by Tim Washburn
“Heading?” Thompson asks.
“Current course is eighty degrees, sir.”
“So she’s headed our way, huh?” the captain mumbles out loud. He looks at Garcia. “Think she spotted us when we were tied up with the Grant overnight?”
“I highly doubt it. But my main question is—are we at war with China?”
“That’s a question we can’t answer. Seems strange to have a Chinese ship in the middle of the North Atlantic, though.”
“Could be she was stalking the Russian ship,” Garcia suggests.
“If she was, the crew was doing a terrible job of it considering they’re a day and a half behind.” Thompson pauses, thinking. After several moments, he says, “Unless the Chinese have their helicopter in the air. We failed to ask Murphy if his helicopter is operational.”
“We can ascend to periscope depth and radio him.”
“Call me nervous, but I’m concerned there may be a Chinese sub or two running with that destroyer.” Thompson turns to the sonar technician. “Mr. Adams, any other contacts?”
“Negative, Skipper, but we’re currently sailing through a convergence zone. Detecting a surface ship is fairly easy—anything else is a crapshoot unless we ascend or descend.”
“Roger, keep a close eye on your scope. Q, takes us down to the deepest possible depth.”
Lieutenant Commander Quigley confirms the order and the submarine descends. Thompson steps over to the attack center. “Mr. White, load all four tubes,” Thompson orders. “Conn, sound the general alarm. Battle stations, torpedo.” The Klaxon sounds as the order to man battle stations is piped through the sub. Thompson returns to his spot next to Garcia. “Carlos, I guess the only way we’re going to know if we’re at war with China is if they fire on Murph’s ship. Let’s lurk deep until we know what the Chinese intend.”
“And if there’s a Chinese submarine in the vicinity?”
“I guess we play cat and mouse until we know which side they’re on. There’s a reason for that Chinese ship to be so far from home. I just wished we knew what it is.”
“I hate to rain on your parade, Bull, but how will we know if the Grant is under fire? We’ll only know if she gets hit or some stray ordnance explodes.”
Thompson sighs. “We’re going to have to radio Murph, aren’t we?”
“Yep. I know that’s a dicey proposition, but I’m not seeing an alternative at the moment.”
“Let’s stay deep for a while. With the Grant’s computer glitch on the Aegis Combat System, he’ll have to get a hell of a lot closer to the Chinese before anything happens.”
“That’s not necessarily true for the Chinese, Bull. If their ship is entirely operational, they’re nearly within missile range of the Grant right now.”
CHAPTER 77
Weatherford
The baby was fussy most of the night, and this morning Gage’s ass is dragging. With the generator sabotaged, Henry is cooking the remainder of the refrigerated items on the backyard grill. The table is already mounded with food and it looks like brunch at a fancy hotel. They’re all hoping the freezer, if they keep the lid closed, will keep the food frozen until they can get one of the turbines running. Gage piles his plate high with steak and eggs and doses everything with hot sauce before taking a seat at the table. Holly is still racked out and Susan is tending to Olivia, who finally fell asleep. Henry comes in and fills his own plate before taking a seat.
Gage forks a piece of steak and asks, “How long do you think it’ll take us to rework the rest of the electrical issues?” He pops the steak in his mouth and chews.
“A day, maybe longer,” Henry replies before feeding a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
“How are we going to ensure this house receives power?”
“I’ve got a few rolls of electrical wire that we can run directly to the house, if we need to. It’ll be a job to unroll by hand because it’s so damn heavy, but one way or another, we’ll get power to this house.”
“What happens to those who don’t receive any power? Some of them will be mad as hell.”
“As I said before, if we can restore power to some of the larger buildings people will have a place to go. And if we can get some of the town’s wells pumping water, I see no reason for anyone to be angry. I should think that would earn a small token of goodwill, wouldn’t it?”
“We can hope, I guess. But we’ll need to keep a close eye on the situation and be prepared to take action if needed.”
Henry pauses, the fork halfway to his mouth. “You talking gunplay?” he asks, the blood draining from his face.
“If it comes to that, yes. I don’t think we have any other options.”
Henry lowers the fork and pushes his plate away, his appetite suddenly gone. “Surely, the situation won’t escalate to that level.”
“It may. And we need to be prepared for that possibility. Maybe come up with a system where those with power take partial responsibility for protecting the turbine.”
“First, we have to get it working,” Henry says. “We’ll figure all the other stuff out later.”
Gage polishes off the last of his eggs and stands, carrying his plate to the sink. He’s halfway there before he stops and turns. “Damn, I forgot the well’s not working. We’re going to need water.”
“There’s a case of bottled water in the garage. That’ll last us a couple of days. Holly’s going to need it the most when her milk comes in.”
Gage nods. “As of last night she was only producing colostrum. The doctor said it might take a day or two before it happens.”
“That sounds about right,” Henry says. They file out of the house and climb into the truck. Gage fires it up and drives out to the turbine, where they slog up the tower. Both are drenched in sweat by the time they reach the nacelle. Gage pushes through the hatch and cranks the doors open, taking a moment to study the debris-filled atmosphere overhead. He shakes his head at the madness that happened only days ago. He turns away from the slate-colored sky and starts to work.
Henry is working on the control panel, rearranging switches and other electrical parts. Gage grabs a ratchet and a couple of wrenches and climbs below the floor of the nacelle and starts disconnecting the yaw motors. After unbolting them and tossing them on the floor, he spends some time studying the giant cogged wheel. He steps over and sticks his head through the hatch. “What are we doing to control the yaw?”
Henry looks up. “I thought about that last night. I’m not convinced the turbine head will rotate with the wind without the computer.” He bends and pulls a notebook out of his work case and spends a moment studying a chart before digging a compass out of the case. After studying that for a moment he looks up. “We need to lock the hub down at 193.65 degrees.” He stands and walks over, passing the compass on to Gage.
“Where’s the hub located now?”
“193 degrees.”
Gage hands the compass back. “That’ll do. I’ll run in a couple of bolts to lock her down. How much work do you have left?”
“I’ll be through up here soon. I still have to check out the transformer on the trailer. The braking system ready to go?”
“Yes. I finished that up yesterday.”
“Good, we’ll use your braking system to control the speed. We’ll run through a good quantity of brake pads, but we have plenty.”
“You see any way we’ll be able to start and stop the turbine from below?”
“Unfortunately, no. I hope your braking device will stop it if the wind speed gets too high, but we’re not going to know that until it happens. Why? You tired of climbing?”
“That’s part of it. The other part is we have no way to forecast the weather. From your house, it’d take me about half an hour to drive over here and climb up the tower. If we get a thunderstorm that pops up, as they have a tendency to do, the turbine could destroy itself before I could get up here to stop it.”
“You said it earlier. We’re going to need help with this, and not
just with security. The ideal situation would be having someone in or near the turbine around the clock. Maybe that same person would be responsible for stopping the turbine in an emergency.” Henry takes a swig of water from one of the two bottles they brought from the garage. “Right now, all we’re doing is speculating. We won’t be able to diagnose all the problems until we get her running.”
CHAPTER 78
Des Moines
McDowell pauses digging Hannah Hatcher’s grave and mops his brow. It’s been a while since he’s done any manual labor and his muscles are screaming in protest. The digging was good for the first hour, but two feet down, he hit a ledge of sandstone that he’s trying to chip his way through. McDowell lays the shovel aside and grabs his bottle of water. There are a few people out and about, but so far none have approached McDowell to inquire about his activities. He guzzles half the water and reseats the cap and scans the neighborhood again. On the opposite corner he spots a man walking the sidewalk who turns away when McDowell looks in his direction. Did I see him earlier? He watches as the man turns a corner and walks out of view.
McDowell probes a blister on his right palm, thinking, I did see him earlier, when I was returning to the office building after finding Hannah’s body. Or is it a different guy wearing a similar coat to this guy? McDowell reaches behind his back and touches the Glock to make sure it’s still there. With no definitive answers, he sighs and picks up the shovel.
A half an hour later, McDowell has only chipped away a few inches of rock and dirt. He pauses to stretch his back and glances up to see the same man walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. If the guy’s wondering what I’m doing, why doesn’t he walk over here and ask? McDowell ponders that question for a moment while he probes another blister on his left palm. It’s the size of a quarter and filled with fluid. He glances back toward the man. He’s too far away to discern many physical features, other than the man is tall and lanky. McDowell mulls the situation over and a thought charges to the forefront of his mind: unless he already knows what I’m doing. McDowell climbs out of the hole, thinking, It won’t hurt to talk to him, would it?
McDowell waits for the man to walk out of view, before hurrying across the street. He sidles up to a large elm tree and peeks around the edge of the enormous trunk. The man is almost to the next intersection. McDowell waits a moment and looks again just as the man glances over his shoulder. Cursing, McDowell ducks back behind the tree. The next time he looks, the man is gone. “Damn it,” McDowell mutters. He steps out from behind the tree and hurries up the sidewalk. The neighborhood has a blue-collar feel to it. Most of the homes are older and many are in desperate need of fresh paint. They’re small by today’s standards, and many of the homeowners have converted their garages into additional living spaces. As McDowell closes in on the next intersection, he slows, glancing to his left. The man didn’t go that way. Using the cover of a tall wooden fence he shuffles forward and glances around the corner to the right. The man is in the middle of the block, still walking west. McDowell waits. After another moment or two, he leans forward for another peek.
The man is walking up the driveway of a home six houses down. McDowell marks the location—a white Ford pickup in the drive—and pulls back behind the fence. He counts to twenty then slips around the corner. He squares his shoulders and strolls down the sidewalk like any neighbor would do. When he reaches the home with the white pickup, he turns up the drive. A large maple tree obscures most of the house and McDowell steps into the deep shade. Two square windows are positioned on either side of a front door that looks out over the weedy front lawn. McDowell slips over to the side of the house and eases toward the door. He pauses to glance through the closest window. The interior is dark, but not dark enough to conceal the trash scattered across what was once white carpet. McDowell ducks down below the window and crab-walks toward the front door. He kneels and pulls out the Glock, checking to make sure a round is seated.
McDowell reaches up to test the doorknob and finds it unlocked. He pauses for a deep breath and stands. In one swift move, he twists the knob and launches into the house, the Glock up and ready to fire. The man, seated in an easy chair, lunges forward, reaching for a pistol on the coffee table. McDowell takes two long strides and stomps on the man’s hand, pinning it to the table. He swats the short-barreled revolver to the floor and takes a step back, clicking on his flashlight and sweeping the beam across the man’s face. “How did you get those scratches on your cheeks?”
“Clearing brush. What the hell is it to you, and why the fuck are you in my house?”
McDowell ignores the questions. “Those scratches look pretty fresh. You were clearing brush yesterday, and what? You just happened to scratch both sides of your face?”
“Fuck you. Get out of my house.”
“Hannah.”
“What? Who the hell’s Hannah?”
“Hannah is the name of the girl you raped and strangled last night.”
The man tries to lunge out of the chair again and McDowell fires, punching a hole in the man’s forehead. He slumps back into the chair and McDowell tucks the Glock into the waistband at his back, turns, and walks back through the front door.
Back at the office building, McDowell takes the shotgun from Lauren. “We’ll go to the park as a group. Once there, you and Melissa can get Hannah wrapped up and then we’ll carry her to the grave.”
Lauren nods. Her eyes are red rimmed and her cheeks are damp.
“How’d they take the news?” McDowell asks in a low voice.
“Not well. There were some hysterics from the girls, but they’ve since calmed down. The boys are stoic. I think half of them were in love with Hannah.” Lauren sniffles and McDowell gives her shoulder a squeeze.
He rounds up the group, leads them out of the building, the shotgun slung over his shoulder. At the park, Melissa and Lauren, with tears streaming down their faces, roll Hannah onto the blanket and wrap her up. Once they finish, McDowell and Melissa carry the body to the grave and lower Hannah into her final resting place. Now everyone is weeping. In halting, broken voices, the students each take a turn to say something about Hannah. When they finish, Melissa recites a Bible verse from memory and everyone takes a turn on the shovel. McDowell finishes shoveling the dirt while the kids search for something to mark the grave. They return, each carrying a small rock. Taking turns, they each lay a stone at the head of the grave and the group walks solemnly back to the truck. Working silently, Lauren, Melissa, and McDowell load everything up and McDowell climbs behind the wheel. They won’t get far today with probably only four hours of daylight left. But anywhere is better than here.
CHAPTER 79
North Atlantic
With the Chinese ship still a good distance out, Captain Thompson orders a slow ascent to periscope depth. The sonar technician hasn’t spotted any subsurface contacts, but that’s not much consolation—submarines are damn hard to detect. As the sub levels off, Thompson grabs a radio handset from overhead then hesitates. Any radio broadcast will pinpoint their position. But there are too many unanswered questions. He clicks the button and says, “Thompson to Murphy. Over.”
“I’m here, Bull,” Captain Wayne Murphy replies. “We’ve got eyes on the Chinese destroyer.”
“Have you deployed your towed array sonar?”
“Yep. She’s a mile off our stern. Haven’t picked up anything yet, but we’re locked and loaded.”
“Any hint of the Chinese intentions?”
“Negative. Her course remains the same. She’s headed our way. Let’s just hope they don’t know you’re lurking below.”
A clock is ticking in Thompson’s head. Every second on the radio only furthers the chances of discovery. “Any choppers up?”
“No. Ours is operational and she’s on deck, ready to go if needed.”
“Good. Detonate a depth charge at fifty feet if the Chinese turn hostile.”
“What do you want me to do if the towed array detects a
sub?”
“Kill it. Thompson out.” The captain hangs up the handset. “Dive, emergency deep.” The nose of the sub immediately sinks as the sub descends at a steep angle. “All ahead full.”
The mood on the bridge is tense. Not knowing if the oncoming ship is friend or foe adds another layer of anxiety. “Mr. Adams, any changes in course for the Chinese ship?” Thompson asks.
“Negative, Skipper. Course and speed remain the same,” Adams replies.
Thompson glances at Garcia. “What’s your gut telling you, Carlos?”
“It’s telling me Murph is in for some type of confrontation. What type is yet to be determined. The Chinese know where the Grant is and haven’t taken any measures to avoid her. It could be as simple as a meet and greet—”
“I have a subsurface contact, Captain,” Adams says in a tight voice.
Thompson steps over to the sonar station. “Distance and type?”
“Unknown on both, Skipper. Signal is intermittent.”
“Course?”
“Also unknown,” Adams answers.
“Keep tracking,” Thompson orders. “I want that submarine and its position identified yesterday.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
Thompson walks over to the chart table and punches up the sonar display. He’s far from an expert, but he’s seen enough sonar images over his career to be, at minimum, competent. The only blips visible are those of the two surface ships. Thompson glances up from the monitor. “Quartermaster, pull up all known contacts with Chinese submarines on the ship’s computer.” The order is affirmed and Thompson asks another member of the sonar team to compare the results from the computer to the recorded image of the recent subsurface contact.
Thompson returns to his position on the bridge. “I wish like hell we knew their intentions, Carlos. We could spend days screwing around with that sub.”