Revenge.
He never saw the odd white hand-like shape painted on the sides and hood of the car as they climbed in.
They left Bessie where she lay.
ERIK TOSSED THE last of his pile of trash onto the pile and wiped his hands on his sweaty shirt. He had pulled trash detail and didn’t make any noise about it. It was nice, he figured, to get away for a half hour and have some peace and quiet. Even if it did come at the cost of a pretty nasty smell.
Following his own procedures set in place after the Battle, Erik and the other members of today’s trash squad had a guard detail to watch over them as they left the Freehold. Paying more attention to the task at hand, Erik soon forgot about the guards. When all the trash was disposed of, he turned and blinked in the afternoon sunlight, expecting to see the guards watching all approaches to their positions. Instead he only saw the other members of the trash squad. A few looked around nervously, acutely aware of being outside the Freehold walls, alone and unarmed.
Erik subconsciously wiped the ever present sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and scanned the little clearing they were in. No guards. “Where the hell did they go?” he asked aloud.
“Right here, sir,” came the reply. Erik spun just in time to see three of the four guards quietly emerge from the nearby scrub brush as if born in the forest. They had been totally invisible, despite not wearing camouflage gear.
One of the trash squad cursed with a start. The others shared a nervous chuckle and began the trek back to the Freehold and safety.
“Well…it looks like Ted’s teaching you guys some tricks.”
“And girls,” said a female voice as the fourth guard emerged. It was Janine, the Building Rep from Building 3. Gone was the sorority girl image of a few weeks ago. She had dirt smeared on her face and her thick blonde hair was pulled back tight against her skull, keeping it from flopping about as she moved. She carried no weapon save a small hunting knife.
“I’m the mouth,” she said with a sly look on her pretty face, holding up the radio each patrol was to carry, answering Erik’s silent question about her purpose on the squad. One of the other guards grinned at the obvious sexual overtones in Janine’s voice.
Erik looked to the three men who were all armed with either bows, arrows or captured handguns from the Battle. One was a member of Hoss’s biker gang. The beer-gut toting biker grinned, showing yellow stained teeth through his thick, coarse beard.
“Haven’t had this much fun since prom night. This guard shit is fun, man—it’s like playing Rambo,” the big man chuckled.
Erik grimaced but the others took it for a grin. “Come on, let’s get back inside.”
As they neared the main gate, Erik heard the tell tale rumble of Hoss’s Harley. He let the others go on in and waited for his cavalry leader to pull up and roll to a stop in the gravel next to the entrance of the Freehold.
“Howdy, Duke,” Hoss said with a grin as he shut down the motorcycle.
“What’s up, man? You find anything good today?” Erik said, shaking the big man’s hand by their customary method, gripping the forearms instead of hands.
“Did we ever,” Hoss said, adjusting himself in the seat. Erik couldn’t imagine how hot Hoss had to be, wearing leather chaps and vest on a day like this. Even for this time of the year, it was hot. “Just outside town, up on I-75, well, just east of 75, I guess,” Hoss said, scratching his beard. “Anyway, found a big-ass semi run off the road. Looked like an ambush; driver didn’t make it—he’s still there…sort of. Somethin’ been chewing on his ass. Found all sorts of weird graffiti on the rig. Looked like big hand prints in white paint. Like that car we saw that day we went up to the Sports Giant. Creepy shit, man.
“Anyway, the trucker’s been there for a while. The truck was busted open and torn through.”
Erik’s face fell; he was hoping the biker had discovered some food. They were running dangerously low at the Freehold. “We’re going to have to keep a serious watch for these Hand People. Haven’t seen ‘em in a few days.” Erik cleared his thoughts of the mystery. “Was anything left?”
“Oh yeah. Flour, and lots of it. It was some kind of supply truck for a grocery store or something. Here’s the manifest,” he said, handing over a crumpled and sweat-damp piece of carbon paper.
Erik scanned the list of contents. “Damn…he had all kinds of dry goods. Whoever hit him took it all, huh?”
“Well, ‘cept the flour and all that baking type shit. I figure it ain’t steak, but it’s food, right? I mean, someone can make something with it, right?”
“Oh sure, we can make lots with flour…some of these other things are great too—like these spices. It’ll go a long way towards giving us a choice in taste of the food we have left.” Erik shrugged. “Pretty damn lucky, I’d say. Anything else?”
“Yeah, we swung down by the Marina earlier. A lot of boats out there are missing or sunk or damaged. There’s still a good number just fine though, I guess. Don’t really know the difference, actually. But the fishing party we sent out? They caught a shit load of fish. Said to send someone with a bigger truck to help haul ‘em in. Big fuckers, man.”
“Thank God!” Erik said. His idea had finally paid off. Now if they could continue to catch fish, they’d at least have a steady supply of meat and protein. Something behind Erik caught Hoss’s eye.
“Whoops, there’s your buddy. I’ll leave you two lovebirds to chat. Later man.” Hoss waited until Lentz walked within hailing distance before kick starting his hog to life and roaring past the older man just as he tried to speak. Erik suppressed a grin.
“That man insults me,” Lentz said quietly, watching the biker disappear into the Freehold, hooting at a guard on top of the main gate. The guard waved back and signaled those behind the gate to keep it open for Lentz and Erik.
Erik handed the manifest over to Lentz. “Hoss found a supply truck today. Here’s what was in it. Only thing left,” Erik said as Lentz perused the crinkled paper. “Was some flour and spices and baking supplies. I think we should send out a party to bring it in, ASAP.”
“Hmmmm…yes…I’ll bring this up before the committee.”
Erik put his hands on his hips and looked down at the hot baked dirt under his feet for a second, getting control of his temper. It was all too short with Lentz lately. He finally looked up. Lentz was watching him, eyebrows raised, like a teacher watches a suspected troublesome student. “You’re taking it to the committee?” Erik asked.
“Yes. That’s what I said.”
“But that’s going to take a while…someone may come along and take the flour—“
“Then it wasn’t meant for us, was it?”
“What? What’s that supposed to mean? Are you going religious on me now?”
“I meant to speak to you about the fishing plan you set up. It’s not working.”
Erik’s mind raced to catch up, he was still thinking about the committee. “The fishing team? Hoss just said they caught a boatload today! They need help bringing it home, as a matter of fact.” Ha, take that you crotchety old bastard!
Lentz paused and stroked his smooth chin, almost to point out Erik’s mangy looking beard which he had been growing since the troubles started weeks ago. Lentz’s expression seemed to say, ‘Look here what I see, hark, ‘tis a barbarian at the gate.’ Instead, he muttered, “Hmm…yes. Indeed.”
“Indeed what?”
“Where is this help supposed to come from? You have us stretched too thin. What with the guards already in training and your silly play time with those swords—“
Erik felt his hand instinctively grip the pommel of his katana, hanging at his side in its scabbard. “Say what?”
“I believe you heard me, Mr. Larsson.”
“Hey, don’t take that tone of voice with me, Lentz. If it weren’t for my men with those silly swords, this place would be a smoldering ruin and we’d all be dead by now, or have you forgotten the Battle?”
Lentz sniffed a
nd looked down his nose at Erik. “No, I dare say none of us has forgotten the so-called Battle. But I tell you again, it is the opinion of the committee that you have stretched us too thin. I only meant to come out here to catch you alone,” he said, raising a hand to forestall Erik’s outburst. “So that I could inform you in private that we are considering removing you from your post as head of Security.”
Erik’s jaw dropped. “I…what?”
“I did not come here to argue with you, Mr. Larsson, only to inform you of what the committee is doing. After all, until they decide otherwise—“
“You mean until you decide otherwise,”
Lentz looked at Erik with an expression that said, ‘That’ll be enough of that, young man.’ Aloud, he said, “Until they decide otherwise, you are still one of the administrators of this community and as such are entitled to know the workings of said administration.”
Erik brushed past Lentz in frustration. “I don’t have time for this. Captain Williams and his National Guard patrol will be by soon and I’ve got to—“
“Yes, I know,” Lentz called out, causing Erik to turn around. “There is a group of five or six that plan to join the good Captain and move in to the Safe Zone.”
Erik shook his head in desperation. “They’re gonna regret that…”
“They’re only leaving because they can’t stand you any longer.” The ex-school administrator said sweetly as he shuffled past Erik into the Freehold. Erik stood in the road and fought back the urge to scream.
Instead, he resolved to get himself, Brin, Ted and his family and any who wanted to follow out of the Freehold and into the country before something happened. There were plenty of ‘somethings’ to worry about nowadays. The strange group of survivors they had nicknamed the Hand People, the U.N. invasion, the still-roving bands of criminals, disease, lack of food and water. The list kept growing until Erik cut if off and stormed into the Freehold.
U.S.S. THEODORE ROOSEVELT
The Big Stick Strikes Back
THIRTY MILES OUT in front of the Roosevelt battlegroup, the U.S.S. Hampton, one of the two surviving fast attack nuclear submarines attached to the Big Stick raced ahead towards Gibraltar, the open Atlantic and home. They were running fast and silent, just south of the Balearic Islands on the western edge of the Med.
During the attack on the Roosevelt, the underwater shockwave created by the thermonuclear explosion and the subsequent electromagnetic pulse crippled the two other ‘Silent Sticks’, sending one to Davy Jones’ locker and the other to the surface to be towed by a support vessel.
None of the submarines assigned to defend the Roosevelt escaped without damage. In the case of the Hampton, it was only superficial and easily repaired. As a result, she held the honor being the tip of the sword for the battlegroup. Her sister ship, the U.S.S. Scranton, was less than a mile to starboard.
“Conn, Sonar, contact bearing zero-one-nine. Range, two miles,” called the cracking voice of the Hampton’s sonar officer of the watch upon hearing the new contact light up his display screen and his headphones.
Commander Rick Umbris made his way to the sonarman’s ‘office’. “Whatcha got, Townsend?”
The young man fresh out of high school looked up nervously from his screen. He was first in his class and was considered one of the rising stars in the Atlantic Fleet. Umbris was proud to have him on his fast attack boat.
Townsend scrunched up his face, concentrating, and pressed his headphones tight. “Twin screws...big fat surface vessel, sir. She’s moving slow.” His eyes popped open. “Active sonar…very faint, but they’re scanning. Sorry sir, it’s at the limit of our gear, set passive.” His training officer listened for a second then nodded towards the CO, affirming his student’s assessment.
The boat’s skipper clapped him on the back, confirming everything the young man said by looking at the computer screen before him. “Good work. Decrease speed to ten knots,” Umbris called over his shoulder, eyes still on the screen. “Let’s take this nice and slow.”
“Ten knots, aye,” replied the big XO from the command center. Lieutenant Commander Lawrence Whittaker was a large black man with the body of a football player and the mind of an engineer. “Make your speed ten knots, “ he barked.
The massive cylinder of steel, gliding through the ocean water as quiet as a whisper, slowed imperceptibly. She was rigged for silent running and as one of the newest Los Angeles class subs, the Hampton was one of the hardest to detect. Even when running war-games with her own fleet, she routinely slipped past sonar nets.
“Speed is ten knots, Cap’n,” said Lt. Commander Whittaker.
“Very well,” replied the commander as he returned to the nerve center of the nuclear submarine. “I have the Conn,”
“Cap’n has the Conn,” called out the XO.
“What’s the ID?” asked Commander Umbris.
“Conn, Sonar, she’s being run up by the computer as a Spanish warship. Frigate, F100 class; she’s a big ol’ twin gas turbine. I think they use a Raytheon built sonar system…” replied the young sonar operator, consulting the computer screen. “She sounds rigged for anti-submarine warfare, sir.”
“Very well. What’s her mood?”
“Sounds like a bull in a china shop, sir,” the young enlisted man shook his head confidently. “Got no idea we’re here.”
“Well, then, keep us clear of her and warn the fleet.“
“Aye, sir,” replied the XO. He turned to the communications center to advise the Roosevelt via their UHF towed array, a long cable stretching hundreds of feet out behind the quietly advancing submarine.
“Conn, Sonar! Multiple contacts, Jesus, sir!”
Commander Umbris raced from the Conn back to the young sonar operator. “What is it?”
Looks like a fleet, sir! Look, there’s two more, they’re just coming into range…man, it’s up to six already.”
“They’re spread out for anti-sub alright,” said the Hampton’s chief sonarman. “My guess is they’re not going to be fooling around. My count is seven.” He took the headset from his pupil and was back in command of the sonar operations.
“Eight,” countered the skipper, pointing at the computer screen.
“Yup. That’s a destroyer, there. But it ain’t Spanish. My guess is it’s a Frenchman. Suffren class by the signature,” said the Chief with a frown. “Fast sumbitch too.”
“Looks like we stumbled onto the welcoming party, Cap’n,” boomed the XO’s deep voice. Commander Umbris could imagine the smile.
The CO put his hands on his hips, knowing full well that all eyes in the Conning Tower were on him. He took a moment to think. Anything he said would have dramatic affect on the already tense crew.
“I haven’t heard anything about the Spanish being against us, but I know damn well the French are,” the skipper said. He remembered the President’s speech. They had picked it up when the Hampton went to periscope depth to check in with the fleet. He had confirmed his orders with the Admiral and could hear the fateful words echo in his mind: “We’re trying to get home…if you can, avoid the enemy. If you can’t, cut a path right through ‘em. We’re not going to let anything or anyone stop us from reaching the Coast.”
“Any chance we could make it through that sonar net, son?” asked the CO.
Young Townsend looked up, eyes wide. “Sir, they’re all pinging on active. Even if we got lucky, it’s almost impossible to penetrate a screen like that.“
“They think there’s something out here, sir. They’re thinking they’re ready for us,” added the Chief.
“Where they goin’?”
“Sir, their course and speed are constant heading due east.”
“They’re looking for us aren’t they?” asked the XO over his commander’s shoulder.
“Yep. Only we found ‘em first.” The attack sub’s commander made up his mind fast. He calculated odds. “There’s nine of them now…”
“Hardly seems fair, don’t it?” asked
the XO. The young sonarman looked up, scared.
“Yeah. We should see if they got ten before we move in,” grinned Commander Umbris. He moved back to the Conn. “Battlestations!”
“Battlestations, battlestations, this is not a drill! All hands to battlestations!” barked out the XO over the boat’s intercom. Instantly men began running to posts, waking comrades and preparing for a fight. The ship went from a calm sleepy ‘night’ to an angry hornet’s nest bathed in eerie red lights in seconds. Within a minute, the ship was calm again, coiled and ready to strike.
Lt. Commander Whittaker looked at his stopwatch when the ship was reported battle ready and frowned. He expected better. Their next drill would be a doozy.
“Weps, get me firing solutions on that French garbage scow,” ordered the Commander over the microphone that hung near the periscope station, satisfied that the boat was ready for war.
The boat’s Weapons Officer complied quickly. “Lock ‘n’ load, Skipper!” came the voice over the command center’s speaker.
“Load and flood tubes one and three, I want the Tomahawks on standby,”
“Flooding tubes one and three, aye, aye, Captain,” replied Weps. Seconds later: “Tubes one and three flooded, sir. Tomahawk missiles prepped and standing by.”
“Sonar, Conn,” called out the Commander.
“Conn, Sonar, aye,” replied Townsend’s adolescent voice over the intercom.
“Any sub contacts?”
“Negative sir, all surface vessels.”
“Very well. Weps, Conn, lock in firing solutions and prepare to fire.”
“Firing solutions locked, sir…”
The Commander rubbed his chin and thought for a second on his intended course of action. For a split second, he hesitated. After all, his boat had not been attacked yet by the French or the Spaniards. Was he starting a war? Then the other part of him flooded his mind with the memory of the nuclear missile nearly hitting the Roosevelt and the subsequent Egyptian air strikes. He remembered the sense of helpless he felt as they listened to the battle, unable to do anything from under the waves. He remembered the President’s speech. He remembered the Marines that were slaughtered off the coast by some cowardly Russian sub.
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