Flight To Pandemonium

by Murray, Edward

  The Chief of the Boat warned the Exec that rumor mongering still flourished despite the prohibition. Commander Warren realized that he might not be able to keep discipline rigidly under control unless he gave a credible explanation of the worldwide plague and its demoralizing implications for every family.

  The question became… how much to reveal? What did command really know for certain? News from Bangor alternated between understatement and obfuscation.

  Navy tradition and admiralty law gave every commander unhampered authority in times of unforeseen crisis. Commander Warren reluctantly concluded the devastating pandemic required him to take command with broader discretion. But if he was ever proven wrong, further action would break his career. Now the greater good was what seemed to matter most.

  The mind of every bubblehead was tuned to the opaque environs of the boat because distinguishing night from day depended on strict routine and bodily senses. When the scuttlebutt began, the most effective cure for idle talk was work. The six hours ‘on’, six ‘off’, routine aboard the boat resulted in an eighteen hour work day and ‘warm’ bunking. With surprise drills and often calendared ‘qualifying’ sessions, time to reflect upon anything outside of duty evaporated. The Chief, no dummy, had long ago formulated drills necessary to quash the rumor mill. Three weeks brought a full measure of revamping, chipping, swabbing, scullery diving, calisthenics and more.

  The submarine was primarily a Trident missile platform deployed undetected somewhere in the northwestern Pacific seas. Its mission usually involved maintaining stealthy deployment in deterrent patrols while keeping their competitors guessing as to their whereabouts – for some an enjoyable form of invisible cat and mouse competition.

  The crew recognized that certain changes such as their new limited diet were difficult to explain based on predictable routine. But minor changes alone wouldn’t have kept the rumor mill alive.

  Several old hands called for a competition to see if they could uncover the real reason for the unexplained tweaking. They targeted the Exec. Few places on earth are so provocatively stressful and ultimately revealing as a submarine. After a week of scrutiny the crew was convinced the Exec was suffering abnormal stress and concluded that something unusual was happening. Yet, evidence of stress alone provided no insight as to what. They intensified their effort of cautious scrutiny to pierce his masquerade and learn more.

  The boat continued its routine schedule to ventilate, make nighttime observations and to expel weighted garbage as would be expected in peacetime. The crew noticed the Exec, the communication officers, and their technicians spent longer hours on watch and seemed abnormally absorbed and uncommunicative. They noted that the Chief ordered strict conservation of all provisions, especially food. Only canned food was being served with a steady diet of three-bean salad and snake eggs, annoying them all.

  Expected exercises such as launch control noticeably diminished while ordinary drills and exercises dramatically increased. Most hands believed they weren’t readiness exercises at all because they were so pointless and common.

  The Chief reported to the Exec the universal annoyance with the long blackout, endless drills, the mindless qualifying sessions and especially the extended deployment. The Chief appreciated the value of drills, and braved to ask if exercises should better focus on sustainability and be more response to their long deferred maintenance, especially with their weapons.

  The Exec sighed, looked away, and promised only to confer with the Skipper. He offered neither insight nor objection. The Chief was astonished. He surmised some national disturbance was unfolding, perhaps a crisis of illness. But why would dutiful questions bring on such an evasive response from the boat’s executive officer? Vital information was being withheld that his rank had the privilege of knowing. But honor prevented him from questioning the Exec’s judgment.

  Chief of the Boat David Ming enjoyed all things about the sea. Born of a Eurasian farming family on the island of Oahu, his father and his elders disparaged his disgraceful childhood. They berated him for wasting his opportunities – choosing to incessantly frolic with aimless Waikiki beach bunnies and enjoy endless surfing competitions on Maui. Tall, tanned and strapping, he enjoyed his rollicking friends until he astonished them all by leaving his carefree life and enlisting in the Navy.

  As a young student at the Naval Nuclear Power Command, David’s zeal and intelligence spurred him through the ranks of petty officer as a nuclear electronics technician. He graduated with honors from Southern Illinois University in Industrial Technology, followed with graduation from the United States Navy Senior Enlisted Academy. Awarded numerous medals and honors, he now served as COB on his third submarine.

  Despite his nearly flawless record of accomplishment and service, his current assignment troubled him most. All the success of education and experience hadn’t prepared him for the perplexing events unfolding on this patrol. He hoped the Skipper would finally shed light on all the contradictions.

  The Skipper regretted calling the wardroom briefing so quickly. He needed time to screen the reading files. Editing under pressure, he excluded only the most graphic and morbid references to riots and death in Seattle where many officers lived. Such alarming news of family mayhem would likely affect their performance. He certainly would not have their undivided attention if they learned society’s safety net was failing.

  Every officer was present except the junior Officer of the Deck. Before sitting down, the communications officer handed the Skipper a note saying they were no longer receiving replies from electronic prompts to Bangor, but that he continued to try other means.

  The Skipper began with instructions, “I’m passing around two files which you need to thoroughly absorb before reacting. Take whatever time you need before passing your file along. Once everyone is finished, we’ll begin discussion.”

  The Chief, having read the files first, watched the officers as they read. Some were impassive – able to maintain their composure, but most revealed dismay and deepening facial shock as they read. When finished, each looked around the room for a reaction as distressed as their own.

  The Skipper briefly summarized his thoughts, as was his habit. “First and foremost… there is no intelligence to warrant an elevated level of threat beyond what you’ve just read, but we will take that up later. Second. We have been released to our own resources and ordered to maintain our state of readiness indefinitely. That’s a dictate unlike any training exercise we’ve ever experienced. We’ve strategized long deployment… but never indefinite deployment. No doubt some of you are doubtful such a dictate is even possible, which is compelling this meeting.

  “But before we begin discussing the agenda and just this once, we’ll suspend formalities and entertain a few questions around the table… even personal matters. Then…I want to put that behind us and get on with crucial topics.”

  The Commander paused and waited for expected questions, but only nervous silence prevailed. “Well, if there are no questions, let’s get on…” Immediately, several hands raised and the round table began.

  “Sir, I’ve just read that flu has been attributed to a mutated strain of virus… some natural event, but wouldn’t the deliberate spread of a virus be a more likely explanation … and that we should be wary of conventional threats as well? It’s all happened practically overnight. Sounds like a rogue country might be responsible… like Iran.”

  “That’s a question we will consider in a few moments. But let’s first take up the personals as I promised.”

  “Sir… it’s… it’s very… I find it very difficult to believe that the federal government has… surrendered… shut down or whatever has happened. I know I’m never supposed to ask, but is this really some blockbuster of a fleet exercise? Sir, I have family…”

  “Definitely not – on both counts. The only source we have for reporting a federal shutdown is civ
ilian news… so who knows what’s real? All I know for certain is we no longer have any communication with Bangor. The enduring command is around this table.” Looking around, he added with a sweeping gesture, “Doesn’t that grab your attention? ”

  “Are you saying permanently?” asked Lt. Casey edgily. The man was responsible for maintaining the boat’s nuclear propulsion systems.

  “Probably not! Order will be restored eventually, but not likely until spring. We have been ordered to endure a temporary disruption due to the medical emergency and the mandatory quarantine… but I don’t want to minimize what’s unfolding. The event has become a worldwide plague of staggering proportions.”

  “But a billion dead? Is that for real! I’m having difficulty believing that.”

  “So it seems… some natural event only the Almighty can fathom.”

  “And not some deliberate scheme gone wildly out of control?”

  “What does it matter? The outcome is the same.”

  “Sir… everyone is anxious to hear news of our families. Any word on that?”

  “Not specifically… I’m sorry, but we’re all going to have to face reality on that score. I don’t want to sound insensitive, but the medical assistance available to them was probably much better than to most people. In any event, we can’t help them.”

  “Was?”

  “You asked about news. I meant only that we’re no longer receiving any.”

  “Then what if we were to return to Bangor later?”

  “You should have noted that we are specifically forbidden from landing anywhere we will have contact with people. The reason should be perfectly obvious. I’ll be blunt… I’ll cut no quarter with anyone who tries to arrange contact… none whatever.”

  “Will you inform the crew?”

  “I do plan to inform them… but probably not as broadly as with you.”

  “Sir… this patrol is bound to end sooner or later. Any plan then?”

  “No, but I think time may shed better light on that.”

  “So you reckon things won’t settle down any time soon?”

  “The past will be the past. We need to focus on sustaining ourselves with our own resources for the foreseeable future.”

  “Then what about provisions, especially fresh food and replacement parts? How are we going to resupply without port or people? I assume that would include a tender.”

  “That sounds like the perfect place to begin our agenda,” and the Skipper listed five topics for discussion: readiness, deployment, surveillance, disposition, and survival. The meeting lasted the entire watch.

  The mess deck loiterers just down the passage took full note of the unusually long meeting. A riot of whispered conversation around the corner table quickly blossomed into discussion of stealing the agenda. They were so intent on hatching a plot to learn what was happening that they failed to notice the chief of zebra stripes standing directly behind them.

  The discussion the Chief overheard inflamed him. His involvement in the wardroom agenda was chilling enough without hearing such blatant insubordination. Seven of his veteran E ratings were going to pay for his anxiety. Their collective experience was perfectly suited for grunt work he was determined to assign.

  The chief had been directed to inventory the boat’s remaining stores, beginning with food, to be presented to the Exec by the end of the following watch. Anxious to learn of the boat’s disposition as well, the hands enthusiastically went to work. Obviously the crew now understood the import of recent events… and the meeting.

  26

  Toolik Station, October 5th. Morning brought a new way of looking at life. As Lazlo lay entwined with Christie, skin against luxurious skin, ambition melted away. His consciousness was overwhelmed with sensual gratification and delightful memories of passion and desire. He dared not move lest the glorious feelings evaporate and he even wondered if he could rekindle the night’s fever.

  Before he could move, Christie swept away from his arms. Up and out of bed she bounded saying, “Gotta go!”

  A cold draft brought Lazlo back to reality. Their warm embrace, replaced with Christie’s chilly tush back in bed, put an end to his fervor.

  He felt a new commitment of tenderness and affection for Christie. He welcomed a soul partner. Intimate affection was delightful after such a disheartening week. He pushed thoughts of family aside.

  Christie was not lost in thought. She was making provocative snuggling movements with her backside. Having returned to his senses, Lazlo enthusiastically put his mind to love making.

  Late in the morning, Christie and Lazlo prepared an old-fashioned country breakfast between moments of affection. Passion subsided, they discussed their plight.

  “Dear Laz, am I getting the sense that you’re no longer thinking of madly rushing through that pass?”

  “Maybe. But do you really think we’re stuck here for the winter?”

  “That blizzard was early for the season. From now on, the sun won’t be warm enough to get us through safely. A solid freeze up might. Besides, what choice do we have?”

  “Then why don’t we buzz up closer and have a look at conditions.”

  Disappointed, Christie asked, “So then you haven’t given up, have you?”

  “Can’t hurt to just have a look.”

  “Alright, but I want you to keep a promise no matter how driven you feel.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a wide bridge across the river just before the steep slopes begin. We stop there… no further!”

  “Why there?”

  “That’s where the avalanche chutes begin. After all that’s happened, dear Laz, do you expect Alaska Transportation to show up with snow plows to clear our way? The slopes have got to stabilize on their own or we are stuck on this side.”

  “It’s become a world on our own, hasn’t it?”

  “There won’t be a bus come take us home, that’s for sure.”

  “Well… if we’ve missed the bus, we have the whole day to do whatever we feel like doing.”

  With a sultry look, she said, “Dear Laz, my age advantage will be your undoing.”

  Lazlo gassed the snowmobile while Christie packed a lunch. Lovemaking and banter put them both in ebullient moods, full of energy and enthusiasm for exploring. Christie left Puppy in the winter trailer. Thoughts of the calamity forgotten, they passed through the Station entrance ignoring the snow covered humvee.

  Morning fog had evaporated and the weather grew warmer as they ascended. Lazlo knew by the handling of the machine that snow on the road was beginning to melt. Powder no longer wafted over the windscreen and he heard ringing resonance of the steering skis.

  Sun shining behind thin clouds illuminated the snow-laden Brooks Range. Gentle foothills rolled in staircase ascendancy until merging with feathery peaks rising high above the pass. As they traveled south, the clouds gradually lifted until only the highest peaks remained shrouded in mist.

  Cornices of snow on distant ridges trailed veils of blowing powder. A powerful beam of sunlight illuminated their path up the deserted highway via the Sag River valley.

  The high pass beckoned. They stopped at an overlook beside Galbraith Lake and shut off the engine. Vast panoramic vistas extended in every direction. A hint of color tinted the hillside where dazzling fall colors refracted through a thin blanket of snow on steep slopes. Silence reigned.

  They swept the high reaches with binoculars searching snow conditions on the distant summit. The first people to cross over this pass must have seen nearly the same panorama. Anyone traveling south intending to surmount the Brooks Range would likely have used the same guiding river course they followed. And now they might well be the last human beings for a long while to risk the avalanche chutes for such a trip.

  Alone in
the vast expanse of wilderness Lazlo and Christie hugged one another. Who knew where or even if, they might find another living soul? Lazlo thanked God for his blessings and the remarkable good fortune of their chance encounter.

  Misty clouds drifted across the peaks hiding the sparkling luster. Lazlo started the snowmobile and their noisy world returned. Shortly, they found the bridge which was Christie’s declared limit where the road began steeply ascending the Brooks Range.

  From the bridge they spotted avalanche runout beneath the lower chutes only partially blocking the ascending road. Conditions looked dramatically worse higher up. Watching unstable snow tumble down chute after chute was convincing. No one could hope to run a gauntlet of fifty-two chutes. Atigun pass was impassible for the moment.

  Lazlo noted the Sag River below the bridge was running a fast healthy stream. He thought melting snow represented their best hope of passage before winter accretion trapped them.

  Watching him study the stream, Christie read his mind. “Laz, there’s no way the snow over that pass is going to melt. That won’t happen until late spring… six months from now. I hope the chutes will stabilize by a hard freeze long enough to let us pass without harm.”

  Returning to the snowmobile, Christie halted and pointed to faint tracks in the snow on the bridge deck. Kneeling, she said, “These tracks were made by tire chains sometime after the first storm but before the last.”

  Lazlo appreciated the logic of her explanation. “Must have been that pickup I told you about heading into the slopes. But I wonder what happened to that long caravan of employees which left a few days before the pickup.”

  The only other living people had departed the North Slope…if they were still living. Looking back at the menacing chutes, Lazlo was disappointed with their trip. The cleft of the pass was invisible and the door through it seemed closed.