Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Brad gathers up the dirty dishes and stands. His right foot is on the first step of the ladder when the first explosion rips through the night. The plates slip through his hands and crash onto the floor, sending shards of pottery skittering in every direction. Before the mishap can register in his mind, another massive explosion erupts just as the blast wave from the first races across the water and slams into the boat. Nicole shouts, but she’s drowned out by a third thudding explosion, followed closely by a fourth. “Grab something and hold on,” Brad shouts as the aftereffects from the second explosion batter the boat, keeling her hard to starboard. Brad neglected to latch the spice cabinet closed and bottles of spices rain down like leaves in autumn.

As the boat begins to settle back in the water, the concussive blast wave from the last two explosions plows into the boat, pushing her hard over to starboard again. Brad’s hand slips off the handrail and he goes tumbling head over ass, banging his head on the table base before thudding into the far bulkhead. He lies in a heap, but before the pain can register in his brain, the propane lantern flies off the hook and shatters against the far wall, igniting a curtain. Brad pushes to his feet and stumbles forward as the curtain blooms with fire. He yanks it from the wall and singes the hair on his arms as he balls it up, trying to smother the flames. His efforts prove fruitless and he lurches toward the ladder, tossing the flaming curtain through the hatch and wobbling after it. Stumbling and fumbling upward, he belly flops onto the deck and scrambles to his feet. As the boat begins to settle, he grabs the flaming curtain and tosses it overboard.

Brad sucks in a lungful of air and bends over, his hands on his knees, trying to regain his breath after it was crushed from his lungs when he slammed into the bulkhead. Nicole and Tanner scramble up the ladder and onto the deck as the boat finally comes to rest. After several deep breaths, Brad stands on shaking legs and grabs the rail for support. Back to the south, it looks and sounds as if hell has surfaced on earth as the roaring wall of flames shoots skyward, accompanied by the agonizing screams of those engulfed in the fire.

Nicole turns away from the ghastly scene and clicks on a flashlight, pulling Brad close. “You’re bleeding.” She shines the light across his upper torso before moving to his head. “You have a nasty scalp laceration. Probably needs stiches, but you’ll live.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll stop in at the next urgent care cent—”

His words are clipped by another enormous explosion. They scramble to find a handhold as the giant wave races across the sea and slams into the boat. Again the boat keels over and just when it feels like the boat is going to overturn, the wave passes and the EmmaSophia settles back in the water. It takes a few moments before the three can regain their footing.

“What was that, Dad?” Tanner asks.

Brad shuffles unsteadily toward the back and sinks onto the vinyl bench. “That, Tanner, was payback.” He walks his fingers up his skull, searching gently for the wound and groaning when he finds it. “And before you ask, I don’t know who.”

“I bet it was one of ours,” Tanner says.

“Or the Russians, or the Iraqis, or the Turks, or whoever is left in this godforsaken world,” Brad says, his voice laced with pain. “Let’s just be grateful the Chinese were on the receiving end this time.”

Nicole sits down next to Brad. She pulls his probing fingers away from their exploration. “You’re going to get it infected if you don’t stop.”

“It hurts.”

“I know it hurts. But digging your dirty fingers in it isn’t going to help. Do you have rubbing alcohol and bandages?”

“There’s a first aid kit in the bottom drawer, left of the sink.”

Nicole releases his hand and climbs down the ladder, returning moments later with a small mesh pack and a bottle of alcohol. “Tanner, will you hold the flashlight while I patch up your father?”

Tanner reluctantly turns away from the carnage and grabs the flashlight, clicking it on. “I still think it was one of ours.”

“It could be. I don’t see any other surface—ssshh-hhiiiittt,” Brad shouts, jerking his head away from Nicole’s hand. “You could have warned me.”

“It’s done now.” Using a patch of gauze, she delicately cleans the wound on Brad’s head. “You were saying?”

Brad scowls at Nicole. “I was saying, we haven’t seen any other surface ships. And we didn’t see any telltale signs of incoming missiles. That leads me to believe a submarine attacked the enemy ships. If that’s the case, we may never know—”

His words are drowned out by another massive explosion.

1.5 miles off the tip of Cape Lookout

“Fire tube two,” Captain Thompson orders. The sub shudders as the second torpedo explodes away from the submarine and tracks toward the Chinese tanker.

“One minute to target,” Weapons Officer White says as the blast wave from the first explosion ripples across the submarine.

Thompson is standing in the middle of the attack center. “Mr. White, load tubes three and four and stand by.” Thompson lifts his cap, wipes his brow with the back of his hand, and resettles the cap on his head. Immediately after firing the initial salvo, the USS New York ran hard and deep for two minutes before slowing. With no return fire, the sub made a long, looping turn and began sneaking into position, a mile north and another mile east from their original firing location.

“Mr. Adams, anything from the two destroyers?”

“A few subsequent explosions, Skipper.”

“Damage estimates from the first torpedo?” Thompson asks.

“I can confirm detonation on target, sir.”

“Thank you. We’ll go up for a peek after the second torpedo detonates.”

“Ten seconds, Skipper,” White says.

The crew waits in silence. Seconds later there’s an explosion, followed by a much larger explosion.

“We hit their fuel storage, Skipper,” Adams says.

Those on the bridge offer a muted cheer before the sub is rocked by a succession of blast waves, the second one actually rocking the boat from side to side. “Q, take us to periscope depth,” Thompson orders as he steps over to the chart table.

Garcia walks over to join him. “Good shooting, Bull.”

“Not me. It’s our crew.” Thompson pulls up a map of the area and widens the view. “How many torpedoes still in inventory?”

“Eight. Hopefully we’ll get to hang on to them for a while.”

“You and me both, Carlos. I’m weary, you’re weary, and the crew’s weary. We need a game plan.”

“What are the odds we run into more Chinese ships?”

Thompson sits. “Fifty-fifty, maybe. This group was positioned well. It allowed them to roam up and down the eastern seaboard, at least the parts that still exist. Could be there might be another pod off the coast of southern Florida, but I find that unlikely. Most of Florida would have been obliterated.”

“So the odds are better than fifty-fifty,” Garcia says, taking a seat next to Thompson.

“Maybe. But we don’t know who else may be lurking out there. If it looks good through the periscope, I think we should sail offshore a couple miles and surface to let the crew stretch their legs and get some fresh air. I don’t want to risk resurfacing until we’re a mile off the coast of the Virgin Islands.”

“What about searching for survivors from the Grant ?”

Thompson winces and glances at the clock. “Any survivors would have been in the water for hours now, not to mention the hours it would take for us to return to their position. It rips my guts out, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”