Tim Washburn: The Day After Oblivion

Amanda nods and wipes at her tears. “Only… thing… I… could think… of.”

“It was perfect, Amanda.”

Zane leads Amanda back and retrieves the pistols before rejoining the group. Alyx makes an appearance and starts working on the injured man. Zane takes a moment to study the crowd and shakes his head. He turns to the stouter of the two women. “You want to fill me in?”

“It’s a long story but thank you for saving us.” She reaches a hand out. “I’m Melissa.”

Zane takes it. “Zane, and my friend over there is Alyx. How did you end up with a group of teenagers?”

“We were on an international flight when everything hit. Apparently we were far enough to the north to avoid the EMPs. We finally found a place to land at Minneapolis–Saint—”

Alyx shrieks and Zane is instantly on high alert. Then he hears her laugh, and he relaxes a little. “Hold that story for a sec, Melissa,” he says before making his way over to Alyx and the older gentleman.

Alyx looks up, grinning from ear to ear. “Zane, I’d like you to meet Stan McDowell, an old college friend of my father’s.”

Zane glances around, searching for the cameras, then turns back and cocks his head to the side. “Do what?”

The man, his face now free of blood, looks up and smiles. “It’s a small world.”

“You’re telling me,” Zane mutters.

6 miles offshore from Cape Lookout, North Carolina

Slowly, the USS New York is working closer to the two Chinese destroyers who are back in their hideout in the waters of Lookout Bight. Positioned five miles off the coast, the submarine is submerged in 400 feet of water, traveling along a deep depression in the sea floor. Thompson steps over to the sonar station. “Mr. Adams, where are they?”

“According to my chart, Skipper, it appears they’re tucked in behind the point of Cape Lookout. I’m not detecting any prop wash, but I am picking up three distinct engine noises.”

“Probably running their gen—wait, did you say three different engines?”

“I did, Skipper. By my reckoning, there are three ships out there, not two.”

“Damn it,” Thompson mumbles. He steps over to the chart table, and Garcia walks over to join him.

“Three ships, Carlos? Another destroyer?”

“Could be, but I’d lean toward a supply ship or a fuel tanker. They’re a long way from home with zero resources available to draw on. And those destroyers are refueling somewhere.”

“A tanker, huh? Makes sense and it doesn’t change our plan of attack. We sink the two Chinese destroyers and the tanker will be easy pickings.” Thompson clicks on the computer mouse and brings up a depth chart for the Cape Lookout area. “The bottom begins to rise fairly significantly about a mile and a half out from shore. We won’t be able to get as close as I’d like.”

“If they’re anchored, our torpedoes will hit before they have time to respond, even if we shoot from three miles out,” Garcia says.

“But would they be anchored so close to the shoreline of a hostile country? I wouldn’t. It could be the tanker is anchored and the other ships are tied up. Hell of a lot easier to slip some ropes than waiting for the anchor to be hoisted aboard.”

“That makes sense, but there’s a hell of a lot we don’t know, Bull.”

Thompson glances at the digital clock. “It’ll be dark before we’re in position. We’ll ascend to periscope depth for a quick look.”

Garcia points at the monitor. “I spot one more possible issue.”

“What’s that?”

“Look at the depths. If they’re positioned where we think they are, they’ll only sink about twenty feet, leaving a good portion of the superstructure above the waterline. Any survivors will be able to swim to shore.”

“ That is not our problem. Good luck to ’em.” Thompson steps over to the attack center. “Mr. White, locked and loaded?”

“Almost, Skipper,” White replies. “The target picture is somewhat muddy, sir. We would prefer visual confirmation of their positions.”

“You’ll have your visual as soon as it’s dark. Flood all tubes. I want your crew ready for a rapid reload.”

“Four fish are loaded, Skipper.” He triggers the radio handset draped around his neck. “Attack center to torpedo room. Flood all tubes. Repeat, flood all tubes.” White looks up from his control board. “We’ll be ready for a quick reload, Skipper.”

Thompson gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Notify when you have final firing solution after visual confirmation.” Thompson turns and walks back to his place on the bridge “Mr. Patterson, where are we?”

“We’re three miles from the targets, Skipper. Should be at your specified location in a little over three minutes,” Patterson, the navigator, says.

“Thank you. Q, take us up to two hundred.”

The nose of the sub tilts upward as Thompson walks sideways toward his chair. He sits and removes his cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Conn, slow to one-third.”

His order is repeated and those inside can feel the sub slow. The crew on the bridge is tense, yet focused. Chatter is nonexistent and the only audible sounds are the nervous breaths from the crew. The sub levels off and, after a few moments of maneuvering, Patterson announces they are ten seconds from the specified position. A clock starts ticking in Thompson’s head. The moment they fire, they give away their position. His plan is to target the two warships with two torpedoes each, and haul ass, coming back later for the tanker.

“Conn, all stop,” Thompson orders. “Q, slow ascent to periscope depth.”

As the sub drifts upward, Thompson stands and waits for the sub to level off. Once it does he orders the periscope up. He steps over and catches the handles as they rise from the floor. With a flick of his finger, he switches the scope’s view to night vision and positions his eyes on the scope. He walks a circle, getting his bearings. After triggering the periscope camera, Thompson zeros in on the Chinese ships and curses. The two warships are stacked one against the other with the broadside of the nearest ship facing outward. They are positioned about 500 yards from shore and the tanker is anchored a hundred yards to the south. He spins around, searching for nearby ships and spots a sailboat anchored a mile offshore, opposite of Cape Lookout Lighthouse. He nudges the scope toward shore and finds the beach lined by a shantytown of pop-up structures, but nothing within a thousand yards of the three enemy ships. They should be safe from collateral damage, Thompson thinks as he steps away from the scope. “Scope down,” he orders in a low voice. “Q, slow descent to one-five-zero.”

He walks over to the attack center. “You see the video?”

“We’re studying it now, Skipper,” White says. “Not an ideal situation, but doable. I assume we’re coming back for the tanker.”

“You assume correctly. Will you be able to, at minimum, disable the ship tucked behind the first one?”

“We’re aiming to sink both, Skipper. Give me thirty seconds to refine the firing solution.”

Thompson looks over at the bridge. “Conn, stand by, flank speed, hard left rudder,” he says in a low, clear voice.

He receives a nod for his answer.

White looks up. “We’re ready, Skipper.”

“Fire all tubes.”

Near Cape Lookout Lighthouse

The wind conditions improved during the afternoon and the EmmaSophia made good time until the wind died, along with the light. Like all previous evenings, the gray sky made it dark early and Brad dropped anchor opposite the Cape Lookout Lighthouse, a mile offshore. It had been, though, a good day for fishing. Nicole bagged four extra fish that are tied to a stringer off the stern. Now Brad, Nicole, and Tanner are situated around the cabin table, polishing off a portion of the day’s catch and being serenaded by the hiss of the propane lantern hanging from a hook in the ceiling