Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“We aim to please. Anything on your radar?”

“Negative. Blow your ballast tanks. It’s burger night aboard the USS Grant .”

“See you in a few,” Thompson says. He clicks the handset back into the holder. “Mr. Adams, position of the Grant ?”

“A half a mile off our bow, Skipper.”

“Roger. Thank you. Q, take us up.”

Once on the surface, the two ships go through the same docking procedures as before. Thompson and Garcia make their way up the gangway and bump fists with Murphy, who leads them back to the officers’ wardroom. Thompson and Garcia sit, while Murphy retrieves the bottle of bourbon. Murph grabs three mugs and carries the booze over to the table, taking a seat in his usual chair.

“How do you think we ended up on the wrong side with China, Murph?” Garcia asks.

“Hell if I know. They shot the shit out of my helicopter. I guess we’re lucky the damn thing didn’t explode.”

Thompson leans forward in his chair. “Were they targeting the chopper?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, Bull. I was up to my ass blowing up torpedoes and firing missiles. Why?”

“Can you call someone to find out?”

“Sure. What’s going on in that noggin of yours?”

“Nothing good.”

Murphy shrugs and picks up a ship’s phone to contact the bridge. After a few moments of conversation, he says, “Punch it up on the officers’ wardroom’s screen.” He hangs up and picks up a remote to click on the video monitor. “We had all the cameras running. You guys want to eat before we wade through the video?”

Although Thompson’s stomach is grumbling, he knows this could be important. “Let’s watch first.”

“Okay.” Murphy switches the inputs on the monitor and fast-forwards through the video. “Where do you want me to stop?”

“At your first interaction with them.”

“Should be coming up. They were coming toward our bow and we made a jog to starboard to widen our firing stance. If that piece of shit Aegis system hadn’t crapped out we would’ve taken her much earlier.” When the Chinese destroyer comes into view, Murphy mashes the play button. They watch for a few minutes with very little happening on-screen. “Remember, at this point we didn’t know if the destroyer was friend or foe.”

“I remember,” Thompson says. He scoots to the edge of his seat. “Fast forward to the first shots, Murph.”

Murphy fast-forwards until they see a puff of smoke from the deck of the Chinese destroyer. Murphy slows the video to normal speed. “Their first shot was an antiship missile that we obliterated with the Gatling gun.”

Seconds later on the video there are multiple puffs of smoke coming off the deck of the enemy ship. She, too, is firing her Gatling gun.

“Are the cameras synced?” Thompson asks.

“You bet your ass they are,” Murphy says. “The shipboard computers are working fine.”

“Will you punch up the rear-deck camera?” Thompson asks.

Murphy punches more buttons on the remote and the view switches to the rear deck of the Grant . He rewinds the video and hits play. On-screen the helicopter shudders as the 20-mm rounds from the Chinese shred the fuselage.

“I’ll be damned,” Garcia says.

Thompson leans back in his chair. “Their first shot was a missile they knew you could defeat. But then they go after the chopper on the next barrage.”

“Why?” Murphy asks.

Thompson sags against the chair back. “At this point in the battle, they knew a submarine was lurking below after we torpedoed their sub. Their odds of survival went from fifty-fifty to a much lower number. I think they took out your helicopter as insurance in case they didn’t make it.”

Murphy leans forward in his chair. “Insurance for what?”

Thompson takes a sip of bourbon. “To keep you from discovering other Chinese ships in the area.”

Murphy sags back in his chair. “Well, shit.” He chugs his drink and refills his cup. “We’re damn near running on fumes now.”

“Where are you on fuel?” Garcia asks.

Murphy sighs. “Less than twenty percent. Enough to maybe make the Virgin Islands, but not if we have to fight our way there. And that’ll be running only one screw.” Murphy punches off the monitor with disgust.

All three men chug the shots of bourbon and sit, thinking. After a few minutes of silence Thompson says, “Think there’s any place left along the eastern seaboard to refuel?”

“Not from what I saw. Certainly not Norfolk,” Murphy replies.

“What about a Coast Guard station?” Garcia asks. “Surely, they couldn’t have targeted every one of those. There have to be twenty or thirty along the East Coast alone.”

“Maybe,” Thompson says. “You’d have to cut that number in half now because anywhere north of Virginia will be toast. Might get lucky with one in the Carolinas. What do you think, Murph?”

“Maybe, if they have the type of fuel we need. We’re headed that way anyhow. Might get lucky. If—and that’s a big if—we don’t encounter more Chinese ships before we get there.”

Thompson leans forward and props his forearms on the table. “Fuel is not an issue for us. And we still have a good supply of torpedoes. Murph, how about you make a quick run for the Hatteras area and we’ll follow along at a slower pace to protect your tail?”

“A quick run just ain’t happening, Bull.”

“I think we’re about five hundred miles off the East Coast. Run at best possible speed, then. If you can make twenty knots that’ll put you in the vicinity of Nags Head in about in about twenty-five hours,” Thompson says. “Any of those ships in Norfolk still upright?”

“A couple of them were the last time we were there. No telling now. Why?”

“As a last resort you could pump some fuel from those sinking ships. You’ve got pumps on board, right?”

“Yes. And that might work. Norfolk is in the general vicinity, too.”

Thompson slaps the table. “Okay, we have a plan. We’ll run at periscope depth for a while so we can remain in radio contact. I say we eat and get on with the mission.”

“I don’t know if I have much of an appetite now,” Garcia says.

Murphy stands and places his hands on Garcia’s thin shoulders and gives them a squeeze. “Shit, Carlos, a man’s got to eat. It could be days—or never—before we run into any more Chinese ships.”

Garcia pushes up from his chair. “I sure as hell hope you’re right.”

Kansas City, Missouri

Although they got off to a late start after the burial of Hannah Hatcher, they’ve made good progress. Now approaching Kansas City from the north, they’re on the hunt, again, for somewhere to bed down for the night. McDowell glances at the fuel gauge. “We need diesel, and I’d like to fill up before dark. That’ll allow us to get a quick start in the morning.”

Lauren brushes her dark hair out of her face. “So what are we looking for?”

“I found a hose back at the sign shop that connects to a tanker truck. That would be the quickest way, but I also have a piece of garden hose if we need to siphon from another vehicle.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. How come Kansas City is relatively intact and Des Moines wasn’t?”

“Des Moines had that big National Guard base close to the city. Missouri really only has one large military installation, Whiteman Air Force Base. It’s located in the middle of nowhere, southeast, but mostly east, of Kansas City. It’s a big base and the permanent home for our B-2 bomber, making them top-five in target value. No telling how many nukes they targeted at that base.” McDowell spots a tanker truck in the distance and speeds up. “Also, Kansas City is not a big population center and probably wouldn’t merit a direct attack. In a nutshell, they were extremely lucky.”