Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Thompson turns to his sonar technician, Mike Adams, who had also just come on shift. “What’s the Grant ’s current speed?”

“She dropped back to one screw, Skipper. She’s currently turning thirteen knots.”

“Probably running on fumes,” Thompson mutters. He walks over to the navigation table and pulls up the chart for the North Carolina coast. Although Murphy is going to Norfolk to see if any of the disabled ships are still floating, Thompson has a sneaking suspicion he’ll come up empty. Using a mouse he zooms in on the North Carolina coast, searching for nearby Coast Guard stations.

On the other side of the bridge, two blips suddenly appear on the screen Adams is manning. “Sir, I’m tracking two contacts.”

Thompson steps over. “Where?”

“They’re rounding Cape Lookout, sir.”

“Ours?”

“Negative, sir. Screw signature suggests Chinese in origin.”

“Goddammit,” Thompson says. “Where the hell did they come from, Mr. Adams?”

“I picked them up the moment they engaged their propellers, sir. Could be they were lying in wait.”

Thompson snatches a microphone from overhead and keys the trigger. “XO Garcia to the bridge.” He clicks the handset in place and turns to the helm. “Conn, sound the general alarm—battle stations, torpedo.”

As his orders are carried out and the Klaxon sounds signaling the general alarm, he steps back over to the chart table and pulls up the chart for the Cape Lookout area. Situated on the lower end of the Outer Banks, the point creates a natural hiding place within Lookout Bight. The shoreline of the bay consists of a series of unpopulated islands, away from prying eyes. “Those bastards,” Thompson mutters. “Mr. Adams, current course of the Chinese ships?”

“They are currently one mile off the coast and are turning to a heading of thirty degrees, Skipper.” Adams’s voice is high, tight.

“Distance from the Grant? ”

“Fifty miles and closing at thirty knots.”

Thompson does the math in his head. He glances up when Garcia climbs through the hatch.

“What’s up, Bull?”

“Nothing good. Mr. Adams, Grant ’s current course?”

“They are turning to starboard, Captain. I’ll have the new course in a moment.”

“Still turning one screw?”

“Yes,” Adams replies.

Thompson turns to Garcia. “Two Chinese ships must have been hiding around the Cape Lookout area.”

“Goddammit,” Garcia mutters, running a hand across the top of his head. “You think they’re guarding our coastline?”

“From what? I think most of our navy is toast.”

“They’re here for a reason, Bull. Could be they’re on mop-up duty, picking off any stragglers trying to make it home.”

“What gives them that right? The United States is sovereign territory.”

“Different ball game now. We may have given up that right when we, as a nation, launched nuclear weapons.” Garcia steps around the table to look at the chart for Cape Lookout. “Damn, they had the perfect hiding place, didn’t they?”

“Yes. Do you recall which targeting package was inserted in our missiles?”

“Not precisely. But I can pull it up on the ship’s computer.”

“Do that.”

“Captain,” Adams says in a louder-than-normal voice, “The USS Grant is dead in the water.”

“Roger, Mr. Adams. Mr. Patterson, plot an intersecting course for those two Chinese ships.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Patterson replies.

Thompson turns back to Garcia. “Damn it, Murph’s a sitting duck, and we’re in a very precarious position with those two enemy ships in the mix.”

Garcia looks up from the monitor. “I know what you were hunting for with the targeting package question. And, no, none of our missiles were targeted at China or other Chinese interests.”

“About what I figured. And you can bet your ass every missile in the Russian arsenal was pointed at an American target. Who’s left who would have targeted the Chinese?”

“India and Pakistan no doubt targeted each other. The French or British, maybe?” Garcia says.

“Maybe,” Thompson says. “China may be the only superpower left on the planet.” Thompson removes his cap and wipes his brow.

Garcia pushes to his feet. “How are we going to handle the two Chinese ships?”

“Very delicately.”

Off the coast of Hatteras

After yesterday’s shoot-out with those on the disabled powerboat, Brad motored the EmmaSophia a mile offshore and dropped anchor. Too dark to fish, they had opened two cans of soup and heated it on the small propane stove, though neither Nicole nor Brad had much of an appetite. This morning, Brad has the mainsail up, but the boat remains stationary, the canvas limp. He steps over to the helm and clicks on the key. The needle on the fuel gauge ticks up a notch just above empty and Brad sighs. Maybe a couple of gallons of fuel remain, which they’ll need to maneuver around a marina, if they ever find one. They’re now at the mercy of Mother Nature.

Nicole, carrying two cups of weak coffee, walks up the stairs. She’s wearing a pair of Tanner’s jeans, the waist cinched tight with a piece of rope and the cuffs rolled up, and one of Brad’s old college sweatshirts that’s so big the neck hangs off one of her bare shoulders. She steps over and hands Brad a mug.

“Thank you,” Brad says. He glances down at her bare feet and feels a pang of regret for causing her to lose her shoes. “Are your feet cold?”

“No, I’m good. But thanks for loaning me the sweatshirt.”

“You’re welcome. Tanner still asleep?”

“Yep. I don’t know how with all the noise I made.”

“He could sleep through a hurricane.”

Nicole smiles. “I wish I could sleep like that. I’ve always been a light sleeper.”

Brad moseys to the back of the boat and takes a seat. Nicole follows and takes a seat at the helm, their knees nearly touching. She glances up at the listless sail. “I could make a really rude joke about my ex-husband.”

Brad smiles. “I bet. Hopefully the breeze will pick up.” He takes a sip of coffee and stretches his legs out. “How long were you married?”

“Nine years.” Nicole blows across the surface of her cup and takes a tiny sip. “First five were great. It wasn’t until we thought about starting a family that things began to fall apart.”

“Did he not want children?”

“No. We both wanted children, but I had a difficult time getting pregnant.” Nicole takes another sip of coffee. “We had fertility issues. We went through four rounds of fertility treatments, including three in-vitro procedures.” She puts the coffee cup to her lips and pauses. “I suffered three miscarriages, all in the first trimester.” She takes a drink and lowers her cup. “We rode an emotional roller coaster for three long years and it took a toll.” She stares off into the distance for a moment. “We had an amicable parting three years ago and he moved to Norfolk to work for the government.”

“Neither of you remarried?”

“Me, no. He, his name is Tom, remarried a year after the divorce.” She turns and places her coffee cup on the helm. When she turns back around, tears are shimmering in her eyes. “He and his new wife had a baby boy last year.”

Brad wants to lean forward and wrap her in his arms, but he remains where he is. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.”

Nicole shrugs. “That’s life.” She wipes her eyes and stands. “How about I catch us some breakfast?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The boat shudders as Tanner lumbers up the steps. He stops where he’s standing and points. “Dad, look.”