Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“Yeah, well, fuck that. I’ll grab the shells and we’ll do the exchange on top of the sandbags.”

“I need to grab the turkey from the truck.”

“Go ahead. Try anything funny and I’ll splatter your insides all over that ugly-ass pickup.”

With his hands still high in the air, Zane steps off the curb, grabs the turkey from Alyx’s outstretched hand, and returns. He passes it across, and the man opens the bag and takes a sniff. One carton of shells appears on top of the sandbags. Zane picks it up and opens the lid to make sure he’s not getting a box of ball bearings.

“I’m a man of my word, too,” the man says around a mouthful of turkey. “It’s a damn shame that no one trusts anybody anymore.”

Zane digs the pill bottle out of his pocket and places it on top of the sandbags. Another box of shells appears, but this time Zane doesn’t open the lid. “You in the military?”

“Yep. Four tours in the sandbox. You?”

“One.”

“Hoorah,” the man says. “Probably ain’t no military left now.”

“You’re probably right. How long have you been holed up in there?”

“Since day one. Got a pretty good supply of water and grub. Wife left during the third tour. Just me now.”

Zane scans the Barrett. “Had to fire that thing?”

“Only once. I guess word spread.”

“I bet. Nice doing business with you, soldier,” Zane says.

“Back at ya. You be safe out there.”

“Will do.” Zane turns and heads back to the truck. He waves before climbing inside.

“That was a bonding moment,” Alyx says.

“Hell, he’s not a bad guy. He’s in the same boat we’re in.”

“Yeah, but he has a bigger gun in his boat.”

Zane smiles and steers back to the main road. A mile farther on he spots an on-ramp and pulls back onto the highway.

North Atlantic

With the Chinese submarine destroyed, the USS New York is stalking the Chinese destroyer that is now ten miles off their bow. The distance is well within torpedo range yet Captain Thompson, much as he did with the Chinese sub, is holding fire until they close the distance. Cruising at a depth of 600 feet, the sub is running at full speed, hoping to sink the enemy destroyer before the USS Grant suffers further damage. Thompson is itching to talk with Murphy to find out exactly what his status is. Situations such as this are one of the negatives of submarine life—you’re enclosed in a metal tube with no windows, and situational awareness of the surrounding environment is limited to an array of computer-controlled sensors. Thompson decides to scratch the itch. “Q, slow ascent to periscope depth.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Quigley replies.

The nose of the sub tilts up slightly and Thompson steps over to the sonar station. “Mr. Adams, what’s the status of the two surface ships?”

“ Grant is five miles off our bow. The enemy destroyer is ten miles from our position and seven miles from Grant ’s location. Sir, Grant is currently turning only one screw.”

“Could be she’s saving fuel.” Saying it doesn’t necessarily mean Thompson believes it. He steps back over to his command post. “Q, steepen the ascent.”

The nose of the sub tilts up on a steeper angle and those standing lean forward to compensate. Thompson looks at Garcia. “Carlos, make sure we’re locked and loaded. Flood the tubes. The Chinese destroyer knows we’re here now.”

Garcia steps over to the attack center and relays the captain’s orders.

“Captain, we’re at periscope depth,” Quigley reports.

“Periscope up. Comms, get me Captain Murphy.” Thompson steps over and catches the handles of the periscope as it ascends. He positions his face in the eyecups and walks a 360-degree circle. In the far distance is the Chinese destroyer, smoke billowing from the deck. He turns the scope and centers it on the USS Grant . There is visible damage but she appears to be watertight.

“Captain, fish in the water,” Adams says.

“Course and distance.”

“She’s headed our way, sir. Ten miles out and closing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Adams. Keep tracking her.”

“Skipper, I have Captain Murphy on the radio,” the radio technician says.

Thompson grabs a radio handset from above. “Murph, you there?”

“I’m here, Bull. Good shooting down there.”

“Thanks. What’s your status?”

“We’ve sustained some damage, but nothing we can’t handle. Still having issues with the goddamn targeting computer. We hit the Chinese with a couple of missiles, but she’s still afloat. We’re currently turning one screw to conserve fuel.”

“You tracking the torpedo she just launched?”

“Torpedo nine miles and closing,” Adams says.

“Yep, Bull. We’ll handle that one. Can you get close and launch a few torpedoes of your own?”

“Working on it, Murph.”

“Another fish in the water, Skipper,” Adams says. “Same course, ten miles and closing.”

“Murph, they launched another torpedo.”

“We’re tracking it. We’ll handle any that come your way.”

“Roger. See you on the other side. Thompson out.” He clicks the radio handset back in place. “Dive, take us down to four-zero-zero. All ahead full.” As his orders are carried out, he turns to the sonar tech. “Mr. Adams, status of the torpedoes?’

“Torpedo one is seven miles out and closing at sixty knots. Fish two is at eight miles.”

“Thank you,” Thompson says.

Seconds later, Adams says, “Detonation, Skipper. Enemy torpedo one destroyed.”

As the blast wave from the first explosion washes over the hull, Adams announces another detonation. “Enemy torpedo two destroyed.”

The second blast wave hits and Thompson steps over to the sonar station. “Distance to enemy destroyer?”

“Eight miles, Skipper,” Adams says.

“Thank you, Mr. Adams.” Thompson wipes a hand across his brow and flicks away the sweat that had accumulated there.

“Two enemy torpedoes in the water,” Adams says. “They’re targeting the Grant , sir.”

“Roger,” Thompson says, turning to Garcia. “We’re going with the same game plan we used for their sub. Hopefully they’ve lost us for the moment. Might be one reason they’re back to targeting Grant again.”

“Unless they’re baiting a trap,” Garcia says.

Thompson scowls. “Don’t jinx us, Carlos.” Thompson turns to the sonar station. “Distance to target?”

“Six miles, sir.”

Thompson walks over to the navigation area. “Mr. Patterson, I want to slip in behind her.”

Patterson confirms the order, and the boat makes a slow turn to the right.

“Mr. Adams, target’s speed?”

“She’s turning fifteen knots, Skipper.”

“Any indication she’s towing her sonar?”

“Negative.”

“Good. Mr. Patterson, let me know when we’re within a mile of target,” Thompson says to the navigator.

After six minutes of running in silence the target is now one mile out. Thompson steps over to the attack center. “Mr. White, you have the firing solution?”

“Yes, Skipper,” White replies.

“Fire tubes one and two and stand by three and four.”

“Firing tubes one and two,” White says.

The sub shudders as the torpedoes are shot out of their tubes.

“Fish away,” White says. “One mile to target.”

The bridge is silent. With the enemy ship moving away from them at fifteen knots, it’ll take better than a minute for the torpedoes to reach their target.

“Fifteen hundred yards to target,” White says.