly colored golden arches that can be seen all across the globe. Just seeing the remnants of the sign has his mouth watering for a Quarter Pounder and a large fries.

McDowell eases the truck to a stop in the middle of the highway for a potty break. With no cover, McDowell stays with the boys at the back of the truck while Melissa and Lauren take the girls around front. Everyone is in a solemn mood as they shuffle to their designated areas. A few people are coughing and sputtering and a burnt stench hangs in the air. McDowell can taste the ash residue on his tongue. He unzips his pants and watches a moment as his urine cuts a trail through the ash-covered asphalt.

Lauren asks for the all clear and McDowell confirms the boys are finished and zipped up. She steps to the back of the truck and takes McDowell by the arm, leading him away from the group. “Is this ash or radioactive fallout?”

“A majority of the fallout will have decayed by now, except in the hot zones. This is mostly fire ash.”

“That’s a small modicum of relief,” Lauren says, “but still, we’re eating a lot of ash in the back of the truck. The rear tires are kicking it up by the buckets.”

“I noticed some of the kids are coughing. We need to fashion some type of masks.”

Lauren glances around the barren landscape. “Out of what?”

“We’ll cut up the extra clothing. Only choice we have.” He and Lauren return to the back of the truck and open the suitcases. McDowell pulls out his uniform jacket and spreads it out on the bed. He removes the scissors from their supply suitcase and, with a small pang of regret, begins to cut. Lauren digs through their suitcase and pulls out her paisley knit top and a long knit dress belonging to someone else. Most of the rest are jeans or shorts, too dense to be of much use. With the other pair of scissors she sets to work.

Melissa steps in to help distribute the strips of material. When she hands a random strip to Hannah, the girl freaks out.

“Who gave you permission to cut up my dress?” she screams.

Melissa sighs. “The clothes are our communal basket. They no longer belong to the individual who donated them.”

“Bullshit,” Hannah shouts. “That was my dress. Mine!”

Melissa grabs her by the arm and leads her away from the group. “Hannah, we needed the dress to keep from suffocating.”

“I don’t care. Cut up someone else’s dress.”

Melissa plants a hand on her hip. “It’s done. Get over it.”

Hannah rushes in and pushes Melissa. “Do you know how much that dress cost?”

Melissa regains her balance. “Frankly, I don’t care.”

“Well, I do!” Hannah shouts. “You cut up a thousand-dollar dress for a bunch of rags.”

Melissa grabs Hannah by the upper arm and squeezes, pulling the girl closer.

“I don’t care if it cost a million dollars. You will tie that piece of precious material around your nose and mouth. Is that understood?”

“I hate you,” Hannah mutters.

“Join the crowd. Now, straighten your ass up and act like a young woman.” Melissa turns away and continues handing out material as Hannah stomps back to the truck.

Once everyone has their makeshift masks in place, they climb back into the truck. McDowell adds one of the five-gallon cans of diesel to the tank and climbs behind the wheel, Lauren joining him in the cab.

“Has that girl Hannah been this way the entire trip?” McDowell asks.

“You have no idea. I’ve wanted to strangle her more than once. You’d think the current situation would humble her, at least a little.”

McDowell shifts the truck in gear and steers down the road. “It’s her defense mechanism. She from a wealthy family?”

“What was your first clue? Yes, her family is one of the wealthiest in Lubbock. And that’s saying something with all the oil families in town.”

“She an only child?”

“No, she has an older brother. I think he got tangled up with drugs.”

“That makes sense. He probably consumed most of the family’s emotional resources, leaving Hannah feeling left out.”

“You a psychiatrist in addition to being a pilot?”

McDowell chuckles. “No, but when you’ve lived fifty-six years on this earth you learn a thing or two.”

“Did you grow up in Dallas?”

“No, Wichita Falls. We moved to Dallas when I was a sophomore in high school. Talk about culture shock. What about you? Has Lubbock always been home?”

“Yep. Born and raised there. I’m sure there are far more glamorous locations, but home is home, right?”