by Tim Washburn
“What if things turn hostile?”
“I know what we’re not going to do. Torpedoes stay in their tubes until we identify this other sub. Murph can handle the Chinese destroyer.”
Sonar Technician Adams swivels his chair around, his face pinched with concern. “Captain, I mark a detonation two miles off our stern.”
“Depth?” Thompson asks.
“Fifty feet, sir.”
CHAPTER 80
Searcy, Arkansas
On the outskirts of Searcy, Zane pulls the truck up close to a newer pickup with out-of-state tags and steps from the cab. Alyx rolls out on her side, the shotgun in her hands. Zane crams the hose into the truck’s gas tank.
“Hold off, Zane,” Alyx whispers.
Zane glances up and Alyx points toward the interior of the truck. He shuffles forward and peers inside. Two people are seated on the front seat, the cause of death readily apparent by the bullet holes punched in their foreheads. Zane turns to Alyx. “They were executed,” Zane whispers.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“We need fuel.”
“We’ll get it elsewhere.”
Zane nods and tosses the hose in the back, hurrying back around to his side of the truck. A little farther down the highway, he spots an exit leading to downtown Searcy. “Think we’ll have better luck looking for gas in town?”
“I’d rather stay on the highway. Seeing that murdered couple gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“We don’t know if people from town were responsible for the killing.”
Alyx turns in the seat to check behind them. “And I don’t want to find out.”
Zane glances at the gas gauge. “I don’t want to push it much farther.” After traveling another quarter mile, Zane slows, easing up on a late-model sedan with Tennessee tags. Inside the car is another dead couple, the interior buzzing with flies. “The killers must have been working in pairs,” Zane says. “Probably came up from behind the car.”
“I understand protecting what’s yours, but these executions are just senseless murders.”
Zane takes a moment to survey the area. Across the highway is a run-down hotel with people milling around in the parking lot. None appear to be too interested in the truck—yet. On the other side of the highway is a strip mall containing a mix of cheap clothing stores and a furniture rental outfit. The glass façades are smashed and clothing is strewn across the parking lot. “Can you stand watch while I siphon some gas?”
“Can we please get past this town?”
“We’re running on fumes now. I’d feel a hell of a lot more comfortable with a gallon or two in our tank. Won’t take but four or five minutes.”
Alyx sighs, grabs the shotgun, and pushes her door open.
Zane steps out. “Keep an eye on that hotel.”
Alyx nods as she takes up a position at the front of the truck. Zane grabs the hose and moves around to the other side and starts cursing because the fuel door has to be opened from the inside. He takes a deep breath and holds it as he sneaks his arm through the shattered window and pops the latch. He steps away, exhales, and starts the process of siphoning gas.
“Zane,” Alyx says softly, stepping closer. “Two people are walking up the on-ramp about a quarter mile behind us.”
Zane turns. From this distance it’s hard to ascertain much about the pair, but what’s not hard to distinguish are the two rifles riding on their shoulders. They don’t appear to be in a hurry, a fact that prickles the hairs at the nape of Zane’s neck. “Alyx, check our front,” he says quietly, keeping an eye on the two coming up behind them.
The shotgun roars and Zane whips around to see another pair of individuals duck behind a stalled car, only thirty yards ahead. He yanks the hose out, tosses it into the bed, and steps forward to take the shotgun from Alyx. “Take the wheel,” he says, backpedaling toward the passenger side. He sticks a hand through the window and blindly fumbles for more shotgun shells, his eyes focused on the dead sedan ahead. Alyx races around the truck and scrambles into the driver’s seat. Zane glances back to see the two people running in their direction. They’re seconds away from being pinned down by crossfire. His fingers light on the carton of shells and he grabs a handful and quickly reloads the shotgun. The two behind are still a good distance away so Zane turns his focus to the pair ahead.
Talking out of the side of his mouth he says, “Ease the pickup forward, Alyx. About walking speed. And keep your head down.”
The truck eases forward and Zane walks with it, his gaze centered on the sedan ahead. The shotgun is braced against his shoulder, his right eye sighted down the barrel as he slowly walks forward. With only a few shotgun shells remaining, he can ill afford to waste any. A man peeks up behind the trunk, but Zane holds his fire, his mind clicking through scenarios. Zane’s eyes drift toward the front of the car just as a man pops up by the hood, a rifle braced to his shoulder. Zane swings the shotgun and fires the right barrel. Rather than see if his shot hit the mark, he shifts the gun toward the rear of the car. Just as he thought, that man pops up, a pistol in his hand. Zane fires and quickly cracks the breech to reload.
A red smear is visible on the hood of the car. At that distance the buckshot would have spread a couple of feet, meaning the man is injured, but likely not dead. Zane hastens his pace. They need to get the hell out of here before the two behind them start firing. He lopes around the front of the pickup for protection. Alyx matches his speed as he walks sideways, the shotgun centered on his target. He takes a quick glance toward the rear. Those two are now less than a hundred yards away. They stop and raise their rifles, but there’s little Zane can do. They’re well beyond shotgun range. He turns his focus back to the stalled car, knowing the two behind will need time to catch their breath before being able to hit anything smaller than a barn. The man near the trunk lurches to his feet, his injured left arm tucked tight to his body. Zane fires and the double-aught buckshot rips through the man’s midsection.
As shots ring out behind them, Zane dives into the bed of the truck, pounding on the cab. Alyx floors it, and Old Goldie takes off like a spooked deer. On the outskirts of town, Alyx pulls up to a rusted-out farm truck and Zane siphons some gas. He climbs back into the cab, smelling like gasoline. “We need to either avoid people trying to kill us, or find some more ammo.”
“How many shells are left?”
“Three.”
CHAPTER 81
Off the coast of Kitty Hawk
Brad Dixon awakens and, finding himself alone, tosses off the blanket and jumps to his feet, grabbing for the rifle. He’d made Nicole sleep topside while he stood guard. As thoughts of her harming Tanner bombard his mind, he cocks the rifle and steps over to the hatch, nearly colliding with Nicole coming up from below. She’s carrying two steaming mugs of coffee and passes one to Brad. He eases the hammer down and takes the offered mug.
“Sorry. I had to use the restroom and put the coffee on to brew while I was down there.” She walks to the back and plops down on the seat. “That’s the last of the coffee.”
“We’ll reuse the grounds for a day or two,” Brad says, taking a seat behind the wheel.
“You might want to brush up on your guarding skills.”
Brad’s cheeks pink up and he takes a sip of coffee to hide it.
“I’m just saying,” Nicole says. “You were snoring, by the way.”
Brad fires up the engine and steers the boat closer to shore. When he’s satisfied with the location, he kills the engine and drops an anchor off the stern. He stows the rifle, well out of Nicole’s reach, and picks up the fishing pole. He ties on a different lure and casts it over the stern and into the water.
“Your son seems sad,” Nicole says.
“With good reason. He lost his mother and sister only days ago.”
Nicole blows the steam rising from her cup and takes another sip. “And you lost a wife and daughter.”
“Yep.” Brad works the lur
e using short tugs on the fishing pole. He lets the lure drift for a moment and takes a pull from his coffee cup.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Nicole asks.
“Nope.” Brad places his coffee cup aside and returns to the fishing pole. He reels in the lure and recasts. After five more casts and no hits, he switches to the lure he caught the black sea bass on yesterday morning.
Nicole sets her coffee on the rail and stands and stretches. “Do you have a final destination in mind?”
“Someplace that hasn’t been bombed to shit.”
“Are you always this pleasant in the mornings?” Nicole bends over and touches her palms to the deck. She glances up, her head cocked sideways. “No, let me rephrase. Are you always unpleasant?”
Brad’s cheeks pink up again. “No, not always. Only when people try to steal our boat.’”
Nicole stands, places her hands on her hips, and leans to the left. “I wasn’t, nor am I currently, trying to steal your boat.” Nicole returns to center and arches her back before stretching her arms over her head.
“Could have fooled me,” Brad says.
Nicole returns to center and sighs. “I’ll never convince you, will I?”
“Never is a very long time. Your stay aboard won’t be quite that long.”
Nicole changes the subject. “You’re reeling the line in too fast. Mind if I give it a try?”
Brad hands her the fishing rig. “Fish aren’t biting, but knock yourself out.” He sits and retrieves his coffee, watching her.
She reels in the lure, digs through the tackle box, and pulls out a heavy sinker, which she attaches to the line two feet in front of the lure. With that accomplished, she cuts off the lure and installs a double hook. She pulls a plastic squid from the tackle box and slides it on to conceal the hooks. “It’d be better with live bait, but let’s see what this does.” Nicole casts the lure out and once it hits the water, allows the lure to sink to the bottom. Bobbing the pole up and down, Nicole slowly cranks the reel. Within minutes she gets a hit and yanks on the pole to set the hook. She glances over her shoulder. “Would you mind grabbing the net?”
Brad scowls as he stands and pulls the net from the gunwale and moves to the stern. When the fish is within reach, he nets it and pulls it aboard. “Looks like you snagged a flounder. And a big one at that.”
Nicole smiles.
Brad unhooks the fish and Nicole casts out again. She quits after catching four more good-sized flounder.
“What were you doing different than me?” Brad asks.
“If I told you my secret you wouldn’t have any reason to keep me around.” Nicole smiles. “It’s all in how you work the pole, no pun intended.” She attaches a stringer to the extra fish and tosses them in the water.
Brad sets to work fileting the flounder while Nicole works on a second cup of coffee. Watching Brad butcher the job, she stands, takes the knife from his hand, and pushes him out of the way. He leans over the side to rinse his hands before heading below to fire up the stove. Tanner wakes up when the fish hits the pan. Brad glances up to see Nicole standing at the hatch, watching. “Am I cooking it wrong, too?”
Nicole smiles. “Smells good to me.” She turns to look at Tanner. “Good morning, Tanner.”
“Morning, ma’am,” he says before ducking into the head.
Once the fish is cooked, Brad plates three equal portions and carries them topside. “Never thought I’d be eating fish for breakfast,” Tanner mumbles, digging in.
Brad swallows the food in his mouth and says, “We need to eat fish when we can and save the canned stuff for bad-weather days.” He turns to Nicole. “Where did you learn to fish, Nicole?”
Nicole takes notice of his first use of her name. “I grew up around Chesapeake Bay. My dad would take my brother and me out fishing every weekend until I hit high school and decided it wasn’t cool anymore. I haven’t fished in years, but I guess I retained some of what he taught us.”
“How did you catch this flounder?” Brad asks around a mouthful of fish.
“I was drift-fishing the bottom where the flounder live.”
Brad puts his fork down. “That’s what I was doing.”
Nicole holds up a finger. “No, not exactly. You were dragging the bait through the mud. I put the sinker on there to keep the lure off the bottom.” She takes a bite and turns to Tanner. “What grade would you be going into?”
“Eighth.” Tanner sighs. “And it was going to be the first year for me to start on the basketball team.”
“I can see why. You’re a tall young man. I bet you can bury the three at will.”
Tanner smiles. Brad notices because it’s the first time Tanner has smiled since boarding the boat. “I can. They don’t call me Deadeye Dixon for nothing.”
All three laugh. “Who calls you that?” Brad asks.
“Will and Trent. Most of the time they’re razzing me, but I can hit the three more often than not.”
“Are you good at getting boards?” Nicole asks.
“That’s not the best part of my game. I get pushed around a little bit in the paint. Sometimes I forget to box out.” He glances up at his father. “Think I’ll ever get to play basketball again?”
“Absolutely,” Brad says with more conviction than he feels. “We’ll find a place to park this boat eventually.”
“I’d like that,” Tanner says, finishing up his fish. He rinses his plate and ducks below to retrieve his book before returning.
“What are you reading?” Nicole asks.
“Something we were going to read this semester in English lit.” He turns the book around to show her the cover.
“Bradbury, one of my favorites,” Nicole says.
“You’ve read Fahrenheit 451?” Tanner asks, as if asking Nicole if she has walked on the moon.
“Of course. I’ve read most all of Bradbury’s works, some more than a few times. How do you like it?”
“It’s . . . well, I guess, strange. I just started it yesterday, so I haven’t gotten very far.”
“Strange is a good way to describe some of his work, but the man was a genius. I’d love to discuss the novel when you get a little deeper into the story.”
Nicole sees Tanner glance at his father to gauge his reaction before he says, “I’d love that. Dad’s not much of a reader and it would be nice to discuss a book sometimes.”
Brad stands and rinses his plate before hoisting the anchor. He unfurls the mainsail and sets the trim. They bypass two docks before heading out to open water.
CHAPTER 82
North Atlantic
The USS New York is parked at a depth of 800 feet, while a battle rages overhead. Petty Officer Adams, the sonar technician, has noted numerous detonations but no one on the sub knows who’s winning the battle between the USS Grant and the Chinese destroyer. The sub crew’s focus is on other matters: another submarine is lurking the depths. The assumption is she’s Chinese, but that has yet to be confirmed. The one thing the crew is certain of—they’re at war with the People’s Republic of China.
“All ahead one-third,” Captain Thompson orders. “Conn, steer us on a lazy S to see if we can pick up the other submarine.”
His orders are confirmed and Thompson leans back in his chair, waiting. The ballistic missile submarine is designed for a single purpose—to sail the world’s oceans in silence until ordered to launch its deadly cadre of nuclear missiles. Other U.S. Navy submarines, such as the Virginia-class attack subs, are built and designed to hunt and kill the enemy above or below the surface of the world’s oceans. But the New York is no slouch when it comes to stealth or technology.
Midway through their maneuver, Adams announces, “Contact, Skipper. Signal remains faint. Bearing is two-niner-zero and contact is five miles out at a depth of five-nine-zero.”
Captain Thompson stands. “Mr. Patterson, plot a course.” He turns to Adams. “Enough for an ID?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Damn,” Thompson mut
ters. “Carlos, any chance the other sub could be a friendly?”
“I highly doubt it, Bull. I don’t know—”
“Torpedo in the water,” Adams says, his voice high, strained.
“Target?” Thompson barks.
“Running for the Grant, sir.”
“Mark the launch point.”
“Done, sir,” Adams replies.
“I guess that answers one question,” Thompson says to Garcia. “The next question is, where did she go after launching? My guess is deep, but I don’t have a feel for which direction.”
“If she doesn’t know we’re here, maybe she didn’t stray far.”
“Two more fish in the water,” Adams reports.
“On course for the Grant?” Thompson asks.
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Did she shoot from the same location?”
“Negative, Skipper. Bearing is now two-six-zero. Depth is seven-two-zero.”
Thompson looks at Garcia. “You’re right. She descended but didn’t stray far from the original launch point.”
“Mr. Adams, distance to the enemy sub?” Thompson asks.
“Four miles and closing, sir.”
Thompson crosses his arms. “Conn, maintain course and speed.” He glances at Garcia. “I want to be in that sub’s back pocket before we launch our torpedoes.”
“Makes sense,” Garcia says. “Take away their reaction time. How close do you want to be?”
“As close as we can get. Anywhere within a mile should do it.” Thompson pivots toward the sonar station. “Mr. Adams, distance to target?”
“Trying to reacquire, sir. Could be she ascended into the convergence zone.”
Thompson thumbs the sweat from his brow. “Find her quick, Mr. Adams.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
Thompson steps over to the attack center. “Mr. White, tubes loaded?”
“They are, Skipper,” Weapons Officer David White says.
“How long to produce a firing solution when we reacquire the target?”