"Down scope," ordered the captain suddenly, interrupting his XO as if he'd never heard him. "Diving officer, make your depth one-zero-zero feet. Mr. Conyers, you have the conn."
"I have the conn," responded Brett, watching Dunning flee the control room as though the devil himself were on his tail.
He didn't know what was up with the captain, but he didn't like the way he was acting. To totally ignore his XO was bad enough, but his demeanor would only heighten the crew's anxiety. Word of it would spread and sink morale quicker than a torpedo.
***
It had been a week since the comet's arrival, and Brett was frustrated they didn't know any more about what had happened outside their patch of ocean now than they did the day it hit. There had been no communications—not even with any other ships. They had detected a radiation cloud, but Brett surmised that didn't necessarily mean someone had fired off nuclear weapons. The heat produced by the comet could have set off such weapons accidently, or a nuclear power plant might have imploded. When he told Captain Dunning about the cloud, the captain refused to contemplate any explanation other than the nuclear attack option. He seemed certain someone must have launched an attack against the United States.
Dunning had spent the last couple of days ensconced in his cabin. Brett had no idea what was going through the man's mind, but he knew right away something was wrong when the captain rushed into the control room with a fretful look on his face.
"I have the conn," announced Dunning abruptly.
"Captain has the conn."
"Chief of the watch, sound the general alarm."
The chief looked surprised by the order, but complied.
"Aye, sir, sounding the general alarm."
The klaxons sounded and all hands scurried to their battle stations. Brett hoped this was just an impromptu drill, but, looking at Dunning, he worried it was something else.
"Sonar, conn," called Dunning. "Anything? Any contact?"
"Conn, sonar...that's a negative, sir. I'm not reading any contact."
"Diving officer, periscope depth."
"Periscope depth, aye."
"All stations report manned and ready, sir."
"Raising number one scope," called the officer of the deck.
Brett had no idea what was going on, and he should have. If it was a drill he should have been informed. But the wild look in the captain's eyes said it wasn't.
"No close contacts."
Dunning pressed up against the eyepiece and spent an abnormal amount of time looking in all directions.
"Take her down!" exclaimed the captain suddenly. "Down scope! Helm, all ahead flank! Make your depth five hundred feet."
"What is it, Captain?" asked Brett.
Dunning ignored the question and called out, "Left full rudder."
"Left full rudder, aye."
"Flood tubes one and two."
"Captain, we have no target."
Still Dunning ignored the XO.
"Open the outer doors," ordered the Captain. "Firing point procedures."
"Outer doors are open, sir. We're ready to fire."
"Sonar, conn. Do you have anything?"
"Conn, sonar...nothing sir."
"Right twenty degrees rudder," ordered Dunning. "Come to a new course, one-three-zero."
The crew was following his commands, but Brett saw they wondered what was up, and what he'd seen through the scope. Brett sidled up close to Dunning and asked in a low voice, "What is it, sir?"
"There's something out there." Dunning didn't bother to lower his voice.
"What did you see?"
"I didn't see anything. It's still dark as hell out there, but I can feel it. There's something out there...hunting us."
The captain's own words all but confirmed Brett's worst fear. The only question now was, what would he do about it?
Brett looked around the control room. Concern colored the faces of the crew—especially the senior members. The captain saw the stares too. Brett expected some kind of outburst, but Dunning didn't say a word. He walked away, out of the control room, without even turning over the conn. The men watched him go and a few began whispering.
"I have the conn," said Brett. "Chief of the watch, secure from general quarters. All ahead standard. Diving officer, make your depth two-zero-zero feet. Maintain course."
***
"What are you saying, XO? You think the old man's lost it?"
Brett had gathered some of the senior officers and chiefs in the wardroom to discuss the captain's unusual behavior. It wasn't something he'd done lightly, but he felt he had no choice.
"XO, I hope you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting."
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just asking if any of you have noticed the same things I have."
"I, uh…"
"Speak up, Chief."
"I did see the captain talking to himself outside his cabin. But shit, I do that myself from time to time."
"What was he saying?"
"I didn't really catch enough to know.”
"Look, we all want to go home and check on our families," said Mr. Maxey, "and I know the crew is a bit unsettled, but the captain gives the orders, and as far as I'm concerned—"
A knock on the wardroom door interrupted the discussion. Brett opened it. The petty officer standing there stuttered, "I heard this noise...in the captain's cabin...like a gunshot or I don't know...you'd better come look, sir."
Chief Roberts led the way, and all those in the wardroom followed. Several seamen were gathered outside the captain's cabin.
"Let's clear the area," ordered the chief. "You men return to your duties."
The chief stood aside once the area was clear and let the XO knock on the door. There was no answer, so he knocked again. Still no response, so Brett let himself in. What he found, he half-expected, yet still couldn't believe his eyes.
The captain was slumped over on his bunk with a bullet through his brain. Brett motioned for the others to enter. No one said a word, until Chief Roberts looked at Brett and asked, "What are your orders, Captain?"
***
Brett had run several scenarios through his head since he'd learned Smith-Kim was on a collision course with Earth. He was prepared for a lot of things, but the captain's suicide wasn't one of them. Though the possibility he may have had to remove Dunning from command had crossed his mind, he hadn't really contemplated the ramifications of taking over that command. Now all eyes were on him as entered the control room. He met their gazes with an expression he hoped radiated confidence.
Brett picked up the handset and flipped on the intercom.
"This is Captain Conyers." Saying it out loud felt strange, but also made it feel real for the first time. "By now I'm sure you've all heard about the death of Captain Dunning. It's not something that can easily be understood, any more than we can understand what's happening to the world right now. I know many of you are concerned about the wellbeing of your families. The truth is, I don't know any more about what's happened than you do. But we're going to do what we can to find out. We've lost all contact with command, so, in the absence of any further orders, we're going to return to Norfolk. We'll see if we can reestablish contact along the way. I expect everyone on board to do their jobs, and I promise to keep you informed."
Brett could tell by the faces of those in the control room. They all wanted to know. They all needed a purpose. Now they had one.
Brett joined his XO, Mr. Maxey, at the navigation map.
"Where are we, Greg?"
"Right here, about thirty miles north of St. Johns."
Brett studied it a moment. "Plot a direct course to Miami. Let's cruise by there first and see what we can see before we head up to Norfolk."
"Aye, sir."
***
Almost two weeks had passed, and static was still the only thing over any of the radios. He knew it couldn't be, but it felt as if they were the last living souls on Earth.
"You'd better l
ook at this, sir."
Maxey had called him to control after a routine surface check. The XO backed away from the periscope to let him look.
Brett was astonished by what he saw, but it also filled him with hope. Bobbing along the surface about hundred yards away was a hodgepodge flotilla consisting of several small boats, some inflatables, and various wooden platforms, all lashed together. But it wasn't the floating refuse that gave him hope. It was the people that clung to it.
"Make all preparations for surfacing," ordered Brett.
As Maxey gave the orders, Brett speculated about who these people might be, and how they might have survived the maelstrom created by the comet's collision. He wondered, too, why they'd taken to the sea in such a dangerous manner.
"Ready to surface, sir."
"Let's take her up, Mr. Maxey."
The XO gave the order and the surfacing alarm sounded.
"Lookouts to the bridge."
"Order a rescue team to the bridge as well," said Brett. "It looks like we may be taking survivors aboard."
"Aye, sir."
Once they'd surfaced, Brett got to the bridge. It had been more than two weeks, but the sky was still dark with smoke, and the wind still carried ash. A weak sun penetrated the gritty clouds, offering a tiny comfort.
He maneuvered the Savannah as close as he dared to the ramshackle flotilla. At least twenty people clung to it. The swollen belly of one of the women announced her pregnancy. Two small children huddled together on the remnants of a boat hull. None of the survivors looked to be in very good shape. There was no telling how long they'd been at sea.
Brett climbed down from the bridge and joined the rescue crew on the deck. They'd managed to get a grapple line on the framework and had pulled it close enough to secure it to the sub. The refugees fell all over themselves to get aboard.
Brett knew from their appearance, and by the smatterings of language he heard, they were island people—most likely from nearby Cuba.
He pulled aside one of the deck crew, saying, "Go tell Mr. Maxey I need a Spanish speaker up here."
"I speak English," he heard from the survivors shivering on the deck.
Brett turned around to face a woman about his age. She might have been attractive if she hadn't been so disheveled.
"I'm Captain Conyers. You're aboard the United States submarine Savannah."
"I am Vilma...Vilma Mendoza."
"Where are you from, Señora Mendoza?"
"I am from Puerto Rico."
"Puerto Rico?" Brett was flabbergasted. Puerto Rico was eleven hundred nautical miles away. "Surely you didn't float here all the way from there."
"No, no," she said shaking her head. "We came from Havana...Cuba."
That made more sense to Brett. Still they'd drifted two hundred miles or more from where they'd started.
"What's it like there…since the comet?"
She turned her head as if remembering something painful. "Everything is...todo quemado...fire burned it all."
"How did you all survive?"
She hesitated to respond, but did so looking him in the eye. "We were in prison--most of us. We were underground when it happened. We did not know anything. We heard explosions. We did not know...someone came and freed us. We went up, and then we saw…"
Brett realized the memory was traumatic for her. He didn't want to question her any further. At least not right then.
"Let's get you and everyone into the boat and into some dry clothes." He tried to smile, but he felt it came off half-hearted. "I bet you're hungry."
"Yes, gracias—thank you."
***
The view from the bridge reminded him of pictures he'd seen of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Only this holocaust wasn't man-made. Even without the binoculars he could see the devastation was almost complete. Very few buildings still stood. Those whose outer shells were impervious to fire were nonetheless gutted on the inside. Most of the grand tourist hotels lining Miami Beach looked like they'd been struck by a powerful hurricane. Brett didn't know if that were the case, or if the turbulence from the firestorm that burned the city had created its own tornadoes.
Maxey stood next to him. Both were searching for any signs of survivors. So far, they'd seen no one—no signs of movement except a very few flickers of fire and some pitiful smoke rising into the air. He knew Maxey had a wife and kids. They weren't in Miami, but he recognized the despondency on the man's face. The man held it together though. Brett admired him for that.
As captain he didn't see any reason to go ashore. Not yet—not here. He hoped other cities, other regions, might have fared better. He knew they'd have to return to their homeport, to Norfolk, where Maxey's family, and the families of many of his crew, lived, just to put to rest any lingering hope.
"We're going to make for Norfolk," he told the XO. "But we'll remain on the surface for a ways, continue to hug the coastline, and keep looking for any signs of life."
"What if we see someone?" asked Maxey. Anticipating Brett's thoughts, he added, "We're pretty crowded as it is."
"I know," said Brett. He hoped there were survivors, but he didn't know what he'd do if they found someone. "Just let me know if we spot anything."
Maxey nodded, but didn't reply. He was busy looking, searching. Brett knew the man hoped to find someone, anyone. Because one survivor could mean many, and that could mean Maxey's own family had a chance.
***
After less than a day on the surface, with no sign of survivors, the weather turned rough again, so the USS Savannah submerged. Brett knew he could make better time that way, and he wanted to see if Norfolk was in the same condition as Miami. They passed Charleston at night, and he used the scope to look for lights but saw only burning refuse.
If what they'd seen so far was any indication, Smith-Kim’s destruction had outpaced even the worst of the doomsayers. Civilization, as they knew it, had been annihilated, at least on the East Coast. The implications of what that meant for his crew and their future was hard to grasp. He didn't want to contemplate it. It was too much. Maybe, he thought, that's what had driven Captain Dunning off the deep end.
Yet he was certain there had to be survivors. The refugees from Cuba proved that. Sooner or later they'd have to go ashore and search. The men with families would certainly want to go. But what then? What if they found people alive? What if they found a large number of people? Their resources were limited. They could help some, but what if there were hundreds? They had to have a plan. He had to have a plan.
If Norfolk was, as he anticipated, burnt to the ground as well, then Brett saw no purpose in continuing up the coast. They knew at least one of the comet fragments had struck the East Coast, and he considered that maybe the destruction was worse here. He hoped the interior of the country might have fared better. At least they wouldn't have been hit by hurricanes churned up by the sea strikes of Smith-Kim. He didn't know if climatic changes might have caused monster cyclones or worse there. In the back of his mind he began developing a plan to turn south again, find the mouth of the Mississippi and travel up it as far as he could. Maybe there they'd find someplace untouched by the devastation.
Brett considered this option as he walked to where the refugees were bunked. He hadn't checked on them since they'd come aboard, so he thought it was time. He'd been told Señora Mendoza wasn't the only non-Cuban they'd rescued. The pregnant woman was from Haiti, another couple was Dominican, and three men were from Jamaica. The reasons for their imprisonment varied, but none, apparently, was a hardened criminal.
Chief Alvarez had been assigned to their guests because he spoke the language. The chief had informed him those in prison hadn't known about the comet. When they emerged they thought a bomb had been dropped on Havana, so they figured making their way to the U.S. was their best bet, little understanding how bad Florida had been hit.
Brett found Alvarez with the two little refugee kids. They looked to be only four or five years old. How they'd survived he had no idea. The
y obviously hadn’t been in jail.
"How's it going, Chief?"
"All right, sir. We gathered some extra clothes, but we don't have any that fit these two."
"Who do we have here?"
"Well, sir, I can't get either of them to speak yet, but I call the little girl Flo and the boy Jet—for Flotsam and Jetsam."
They seemed to have attached themselves to the chief. They looked fearfully at the captain. Brett smiled to try to put them at ease.
"Siblings?"
"I think so, sir."
"No parents?"
Alvarez shook his head.
Señora Mendoza made her way toward them and Brett realized he'd been correct. Cleaned up, she was an attractive woman. She'd gotten an American flag from someone and turned it into a skirt.
"Señora, you can't desecrate the flag like that," admonished the chief as if she’d just offered to broil up one of the children for dinner. "I'm sorry, sir, I'll find her something else."
"That's all right, Chief. I don't think that matters much anymore." To her he said, "It looks wonderful on you, Señora—very colorful."
She curtsied in response and said, "Gracias, Capitán."
"Are you and the others doing all right?"
She shrugged. "As well as we can. Better than before you found us."
"Good. Chief Alvarez will see to your needs. Carry on, Chief."
He turned and walked away, but Señora Mendoza followed him.
"Excuse me, Capitán," she said, lightly taking hold of his arm.
Brett turned. "Yes?"
She lowered her voice to almost a whisper and asked, "Is it true what I have heard your men say? Is it true the whole world has burned just like Havana?"
"I can't speak for the whole world, ma'am, but yes, Miami and the other areas we've seen so far appear to have been destroyed by fire."
"What will we do? Where will we go?"
"First we're going to return to our home base. Many of the crew have families there."
She nodded understandingly. "After that?"
"After that...I don't know for certain. We're going to have to figure that out."
"Entiendo...I understand. Wherever you decide to go, I am glad we have been rescued by such a wise and honorable man."
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