Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion

by DeCosmo, Anthony

On the first day of the trip, Trevor noticed something odd about the crew in that their physical appearances matched so much that it could have been a boat manned by siblings. He found a tactful way of asking the Captain about that and the answer was surprisingly simple. The men on the Newport News had now spent over a decade together, eating exactly the same food, breathing the same filtered air, and living in the same dim light. Their environment chipped away at their differences, like a generation of family living in the same house.

  Trevor raised the cup of warm drink to his lips and considered the situation. They might make it to Europe before tonight. That pleased him. It also pleased him that JB still slept in their quarters. His boy needed the rest although the difference between morning, noon, and night held little meaning inside the undersea coffin.

  Farway sensed Trevor’s mind planning and assured, “We’ll have you at the rendezvous point in time for dinner.”

  “Dinner? Right now it should be breakfast, but I don’t feel like that,” Trevor closed his eyes, pinched his nose, and tried to come to terms with his biological clock. “Right now it feels like the middle of the night. Between being locked up down here and the different time zone I think I’m all screwed up. I shouldn’t even be out of my berth yet, but I couldn’t sleep any more. Is there such thing as sub lag?”

  He un-pinched his nose, opened his eyes, and flashed a quick smile. Captain Farway, however, did not smile. He glanced over Trevor’s shoulder with an expression of concern.

  Trevor swiveled in his chair. Jorgie stood at the open hatch dressed in his pajamas, holding his wrapped stuffed bunny, and staring at the men through wide, red eyes.

  “JB? Buddy? What is it?”

  “It’s coming, Father,” the boy’s body quivered. His sense of fear radiated through the room. That feeling of being trapped shivered along Trevor’s spine. “It’s coming for us.”

  “What? Huh? JB, what are you talking about?”

  The squawk box burst, “Captain Farway to the con.”

  Trevor stared at his son. JB stood motionless just outside the open portal. Captain Farway pushed the ‘answer’ button.

  “Farway here, go ahead.”

  “Sonar contact to aft, sir. Closing fast.”

  “Can you identify the contact?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  Farway ordered, “Call GQ, I’m on my way,” and he stood. So did Trevor.

  For a split second JB blocked their exit.

  “It’s here, Father. And we’ve nowhere to run.”

  For the first time in five days’ worth of uneventful travel underneath the Atlantic Ocean, the bridge of the Newport News came alive. The helmsmen scanned their computer monitors keenly and gripped their steering controls with sweaty palms; the Chief of the Boat paced anxiously between sonar and fire control stations; the Executive Officer shoved a stick of ancient chewing gum in his mouth and worked his jaw as if biting on nails; and the rest stood in a pensive silence waiting for what would come next.

  To Trevor’s eye the bridge appeared a strange combination of his expectations. On one hand valves, piping, cramped corners, and the periscope fit with his memories of World War II submarine epics such as Run Silent, Run Deep: a movie he and his father watched several times in the old world.

  On the other hand, modern monitors, a vast array of blinking buttons and flashing lights, and the hum of electronics seemed more akin to Star Trek.

  In any case, Trevor and his son stood near the Control & Attack Center and watched patiently, Jorgie having quickly changed from pajamas to shorts and a t-shirt but still held his wrapped bunny.

  Captain Farway hovered at the center of the high tech bridge and tried to understand the situation.

  “Chief, break it down for me.”

  The Chief of the Boat—a broad shouldered fellow with the jaw of a Marine—answered while looming over the sonar operator’s shoulder, “Contact at two hundred yards and closing fast. Looks to be at fifty knots. Damn, that’s fast.”

  “Target info?”

  “A little bigger than a torpedo, sir, which is what its sonar profile resembles. Also hearing something secondary—engines of some type—maybe a type of jet propulsion like a Barracuda’s mag-drive.”

  The Executive Officer—a thin man who could have appeared at home working in a bank or at an accounting firm—added, “We’re at thirty-five knots and it’s gaining. Helm, prepare for evasive maneuvers.”

  “Aye.”

  Farway: “Chief. Get on the horn with the engine room and make sure we’ve got everything she can give.”

  “Aye, sir. Already did. We’re exceeding the safeties.”

  The Executive officer mumbled, “And it’s still closing. One hundred and fifty yards.”

  The Captain ordered, “Helm, wiggle our tail. Planesman, drop us another fifty feet hard then trim her out. Launch counter-measures.”

  “Helm, aye sir.”

  “Aye. Depth down fifty, thirty degree dive.”

  Weapons officer: “Drones away.”

  XO: “Grab hold.”

  The nose of the sub seemed to fall nearly straight down by Trevor’s estimate while at the same time sliding from port to starboard and back again. He felt his heart thump faster and harder. Pencils, coffee mugs, and notebooks tumbled from perches; a few shouts of injury and frustration echoed through the corridors outside the control room.

  After a several seconds the boat leveled again with what sounded like a groan of relief.

  XO: “Sonar?”

  Chief—looking over the Sonar operator’s shoulder: “Fifty yards—shit, it’s accelerating—and it matched our depth. Damn. Negative on the counter-measures. Whatever it is it’s locked on to us.”

  “Torpedo room, load tubes one and two. XO, get me a firing solution—“

  Chief: “Too late!”

  The Executive Officer shouted, “Sound collision!”

  The collision alarm echoed through the ship. JB held bunny in one arm and, with the other, clutched his father.

  A voice from behind them in the corridor asked, “What’s going on?”

  Trevor saw Rick Hauser standing in the passageway. The flat hair on the back of his head suggested he just woke up.

  “I’m not sure,” Trevor told the pilot. “Looks like something is tracking us.”

  “Me and you, Father,” Jorgie corrected. “It’s coming for me and you.”

  Trevor knelt and placed his hands on JB’s shoulders.

  “What do you know, Jorgie? What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know,” the kid admitted bashfully. “I sense it, I guess. I can feel it. Like—like he’s watching us. Looking for us…”

  “Who?”

  “Voggoth.”

  Captain Farway’s voice sounded the slightest bit panicked: “Stand by for collision! All hands, brace for impact!”

  Trevor wrapped both arms around his son and pushed them into a corner in the hall just outside the bridge. Hauser grabbed an overhead railing.

  “Jorgie, whatever happens—hey buddy, I love you.”

  “I love you too, Father.”

  A sound like a gigantic gong banging carried through the vessel. At the same time, the entire boat felt shoved from behind, and up; a solid impact to the rear end of the vessel.

  Lights flickered. Warning chimes sounded. Men fell from chairs. Curses and shouts. Trevor protected JB as the two of them were pushed first away from and then into the wall. Hauser fell over but managed to break his fall on the hard steel floor.

  Then nothing. The submarine leveled. Sailors returned to their work stations.

  Trevor waited for two seconds—three—four—he expected an explosion or a wall of water to pour through the ship. But nothing came.

  XO: “Status report, all stations.”

  “Contact lost,” the sonar operator said but everyone knew why.

  The Chief moved between several stations and reported, “Helm operational. Nav on line. We’ve got power and propulsio
n, still on course and coming back up on thirty-knots. Depth holding.”

  A voice came over the intercom, “Con, this is engineering. We’ve got a situation.”

  Farway responded personally: “Go ahead engineering.”

  “Sir, we’ve got an impact down here. A foreign object has penetrated the hull on the starboard side near the stern.”

  “Are you taking on water?”

  The XO actually answered first as he examined a gauge at the damage control station: “Slight drop in air pressure but nothing major. Hull integrity appears intact.”

  “No water, Cap,” the engineer responded over the com system. “But it looks like—I dunno—some kind of torpedo head or something. But, well, not quite metal. Not sure, sir.”

  JB pulled free of his father’s grasp and stepped fast toward the center of the bridge.

  “Captain! Captain! Get them away from it! Get them away!”

  The boy’s interruption surprised Farway. Before he could react, however, the engineer’s voice returned over the intercom.

  “Captain, something is happening.”

  The XO muttered: “Timed detonation. It’s gunna blow. Shit.”

  “Engineering? What is going on?”

  “Get them away!”

  “Con, engineering, sir, the thing has opened up. It’s some kind of capsule. Movement!”

  A sound came over the open microphone from the engineering room. Some kind of moan—and gurgle. Something—something sickening.

  From the intercom: “What the fuck? What the hell is that?”

  JB squeezed his head in his hands as if shutting out noise, closed his eyes, and pleaded: “Get away! Get away! Get away!”

  Farway: “Report!”

  “Con! We’ve been boarded! Oh shit…”

  “Get away!”

  Farway: “Engineering, get out of there!”

  “Jesus Christ it’s got eyes—look at all the fucking eyes…”

  XO: “All hands, intruder alert. Crackerjack, repeat crackerjack.”

  “…the eyes—they’re in my head—I want to go home—please let me go…”

  The voice on the other end of the line changed from human words into gurgles and gasps—and sobs. Then silence.

  Captain Farway stared at the intercom for a long moment, his mouth agape and his hands shivering.

  It was JB who broke his trance. Tears ran along the young boys cheek as he warned, “Captain. It will be coming up here soon.”

  Farway blinked fast and then commanded, “XO, seal aft compartment.”

  The Executive Officer ordered over the intercom, “All hands, intruder alert, crackerjack,” came the code word for boarders in engineering. “Seal aft compartment, all decks.”

  Farway turned to the Chief of the Boat and told him, “Chief, open up the weapons lockers and allocate side arms. Form up a security detail.”

  The sturdy Marine-like jaw of the Chief hesitated in the slightest; a very human hesitation.

  He gulped, “Aye.”

  It occurred to Trevor that the crew of the Newport News had seen very little of the horrors of the post-Armageddon war. Certainly they fought their share of sea battles but their duties on the world’s oceans never brought them face to face with Crawling Tube Worms or Jaw-Wolves.

  Whatever penetrated the hull in engineering came from one of the darker nightmares of the post Armageddon world. Yet whatever had come aboard, Trevor felt powerless. He was merely a passenger and knew nothing of submarines or how to combat a threat onboard. The feeling of being trapped threatened to overwhelm him. He longed for the tactical options and maneuverability of open land, or high mountains, or even a desolate city.

  The XO spoke over the intercom, “Seal all water tight doors. Prepare to repel boarders.”

  Trevor watched the Chief of the Boat open a locker on the far side of the control room. From it he pulled several automatic pistols with holsters as well as a pair of Benelli Super 90 shotguns.

  Sailors shut the water tight bulkheads to the control room, sealing the bridge crew inside.

  “Captain,” the Executive Officer communicated, “All aft compartment hatches closed. Crewmen report hearing activity in the engine room of an unknown source or type.”

  “Keep those doors closed,” Farway ordered. “Maybe we can contain whatever it is in the engine room.”

  The XO said, “We’ve still got full power and helm control, sir. Whatever is going on, it doesn’t seem interested in our systems.”

  Captain Farway let his crew work and stepped close to Trevor.

  “Whatever this is, I’m guessing it’s not just random that it found us.”

  “No,” Trevor agreed. “I’d say our friend Voggoth knows we’re onboard.”

  “Sir…,” Farway backed off whatever thought had occurred to him.

  “Go ahead, Captain.”

  “It’s just that, Trevor, if whatever is down there is one of The Order’s pets—and after what I heard your son did to them on that island last year—I mean, is it possible that he could…”

  Trevor, sweat oozing along his cheeks, finished Farway’s idea, “Is it possible my son could do that again? Not a bad thought. One problem though. If I’m right, then Voggoth sent something to kill me and my son. He would not send something that JB could influence. He either found it or grew it specifically for this mission.”

  Farway asked, “If they were able to find us, why not just blow up the sub? Not that I’m not grateful, you understand.”

  “That’s not The Order’s style, Captain. They don’t like it neat and clean. They like messes,” Trevor’s thoughts drifted off to Leviathans and Bore-Bugs and Torture Spiders. “To Voggoth—to him the whole point is suffering. Captain, I’m guessing that we might all be wishing that it had been a big explosion that did us in. I’ve got the feeling that would be a lot more pleasant than whatever it is that broke in to your engine room.”

  “Sir!” the Executive Officer interrupted. “Mess reports something breaking out from the aft compartment. The water tight hatch on deck four is failing!”

  “Sir,” the Chief competed for Farway’s attention. He held one of the shotguns. “I’ve put together a security detail.”

  Trevor asked, “Is that the heaviest weapons you’ve got onboard?”

  The Chief handed a pistol in a holster to Captain Farway as he answered, “Aye.”

  Farway buckled the side arm to his hip and added, “Fire fights aren’t our specialty, unless we’re using torpedoes. Chief, seal all compartments behind you. And Chief, good luck.”

  The Chief of the Boat swallowed hard, nodded, and replied, “Thanks, sir.”

  He then opened one of the bulkheads outside of which waited a group of a half dozen sailors with pistols and shot guns. The men moved off after shutting the water-tight door.

  Farway closed his eyes and ran a shaky hand across his forehead, no doubt facing the real possibility that this would be his last command. If the water tight hatches could not keep the invader sealed, then that left their fate in the hands of small arms and Trevor did not like those odds.

  Captain Farway said, “Whatever it is you’re up to, it’s got Voggoth pretty scared.”

  “What’s that? Oh. I think he’d love to see the end of me and JB here no matter what.”

  “Probably true, Trevor. But his focus has been fighting us in Colorado and the west so far and from what we can tell your boy here and Jon Brewer took out his only outpost in the Atlantic last year.”

  “You were a big part of that, Captain.”

  “The point is, he’s gone through a lot of trouble to track you down way out here when he should be happy that you’ve skedaddled just as things were coming to a head on land, right?”

  “And?”

  “So you’ve got him frightened, that’s what. Whatever it is you’re thinking about doing, he’s made it a priority to stop you. What I’m saying is you’re on to something. Maybe something more important than you realize.”


  “A shot in the dark, Captain. If this were football, I’d call it a Hail Mary pass.”

  “As a former Navy wide receiver, I appreciate the analogy,” Captain Farway answered. “But I think we got to make sure you get to where you want to go. Especially now. With this thing on my boat I’m starting to see how important your little side trip must be.”

  A series of sounds—muffled pop-pop-pops and a pair of louder blasts—seeped through the metal between decks.

  On the other side of the control room, the Executive Officer tried to get someone to report: “Mess Hall—anyone on Deck Four—report in. Security detail, what is your status?”

  More pops. Another blast. They felt more like vibrations than outright sounds.

  The Captain ordered, “XO, take us up. Surface. I repeat, surface.”

  The planesman answered from his station at the dive controls, “Surface, aye.”

  JB shook his head and in a frustrated voice warned, “It will follow us. Even if we swim away it will come.”

  Trevor felt a flutter in his stomach as the submarine rose in the water.

  Farway knelt and told the nine year old, “Not if it thinks you’re still onboard. Not if it thinks it succeeded in killing you.”

  “Captain, what are you doing?”

  “I’m getting you off my boat, Trevor,” Farway explained and then turned to his Executive Officer: “Paul, as soon as we get on the surface break out the RIBs.”

  “Captain?”

  “You’re taking Trevor and his son here the rest of the way. But haul ass. There are a lot of bulkheads for this thing to get through before it reaches us, but that doesn’t mean we’ve got all day.”

  A loud splash marked their arrival on the surface of the Atlantic Ocean. The entire boat bobbed and wobbled. The sound of breakers cutting across the bow created a soft whoosh.

  “Captain,” Trevor steadied his legs as the tremble in the decks subsided. “Where are you going with this?”

  “To the bottom, Trevor,” he admitted with a sense of determination. “If the Newport News is going to be my tomb, then that damn thing is coming with us. And if it is tied in to Voggoth then he’ll think you’re dead. That might just buy you some time.”

  “There has to be another way. You’ve got a lot of men on this boat.”