by Tim Washburn
Holly glares at her mother before looking up at Gage. “I think she’d be okay with us dropping by, Gage. But I don’t want to wear out our welcome. I’m fine for now.”
“Still, I hate to leave you two stranded,” Gage says. “Susan, would you mind running us out to the jobsite? That way you’ll have the pickup in case you need it.”
“Gage, I’m not due for another month,” Holly says.
Susan pushes back from the table and stands. “I like that idea, Gage. I’ll come and get you both before dark.”
“Sounds good,” Gage says.
“We need to load a couple of items out at the barn before we’re ready to go,” Henry says.
“Okay. Give me a shout when you’re ready,” Susan says, carrying her and Holly’s plates to the sink.
Gage and Henry exit the house and climb into the pickup for the short drive to the barn. Henry glances at the shotgun riding between them. “Expecting trouble?”
“Nope. Just being prepared.” At the barn, Gage swings around and backs the truck up next to the large sliding door. “What are we getting here?”
“One of the unused step-up transformers.”
“We’re not going to be able to load that by hand, Henry.”
Henry pulls the door open and steps inside, Gage following behind. “We don’t have to,” Henry says, waving an arm toward the transformer already loaded on a large trailer. “We’ll park the trailer up next to the tower.”
“What makes you think the rest of the grid is operational?”
“I don’t. If we can get just a portion of the grid going I’d be happy.”
“Especially if it’s the power lines running to this house.”
“Of course. It’s unlikely we’ll be able to power the entire town, but if we can get power to a few houses that’s better than nothing.”
“Unless you’re one of those not receiving power.” Gage walks over and puts a foot up on the side of the trailer. “I don’t know, Henry. We could be setting ourselves up for a war.”
“Admittedly, I haven’t thought about all of the societal concerns, but if we have the knowledge and the ability to do it, why not? Maybe we could tie in one of the schools so the other people in town could benefit. At the very least we could get some wells pumping water. Isn’t clean water worth it?”
“I’m not saying it’s not worth it. I’m just suggesting we need to be careful about how we do this.”
“Let’s see if getting the turbines working is feasible before we worry about all the other stuff. If you’ll back the old truck in, I’ll hook up the trailer.”
Gage climbs into the cab and, following Henry’s directions, backs up to the trailer. Henry attaches the trailer and takes his seat on the passenger side. The old truck is riding low in the ass end when they pull out of the barn. They stop at the house to pick up Susan, and Gage takes it slow down the driveway, the truck struggling with the weight of the trailer and transformer.
“Which turbine do you want to try first?” Gage asks.
“The one closest to the house,” Henry replies. “Plus, it was one of the turbines off-line when things went sideways.”
CHAPTER 49
Along the coast of Maryland
Brad and Tanner sailed until dusk, reaching a point just north of Ocean City, Maryland, before dropping anchor a mile from shore. Both rattled from the events earlier in the day, they had cut a wide swath around other boats all day. Brad wakes when the sun breaks on the horizon, still exhausted after standing guard through the night. He throws off the blanket and stands and stretches. Off to the west, the horizon is smudged with smoke, and in the distance flames are visible as the firestorm, started days ago, rages on. With no one left to fight the fires, the only natural firebreak is the edge of the ocean.
As the crow flies, Ocean City is only a hundred miles from Washington, D.C. The area to the west must have been hammered, evidenced by the significant increase in the number of dead bodies, both human and animal, in the water. Having washed down the Potomac, they are now drifting along with the current. But bodies aren’t the only problem. The water is brimming with all sorts of debris, including shattered lumber, sections of ripped-apart houses, and unmanned boats on a voyage to nowhere. It looks as if a tsunami had hit. Life would be so much easier if that’s all that had occurred, Brad thinks, shielding his eyes against the rising sun and scanning the water. More than a dozen boats are anchored within a three-mile circle with many other boats motoring along in the deeper water. A good number of the boats passing by are motorboats and Brad wonders what will happen when they run out of fuel.
Brad unstraps one of the fishing poles from the top of the cabin. Ideally, he would prefer to fish with live bait, but unless he catches some, live bait is not an option. He ties on an artificially scented lure and casts it into the water. Far from an expert fisherman, he has no idea if it’s the correct bait or not, but all he can do is try. After reeling up the slack, he allows the bait to drift to the bottom before slowly reeling it in. After fifteen minutes of fishing and no bites, he moves to the starboard side and recasts.
He feels something bump the other side of the boat, but thinking it’s a piece of debris he fishes on. Then he feels another bump, this one accompanied by a grunt. Brad whirls around to see two hands latching on to the swim platform. He drops the rod and grabs the rifle as a large man pulls himself out of the water and pushes to his feet. Brad cocks the hammer, turns, and fires from the hip. He hits the man in the shoulder and a spray of blood coats the white vinyl seats. The man howls with rage and staggers forward, now only four feet away. Brad levers another shell, seats the stock to his shoulder, and fires again, hitting the man center mass. Blood and bone splatter across the boat and the man crumples to the deck.
Tanner rushes up the stairs, shaking. “Tanner, go back below,” Brad shouts as he steps to the stern, scanning the water for more swimmers. Feeling a sharp stick to his bare foot, Brad glances down to discover he’s standing on a piece of the man’s bone and flicks the fragment into the water. After several more moments of scanning and not spotting any more threats, Brad lowers the rifle and props it against the wheel. For the first time, he looks at the man he killed. The man is big, probably close to six-two and well over two hundred pounds. Facedown, Brad can’t obtain an accurate estimate of the man’s age, but the full head of dark hair suggests he’s fairly young. Trembling from the adrenaline dump, Brad feels zero remorse the man won’t ever reach retirement age.
Now the question is, how to get the body off the boat? Brad grabs a foot and attempts to pull with little result. He plants his feet, takes a deep breath, and tries again, moving the body only a few inches. Brad doesn’t want to involve Tanner in this mess, so he steps back to ponder another approach. While he’s pondering he makes another scan of the water. They really need to move farther out to sea. Screw it, he thinks, walking over to the hatch and shouting down into the cabin. “Tanner, I really need your help.”
Tanner haltingly climbs up to the deck, his eyes as big as dinner plates. He takes one glance at the bloodied boat and begins to shake again. “Who was he, Dad?”
“No idea. I need your help to move him.”
Tanner is staring at the blood pooling on the deck. “What . . . what are we . . . going to . . . do with . . . him?”
“Roll him into the water. About the only choice we have.” Brad looks up at his son, whose face is now the shade of the whitecaps breaking in the distance. “If you’ll just help me with that, I’ll clean up the rest of this mess.”
“O . . . kay.”
Brad moves behind the body. “I think if we both grab a foot we can drag him over to the stern.”
Trying to avoid the pool of blood, Tanner tiptoes across the deck. He hesitates for only a moment before reaching down to grab a foot. Working together they drag the body to the back of the boat then move around to the body’s other side and, with grunts of exertion, push it into the water. They stand and Brad wipes the sweat fr
om his brow. “Son, if you’ll set up there on the top of the cabin and keep an eye on the water, I’ll finish up.”
Tanner nods and tiptoes back across the deck, taking a seat near the mast. Brad lifts one of the seats and retrieves a bucket. He dips it into the water and splashes it across the deck. After twenty-one more dunks and splashes, the deck and seats are free of blood. Brad grabs a rag to wipe the seats down then grabs the rod and reels in the line. “Tanner, pull up the anchor. We’re getting the hell out of here.”
After the anchor is aboard, Brad fires up the engine and motors out to deeper water before unfurling the mainsail. With the bow pointed south, the sail catches the wind and the EmmaSophia cuts through the water.
CHAPTER 50
Near Ponta Delgada, São Miguel Island, Azores
At the half-mile mark from the docks at Ponta Delgada, the USS New York rises to the surface. The assembled security team waits near the main hatch for the order to go topside while Thompson and Garcia survey the harbor using both periscopes. The security team is armed with M16 rifles, and each man has a semiautomatic pistol strapped into the holster at his waist. They are also outfitted with a safety harness they’ll clip on to a line that will be deployed along the length of the sub.
Designed to perform flawlessly beneath the water, the nuclear submarine tends to wallow on the surface and, with no tug to offer assistance, getting to the dock will be a dicey proposition. Captain Thompson steps away from the periscope and snaps a microphone from the overhead bulkhead. “This is the captain. Security team, deploy.” The security team members climb the ladder of the main hatch, one at a time, the first providing covering fire if needed. “Carlos, you have the deck. I’m going topside.”
“Unarmed?” Carlos asks.
“There’ll be plenty of guns on deck.” Thompson slips on a harness, grabs a set of high-power binoculars, and climbs up the narrow set of ladders inside the sail. At the top he opens the hatch and climbs out onto the bridge. After ninety-some days below the surface, the fresh air is a welcome relief. What is not a welcome relief is the reminder of what happened. Confined inside the sub, thoughts of what might be happening topside take a backseat to the tasks at hand. But up here, the smoke and debris in the atmosphere blot most of the sun’s strength and Thompson feels a pang of regret for their role in the cause. He puts the binoculars to his eyes and scans the shoreline. Although there are a lot of pointed fingers, no one seems to be moving with any urgency. Thompson glasses the Portuguese frigate and finds it empty.
Now six hundred yards from the docks, Thompson picks up a radio handset to play the role of navigator, while keeping a close eye on the shoreline. He relays course corrections and speed changes to the helm as the six-hundred-foot behemoth closes in on the docks. “All stop,” he orders via the radio. “Send a helmsman up to the bridge. Might make things easier. And send up the tenders. I see some lines lying on the dock.”
After making his way up the sail, the helmsman takes the wheel and the submarine resumes forward progress. Thompson lifts the binoculars to study the dock area and the surrounding shoreline again. After a world-wide nuclear war, life on the island appears mundane. The captain triggers the microphone. “Carlos, who’s the big kahuna on the island?”
After a delay of a few minutes, Garcia answers. “Ponta Delgado is the seat of government for the Azores and I assume the president has an office somewhere in the city.”
“Is there any other information in the computer?”
“I’ve looked, Bull. I can’t find any more about who or where and I can’t exactly call the State Department. I guess we’re winging it.”
“Let’s just hope he’s a winging-it kind of guy. Anyone on board speak Portuguese?”
“I’ll peruse the personnel records, but I highly doubt it.”
“What are the chances we have a consulate in the city?” Thompson asks.
“Hadn’t thought of that. We should have some information if we do. I’ll check.”
“We’re about two hundred yards from the dock. Check fast.”
The submarine slows to a crawl as the boat moves closer to the dock. On the surface the USS New York drafts thirty-eight feet, compared to a ship like the Portuguese frigate, which probably drafts twenty. The captain is hoping the charts are accurate and sediment hasn’t built up over the years. As the submarine inches closer to the dock, three officious-looking men appear at the entrance and begin striding down the pier. Thompson raises the binoculars to his eyes for a closer inspection. Two are dressed in some type of official uniform, the third is dressed in camouflage fatigues and a beret, common among the Portuguese Navy. Thompson zeros in on the navy man. Although he’s unfamiliar with Portuguese insignia, the epaulets on his uniform suggest he’s some type of officer. All appear to be unarmed. Thompson lowers the field glasses to make sure none of his security people are tracking the men’s progress with a rifle barrel. Wouldn’t do to shoot a government minister of the host country before even docking.
Two young seamen make a nimble jump across to the dock and ready the lines. The helmsman puts the engines in neutral and the submarine slowly coasts up to the pier. “Well done, Ensign Taylor. You’re a hell of a boat driver,” Thompson tells the young man at the controls before disappearing down the ladder. He makes his way over to the main hatch, calling for Garcia to join him. “We probably should have put on our dress uniforms.”
“A little late for that,” Garcia replies. “I think they’ll forgive our rudeness, considering the situation. And I checked, there is a U.S. consulate in Ponta Delgada.”
Thompson nods and starts climbing. On deck he orders a gangway be brought across from the dock. The security personnel form a loose perimeter around their captain and XO as they navigate their way down the long black deck. The trio of uniforms is now about fifty yards away and one of them is waving his hand, and not in greeting. “Hold up,” Thompson shouts to his men working the gangway. In a lower voice, he says, “Security team, fan out along the deck.” He turns to Garcia and says in a low voice, “What do you think that’s about?”
“Well, they’re not rolling out a red carpet, that’s for damn sure. And from their grim expressions they don’t appear to be in a cordial mood, either.”
“Any Portuguese speakers on board?” Thompson asks.
“Negative.”
The trio, eyeballing the security detail, stops when they’re twenty feet from the sub. The hand-waver speaks first, using broken English. “You not welcome here. Leave.”
“All we want to do is resupply,” Thompson says.
“We not have supplies. Leave.”
“We are NATO allies. I would expect your cooperation.”
“No NATO now.”
“We’re still bound by a signed treaty.”
“No more.”
“I would like a word with someone at the United States Consulate.”
“No more consulate. I order you to leave.”
“May I have a word with the gentleman from the Portuguese Navy?”
The three men are all shaking their heads. “No speaking. You leave.”
Thompson’s face turns a deep shade of crimson and the veins in his forehead are visibly throbbing. “Or what?” His words spark the security team into action. Those with rifles are now pointing them at the three men.
The waver raises his arm and flicks his hand. The sound of loud footfalls reverberates along the pier as a group of Portuguese sailors march toward the submarine, their rifles at the ready. Thompson estimates the number at fifty or more, but regardless of the actual number, his small security force is seriously outgunned. And it’s way too late to summon more men. “Tenders, free the dock lines and board the boat. Security team, lower your weapons and return inside.”
Disgruntled, the security team makes their way to the main hatch. The only two now left on deck are Thompson and Garcia. “Thank you for your hospitality,” Thompson says, his middle finger extended. He glances up at the helmsman. “Rever
se engines, Ensign Taylor.” He and Garcia make their way toward the hatch. Captain Thompson is the last man down the ladder. When his feet hit the deck he orders, “Sound the general alarm—battle stations, torpedo. Conn, recall Ensign Taylor and secure the hatches.” He walks over to the attack center and orders tubes one and two loaded.
“Conn, periscopes up.”
The two periscopes slide up from the floor and Thompson takes one and Garcia the other as the boat continues to retreat from the dock. Thompson turns the periscope to focus on the group on the dock “You bastards,” he mutters. “Q, tell me when we’re deep enough to dive.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” the dive officer, Lieutenant Commander Quigley, replies.
Thompson is calm on the exterior, but inside the anger is raging. And the farther the submarine retreats, the more his anger builds. “So much for human compassion, Carlos.”
“Yep. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Affirmative.”
After a few more minutes, Quigley reports the water depth at 225 feet.
“Thank you, Q. Take us down to periscope depth.”
“Dive, dive, dive,” Quigley says, as a shipwide horn sounds and the submarine slips beneath the surface.
Thompson dials up the strength on the periscope. “Those assholes going to stand there all day, Carlos?”
“I think they want to make sure we’re leaving.”
“Well, I’ve got a parting gift for them.” He turns toward the attack center. “Mr. White, torpedoes loaded and armed?”
“Yes, sir,” replies Weapons Officer David White.
“You have the target?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thompson rotates the periscope to the Portuguese frigate. “Fire tubes one and two.”
“Roger, firing tubes one and two.” The ship shudders as the two torpedoes are propelled out of their tubes.
“Fish away. Eight hundred yards to target,” White says.
“Roger,” Thompson says.