by M. L. Maki
NUMBER 2 REACTOR AUXILIARY ROOM, USS CARL VINSON
2141, 19 DECEMBER, 1990
When nothing is going on, it’s not uncommon for watch standers in the power plant to congregate to talk. One of those locations in the RAR is the generator flat upper level. As the lightning begins, men are gathered around Senior Chief Harvey, the standing Engineer Watch Supervisor. EMCS Harvey gives a shit about his guys and always does his best. But, the gym, where’s that? So, he’s a little out of shape and the stairs are a bit difficult for him. Tonight, he’s made up to the generator flat to talk to his guys about the last propulsion plant drill set and what they could do better. But, as usual, it quickly devolves into where the next port of call is, which is Subic Bay, the Navy’s forward base in the Philippines. His ample frame in the only chair, the four men are on Vidmars drinking sodas.
“What’s Subic like, Senior?” asks MM2 John Nolan.
“Well, the last time I was in Subic the girls cost, oh, about ten bucks. Now, you want to watch where it is you go dip your wicks, if you hear me. My first time, I got the clap, not that I’m proud of it. But that’s the way it was. So, what I’m sayin’ boys, if our gonna hump, you better wrap your stump. And you better be careful where you decide to spend your money. What I do is, I walk into the bathroom. If it’s clean, I figure that’s the kind of establishment I could spend some money and some time. If the bathroom is a shithole, you can pretty much figure everything else is. There’s other things to do in Subic besides drinking and fucking. Shopping is good, and cheap. It’s fairly safe ‘cause the locals don’t like sailors getting rolled. It’s bad for business. Not that you’re going to be stupid or anything, but only bring the amount of money you want to spend, and keep it in your front pocket.” Grinning, “Were I you, I’d wrap a twenty around your crank.”
“Now, why would we want to do that?” asks MM3 Shirley.
“Well, it’s an old trick taught me be a gunner’s mate I knew. You see, you put your twenty down there and every time a girl goes reaching for your crank you realize all she’s after is your money.” Grinning, he leans back, enjoying their laughter.
Then lightning begins sparkling on the reactor compartment bulkhead, just a small flash, then two, fairly quickly building into a stream of light and energy in the RAR. EMCS Harvey drops the front of his chair down, startled. “What the hell is that? Boys, back to your stations!” The lightning builds as the sailors’ scatter to their watch stations, most not making it. Senior Chief feels pain building in his chest, pulsing with the lightning dancing in the compartment. Clutching his chest with his right hand, he holds his left hand up, watching St. Elmo’s fire running along his fingers. The last thing he sees as he falls to the deck is an intense web of lightning hitting a locker on the outboard wall, pulsing into a sphere of light, then flashing out of existence as the light in his eyes fades and goes out.
DR. HEINLEIN’S LAB, AUSTRALIAN OUTBACK
2157 (1157 ZULU), 19 DECEMBER, 1941 (PRIME)
As the lightning storm wanes, the device is smoking, but otherwise undamaged by the discharge. One of the cabinets is on fire and a pall of smoke fills the room as the men come groggily to their feet. “Gentlemen, fire extinguishers,” barks the general.
Dr. Heinlein comes to, looking around, “Mein Gott!” He looks up and gets to his feet, “Shall we see what the future has brought us, Herr General?”
They all go to the military vehicles parked outside in the compound of metal-sided and roofed buildings baking in the desert sun. It only takes a few minutes to drive the five miles to the secondary facility. Here, standing outside, is a much smaller device. It is undamaged. They look around and see scrub vegetation, red dirt, the tracks of small animals. There is nothing else, nothing.
Dr. Heinlein looks around dismayed, “No! No! This cannot be!”
CHAPTER 3
CHITOSE AIR BASE, HOKKAIDO, JAPAN
2157 (1157 ZULU), 19 DECEMBER, 1941
Ichiro Nagasawa walks out of his ground floor office and surveys the skies. An aeronautical engineer and test pilot with Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, he is up from Tokyo supervising upgrades on the F-15J fighters on the base. He has never experienced such a severe lightning storm and is not surprised that the city’s lights have gone out, but it is a strange and eerie sight to see only blackness.
Hearing the sound of a prop plane above him, he looks up to see a Mitsubishi Zero attempting a landing, then pull up and fly overhead. He realizes he did not make a mistake, it is a Zero. The profile is unmistakable. The Zero flies off south and Captain Hachirou Oshiro, the duty officer with the 203rd Fighter Squadron joins him, “That was an amazing storm, Nagasawa-san. It shook my bones.”
Ichiro says, “I thought I saw a Zero fighter. It seems improbable one would fly here.”
LEICHFELD AIRL FORCE BASE, 20km SOUTH OF AUGSBURG, GERMANY
0135 (1157 ZULU), 19 DECEMBER, 1941
Captain Louis Mossberg, USMC, is the first to recover as the lightning storm subsides. From the shelter of the wing of his F/A-18 fighter he watches his ground crew come too. Stepping out, all the tall black man sees is clear blue skies. “That storm passed fast, I’ve never seen anything like it.” Then he sees a formation of single propeller aircraft approaching. One peels off and dives toward the runway, guns blazing. “Mother fucker, take cover, guys,” and dives for cover.
“What was that, Captain?” asks his plane captain.
Staring in disbelief at the iron cross on the Messerschmitt 109, he says, “Hell boys. Hell. Let’s see if we can get this bird into the air.”
NIZHNY TAGIL INDUSTRIAL CITY, USSR, 1657 (1157 ZULU), 19 DECEMBER, 1941
As the lightning storm fades away, General Yuri Kryukov walks onto his office balcony, marveling how such a fierce storm could fade so fast. Commander of the 14th Combined Arms Army posted at Nizhny Tagil, his is an enviable assignment. His location near the factory, his connections in Moscow, and the fact his unit tests the newest tanks and armored vehicles means he’s in a position to move up, gaining both power and privilege. But this storm worries him.
Looking out over the industrial city and the drill fields below him, he realizes something is very wrong. The city beyond his field is gone, just gone. Nothing but trees. There are no drab industrial apartments standing in row after row. Turning, he runs into his office and grabs the phone just as a red-faced lieutenant colonel runs in, gasping for air. The two men stare at each other in dismay.
USS CARL VINSON BATTLE GROUP, WESTERN PACIFIC
2157 (1157 ZULU), 19 DECEMBER, 1941
The static dissipates and Lt. Sam Hunt comes too on her side, staring at the Captain’s chair. All her muscles scream as she struggles to rise. Grabbing the chair, she uses it to lever herself up and shakes her head to clear her sight.
The Captain pushes himself up and croaks out, “Mind your helm!”
Sam sees the helmsman on his back and the wheel turning. Looking up, she sees the 90,000-ton carrier drifting toward the Long Beach on the port side. She launches herself to the wheel and turns it right, praying she’s doing it right.
The Captain struggles to her side and points to the rudder position indicator, “5-degree right rudder.” Turning the rudder, she says, “Yes, sir.”
He makes his way to the OOD station and grabs a mic and shouts into it, “All stations, damage report.” Then to Sam, “Rudder amidships, steady as she goes.”
“Yes, sir, “turning the rudder back to zero degrees.
Then the Captain barks, “Back full emergency!” Sam looks at him, bewildered, and Johnson grabs the Engine Order Telegraph, ringing it back and forth, then to Back Full, “Turn the dial to the bell I order, ok?”
“Yes, sir, the bell you order.” Then the response comes in form the engine rooms.
Johnson says, “Good, the engine rooms are awake.”
The lee helmsman manages to get to his feet, holding his hand against his head, “What just happened?”
Sam says, “It doesn’t matte
r. Are you the helmsman?” The ship begins to shake with the backing bell.
BMSN Jeremy Turnkey replies, “No…no, ma’am. He’s there,” pointing at the unconscious form of a man on the deck. “I’m the lee helm. I do the engines, ma’am.”
“Fine, take the throttles.”
Johnson orders, “Right standard rudder. Oh, Lieutenant, that’s 10 degrees, and all stop.”
She nods to the order.
Johnson says, “Lieutenant, I need verbatim repeat backs.”
“Yes, sir, right standard rudder, sir, and all stop.” She turns the wheel as the lee helm orders all stop. “Sir, rudder is right 10 degrees and engines are at all stop.”
“Very well.”
The Vinson has nearly stopped moving, but the Camden and the Long Beach are still moving ahead and are coming closer together. Johnson grabs the ship to ship radio, “Long Beach, Vinson actual, you’re drifting close to the Camden. Mind your helm, sir.”
“This is Lt. Phillips, sir. The captain’s unconscious.”
“Then order back full and put your rudder amidships.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Camden, this is Vinson actual. Are you awake over there?”
A scratchy voice comes back, “What the hell just happened?”
“It doesn’t matter right now. Mind our helm!”
The voice comes back, “Shit!”
Johnson sees Lt. Warren get to his feet, “Welcome back OOD, please check the fleet to our stern, sir.”
Warren says, “Yes, sir,” and wobble out to the Aux Con to look aft.
Then Johnson says, “Ahead 1/3rd.” He picks up the VHF, “All units, Vinson actual, report.”
“Long Beach has helm and steering.” The rest of the ships in the group report in, all except Hewitt.
CHAPTER 4
BRIDGE, USS CARL VINSON, 2228, 19 DECEMBER, 1941
Captain Johnson puts up the VHS and picks up a phone, “Charley, can you get a bird up?”
CDR Charles Forrester, the air boss replies, “Sir, what the hell just happened? It was the damnedest thunderstorm I’ve ever seen.”
“Charley, I think it was an EMP. The Hewitt isn’t reporting in. We need to search.”
“Sir, if it was an EMP shouldn’t we check our electronics first? I don’t want to launch someone to their death.”
“You’re right, damn it to hell. Ok, a surface search. Get your people going.”
Admiral Ren walks onto the bridge as the boatswain at the helm announces, “Admiral on the bridge.”
“Sorry, Will. I was, um, taking a nap. Did I hear right? The Hewitt is missing?”
“Evening, Admiral. Yes, sir. We all took a nap. Hewitt hasn’t reported in, and all the ships have personnel injuries.”
“Ok, first, tell all ships to stand down from General Quarters and tend their wounded. Does our radar work?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then presumably Long Beach and Horne have theirs as well. Let’s light up the skies as we head back to Hewitt’s last known position and start our search. Is there any word from Washington?”
“Not yet, sir. Lieutenant Warren, is anyone awake in radio?”
“Checking now, sir.”
A corpsman shows up, “Medic on the bridge.”
Johnson asks, “Over here, only one corpsman?”
“We’re swamped, sir.”
The Boatswains Mate of the Watch (BMOW) says to Sam, “Ma’am, I’ll relieve you on the helm until we get a relief.”
Gratefully Sam says, “Thank you,” and steps away from the wheel.
Lt. Warren, back on the bridge, says, “No comms with radio, sir.”
Turning to Lt. Hunt, Captain Johnson asks, “Could you take a message down to radio for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s to be sent ‘Navy immediate, SITREP. Task Force 72 has been hit by a probable EMP. Damage assessment is ongoing. Mission degradation is unknown. USS Hewitt is missing.”
Writing the message down in her pocket brain, a small notebook, she asks, “Is there anything else, sir.”
Warren says, “Sir, I need her full name and rank for the deck log.”
“Yes, of course. Lieutenant, if you run into the DCA, I still need a damage report. And have radio call me here when it is sent.”
“Yes, sir,” turns to Lt. Warren, “Lt. Samantha Leigh Hunt, VF-154.”
Radio is located on the 03 level, amidships, so Sam goes down the ladders from the 07 level. As she does, a corpsman, running to another casualty shouts, “Make a hole!” She swiftly steps aside as he passes down the ladder. Then a lieutenant commander raises a hand to stop her, “What the hell just happened?”
Continuing on her way, she says, “Good question, sir. I’m on my way to radio to send a message for the Captain. Please stand aside.”
“Well, what does it say?”
“Please ask the Captain, and stand aside.”
Giving her a measured look, he steps aside. Pushing on, Sam arrives at radio, which has a cypher lock with a small grill and a buzzer for service. No one goes into radio, except radiomen. She pushes the button and seconds pass before the grill opens. A grumpy voice says, “We’re a little busy in here, come back later,” and the grill slams shut.
She jabs the button, over and over, then pounds on the door. Finally, the grill opens again, “I don’t care if you are an officer, things are busy in here. Go away!” and starts to close the grill again.
“I’ve a message from the Captain. You’re not answering your phone.”
“Oh, oh, I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Are you ready to copy?”
‘Uh, yes, ma’am, go ahead.” She delivers the message, eyeing RM1 Denton behind the grill. “I don’t know when we’ll be able to send it out ma’am. All of our radio communications with higher are lost. That is why we are so busy.”
“All of it?”
“Yes, ma’am, all of it, except local VHF between ships.”
“You’re talking about the conventional bands, right?”
“Well, yes, ma’am, all the secured lines of communication are down. We don’t even have a satellite carrier signal.”
“Pass me a phone.”
“Yes, ma’am,” passing her a phone through the grill. “I’ll have to dial from here.”
“Ok, dial the Captain’s chair on the bridge.”
“Yes, ma’am,” and dials the phone.
From the receiver, “Bridge, Captain speaking.”
“Captain, this is Lt. Hunt. I’m at radio. We have a situation, sir. The satellite signal is gone, and they’re unable to pick up any traffic on the secure bands.”
“I’m not terribly surprised. Our satellites are supposed to be hardened against EMP, but obviously the pulse took them out. Tell them to try sideband. Captain out.”
She hands back the receiver, “The Captain says to try sideband. I would also try shortwave and any other frequencies that might work.”
“Ok, we’ll try, but it seems like everything is fried in here,” and slides the grill shut.
Shaking her head as she walks away, “You’ve got to at least try.”
ENGINE ROOM 1, USS LONG BEACH, 2157, 19 DECEMBER, 1941
“Wake the fuck up,” yells MM1 Carl Colbert, Leading Petty Officer and Engine Room Supervisor in 1 Main, kicking one of his watch standers.
“Shit man, what the hell happened?” asks MM2 Maki.
“Just wake the fuck up and stand your watch, idiot. Let the brass figure it out.”
Maki stands, rubbing his head from the clocking it took on the remote operator for the main sea water inlet valve. “But, what happened, Carl?”
“Listen up, dick weed, lightning hit all over the place, we got static cling from hell, and you’re still not fucking standing your watch. The EOS is not responding, so set the emergency throttle watch.”
“Yes, sir,” and moves to the throttle panel in the enclosed operating station.
“Oh, don’t make me hit you.�
�
“Sorry, MM, um, sorry Carl.” Taking control of one main, he quickly shuts the ahead throttle and starts opening the astern throttle. “The Bridge ordered back full emergency, boss.” His loud shout can be barely heard over the running machinery where Colbert is now looking for the distilling plant watch.
“Then answer the fucking bell! God damn, I’m surrounded by fucking idiots!”
The main engine rumbles as more and more steam dumps into it, forcing the shaft to stop spinning forward. For a second the shaft is motionless before it begins to spin astern. MM2 Maki shouts, “Shouldn’t we start a second condensate pump?”
“Of course, we should start a second, oh shit, Dub…” Colbert runs down to lower level where he finds the Lower Level Watch, MM1 Walters, unconscious on Lube Oil Flat. Running forward, he starts the second pump as the level in the hot well rises nearly out of sight. Running back to Dub Walters, he hesitates. Walters is a big guy with a well-known temper. You don’t kick Dub. Kneeling next to him, he gently shakes him awake, then turns and runs back to the upper level.
As he reaches the top of the ladder, he sees the TG DU watch walking from behind the turbine generator, sleepy eyed and confused, “Yo, dude, what happened?” Colbert grabs him by the shirt front and continues running into the control room. MM3 Jerry Small loses his footing and finds himself being dragged behind the running LPO. “Yo, dude, owe, shit, hey, shit, dude, owe, shit, owe, HEY DUD!” Colbert stops and looks at Small, realizing he’s dragging him. With a confused look, “Man your watch, ‘Dude’,” and pushes him backward.
Then the 1MC announces, “USS Long Beach, this is your Captain. I’m not sure just what happened, but I believe we were hit by an EMP. At this time, I’m taking the ship to General Quarters. I want all watch standers to investigate the status of their equipment and report any casualties immediately to combat. Stay sharp!” And the 1MC sounds the familiar alarm, ‘Gong. Gong. Gong.’