Apocalypse Trails: Episode 1 Read online

  Chief Daniel’s voice then filled the air, “Bridge, damage control party reporting.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “No visible internal damage, sir. Of course, I can’t be sure of the external hull plating. I wouldn’t recommend taking her to max depth before she is inspected by a yard.”

  “That’s good news, Chief. We caught a break there,” Ulrich replied, clearly relieved. The skipper then turned to Cisco and demanded, “Have you ever heard of an earthquake raising the ocean floor by nearly 300 feet, Commander?”

  Cisco shrugged, “No, sir. That seems impossible. Then again, I don’t think there has ever been a super volcano eruption during recorded history.”

  “At least that explains why the currents are pooling all of the dead fish into this area. The seas are as confused as we are.”

  Hitoshi Sato adjusted the rudder and then the tightened the jib. A quick glance at the bow brought a nod of approval – his course and speed were good.

  With his feet planted wide on the deck, his body again became one with the movement of the sea. It was a natural stance, relaxed, cruising with the rise and fall of the swell as if he was part of the energy that powered the wind and water. He was at home here, where he belonged, at one with the elements.

  As soon as he was old enough to stand, Hitoshi had toddled on the deck of a boat. His family had cast their nets throughout the waters of Kuji, Japan for nearly four centuries. Fishing was an honorable occupation, his clan respected by all who knew them.

  They had commanded a single boat when the oldest Sato son took over the business from his father. By the time Hitoshi was 40, three steel-hulled vessels proudly sported the family name. The decades that followed would be prosperous ones, the family fleet growing exponentially.

  His success was due to hard work, his father’s insistence that he attend university, and the emergence of Nippon as one of the world’s powerhouse economies. Successful people produced more children and consumed more fish. Hitoshi made perceptive business decisions and backed them with unfaltering toil and bushido ethics.

  Hitoshi, however, had always given all of the credit to the Pacific. “She is a beautiful spirit who provides for all of us,” he was fond of saying. “She is our mother – so powerful, benevolent, and providing. We should all honor her sanctuary.”

  Life was good for the Sato family. Their children graduated from the best schools, traveled the world, and excelled through the stages of life. Hitoshi expected more than the existence of simple fishermen from his offspring, and they delivered.

  There was, however, a persistent, nagging, sense of obligation that always clouded his mind. Year after year, decade after decade, the Pacific was like the generous friend who gave everything and asked for nothing in return. There was a shadow of imbalance in Sato’s mind, an accumulating debt owed to the mighty ocean and her seemingly endless bounty. The bill came due in 2011.

  Hitoshi had been out to sea that fateful day when his hometown of Kuji was washed away by the largest tsunami to hit northern Japan in over 500 years. A crushing, 30-foot high wall of water slammed into the tiny coastal town, splintering homes into matchsticks, sweeping away buildings like children’s toys, and destroying everything in its path.

  His beloved Miki had been at home when the earthquake-generated train of waves had rolled over the village. One of thousands swept away by the receding waters, her body was never recovered. Hitoshi returned to the lot where his traditional home with its meticulously kept, walled garden had stood, only to find his family, town, and life had simply vanished.

  The insurance had covered Hitoshi’s business losses, but nothing could heal his heart. Miki was gone. He couldn’t even put her body to rest in the customary way. He became a hollowed out core of a man, rambling through his days filled with nothing but remorse and grief.

  For a while, Hitoshi sought to occupy his mind by championing the effort to rebuild his ancestral hometown. Day after day, he wandered through the destruction, assaulted by the stench of despair, dejectedly watching as his family’s historical village struggled to recover. It was a hopeless effort. Too many had perished, and those that did survive now stared out at the Pacific in fear and loathing.

  After a few years, his oldest son had come home from California. “Come to America, Father,” the boy had pleaded. “Start your life over again. You are still young and wealthy. You can find happiness again in a new, fresh place.”

  His son was a professor at Berkley, a successful man in his own right. The opportunity he offered included grandchildren, the wonderful west coast weather, and an entirely new view of the Pacific. After weeks of gut-wrenching indecision, Hitoshi had finally agreed.

  He settled in the small California town of Half Moon Bay. The rolling hills reminded him of Kuji, as did the small harbor and marina nearby. The vegetation was new, and more importantly, the Pacific seemed hospitable here.

  He thought about the color of the sea. It wasn’t nearly as rich as the waters around his home back in Japan. The ocean here appeared subdued, lacking the deep hues of a healthy ecosystem teeming with activity, missing a degree of vibrancy and vigor. For a brief moment, he considered that his existence seemed to parallel the ocean’s pallor.

  At 68 years of age, Hitoshi’s skin was ashen and anemic. Life wasn’t nearly as fulfilling. And now, he felt his soul was nearly as empty as the waters that surrounded his vessel. Soon, there would be nothing left, either in the ocean’s depths, or the fragile shell of his human body. He neither welcomed nor feared the end.

  “This is as it should be,” he whispered to the vast waters. “I am nothing. A speck. A grain of sand on an endless beach. The great Pacific has always given life and taken it away. Why should I be any different?”

  His gaze swept the horizon, taking in the movement of the waves, the whiffs of foam, the variations of color, and the direction of the wind. He was a slight and insignificant dot floating on the great body.

  As the first fish carcass drifted by, he couldn’t help but think about his wife. Had her body been consumed like the Bluefin floating in the water? Had his beloved Miki’s eyes appeared so hollow in death as she had been dragged out to sea?

  “That was a lifetime ago,” he shuddered. “Stop this. It serves no purpose. Miki is gone. You must move on.”

  But on to what?

  Just as in 2011, the earth and sea had combined forces and unleashed unthinkable violence. Once more, Hitoshi had been saved because of a boat. Yet, again, his life had been spared while all those around him had perished.

  Despite the many luxuries featured in his custom-built manor nestled in the California hills, he had never felt like he belonged anywhere but on a deck. There were several friendly, approachable Japanese ex-patriots living in his community, but still Hitoshi craved the companionship of the sea. The area was ripe with world-class golf courses. His grandchildren and son were only a short drive away, but he preferred spending the balmy afternoons on his sailboat, plying the waves, and embracing the reflective solitude of the open water.

  He felt closer to Miki when he was afloat. At times, he could see her ghostly form riding on the rail of his 44-foot yacht, her face glowing with that wonderful smile, her dark tresses flowing in the wind. She would glance over at him and then the wind would whisper, “I love you, my husband. I always will.”

  The fantasy had become so engrained in his brain that he had changed the name of his vessel to Miki’s Mist. He hadn’t told anyone about his wife’s paranormal visits, certain his family would question his sanity. It was a secret between himself, Miki, and the Pacific.

  He had awoken that morning in an unusual way, his seldom-used cell phone annoyingly vibrating on the nightstand. A quick glance confirmed it was his son calling. “Odd,” he had whispered. “What is he doing up before the sun has risen? Something must be wrong.”

  “Hello.”

  “Dad, have you turned on the news?”

  “No. I am still sleeping. What is wrong, son?�
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  “Get out, Dad. Get as far away as you can.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  The line went dead, and then his home began to rattle. Being from Japan, Hitoshi knew instantly that the Golden State was experiencing an earthquake. It was a mild event, passing without a single dish falling from his kitchen cabinets.

  A veteran survivor of several natural disasters, Hitoshi realized his first move must be to gather information about what was happening around him. His television was showing aerial footage taken from an airplane. The shots documented a huge plume of ash, like from a volcano, rising out of some wilderness. The rolling caption across the bottom of the screen cautioned, “USGS warns of rising magma dome at Yellowstone. Authorities ordering evacuation throughout the area. Mild tremors are being reported as far away as San Francisco.”

  “Tremors?” Hitoshi repeated. “I have certainly weathered much worse.”

  Then he considered the early morning frantic call from his son, the oldest of the Sato children and a professor of geology at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. “You should heed his warning,” Miki’s voice sounded in his head.

  “I was going to go sailing anyway,” Hitoshi shrugged.

  Reaching to retrieve his fisherman’s cap from the hall tree, the earth convulsed violently under his feet, this time accompanied by the sound of smashing glass and crashing decorations. Hitoshi barely managed to keep his balance.

  Stepping over smashed Japanese lanterns and framed origami wall art, he crept to his room, threw a change of clothing into a small bag, and managed one last glance at the television. The entire screen was consumed with a dark, ominous cloud of swirling, angry greys and blacks. The broadcast image shook violently, and then suddenly went dark. A moment later, the electricity in his home failed.

  Now the earth was furious, Hitoshi knocked to the ground by the waves that rolled through the California bedrock like a gale thrashing a bay. He managed to stand between the shocks and stumble a few steps, before being thrown to the ground again.

  Having been raised in Japan, Sato was no stranger to seismic activity. Still, he’d never experienced anything like this. A deep, baritone thunder seemed to swell from the ground beneath his feet. His neighbor’s house collapsed. Car alarms were screaming throughout the area.

  Miki’s voice came into his mind. “The boat,” she whispered. “You must make it to the boat.”

  He managed his car, backing out of his driveway during a slight lull between shocks. It was only a kilometer to the marina. The earth’s surface continued to groan and heave, at times asserting its impressive power as it thrust upward, causing the road to bend and buckle. The drive was like trying to steer a rollercoaster that was halfway off its track.

  He was never happier to arrive at his beloved harbor. Shoving the gearstick into park, he leapt from the car and tore down the wooden planks, bounding onto Miki’s Mist.

  As he reached for the first dock line, screams of horror sounded across the marina. Hitoshi glanced up in time to observe a towering chunk of a nearby mountain tumble into the ocean. The roar was deafening, the sight reminding him of the old horror movies he and his schoolmates had enjoyed decades ago. For a second, he half-expected a gigantic monster to rise from the horizon and breathe electric fire.

  Miki’s Mist was free when the quake’s frenzy began to reach its peak. Using the sailing craft’s small diesel engine, he was powering out of the marina when another mountain began to crumble. “Hurry to the deep ocean,” came his wife’s whisper. “You must make it to the sea.”

  The first wave of the tsunami was just rolling in as he reached the end of the channel, heading into the open waters of the Pacific. The six-foot crest struck his bow with so much force it nearly pitch-polled his boat. A minute later, a 10-footer slammed into Miki’s Mist, submerging the entire deck and nearly knocking Hitoshi from the helm.

  On and on, he motored, steering directly west, seeking the safety of deep water. When he was two miles from the marina, Hitoshi turned to look at the shoreline in his wake. Huge columns of smoke rose from dozens of spots both north and south. The once familiar hills were altered and strange, and at one point, he would have sworn he watched a distant mountain dissipate before his eyes.

  Hitoshi didn’t stop until he was 20 miles offshore. The California coast had long disappeared from view, the great roar and rumble of the earth finally fading. He didn’t raise the sails, instead choosing to drift with the current. He was too frightened to return and see if the quake had finally expended its energy, too scared that he would find Half Moon Bay in the same condition as his beloved Kuji from so many years ago.

  For hours, he glided at the whim of the waters, gradually being pushed north and back toward the coast. The sun, light wind, and friendly seas helped calm Hitoshi. Once the peace of the Pacific steadied him, he reached out to his son and the worldwide web for news. He checked his cell phone, but was either too far from shore to have a signal, or the towers had been damaged by the quake.

  He decided to try the boat’s radio, but couldn’t pick up any AM or FM stations.

  His next option was the television and its auto-tracking satellite dish mounted atop the main cabin. Success at last! Finally, he had achieved contact with the outside world.

  As anticipated, all of the cable news stations were covering the developing disaster. He watched what appeared to be a snowstorm in Colorado, but how could that be during the dog days of August? Cheyenne seemed to have been smothered by a poisonous cloud of hot carbon, hydrogen, and sulphur.

  Earthquakes exceeding 9.4 on the Richter scale had been reported from Anchorage to Mexico City. Japan was bracing for a huge tsunami. Contact had been lost with Hawaii. People as far away as El Paso, Texas were packing local emergency rooms with ruptured eardrums.

  The president was making an announcement on television, informing his compatriots that a mammoth, unprecedented national disaster had occurred. He explained that a super volcano in Yellowstone National Park had erupted and that a chain of catastrophic events from earthquakes to tsunamis had been unleashed upon the planet.

  “Remain calm, stay indoors, and rest assured that your federal, state, and local governments are responding with every resource at our disposal,” the harried-looking politician had stated. “In addition, with the full support of Congress and the governors of all 50 states, I am declaring martial law throughout the United States of America.”

  Hitoshi’s English wasn’t all that good, his knowledge of North American geography only slightly better. Still, any fool could tell that the world had just experienced the worst natural disaster in the recorded history of humankind.

  The television picture blanked momentarily, followed a few moments later by a series of words appearing on the screen. “The next military briefing is scheduled for 6PM Eastern time. Stay in your homes. Only first responders and medical personnel are authorized to leave their residences. Stay tuned for further information.”

  Hitoshi tried several different channels, all displaying the same message. Finally, he noted an emblem at the bottom of the message. ‘Pentagon’ was the only word he understood.

  Captain Ulrich wanted to take no chances of ramming into another subsurface obstacle. Utah had dodged a bullet, and with the world apparently turned on its ear, her crew instinctively knew that their lives depended on the submarine now more than ever. The vessel had suddenly become more than a weapon of war and their temporary home.

  Backing away from the slick of dead fish, the captain ordered the sub to head due west at an agonizingly slow speed. With every circuit of the vessel’s sophisticated sensors pinging forward, Utah crept further and further away from the coast.

  After 10 nautical miles, the skipper ordered a gradual turn back to the north. “I want to see San Francisco,” he directed the first officer. “I need to see the City by the Bay.”

  “I’m afraid we’re not going to like what we find,” Jack replied. “If th
e tectonic plates have shifted enough to raise the ocean floor, I can’t imagine much is left of the west coast.”

  “We have to see,” Ulrich insisted. “And if we can’t get to San Fran, then we’ll continue north to the base in Seattle. The devastation has to end somewhere.”

  Jack wasn’t sure about that, but couldn’t offer any better suggestion. “Aye, sir.”

  “Contact,” the radar operator’s voice advised. “Small craft ahead, probably a sailboat from the profile. Bearing 85 degrees, speed is seven knots.”

  “Visual,” the captain ordered.

  The computer monitors around the bridge flickered, the blurry outline of a tiny mainsail visible on the horizon. “Maximum magnification,” Jack added.

  The powerful lenses on Utah’s mast worked their magic, the visual zooming in until several details became identifiable.

  The men on the bridge could clearly make out the white triangle of a snow-white sail. The vessel was obviously underway, the tilt of her hull indicating she was riding a fair wind.

  “She’s a beauty,” Jack whistled, admiring Miki’s Mist’s graceful lines, his dream of one day retiring aboard a yacht evident in his tone.

  “Yes, she is,” the captain added, a hint of envy in his own voice. “I’d say over 40 feet and tracking well. I wonder what she’s doing out here?”

  Rubbing his chin, Cisco replied, “Having some local information might be extremely valuable, sir. I think we should attempt to contact whoever is out for a sail.”

  Utah’s master didn’t like the idea at first. It was extremely rare for a US military vessel to have any contact with the general, boating public. Still, these were unique circumstances. “Hail that vessel. Let’s see if he’s listening to the VHF.”

  Two minutes later, there was no response.