Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“I’m here, Bull,” Captain Wayne Murphy replies. “We’ve got eyes on the Chinese destroyer.”

“Have you deployed your towed array sonar?”

“Yep. She’s a mile off our stern. Haven’t picked up anything yet, but we’re locked and loaded.”

“Any hint of the Chinese intentions?”

“Negative. Her course remains the same. She’s headed our way. Let’s just hope they don’t know you’re lurking below.”

A clock is ticking in Thompson’s head. Every second on the radio only furthers the chances of discovery. “Any choppers up?”

“No. Ours is operational and she’s on deck, ready to go if needed.”

“Good. Detonate a depth charge at fifty feet if the Chinese turn hostile.”

“What do you want me to do if the towed array detects a sub?”

“Kill it. Thompson out.” The captain hangs up the handset. “Dive, emergency deep.” The nose of the sub immediately sinks as the sub descends at a steep angle. “All ahead full.”

The mood on the bridge is tense. Not knowing if the oncoming ship is friend or foe adds another layer of anxiety. “Mr. Adams, any changes in course for the Chinese ship?” Thompson asks.

“Negative, Skipper. Course and speed remain the same,” Adams replies.

Thompson glances at Garcia. “What’s your gut telling you, Carlos?”

“It’s telling me Murph is in for some type of confrontation. What type is yet to be determined. The Chinese know where the Grant is and haven’t taken any measures to avoid her. It could be as simple as a meet and greet—”

“I have a subsurface contact, Captain,” Adams says in a tight voice.

Thompson steps over to the sonar station. “Distance and type?”

“Unknown on both, Skipper. Signal is intermittent.”

“Course?”

“Also unknown,” Adams answers.

“Keep tracking,” Thompson orders. “I want that submarine and its position identified yesterday.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.”

Thompson walks over to the chart table and punches up the sonar display. He’s far from an expert, but he’s seen enough sonar images over his career to be, at minimum, competent. The only blips visible are those of the two surface ships. Thompson glances up from the monitor. “Quartermaster, pull up all known contacts with Chinese submarines on the ship’s computer.” The order is affirmed and Thompson asks another member of the sonar team to compare the results from the computer to the recorded image of the recent subsurface contact.

Thompson returns to his position on the bridge. “I wish like hell we knew their intentions, Carlos. We could spend days screwing around with that sub.”

“What if things turn hostile?”

“I know what we’re not going to do. Torpedoes stay in their tubes until we identify this other sub. Murph can handle the Chinese destroyer.”

Sonar Technician Adams swivels his chair around, his face pinched with concern. “Captain, I mark a detonation two miles off our stern.”

“Depth?” Thompson asks.

“Fifty feet, sir.”

Searcy, Arkansas

On the outskirts of Searcy, Zane pulls the truck up close to a newer pickup with out-of-state tags and steps from the cab. Alyx rolls out on her side, the shotgun in her hands. Zane crams the hose into the truck’s gas tank.

“Hold off, Zane,” Alyx whispers.

Zane glances up and Alyx points toward the interior of the truck. He shuffles forward and peers inside. Two people are seated on the front seat, the cause of death readily apparent by the bullet holes punched in their foreheads. Zane turns to Alyx. “They were executed,” Zane whispers.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“We need fuel.”

“We’ll get it elsewhere.”

Zane nods and tosses the hose in the back, hurrying back around to his side of the truck. A little farther down the highway, he spots an exit leading to downtown Searcy. “Think we’ll have better luck looking for gas in town?”

“I’d rather stay on the highway. Seeing that murdered couple gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“We don’t know if people from town were responsible for the killing.”

Alyx turns in the seat to check behind them. “And I don’t want to find out.”

Zane glances at the gas gauge. “I don’t want to push it much farther.” After traveling another quarter mile, Zane slows, easing up on a late-model sedan with Tennessee tags. Inside the car is another dead couple, the interior buzzing with flies. “The killers must have been working in pairs,” Zane says. “Probably came up from behind the car.”

“I understand protecting what’s yours, but these executions are just senseless murders.”

Zane takes a moment to survey the area. Across the highway is a run-down hotel with people milling around in the parking lot. None appear to be too interested in the truck—yet. On the other side of the highway is a strip mall containing a mix of cheap clothing stores and a furniture rental outfit. The glass façades are smashed and clothing is strewn across the parking lot. “Can you stand watch while I siphon some gas?”

“Can we please get past this town?”

“We’re running on fumes now. I’d feel a hell of a lot more comfortable with a gallon or two in our tank. Won’t take but four or five minutes.”

Alyx sighs, grabs the shotgun, and pushes her door open.

Zane steps out. “Keep an eye on that hotel.”

Alyx nods as she takes up a position at the front of the truck. Zane grabs the hose and moves around to the other side and starts cursing because the fuel door has to be opened from the inside. He takes a deep breath and holds it as he sneaks his arm through the shattered window and pops the latch. He steps away, exhales, and starts the process of siphoning gas.

“Zane,” Alyx says softly, stepping closer. “Two people are walking up the on-ramp about a quarter mile behind us.”

Zane turns. From this distance it’s hard to ascertain much about the pair, but what’s not hard to distinguish are the two rifles riding on their shoulders. They don’t appear to be in a hurry, a fact that prickles the hairs at the nape of Zane’s neck. “Alyx, check our front,” he says quietly, keeping an eye on the two coming up behind them.

The shotgun roars and Zane whips around to see another pair of individuals duck behind a stalled car, only thirty yards ahead. He yanks the hose out, tosses it into the bed, and steps forward to take the shotgun from Alyx. “Take the wheel,” he says, backpedaling toward the passenger side. He sticks a hand through the window and blindly fumbles for more shotgun shells, his eyes focused on the dead sedan ahead. Alyx races around the truck and scrambles into the driver’s seat. Zane glances back to see the two people running in their direction. They’re seconds away from being pinned down by crossfire. His fingers light on the carton of shells and he grabs a handful and quickly reloads the shotgun. The two behind are still a good distance away so Zane turns his focus to the pair ahead.

Talking out of the side of his mouth he says, “Ease the pickup forward, Alyx. About walking speed. And keep your head down.”

The truck eases forward and Zane walks with it, his gaze centered on the sedan ahead. The shotgun is braced against his shoulder, his right eye sighted down the barrel as he slowly walks forward. With only a few shotgun shells remaining, he can ill afford to waste any. A man peeks up behind the trunk, but Zane holds his fire, his mind clicking through scenarios. Zane’s eyes drift toward the front of the car just as a man pops up by the hood, a rifle braced to his shoulder. Zane swings the shotgun and fires the right barrel. Rather than see if his shot hit the mark, he shifts the gun toward the rear of the car. Just as he thought, that man pops up, a pistol in his hand. Zane fires and quickly cracks the breech to reload.