Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Garcia nods. “I concur. And Myrtle Beach?”

Thompson sighs and lets the question linger for a few moments. Finally, he says, “I won’t put the crew at risk. I’ll find my way back if I can. I’m hoping if they’re still alive, they’ve assimilated with other families. Or that’s what I choose to believe.”

Once the sub levels off, Thompson stands and orders the periscope up. He waits for it to ascend and positions his eyes in the eyecups and triggers the video camera. With the ensuing fires there’s no need for night vision. He walks a circle, getting an overall impression of the situation. The tanker is nothing but a ball of fire and the two destroyers look as if a giant had cleaved them with an ax. Both are entirely destroyed and partially submerged, their bows and sterns pointing skyward at a thirty-degree angle. “Comms, put the periscope feed on the video monitors.” He magnifies the image until the three destroyed ships fill the entire frame, and steps over to one of the monitors on the bridge. The cameras are high-definition and the image is as clear as if seeing it through the naked eye, maybe better.

There are Chinese sailors in the water and he wonders, briefly, what will happen to them. Nothing good, he surmises, turning away from the monitor and stepping back to the periscope, curious about the sailboat he’d seen earlier. After clicking the periscope camera off, he positions the periscope on the sailboat and dials the magnification to the max. Technology is an amazing thing. Although the boat is nearly a mile away, the roaring fires produce enough light to read the facial expressions of those onboard. On deck are three people—a man, a woman, and a younger person, probably a teenager. He feels the pang of loss watching the three interact like a normal family. After observing their interactions for a few more moments, he nudges the scope to the right, trying to discover the boat’s name. All he can see from this angle is the word Emma.

“Scope down,” Thompson orders. “Mr. Patterson, nudge us out to sea another mile or two and we’ll bring her to the surface. Carlos, put a topside security team together.”

Near Cape Lookout lighthouse

Down in the galley, Brad ducks into the head to check his wound in the mirror. There’s nothing much to see other that a large wad of gauze held in place by a piece of tape. He exits and grabs another bottle of wine and pulls the cork. After retrieving two glasses, he makes his way up to the deck, where he pours a glass and hands it to Nicole. “Medicinal purposes,” Brad says, pouring a good amount into his glass.

Nicole clinks glasses with him. “For both of us. I think my nerves are shot. Tanner, you want some?”

“Uh, no,” Tanner replies without turning, his gaze focused on the mayhem near the shore.

Brad sinks onto the seat and Nicole sits down beside him, the distant flames casting an orange light across the deck. “Think that’s the end of it?” Nicole asks.

“I sure as hell hope so.”

They sip their wine in silence for a few moments before Nicole says, “What’s the ultimate goal, Brad?”

Brad shrugs. “I’m hoping we can make it to Key West, where we could anchor offshore for a while. If not there, we’ll work our way down to the Bahamas. There has to be a place in the world that hasn’t been bombed to hell.”

“You keep saying we . Do you mean you and Tanner?”

Brad glances at the burning ships for a moment before turning to face Nicole. “No, we means all three of us. That is, if you want to tag along with us.”

“I would like that very much,” Nicole says.

“Good,” Brad replies.

Seconds later they hear a splash, which is followed moments later by a large swell that rocks the boat. Brad hands his wineglass to Nicole. “Will you hold that for a sec?” He stands and grabs the binoculars off the helm, stepping to the back of the boat. It felt like the swell started off their stern, and he puts the binoculars to his eyes and scans the ocean surface. On the first pass he doesn’t see anything so he returns to his starting point and tries again, scanning very slowly. He stops midway and rolls the focus knob. “I’ll be damned,” he mutters when he sees a very large silhouette just visible in the flickering light. He marks the location in his mind and lowers the binocs. “Tanner, pull the anchor.”

He hurries back to the helm. “Nicole, will you grab a couple of flashlights from below?”

“What’s going on?” Nicole asks.

“Maybe an answer to a prayer.”

Nicole offers a bewildered look before ducking down the hatch to the galley.

Brad clicks the key to check the fuel gauge again. The needle hasn’t changed—it’s still hovering near the empty mark. “Screw it,” he mutters, twisting the key and firing up the engine.

As soon as Tanner has the anchor aboard, Brad shouts, “Hold on,” and gooses the throttle. He turns the wheel until the bow is pointed out to sea and looks through the binoculars again and adjusts his course.

Nicole climbs the stairs and returns to the deck. “What do you want me to do with the flashlights?”

“Just hold on to them for a second.”

He puts the binoculars to his eyes and makes a slight course adjustment. After running at full speed for a few moments, the engine begins to sputter and Brad eases up on the throttle. He shouts into the wind, “Tanner, come stand back here with us.”

Tanner scampers across the deck and climbs down into the cockpit, taking a position next to his father. “What are we doing, Dad?”

“You’ll see in just a moment.”

Tanner and Nicole share a confused glance.

Brad stands on his tiptoes to look over the top of the boat. “Nicole, turn on the flashlights and hand one to Tanner. I want you to point them up at our faces.”

Nicole glances at Tanner and both shrug. They click on the lights and turn them so the beams wash upward across their faces. Brad eases back on the throttle, nudges the wheel to the left, and holds course. A minute later, a light as bright as the sun hits them in the face. All three raise their arms to shield their eyes.

A loudspeaker clicks on and a voice says: “You are approaching a U.S. naval vessel and are hereby ordered to change course.”

“What the hell, Dad,” Tanner says. “Are you crazy?”

“Maybe,” Brad says. He nudges the throttle forward.

The voice over the loudspeaker is booming when it says: “We will not issue a second warning. Change course immediately or we will fire on your vessel.”

Brad pulls the throttle to neutral and cups his hands around his mouth. “We are American citizens. I would like to speak to the captain.” They’re close enough now to see a row of sailors on the deck of the submarine—a row of rifles pointed in their direction.

This time when the loudspeaker sounds, it’s a different voice. “What is the name of your boat?”

“The EmmaSophia ,” Brad shouts.

Almost instantly the bright light is switched off, but it’ll be a while before Brad’s night vision returns. He hears something thud against the bow of the boat and he scrambles forward, searching. He feels around the deck and finds a thick, heavy rope.

“Tie it off to your boat,” the same voice says, this time from nearby and not over the loudspeaker.

Brad ties the rope to one of the cleats on the bow, and the boat begins to move forward, bumping up against something hard.

Flashlights kick on, revealing two men standing on a deck about eight feet above the sailboat. Both men are smiling. “I’m Captain Rex Thompson and this is my executive officer, Carlos Garcia. Sorry you were caught in the middle of our little war.”