Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Adams clears his throat. “Sixteen hundred yards and closing.”

Thompson bends down to talk quietly to White. “Do you have the firing solution?”

“Yes, sir,” White says, his eyes never leaving the control panel in front of him. A thin man, White’s hands appear steady at the controls.

“Well done. Stand by.”

“Fourteen hundred yards,” Adams says.

Thompson calculates the distances in his head. If they’re correct, the enemy sub will pass within three hundred yards of their bow.

“Mr. Adams, have they detected our presence?”

“Negative, sir. Twelve hundred yards.”

Thompson inhales a deep breath and releases it. A trickle of sweat runs down his back. He repositions his stance for the upcoming dive.

“One thousand yards to port, three hundred yards off our bow,” Adams says in a soft voice.

Thompson waits. The seconds tick by in absolute silence.

“Eight hundred yards,” Adams says.

Thompson leans over and whispers, “Mr. White, fire tubes one and two.”

White punches the button for tube one then tube two, and the boat shudders as the torpedoes explode from their tubes. “Fish away,” White says.

“Hard left rudder,” Thompson barks. “Emergency deep.”

As the nose of the sub tilts down at a steep angle, Thompson orders a report on the torpedoes.

“They’re tracking, sir,” White says.

Those on the bridge are holding their breath. After an agonizing wait that feels like hours, White shouts, “Contact.” A collective sigh escapes from the crew as the blast waves from the two massive explosions rock the sub.

“Status?” Thompson asks.

“Multiple sonar signatures, Captain,” Adams says. “Target destroyed.”

Those words elicit a subdued cheer from those on the bridge. Yes, the torpedoes found their target, but the crew of Chinese submarine were sailors doing their jobs, a point that hits a little too close to home for the crew of the USS New York .

“Mr. Patterson, plot a course for that Chinese destroyer.”

Weatherford

Rather than climb up and down the turbine’s tower, Gage stays topside as Henry works below after climbing down following lunch. All of the electrical work is completed—or so they hope. They won’t know for sure until Gage releases the brake and the blades start spinning. Gage grabs a large crowbar and stuffs some wrenches into the pouch on his tool belt before climbing into the hub. During normal operation, the computer controls blade pitch and the position of the turbine head relative to the wind. But now it’s as far from normal as anyone ever thought possible a couple of weeks ago.

When the turbine was taken off-line, the blade pitch was set to an acceptable angle and now Gage’s job is to make sure it stays that way. The electric motors are fried and the stench of burned plastic and melted wire still lingers within the confined space. Gage reaches back through the hub and grabs a handful of metal plates. Ideally he would weld the plates in place—a twenty-minute job pre-doomsday—but that’s out the window now with no electricity. Now he’ll have to go through the laborious process of bolting the metal plates in place. He pulls a wrench from his pouch and starts working.

It’s not long before he’s dripping sweat. Add the fact that he’s working in tight quarters and the job is downright miserable. The wrench slips off a nut, ripping the skin from Gage’s knuckle. He mutters a string of curse words that goes on for a good minute. After wrapping a rag around his hand, he retrieves the offending wrench and continues working. After a couple of hours, he finishes bolting the last plate onto to the last blade and climbs out of the hub, arching his back to stretch out the kink in his lower spine. He lifts his wet shirt away from his torso, allowing the breeze to sneak in while mopping his face with a rag. He steps over to the side of the nacelle and shouts down to Henry, “How’s it looking?”

Henry looks up and shouts, “Looks good. Give me a few more minutes and we’ll give her a try.”

“Okay,” Gage shouts, unhooking his tool belt and letting it drop to the floor as he reaches for a clean rag. He sits, wiping the grease and grime from his hands. A loose flap of skin is dangling over his middle knuckle and he rips it off. A trickle of fresh blood sprouts and he wraps a clean rag around his hand and pushes to his feet to retrieve a bottle of water. Gage takes a long pull from the bottle and returns to his seat. A few minutes later, Henry shouts something he can’t hear and he stands and walks over to the side. “What?” he shouts.

Henry cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Release the brake.”

Gage glances up to see two people turning up the road to the turbine, rifles slung over their shoulders. The turbine is situated on a gravel drive about two hundred yards from the main road with nothing but plowed fields for as far as the eye can see. The pair is too far away to identify so Gage doesn’t know if they’re friend or foe, but if they’re looking for trouble, Henry and the truck will be impossible to miss.

Gage doesn’t want to shout down to Henry and give away his position or reveal the fact that there’s more than one person around. But he has no idea if Henry has seen them. With the shotgun still in the truck, there’s no way Gage can get to it before the pair arrives. He grabs a wrench from the tool belt on the floor and chucks it toward the truck. Two seconds later, the wrench clangs off the hood, and Henry snaps his head up. Gage waves a hand toward the road. Henry turns that way, drops his tools, and hurries for the truck as the two coming up the road brace their rifles to their shoulders. Shots ring out as Gage clambers through the hatch and grabs the ladder.

Trying to hit every other rung with his feet, Gage’s descent is herky-jerky. More shots ring out and it’s all rifle fire. When Gage touches down on the upper platform, the shotgun comes to life. The booms from the 12-gauge shells reverberate up the tower, but they’re a comfort to Gage knowing that Henry is still alive. Gage swings around to the lower ladder and continues the descent. More shots ring out, a quick succession of rifle fire, answered by the booming blasts from the shotgun. Gage is trying to keep count of the number of shots fired from the shotgun and almost loses his balance. He turns his focus back to the ladder. The shotgun barks twice more before an eerie silence settles in. Gage scampers down the last twenty feet and takes a peek out the door. No one is waiting to kill him so he eases out the door and works his way around the tower and nearly trips over Henry, who’s crumpled at the base. Gage squats down for a closer look. Henry’s eyes are open, but his breath is ragged. “Are you hit?”

“Right arm. They rushed the truck. Had to take cover behind the tower.”

“And the two men?”

“Dead, I hope.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

Gage pries the shotgun from Henry’s hands. “Any ammo left?”

“Left pants pocket. Had to grab what I could.”

Gage wedges his hand into Henry’s pocket and retrieves three shells. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

Henry nods as Gage feeds the shells into the gun and racks one into the chamber. He takes a step forward and peers around the tower. One of the assailants is lying by the front tire, but there’s no sign of the second one. Gage hunches over and runs for the front of the truck. He slides along the nose to check on the first man. No need to feel for a pulse—his midsection is shredded. Gage turns and eases back the other way, turning around the right fender. Carefully, he creeps toward the rear. At the edge of the tailgate, he pauses for a deep breath, tucks the shotgun tight to his shoulder, and swings around the rear of the truck.