Back from the Brink_Toward the Brink V

by Craig McDonough

  The air inside the motel room was thick, Riley was sure everyone else felt it as he did. The heavy breathing of all of them combined was quite audible, but Riley was so switched on each he’d probably be able to hear an ant fart.

  “But what if it’s not a foamer?”

  Riley understood his fellow Green Berets’ concern, but the risk to the men inside the motel room was far greater if things went bad.

  Against his better judgement Riley agreed. The possibility that someone other than a foamer was out there, tipped the scales in favor of Chess’ plan.

  “All right, but don’t you damn well miss if it is a foamer okay?” Riley told him his voice now just above a whisper. “And for fuck sakes, don’t shoot Chuck or Elliot.”

  Riley moved over to the window and relieved Morris, then listed to Chess and Cleavon discuss the implementation of their plan. The sounds of the crossbows being readied alarmed Riley, his eyes darted left, right and left again. Sam, as before, was called into position on one side of the door, ready for the command.

  “What do you say, Riley?”

  The former Twin Falls cop looked through the binoculars into the darkness of the parking lot. The sheer curtains over the window didn’t affect vision a great deal, just gave a smoky filter, but there was no movement to be seen.

  “I can’t see anything, maybe he—or it—moved along?”

  “It’s still out there,” Sam said from his position by the door, “trust me on that.”

  “All right, but we have to know exactly where before you open that door.”

  “I agree Riley, let’s just listen for it.”

  Everyone in the room went silent and listened for any sound that might tell them where their phantom guest was. Footsteps, coughing, growling, wheezing… farting. Anything that would give them an indication.

  Riley had more experience than anyone, but he had to admit the pulse that thumped in his ears didn’t help his hearing.

  “There, did ya hear that?” Sam asked from the dark. “Sounded just left of center.”

  “You sure Sam?”

  “Positive Chess, I—”

  “Let’s do it!”

  A light scuffle sounded across the carpet. The breathing of several men grew noticeably louder. The doorknob rattled as Sam grabbed hold.

  “GO!” Chess said in a hoarse whisper.

  Sam pulled the door back hard and the bottom edge connected with his boot. He might as well have rung a church bell.

  A vicious growl radiated from somewhere in the dark—along with the squishy, sound of chewing.

  “Somehow I don’t think it’s Elliot.” Chess said, his voice had returned to normal.

  “No shit, what gives you that idea?” Cleavon answered then switched on the flashlight.

  The beam of the flashlight showed the empty parking spaces and the doors of the other rooms.

  “Come on come on where are—”

  A high pitches wail came from Cleavon’s right and he brought the flashlight into play. A foamer barely five yards away readied himself to pounce. The sparse hair, all-white eyes and disheveled appearance was an horrific sight to behold in the beam of light. The goo-smeared face suggested the foamer had dined on his comrades that were dispatched earlier.

  “Get down Cleav!”

  Cleavon dropped his knees under him and a metallic click and a dull twang followed immediately then a thud as the bolt embedded itself into the door of another room beyond.

  “Shit, I missed!” Chess yelled. “Back inside, get back inside!”

  Cleavon turned back to the motel room but, half bent over as he was, lost balance and the flashlight fell to the ground and went out.

  “Chess, Chess?” he called in the dark.

  A blood curdling screech, like a giant hawk about to pounce, then echoed in the black of the parking lot.

  “Get it off me, for God sake get it—”

  Another beam of light came from behind and illuminated Cleavon and his attacker, who now stood over him. Four rapid blasts from a 9mm pistol entered the foamers forehead which left him staggering back in shock. Cleavon rolled away fast from the foamers excretive juices, lest he come in contact with the infected substance and become a member of the undead. He jumped to his feet, and scooped up the fallen flashlight in the process.

  “Good shot Riley, thanks. I mean it.”

  “That’s okay, but you better get inside and grab an M4. You too, Chess.”

  Chess noted the hostility in Riley’s voice but understood why. The former cop and Gulf War vet was against this foolhardy action from the start. Now they’ll pay for it.

  “I’m sorry, Riley but—”

  “It’s done Chess. No good crying over spilt milk now.”

  That was the one thing Chess saw in Riley, he didn’t dwell on what had happened—he preferred to focus on how to deal with the consequences.

  That’s how it appeared.

  “Might as well turn on a flashlight and get the weapons and magazines over here—but be quick about it.” Riley ordered.

  Cleavon moved over to help gather magazines. “Man, it would be better if Chuck was here.” He said.

  “Yeah, I think it would have been better if we all had just left in that damned submarine.” Chess felt vulnerable now and it was only natural he wanted to be anywhere but here.

  Interlude 1: Like Ships in the Night

  After leaving the Haida Gwaii Islands, Captain Mayer kept the submarine at a steady pace. He didn’t want to keep these civilians—which included the president (he still though of him as such) onboard any more than he had to. As they neared the equator, the weather improved noticeably and the new passengers were permitted up on deck, with crew members, for short periods. This avoided the claustrophobia of the submarine, so often the case when untrained personnel are taken onto aboard.

  It was one such morning when the impossible happened yet again. As the refugee’s from Sandspit enjoyed the fresh air on the deck of the missile boat—supervised by navy personnel—when the captain and his senior staff raced onto the deck via the rear hatch.

  “What’s up captain, is there a problem?” Bob was always a good judge of expressions, and this was no exception.

  “Two clicks, starboard. We have company.”

  “Two what, where?” Cindy said to the captain.

  “About a mile and a half to our right.” Bob answered her, then turned to the surprised captain. “ROTC training, captain. Once learned never forgotten.”

  “What kind of ‘company’?” Cindy walked up to the captain. The huge sub remained smooth and steady in the warmer sea’s south of the equator.

  “Our on board radar picked up a large underwater signature and—”

  “Oh, cut the navy bullshit captain and speak straight.” Cindy had enough of all the jargon, it didn’t impress her.

  Bob turned and told the captain to proceed with a slight nod—unseen by Cindy.

  “Err, yeah sorry, Miss…”

  “Cindy!”

  “Yes, right—Cindy.” The captain continued, albeit with a hesitance in his voice. “The signature is a sizable object in the water—in this case another submarine.”

  Bob jumped in right away. “Another sub? What are the odds for that, has there been any communication?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s strange indeed and there’s been no communication but it’s rising to the surface so its aware of our presence, too.”

  “Captain, captain!” One of the crew called from the deck.

  Mayer, Bob and Cindy all looked to where the crewman pointed.

  “My God, would you look at that.” Bob’s excitement was obvious. “It’s huge. Captain, do you know what class it is.”

  “Looks like a typhoon class—Russian.”

  “Russian, so far west in the Pacific?” Bob raised an eyebrow.

  The captain raised both his eyebrows by way of an answer.

  Stupid question, Bob corrected himself, submarines go all over the world.

 
“I don’t see any markings on it.” Cindy said to the captain.

  “I can’t either without field glasses, but the size and the shape there’s no question—it’s a Russian typhoon class.”

  Several figures moved along the top of the conning tower of the Russian sub, some waved their arms while others' seemed to be busy readying a signal lamp.

  “What’s that—is it a weapon?” Cindy saw the flickering light and asked.

  “No, its just a signal lamp. It’s for sending code between ships—can you read it captain?” Bob, the former president and not the submarine captain, answered and eased her concern.

  “Yeah. They want the subs to move closer so we can send a raft between the two of us,”

  Captain Mayer addressed Bob directly. “Do you think we should do that sir?”

  “Why shouldn’t we?”

  “Well sir, they are Russian and—”

  “And that has to do with what, precisely?” The statesman tone that Bob had all but lost, returned. “I don’t know what your training was back when the world existed, captain. And nor do I know of your prejudices, but all that is rather a moot point now. Cooperation between survivors, regardless of nationality, is the only way we—all of us—will make it. And…” Bob walked up to within inches of Mayer’s nose. “Stop addressing me as if I was still the fucking president!”

  “Yes sir,I…”

  Bob glared at the captain when he saw him about to come to attention.

  “Sorry, err, Bob,” the captain smiled, not all that convincing, but still a smile.

  “Captain, the other sub wants to—”

  “Right, bring us around forty-five degrees starboard and keep it steady at five knots.”

  “Damn… just how many submarines do you suppose are out there?” Bob referred to the all the oceans and sea’s covering the world.

  “This is only a guess, but there’s no reason not to think every sub in the water could be still be active,” Captain Mayer answered. “Those that didn’t suffer any complications at least.”

  Bob nodded he and everyone within earshot knew what was meant by, complications.

  “Russians eh, Bob? Hope they brought some vodka along, I could use a stiff one.” Rob Mitchell sauntered up to the side of the former president.

  “I’m sure they’ll have some, Mitch.”

  An hour later the two subs sat in the water side by side, lashed together. The sea remained agreeable as Mayer, Bob, Commander Sandis, Mitch and Ewen sailed over to the Russian sub in the small raft. Once secured they were welcomed by friendly and outgoing submariners from the largest country—in terms of land mass—in the world. There was no hesitancy or reticence shown by the Russians. Once the greetings were over—which proved somewhat difficult as many of the Russians had limited English—the crew from the American sub were taken to the captains quarters. For Bob, Mitch and Ewen they were pleased to see other survivors, Mayer and Sandis, however, couldn’t let go of their naval indoctrination and took note of everything inside the Russian submarine.

  “Welcome aboard tovarish, welcome. I am Captain Boris Gretchko, I am your host.” The Russian captain stood just inside the door of his quarters. His smile was genuine and almost as large as his belly. His uniform smudged with dirt and opened to the waist, while a full five day growth on his face, told everyone that Navy regulations were no longer followed aboard the sub.

  Bob introduced himself first, and warmly shook hands with the Russian captain, then started to move aside in the cramped quarters, when Gretchko pulled on his hand. “You! You are the American president.”

  Bob smiled, nodded briefly then added without fanfare. “Was the president.” He then stepped aside so the others' could file in.

  The discussion ranged from everything imaginable, as would be expected when people who haven’t seen others'—and especially didn’t expect to—suddenly come into contact. Coffee, tea and of course, vodka had been brought in plus some Russian dry bread.

  “We’d heard,” Gretchko began, “from a faint broadcast from another sub, many days, hmm… perhaps weeks ago, that some areas in the Southern Hemisphere may as yet be unaffected by the virus. Is that where you are headed?”

  “Yes, our destination is Australia or New Zealand, depends on who will take us.” Bob answered the Russian without hesitation but noted the anguished looks on the faces of the two US submariners.

  Did they think the cold war still raged? He wondered.

  “We ah…” Ewan began, but paused for moment. “We left another group of our friends back on the Haida Gwaii peninsula and—”

  “Haida Gwaii?”

  “You know it?” Ewan said to the captain.

  “Of course tovarish, we sail past there all the time on our way to Portland to pick up American pizza!” Senior officer Menchev said—he and the other Russians then enjoyed a good, and what seemed honest, laugh.

  “What are you thinking,” Captain Mayer said to Ewan, the Global Express pilot.

  “I’m thinking this. We left the island because of your encouragement, you felt you had to, I understand this. But the others' remained in hope our Elliot and Chuck would return. If they did return, that should have occurred by now—if not, then they’re not coming back.”

  Captain Mayer put a hand, palm out, to Ewan. “Wait a minute, just wait a minute. Are you saying what I think you’re about to say?”

  “If you mean one of these subs should go back to Sandspit and pick up the others, then yes.”

  Ewan’s plan made sense when one stopped and looked at it. But for the moment, only the sound of the submarines engines and electronics could be heard in the captains quarters.

  That and the sound of ice cubes in a glass as they tinkled when more vodka was poured over them.

  Ewan’s recommendation required a stiff drink.

  “I agree with this man. If you have comrades back on Haida Gwaii, why would you not want get them?” The Russian captain spoke first, then put a glass of vodka to his mouth and drained it in a single gulp.

  “Sir, we… my men and I, have been aboard our sub, the Louisiana for over six months and I don’t mind admitting some are at the end of their tether.” Mayer said to the Russian captain.

  “I understand tovarish, but you are among friends here you can tell the truth,”

  The Americans cast nervous looks at each other at the Gretchko’s inference.

  “We all know you just want to get somewhere with ice-cold beer, no?”

  “Ah-ha, well err… yes we do.” Mayer replied but his smile was less than convincing.

  “Tell you what we do. We go back and get your friends and you can go find yourself a nice—what do you call it, beer garden? I believe Australia has more than a few.”

  “Yes, Captain Gretchko, a beer garden would be fine but I wonder if I may ask you a favor?” Bob, who nursed his drink, said.

  “It is granted whatever it is!”

  Bob looked around at his fellow Americans. “Sir, you haven’t heard it yet.”

  “It matters not comrade, how could I refuse the president of the United States who has graciously shared bread and vodka on my ship, the Dimitry Donskoy? Whatever your request, it is granted—but you can fill me in if you like.”

  “This is the famous Donskoy?” Mayer asked with the surprise of a young boy who discovered the presents under the Christmas tree.

  “Yes, tovarish, you like it huh?”

  Before Mayer could answer his Russian counterpart, Bob came back with his favor. “I would like to accompany you back to Haida Gwaii. A different sub appearing might alarm them, however, if I came ashore that could alleviate any potential problems.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it would tovarish, but that is it? That is the favor you ask?”

  “Yes, Captain Gretchko, that is all plus one other to accompany me.”

  “You have it and please you call me Grigor, okay? Like my counterpart here,” he gestured toward the American submarine captain, “our rank is no longer relevan
t.”

  “Neither is mine, Grigor.” Bob said and raised a glass of vodka for a salute which everyone joined.

  “We get underway in an hour, if that’s okay with you?”

  “So soon?” Bob was thrown off balance with the Russian captain’s eagerness.

  “No time like the present, as you Americans like to say. We go back and get your friends, Captain Mayer can go find his beer garden,” Gretchko leaned closer to Bob and winked, “but I bet we catch up before he opens his first beer.”

  * * *

  “He was still playing cold war games, you notice?” Mayer said as they traveled back to the Louisiana in the raft. The sea appeared to have sprung up while they conversed with the Russian submariners or could it be the vodka that made the journey seem unsteady?

  “Not sure that I did,” Bob replied.

  “He was still making out that the Russian sub was superior than ours and—”

  “And it wasn’t like you did anything of the sort, right?”

  Mayer didn’t answer, preferring to keep his eyes locked onto the Louisiana.

  * * *

  When told of the outcome of the meeting and of Bob’s decision to travel back to Sandspit with them, Cindy became excited. Without hesitation she marched up to the former president.

  “And I’m going with you.”

  “Cindy, you can’t go back, you’re pregnant and—”

  “And what? The baby isn’t due for months yet, will we be that long?”

  “Then it’s settled, I’m going!” Cindy said when no reply came and walked away from the conversation, it was over as far as she was concerned.

  While Cindy packed a few things, Bob asked for another volunteer to go along.

  Rob “Mitch” Mitchell the former secret service agent who had protected Bob for many years was first to answer. “I’ll go with you, sir.”

  “All right grab your gear, we haven’t got long before departure.”

  All three took with them what they could fit in the pockets of their heavy jackets. They would take one small bag of extra clothing each—on a sub you go light or not at all. Mitch and Cindy also packed a handgun. Bob didn’t mention his concerns to anyone, least of all Cindy, about her being the only woman aboard the Dimitry Donskoy and that she’d probably be the only female seen in many months.