Tim Washburn: The Day After Oblivion

Two large cruise ships are tied up at the pier and, from the looks of them, are still functioning—at least partially. Towels and swimsuits are draped over balcony railings to dry, and people are milling about on deck. A group has formed at the stern of the nearest cruise ship, watching the New York approach.

The Havensight Point pier juts out into the bay nearly a thousand feet, and that’s exactly where Thompson is planning to dock the boat. “Mr. Wisdom, I want the sail lined up on the edge of the pier.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Wisdom replies as he works the controls from the upper bridge. “Sure wished we had a tug, sir.”

“You and me both. But we don’t. Take her slow and steady.”

The sub is two hundred yards from the pier when Wisdom idles the engines. The forward momentum allows them to coast the rest of the distance. Sailors from the crew jump onto the pier to handle the dock lines. Thompson climbs down the conning tower and returns to the bridge. He and Garcia are outfitted in their dress uniforms. The next item on their list is a meeting with the territorial governor who resides in the Government House, located in the center of town.

“You sure you don’t want a security detail on deck?” Garcia asks.

“I’m sure.” He turns to Lieutenant Commander Quigley. “Q, make sure the security team is assembled and ready to go just in case. But keep them below deck for now.”

Garcia and Thompson make their way to the forward hatch and climb up to the deck. The crew has secured the gangway and they walk down to the pier—their first contact with solid ground in almost four months. Along the pier is a collection of restaurants and stores, many of them open. The aroma of grilling burgers makes Thompson’s mouth water.

“What are they doing for money?” Garcia asks.

Thompson shrugs. “Maybe it’s a barter economy.” “Wonder what I’d have to give up for a burger and a beer?”

“Don’t know. But I bet we find out later.”

The two cruise ships are enormous, towering over the pier. People are coming and going up the gangways, in various states of dress, as if they were on a normal vacation. Some of the crew members from the ships are hanging out on the pier, and Thompson is tempted to stop and talk to them to get the lay of the land. But he doesn’t. Best to make an official appearance first. At the end of the pier they find a line of bicycle cabs and they climb into the one at the head of the line and tell the driver their destination.

People are out and about as if it were any normal day. The journey to Government House is short and the driver pulls up to the front steps. Garcia pays the tab and they don their caps and climb the red-carpeted steps toward the front door, bracing for the unknown. The building is a white three-story structure with wide expansive balconies on the first and second floors. An ornate iron balustrade runs the length of both balconies and each section is separated by a row of stately round columns. The double doors open inward when Garcia and Thompson arrive. They remove their hats and step inside.

A butler leads them to an ornate office and a large black man moves from behind the desk, a smile on his face and his hand outstretched. Garcia and Thompson relax.

“I’m Territorial Governor Charles Knapp. Welcome to Saint Thomas.” He shakes their hands and offers Thompson and Garcia chairs. After working his way back around his desk, he sits. “Not very many people on the island have ever seen a submarine.”

“Not very many people, period, have ever seen a submarine,” Thompson says. “We kind of like it that way.”

Knapp laughs. “I suppose that’s right.” He steeples his fingers and leans back in his chair. “I assume you’re looking for safe harbor.”

“Yes, and more importantly, a place to live,” Thompson replies.

“We’ll find a way to accommodate you and your crew.”

Thompson’s shoulders sag with relief. “Thank you,” Thompson says, “We were beginning to think we’d never find a place to call home.”

“We saw a lot of businesses and restaurants open. Are you operating a barter economy?” Garcia asks.

“No, it’s a cash economy.”

Garcia scoots to the edge of the seat. “The crew, ourselves included, has very little ready cash available.”

“Not to worry,” Knapp says. “We’re running everything through the island banks. I’m willing to allocate twenty-five hundred dollars for each enlisted crew member and five thousand for you and your officers. The local government is also willing to provide free room and board for the first three months to allow your men time to find employment on the island.”

Thompson and Garcia share a surprised glance before Thompson turns back to Knapp. “What’s the catch?”

Knapp laughs. “No catch. We are a United States territory and you are members of the United States Navy. Did you think we were going to throw you to the wolves?”

“We didn’t really know what to expect,” Thompson says, thinking back to Ponta Delgada. “But we were bracing for the worst. Where will you house my men?”

“There are numerous unoccupied vacation rentals. Housing won’t be a problem.”

“And jobs?” Garcia asks.

“There are jobs available. You and your officers will be prized for your expertise. Most likely you’ll find employment within the island government.”

Thompson leans back in his chair. “That’s very generous, Governor Knapp. I’m not necessarily a skeptic, but, sir, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Knapp laughs, his expansive belly jiggling. “I assure you, Captain, there are no more shoes, dropping or otherwise. The local government met as soon as we heard what had happened and developed this plan. We knew it was only a matter of time before one or more Navy ships arrived.”

“What about the sub?” Thompson asks.

“We’ll place a guard at the pier, though I don’t know what anyone would want with it. I assume the nuclear missiles are no longer on board?”

“Correct,” Thompson answers.

Knapp nods.

“Have you heard anything from the mainland?” Garcia asks.

“Nothing,” Knapp replies. “Rumor has it—and it’s only rumor and we may never know precisely what happened—that a couple of the Russian ballistic missile submarines were lurking off the eastern seaboard when everything started. You’re the expert. How long do you think it would take their missiles to strike the D.C. area?”

“Not long. It depends on their exact location, but certainly within minutes. Maybe ten, possibly fifteen, if they were lucky.”

Knapp nods and leans forward in his chair. “That’s about what I thought. It will take a day or two for my staff to sort out the living arrangements, but I’ll have the money delivered to you at the submarine within the hour. I trust you’ll take responsibility for distributing each share?”

“Of course,” Thompson says. “And, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. I would take great pleasure if you and your officers would join me tonight for dinner.”

Thompson and Garcia stand. “We’d love to,” Thompson says.

Knapp stands and works his way around the desk. “Seven okay with you?”

Thompson shakes the governor’s hand. “Perfect.”

Knapp walks them to the door and Garcia and Thompson take their leave. After they step outside and don their hats, Garcia drapes an arm across his friend’s shoulders. “Beers and burgers on me.”

Near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina

When you rely on Mother Nature to provide propulsion there are good days and bad days. Brad doesn’t know how far they’ve traveled over the last week because of the lack of identifiable landmarks along the shore, but he estimates they’ve covered about fifty miles. Yesterday, they rounded Bald Head Island and picked up a consistent breeze they rode all day long. And today’s been much of the same, and they’re now approaching the Myrtle Beach area, at least according to the atlas Brad keeps on the boat.