Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Thompson runs the torpedo numbers in his head. The sub won’t be in firing range anytime soon. Thompson glances over at the sonar station. “Mr. Adams, position of the Chinese destroyers?”

“They’re stationary at the moment, Skipper.”

Thompson glances at Garcia. “Why are they stationary?”

Garcia turns toward the sonar station. “Mr. Adams, distance between Grant and the Chinese destroyers?”

“Forty-seven miles, sir.”

Garcia winces and turns to look at Thompson. “There’s your answer, Bull.”

Thompson hangs his head. “Hell, the Chinese can sit out there and fire missiles at will.”

Garcia nods. “And with the glitch on Murph’s Aegis system, the Grant might well be shooting in the dark.”

Brad, Tanner, and Nicole startle when the Chinese ships launch another barrage of missiles. The EmmaSophia is only a mile and a half from the massive warships as they begin to slow. Brad glances up at the listless sail and groans. Without warning, some type of automatic gun begins firing and they all clap their hands over their ears. Moments later, an enormous explosion occurs somewhere overhead and a blast wave arrives seconds later, nearly sweeping Nicole off her feet. She grabs the wheel and screams as shrapnel begins peppering the water around them. The gun falls silent and Brad ushers Tanner and Nicole down into the cabin as another round of missiles streaks through the sky.

Brad closes the door and walks unsteadily down the steps.

“Dad, someone’s shooting back. Think it’s one of ours?” Tanner asks.

Brad slumps down next to Nicole. “Don’t know, Tanner. I hope not. I don’t see how another ship could survive a barrage like that.”

Thompson moves to the chart table for a visual on the location of the three ships. He braces his hands against the table and blows out a shaky breath. “Murph doesn’t stand a chance, Carlos.”

“He still has a lot of fire—”

“Captain,” Adams says in a flat voice, “I count multiple detonations at the Grant ’s current position.”

Thompson’s shoulders sag and he mutters, “Those cocksuckers.” He glances at the sonar tech. “Is she still afloat?”

“Yes, she…” Adams pauses for a moment. “Sir, I count six more detonations.”

Thompson marches over to the attack center, his face red, the veins pulsing in his forehead. “David, I want firing solutions on those ships as soon as you have them.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” White says.

Garcia glances at the bridge crew crowded into the small space and steps over close to Thompson. In a low voice he says, “Bull, can we chat in the officers’ wardroom?”

Thompson turns, prepared to rip into Garcia, but his tirade dies when he sees the look of concern on Garcia’s face. “Okay, Carlos.” He turns to Lieutenant Commander Thomas Quigley. “Q, you’re officer of the deck.”

The two men make their way down one level and move forward to the wardroom in silence. Thompson yanks open the door and collapses into the chair at the head of the table. Garcia eases the door closed and calmly takes a chair opposite the captain, waiting. Thompson rakes his hands across his face, then leans forward in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. “Murph’s gone, Carlos.”

“I know, Bull.”

A heavy silence settles over the room. Thompson sobs and Garcia reaches out to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. After several moments, Thompson sniffles and exhales a long, slow breath. He wipes his eyes and leans back in his chair. “You think it’s a suicide mission, right?”

“Yes. One ship we could handle. But as soon as we fire a torpedo, the other ship will be on us like stink on shit.”

“So we let them go? After they just killed over three hundred of our fellow sailors?”

“That’s our only option, Bull. We can’t bring that crew back. You’re responsible for the crew on this boat and trying to take out those Chinese warships would put the crew at grave risk.”

“Not if we slip up behind one and kill it and then dive deep for a day or two. They don’t know we’re here. The element of surprise is a huge factor in our favor.”

“They’ll know as soon as we fire the first torpedo. Then the second ship will deploy their towed sonar and go hunting.”

“I want these sonsabitches, Carlos. And who’s to say there won’t be other U.S. Navy ships out there who will try to come home and get ambushed by these bastards?” Thompson wipes a stray tear from his cheek. “We sink the first ship and wait as long as needed to torpedo the second.”

“I don’t know, Bull. It’s dicey.”

“Not if we play our cards right.” Thompson takes off his cap and tosses it on the table.

Garcia leans forward and looks Thompson in the eyes. “How much of this is revenge?”

Thompson crosses his arms. “I’m not going to lie—a bunch. But if we don’t take out those ships, we’ll never be able to surface and search for family members.”

“How many family members do you think are still alive on the mainland?”

“Don’t know,” Thompson snaps. He pauses, takes a deep breath, and tries to get a handle on his emotions. “But even one is worth the effort, isn’t it? And”—Thompson stabs his finger on the table—“it turns my stomach to think the Chinese are controlling our coastline.”

Garcia ponders the situation for a few moments. “What time frame are you thinking?”

“We get one now, today, and worry about the other one tomorrow or the next day.” Thompson pulls a computer keyboard over and, after entering his credentials, pulls up a chart for the area. “Perfect.”

Garcia points at the screen. “You thinking about nestling down in that trough?”

“Yep. Hell, we get close enough we might get lucky and get both in the first go-round. That would allow us to surface and search for survivors from the Grant . If not, we dive deep and hide out for a day. Then go hunting again. We still might get lucky and pick up a few survivors.” Thompson picks up his cap and places it back on his head. “What do you think, Carlos?”

Garcia runs his hand across the top of his head. “It’s going to take us a while to get within effective torpedo range.”

“Even better. It’ll give them a chance to let their guards down.”

Oklahoma–Arkansas state line

Zane and Alyx high-five when they pass the WELCOME TO OKLAHOMA sign. The last couple of hours have been somber after encountering the group of families who will probably be dead by the end of the month. And the persistent grayness of the ash-filled skies only adds to the somberness. But the sign, and knowing they’re nearing the end of a physically and emotionally exhausting journey, lightens the mood. Zane glances down at the gas gauge and starts scanning for a suitable host. He eases Old Goldie up next to a battered farm truck and climbs from the cab. Alyx, shotgun in hand, slides out on the passenger side and takes up her usual position near the front of the truck.

Gage unscrews the two gas caps and inserts the hose into the farm truck’s gas tank. After several attempts and a mouthful of gasoline, he finally gets the fuel to flow.

“You’d think you would eventually get better at that,” Alyx says. “Lord knows you’ve had plenty of practice.”

Zane salutes her with his middle finger. “You’re welcome to take over.” He hawks a mouthful of phlegm and spits it out on the pavement. “I’m hoping we’ll get enough fuel that I won’t have to do that again anytime soon. I’ve swallowed enough gasoline I’m probably flammable.”