One Man's Island

by Thomas J. Wolfenden

  “As do I, sir.”

  “Good. We plan on setting sail tomorrow morning with the high tide. We’re going to Singapore next, but my ultimate goal is to get back to Pearl Harbor. Our fuel capacity is such that we can’t make the journey directly, so we’ll have to stop at various places to replenish our stores and gather any other things we might need.”

  “That sounds like a splendid plan, sir. I will be honored to accompany you.”

  Commander Wright nodded his pleasure and turned to Ensign Johnson. “How is the rest of the provisioning going?”

  “As well as can be expected, Skipper. We should be secured from refueling around 2100, and our freshwater tanks are full. Nakamura got the desalinization plant fixed, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Plenty of fresh fruit and meat, although some of our Muslim crew aren’t really happy about the pigs we brought aboard.”

  “Well, they’ll just have to get over that. I think they should realize by now that after everything that has happened, there is no god, or Allah, or Buddha or whatever,” the captain said dismissively.

  “Yes, sir. Anyway, sir, we should be able to get underway in the morning like you planned. I would like a little more time to get a few coats of paint over the patch in the hull, but I guess that can wait until we get to Singapore.”

  “Very well, Mr. Johnson,” he said, and then turned to the Major again. “So, what do you think happened, Major?”

  “Do you mean all the deaths? I am not fully sure, maybe something cosmic?”

  “I thought it was a nuclear detonation in the atmosphere at first, Major. Thought it was localized. But then I realized it was global in scale, and began to wonder…” He trailed off, looking at a spot on the far wall with a faraway look in his eyes. “Yes, truly cosmic. And Divine Providence I think. It gave me a golden opportunity to show the world what I can achieve!”

  Ensign Johnson sat back silently. He’d heard this speech far too many times, and not wanting to correct the man for contradicting himself, he held his tongue. For if had truly had been ‘Divine Providence’, that would mean there really was a God. Suplee was right. He really didn’t have both oars in the water.

  The major nodded with a smile that didn’t let on what was really on his mind.

  “Anyone care for coffee?” the captain asked.

  “I’ll pass, sir. I have a few more things I have to do to get everything ready for when we set sail in the morning,” Johnson said.

  “Very well, you are excused.”

  Ensign Johnson got up from his chair, left the captain and the Major to their coffee and discussion that he really didn’t want any part of, and made his way aft to the engine room, where he found Nakamura reading an X-Rated Hentai comic book.

  “Is everything ready for the morning?” he asked.

  “Hai! Everything ready! Fine turbines! They will work fine!”

  “Good. Any problems, you let me know, okay?”

  “Hai!” he said with a bow.

  “Oh, and the skipper said you can have your pick of the girls tonight,” he said distastefully.

  “I alright, Johnson-San. Maybe we find Japanese girl next time?”

  “I don’t know about that, Nakamura. We’re going to Singapore next. Maybe there’ll be a nice Asian girl for you there.” Maybe one with tentacles, he thought with a cringe, eyeing the Hentai comic book. Jap porn was some sick shit.

  “Ah! That would be nice!”

  “Any problems, you come and get me.”

  “Sure thing, Johnson-San. I come if problem, but no problem come up! I fix everything good!”

  “Okay. Good night. We’re sailing early, so lay off the sake and be ready to fire the turbines up.”

  “Hai!”

  With that, Ensign Johnson left the compartment, wishing he was anywhere but there.

  The next morning Cmd. Wright and Major Paleen were on the bridge with Suplee at the helm. The four General Electric LM 2500-30 turbines fired up just like Nakamura promised, and they could feel the vibration through the deck. Wright leaned out onto the wing bridge with his bullhorn and called down to weigh the anchor. It had barely broken the surface and wasn’t completely in its anchor well when he barked out, “Right full rudder, give bells for one third power!”

  “Right, full rudder, one third power, aye!” came the reply from the helmsman, who smartly turned the wheel and plugged in the command for power to the automatic controls in the engine room. The deck vibrated more noticeably, and the ship heeled over to starboard with the rudder.

  “Helm, when we clear the outer harbor marker, make for twenty knots and steer a course for zero seven five degrees!” he said again, sat down in the high-backed captain’s chair and lit his pipe.

  “Aye, sir, twenty knots at zero seven five!”

  Turning to the Major, who was duly impressed, he said, “I love this shit, Major. A man and his mistress, the sea!”

  “Yes, Captain. Truly it is exciting!”

  The bow rose and fell with the waves coming through the breakwater, and the helmsman applied power when they cleared. At almost five hundred and ten feet long, with a beam of sixty-six feet, the ship, although big, was still tossed around some by the waves.

  As they cleared the outer marker letting them know they were now back into deep water, the helmsman turned the wheel again and applied power.

  “Captain, my rudder is amidships and steering for one zero five. Making turns for twenty knots nominal!”

  “Very well.” The captain picked up the phone handset next to the chair and pushed a button to ring the radar space. After a moment it was answered by the other seaman, Stevens, who was manning the radar with one of the Kenyans, to whom he was teaching the system.

  “Radar room!”

  “Radar, this is the bridge. Anything on the scope?”

  “Negative, sir. We’re clear for at least one hundred miles.”

  “Very well. Keep a sharp eye out for hazards to navigation.”

  “Aye, sir!” Stevens said into a dead handset.

  The next person the captain called was Johnson in the engine room.

  “Is everything running smoothly, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Yes, sir. Everything’s nominal.”

  “Good. Let that Jap be in charge for a while, and come up here and relieve me on the bridge.”

  “Aye, sir,” he said, also into a dead receiver. What a fucking asshole! he thought, grabbing his hat and giving Nakamura a few instructions before heading forward. On his way, he passed several of the newly conscripted crew sitting on the deck with their feet dangling over the side, laughing and joking. They smiled at him as he passed. He thought they must all be having a pretty good time. This was one big adventure to them, and it was probably the best existence any of them had had in their entire lives. He made his way onto the bridge, and reported.

  “Okay, Mister Johnson. You have the conn. I’m going to give the major here a tour of the ship.”

  “Aye, sir. I have the conn,” he confirmed, sitting in the now vacated captain’s chair.

  As they departed through a rear compartment hatch, the helmsman called out, “Mr. Johnson has the conn!”

  He sat for a moment looking out of the forward windscreens as the ship sliced easily through the gentle two foot seas.

  “Hey, Mr. Johnson, has the skipper gone aft?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are we going to do the same thing in Singapore?”

  “Probably.”

  “Is the scuttlebutt true, that the skipper is looking to get nukes?

  That made Johnson rise up a bit, and turn, looking behind him.

  “Where’d you hear that?” That was the last thing he needed, for that to start spreading around.

  “I overheard you and the skipper talking about the 109As yesterday. I know they’re nukes. We had them when I was on the Kennedy a few years ago, and I know they don’t have them on tin cans.”

  “Yeah, he’s after them alright. Just don’t spread it around.” The
thought of nukes was making him physically ill.

  “Don’t you have to have an order from the President or something to shoot them?”

  “Yeah. You need the launch codes from the National Command Authority.”

  “If we don’t have the codes, sir, what good are they?”

  “Maybe he thinks he’ll find the codes once we get back to Pearl.”

  “We headed to Pearl?”

  “Eventually. I have no idea what’s going on in his head, and he hasn’t let on to me. Frankly, it’s scaring me.” He cut himself short at that. He’d said too much already. “What’s our course?”

  “Sir, I’m steering for zero seven five at twenty knots.”

  Johnson got up and went over to the plotting board. They had hundreds of miles of ocean before they got to the Nicobar Islands, before the Strait of Malacca. They’d just have to keep an eye out for ‘hazards to navigation’, of which he was sure there were plenty.

  “Keep at that heading,” he instructed. He got up from the chair and went out to the wing bridge, letting the air hit his face. It was shaping up to be a warm one, probably rain squalls, later in the day. He’d have to get some of the new crew members trained as lookouts. There should be more busy work too; the condition of the ship was getting to be dreadful. Everything was starting to rust, and it was really beginning to bug him. Maybe he didn’t go to Annapolis like the skipper, but goddamn it he was a sailor and an officer, and this wasn’t how you ran a ship. You didn’t let things rust. You didn’t leave things lying around in the passageways. You had to keep things shipshape!

  He shook his head in disgust. What could he do? He was as trapped as the rest of them.

  By noon the wind had picked up and clouds were starting to build up in the east. A slight chop formed on what had been a smooth sea, and the bow of the destroyer started to rise and fall with the growing waves. The growler phone rang, and Johnson picked it up.

  “Bridge!”

  “Bridge, this is radar. I’ve got a contact bearing zero zero one, twelve thousand yards. Looks like a big one.”

  “Do you think it’s another crude carrier?”

  “It looks that way, sir. Whatever it is it’s not moving much.”

  “Okay, keep me informed.” He hung up the phone. “Helm, steer a course for zero zero one”

  “Zero zero one, aye, sir!” The helmsman steered his course for almost due north. Johnson took a pair of big Zeiss binoculars out of a rack by the chair, and went out to the wing bridge. Twelve thousand yards was almost six nautical miles. If it was one of those big crude carriers, he should see it in a few minutes. He thought that radar should have caught it more quickly, but he let that slide. It only took a few minutes until he found it on the horizon. It was one of those Extra Large Crude Carriers, or ELCC’s. As they approached it, he could see that it was listing badly, maybe a thirty degree starboard list, and the handrails were almost awash. It looked like it was empty, and he thanked God for that. The last one they’d shelled was fully loaded, and the third shell had ignited two compartments of the black mess, and burned for over three days, sending a vast black plume of toxic smoke skyward before it finally slipped below the waves.

  Johnson walked back into the bridge just as the captain and Major Paleen reentered.

  “I was just about to call you, sir. Radar has a sighting at twelve thousand yards, and I’ve steered a course to make contact. I’ve also verified the contact visually as an ELCC, directly due north. We should be in range of the five inch gun in about twenty minutes.”

  “Very good Mr. Johnson,” Cmd. Wright said, as he took his seat in the captain’s chair. “I now have the conn!”

  “Captain has the conn!” the helmsman said.

  Turning to Major Paleen, he said, “This is one of the major things we’ve been doing. Every time we see a ship floundering like this one we put several shells from our five inch gun forward into her, hopefully sinking her, and in the process removing a hazard to navigation, and avoiding a future environmental disaster if the ship were to run aground somewhere.”

  “Ah, I see! That is very smart of you!” the Major replied.

  Ensign Johnson stood back and shook his head. Avoiding a future environmental disaster. That was a joke. What about all the oil slicks, flotsam and jetsam floating around after they put one of these hulks on the bottom? Or even worse, if the cargo didn’t burn, the hulk would lay on the sea floor leaking oil into the waters for years afterwards. He walked out on the wind bridge with the binoculars and studied the target more closely. It appeared to have been adrift for a while, probably broken loose from its mooring lines while it was being loaded. He could see several of the hatches were open and there seemed to be no life at all on board.

  “Mr. Johnson! Sound General Quarters!” the skipper barked.

  “Aye, sir!” He hit a button on the rear bulkhead and the alarm went throughout the ship. That was another joke, him sounding General Quarters. What that meant now was that instead of a highly disciplined, well trained crew scrambling to their battle stations, a handful of the conscripts would stand out on the weather decks and watch the show, cheering as each shell hit the target. It was like a big party.

  When they got to within three thousand yards, the captain ordered the battle klaxon sounded and an earsplitting Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! sounded across the distance, hopefully alerting anyone still alive on board. Taking one look at this battered hulk was enough to ensure that there was no one left alive, but he thought he’d do it anyway, just in case.

  Picking up the phone, the captain called radar and instructed the sailor manning the scope to go to CIC— Combat Information Center— and man the computer controls for the automatic five inch cannon in a turret on the bow of the ship.

  It was the last vestiges of the old Navy, but no longer were the guns manned by gunner’s mates, and everything was automated. The turret slued around rapidly and the muzzle of the gun was pointed directly at the battered hulk, now only one thousand yards away. The skipper picked up the phone again and called the sailor in the CIC.

  “Okay son, just like last time. Walk your rounds from bow to stern at the waterline. It looks like the deck facing us is almost awash so take your time! You may fire at will!”

  “Fire at will, aye, sir!”

  A high pitched crack sounded from the gun, which recoiled and spat out an expended brass shell onto the foredeck just like a huge semi-auto pistol. One of the Somalis ran over and grabbed it, and even though it was still hot to the touch, cheered as he held it over his head. The shell hit several seconds later, about fifty feet flat of the bow, exploding on contact, with a bright flash and a huge cloud of black smoke. A cheer went up from the crew on deck as the gunner shifted his aim slightly and let another round fly. Again, that round hit about a hundred feet aft of the first, with the same results. Through his binoculars, Ensign Johnson could see seawater pouring into the huge holes made by the exploding shells when the smoke cleared for each explosion. He had to admit, it was pretty exciting.

  Things were going to get a little bit more exciting, unbeknownst to the crew of the Hughes. The USS Hughes drifted closer to the foundering hulk, and when the first shell left the forward gun they were now only seven hundred yards away.

  The sixth shell pierced the hull, but didn’t explode on contact. About two seconds after it had travelled through the ship’s hull and punched its way into a half-filled compartment of crude oil, was when it went off. The fumes of the crude in the confined space had been building over several months and with no crew to vent the compartment, had built up to a dangerous level. This was right about amidships, and the hulk virtually lifted into the air almost thirty feet, splitting in two, and the resounding fireball and shockwave that followed was almost the size of a small nuke when it detonated. The USS Hughes heeled over almost twenty degrees, and paint blistered on the side of the ship that was nearest to the now rapidly disappearing hulk. Within minutes, the only thing left was a burning oil slick a hundred
yards wide and a few bits of foam and fiberglass. The blast had knocked everyone on the bridge off their feet, and when they regained their footing they looked around at each other in amazement.

  “Damage report!” the captain bellowed, and Ensign Johnson went to assess the condition of the ship.

  “That was one hell of a blast. I think from now on we’ll stay a bit further off when we engage the crude carriers!” the captain said with an evil grin. “That could have put us on the bottom!”

  “Wow! Did you see that fucker?” the helmsman said, stunned.

  “Yes I did, son. If everything is okay with Mr. Johnson’s report in a few minutes, we’ll return to our original course.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Just then Stevens, the sailor who’d been firing the gun, came into the bridge from the CIC. “Sir, can I have a word with you?”

  “It wasn’t your fault sailor. We’ll just lay off a bit next go around.”

  “Aye, sir. But that’s not really wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes sir. Last night I went into the comms shack and started playing around with the radios. When I was a kid, I was an amateur ham radio operator. Had all kinds of shit and would talk to people all over the worl—”

  “Your point is?” the captain cut in impatiently.

  “Morse Code, sir. It’s one of the reasons I joined the Navy. Anyway, sir, around midnight I was dicki— I mean playing with the radios, and I picked up something on the three meter band. Was really faint, but it was definitely Morse Code on the ham band.”

  “Really now?” The captain perked up. He sat up straighter on the chair and lit his pipe. “Tell me more.”

  “Not much else to tell you, sir. I only made out a few words, and it kept fading in and out. If I could, with your permission, sir, I’d like to see if I could find it again and find out where it’s coming from.”

  “Permission granted. Take all the time you need. Are those two Pakistani men trained up on the radar?”

  “They’re about as well trained as they’re going to be, sir.”

  “Good. You are now relieved at the radar. Tell those men that they have to work twelve hour shifts on the scope from now on. I want you in comms indefinitely until you can pinpoint that signal!”