Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

All three laugh. “Who calls you that?” Brad asks.

“Will and Trent. Most of the time they’re razzing me, but I can hit the three more often than not.”

“Are you good at getting boards?” Nicole asks.

“That’s not the best part of my game. I get pushed around a little bit in the paint. Sometimes I forget to box out.” He glances up at his father. “Think I’ll ever get to play basketball again?”

“Absolutely,” Brad says with more conviction than he feels. “We’ll find a place to park this boat eventually.”

“I’d like that,” Tanner says, finishing up his fish. He rinses his plate and ducks below to retrieve his book before returning.

“What are you reading?” Nicole asks.

“Something we were going to read this semester in English lit.” He turns the book around to show her the cover.

“Bradbury, one of my favorites,” Nicole says.

“You’ve read Fahrenheit 451 ?” Tanner asks, as if asking Nicole if she has walked on the moon.

“Of course. I’ve read most all of Bradbury’s works, some more than a few times. How do you like it?”

“It’s… well, I guess, strange. I just started it yesterday, so I haven’t gotten very far.”

“ Strange is a good way to describe some of his work, but the man was a genius. I’d love to discuss the novel when you get a little deeper into the story.”

Nicole sees Tanner glance at his father to gauge his reaction before he says, “I’d love that. Dad’s not much of a reader and it would be nice to discuss a book sometimes.”

Brad stands and rinses his plate before hoisting the anchor. He unfurls the mainsail and sets the trim. They bypass two docks before heading out to open water.

North Atlantic

The USS New York is parked at a depth of 800 feet, while a battle rages overhead. Petty Officer Adams, the sonar technician, has noted numerous detonations but no one on the sub knows who’s winning the battle between the USS Grant and the Chinese destroyer. The sub crew’s focus is on other matters: another submarine is lurking the depths. The assumption is she’s Chinese, but that has yet to be confirmed. The one thing the crew is certain of—they’re at war with the People’s Republic of China.

“All ahead one-third,” Captain Thompson orders. “Conn, steer us on a lazy S to see if we can pick up the other submarine.”

His orders are confirmed and Thompson leans back in his chair, waiting. The ballistic missile submarine is designed for a single purpose—to sail the world’s oceans in silence until ordered to launch its deadly cadre of nuclear missiles. Other U.S. Navy submarines, such as the Virginia-class attack subs, are built and designed to hunt and kill the enemy above or below the surface of the world’s oceans. But the New York is no slouch when it comes to stealth or technology.

Midway through their maneuver, Adams announces, “Contact, Skipper. Signal remains faint. Bearing is two-niner-zero and contact is five miles out at a depth of five-nine-zero.”

Captain Thompson stands. “Mr. Patterson, plot a course.” He turns to Adams. “Enough for an ID?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Damn,” Thompson mutters. “Carlos, any chance the other sub could be a friendly?”

“I highly doubt it, Bull. I don’t know—”

“Torpedo in the water,” Adams says, his voice high, strained.

“Target?” Thompson barks.

“Running for the Grant , sir.”

“Mark the launch point.”

“Done, sir,” Adams replies.

“I guess that answers one question,” Thompson says to Garcia. “The next question is, where did she go after launching? My guess is deep, but I don’t have a feel for which direction.”

“If she doesn’t know we’re here, maybe she didn’t stray far.”

“Two more fish in the water,” Adams reports.

“On course for the Grant ?” Thompson asks.

“Affirmative, sir.”

“Did she shoot from the same location?”

“Negative, Skipper. Bearing is now two-six-zero. Depth is seven-two-zero.”

Thompson looks at Garcia. “You’re right. She descended but didn’t stray far from the original launch point.”

“Mr. Adams, distance to the enemy sub?” Thompson asks.

“Four miles and closing, sir.”

Thompson crosses his arms. “Conn, maintain course and speed.” He glances at Garcia. “I want to be in that sub’s back pocket before we launch our torpedoes.”

“Makes sense,” Garcia says. “Take away their reaction time. How close do you want to be?”

“As close as we can get. Anywhere within a mile should do it.” Thompson pivots toward the sonar station. “Mr. Adams, distance to target?”

“Trying to reacquire, sir. Could be she ascended into the convergence zone.”

Thompson thumbs the sweat from his brow. “Find her quick, Mr. Adams.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.”

Thompson steps over to the attack center. “Mr. White, tubes loaded?”

“They are, Skipper,” Weapons Officer David White says.

“How long to produce a firing solution when we reacquire the target?”

“Seconds, sir,” White says.

“That may be all the time we have. Flood the tubes and stand by,” Thompson says before returning to his place on the bridge. Thoughts of what Murphy might be encountering attempt to invade his brain, but he quickly builds a mental wall—there will be plenty of time for that later. “Mr. Adams?”

“I’ve got her, sir. She’s running full out at a depth of six-zero-zero.”

“Course?” Thompson asks.

“She’s on an eighty-degree course, three miles out. If she maintains current course, she’ll pass within a half a mile of our bow.”

“Any hints if they’ve discovered our presence?”

“Negative, sir. I see no evasive maneuvers.”

“Status of the surface ships, Mr. Adams?”

“All screws are still turning for both ships. The USS Grant is six miles off our stern, running on a 360-degree course. The Chinese destroyer is ten miles off our bow and running on a 180-degree course.”

“Maybe both ships are having targeting issues,” Garcia says.

“Could be. Sounds like they’re lining up for an old-fashioned naval battle,” Thompson replies.

Silence descends on the bridge. Thompson mops his face with his uniform sleeve and reclasps his hands behind his back. Garcia shuffles his feet wider to provide a more stable base.

“Enemy sub two miles and closing,” Adams says in a hushed voice.

“Conn, all stop,” Thompson orders.

One of the young sailors piloting the sub dries his palms on his thighs and returns his hands to the controls. Thompson unclasps his hands and crosses his arms. Garcia repositions his feet and rakes a hand through his thinning hair. A blast wave from the battle overhead reverberates across the hull. Adams, the sonar technician, turns a knob to fine-tune the growing image on his screen.

“One-point-five miles and closing,” Adams says in a near whisper.

“Thank you, Mr. Adams,” Thompson says. A small smile forms on Thompson’s lips at the performance of his crew. All appear to be calm and steady, but Thompson knows their insides are tied up in knots, much like his own.

“One mile and closing,” Adams says.

“Same course?” Thompson asks, his voice low and clear.

Adams nods.

Thompson steps over to the attack center. “David, we’re going to let her in close. Stand by.” Thompson watches the target on the screen for a moment. “Conn, stand by right full rudder.” Thompson cranks his head left, then right, in an attempt to reduce the strain in his neck. Garcia quietly shuffles over to the navigation table for a peek at the sonar.