Apocalypse Trails: Episode 1 Page 6

“They probably don’t have their radio on or can’t hear it. I suggest a visual approach, and see where it goes from there.”

  Before Ulrich could respond, the radar operator chimed in. “He’s slowing, sir. His mainsail is coming down.”

  The high definition monitors on Utah’s bridge were capable of overlaying a radar image on top of a digital chart. After checking, Jack added, “He’s right at the edge of the dead pool. I wonder if he’s fishing?”

  Twisting his face in disgust, Ulrich shook his head. “Eating dead fish? Really? Sounds pretty desperate.”

  Still, everyone within earshot understood. From what little they had seen and learned, the situation onshore might be just that – desperate.

  “Change course to 080,” Ulrich ordered. “Bring us to within 500 meters of that vessel. Keep your eye on the depth. Let’s hear what that yacht’s captain has to say.”

  The fish at the edge of the rotting slick weren’t always dead. Over the weeks, Hitoshi had learned to look for the signs that indicated the tiny flickers of life might remain in a few of the oxygen-starved bodies.

  Too weak to swim, many had floated to the surface and were being carried to this place. As Miki’s Mist skimmed the edge of the oceanic graveyard, he watched for slight ripples in the water or the telltale movement of a gill.

  He had been pleased with the variety offered in this section of the Pacific. His former fleet in Japan would have been far more profitable if they had been allowed to fish in these waters.

  At first, the thought of eating bobbing-on-the-water dead, or nearly-dead fish had been repulsive. Yet, despite Mist being a well-stocked vessel, he was quickly running out of food.

  After netting a few of the tastier specimens around the edge of the growing slick, he’d found the fishes’ livers to be bright purple and healthy looking. He observed no other signs of disease or poisoning. He had seen the same thing before; they were dying by the millions due to a lack of oxygen in the water. He sampled a few bites and waited. No convulsions or fever resulted. The doomed amphibians were safe to eat.

  Hitoshi was just about to net a struggling Bluefin when movement off his port bow caught the old fisherman’s eye.

  Inhaling sharply, his first instinct was to rush for the helm, fire up the diesel engine, and attempt an escape. It had been weeks since he’d encountered another boat, and that experience had nearly resulted in his being boarded by a ragtag group of swashbucklers that obviously meant him harm.

  In less than a second, Hitoshi realized the long, black hull coming alongside was a military submarine. There was no way he could outrun or outmaneuver such a craft.

  Two figures appeared atop of the large sail, their white uniforms against the dark hull drawing his eye. Less than a minute after that, an American Flag was displayed. Good, the angler thought. My Russian really sucks.

  A bullhorn-enhanced voice resounded across the waves. “This is the USS Utah. If you have a working radio, please respond to our hail.”

  It had been so long since he had seen another craft that Hitoshi had stopped turning on his radio. He rarely encountered vessels, and batteries were definitely hard to come by at the moment. Waving to the sub, he hustled for the helm.

  Channel 16 was the official VHF frequency used for all official business and ship-to-ship communications. “Miki’s Mist to USS Utah,” he stated into the microphone.

  The crackle of the man’s words actually took Hitoshi a little by surprise. The sound of another human being seemed so unfamiliar now.

  “This is Captain Ulrich of the Utah,” the friendly sounding voice reassured. “Could you identify yourself, please?”

  The ensuing conversation was difficult over the radio. Between Hitoshi’s limited English and the push-to-talk nature of VHF communications, it soon became clear to both skippers that a face-to-face meeting would be best.

  “Please come alongside Utah,” Ulrich suggested. “I would be honored to have you as a guest at the captain’s table.”

  Hitoshi loved the sea and all vessels that plied the water. He had never been on a submarine. The man on the other end of the radio seemed pleasant and professional. Why not?

  Twenty minutes later, Hitoshi was throwing a line to a waiting sailor on Utah’s deck. Dwarfed in size alongside the nuclear submarine, Miki’s Mist seemed positively Lilliputian alongside the warship’s hull, and for a moment, it occurred to the elderly man that he might be making a huge mistake.

  Somehow, the crew managed to bring him safely aboard, Captain Ulrich posting a young sailor on Miki’s Mist to keep watch just in case anything went wrong. A few minutes later, after a few brief introductions, Hitoshi was being escorted below decks.

  Jack instantly liked the polite, bowing man. It was obvious Hitoshi knew how to pilot a boat, and the humble attitude of the elder Japanese fellow was easy to embrace.

  After a quick tour of the bridge, Utah’s civilian guest was shown to the captain’s mess. There, with Jack and Daniels seated around a small table, the conversation became serious.

  For twenty minutes, Hitoshi told the crew what had transpired in the past three months. Ulrich, always trying to be pleasant and understanding, had asked for clarification several times due to the language barrier and difference in terminology. Despite those difficulties, Utah’s officers began to get answers to many of their questions.

  “Have you been to San Francisco?” Jack asked.

  “That city no longer exists,” Hitoshi replied with little emotion. “I managed to get as far as what once was the Golden Gate Bridge. The San Francisco Peninsula, or what is left of it, is submerged.”

  Daniels couldn’t believe his ears. “You mean the entire peninsula is under water? The city is gone?”

  Hitoshi nodded, “What was San Francisco Bay is now part of the Pacific Ocean. You can still see sections of the Golden Gate Bridge, but most of the structure collapsed. With all of the variations in depth and debris in the water, I couldn’t travel any further up the channel.”

  The Utah’s crewmembers were stunned, silently mesmerized by their stoic, Asian visitor. Finally, Jack offered, “So the rock jockeys were right – California did slide into the sea. It really happened. I’m still finding it hard to fathom.”

  “Not all of the land is sunken,” Hitoshi countered. “Some places were pushed higher into the air. There are new peaks along the coast that didn’t exist before.”

  “What about the government?” Chief Daniels asked. “Did the National Guard come? Where is Washington in all this?”

  Hitoshi shrugged, “I do not know. I watched the news stories aboard my boat for two weeks, drifting up and down the coast. I kept hoping my son would call, or that I would see a report on his area. Twice a day, a soldier would appear on the screen. At first, he would read a prepared statement, mainly telling citizens to stay inside their homes. Later, he began warning that looters would be shot. Finally, he seemed to be begging for everyone to be patient, almost pleading for law and order. A few days later, the broadcasts … just … stopped.”

  The fact that the satellite channels were dead made sense to Utah’s officers. What didn’t seem logical was the fact that no one responded on the military frequencies. They were all thinking it, but it was Jack who voiced the nightmare scenario. “So the government fell?”

  “I don’t know about that,” the fisherman answered honestly. “I do know that the fish are all dying. I also know that the fires stopped … maybe three … or four weeks ago. Please forgive my weak mind – I’m not as young and sharp with dates and times as I once was.”

  “The fires?” Jack asked.

  “On shore,” Hitoshi answered with a nonchalant voice. “For the first couple of months, when the darkness was at its worst, the fires were clearly visible along the coast. They faded, just like the ash and the fish. Now I rarely see flames. It has been at least ten days since I last spotted smoke.”

  The officers exchanged troubled looks, the catastrophe being described by their guest seeming
ly more poignant as the meeting continued.

  “The darkness?” Ulrich inquired.

  “Yes, two days after the earthquake and tsunami, the sun never rose. There were no stars. It was as dark as night for several days.”

  The story made sense. Ash from Yellowstone’s eruption would have filled the atmosphere and blocked the sun’s rays completely at first. “I remember reading something about the Krakatoa eruption back in the late 1800s,” Daniels offered. “The world didn’t have a summer that year, and the weather was all screwed up for almost a decade.”

  Hitoshi nodded, “My son is a geologist, and I recall him telling me the same facts. I wish I knew if he is still alive.”

  The elder man’s concerns about his family caused everyone at the table to reflect for a few moments. Every man was thinking about loved ones spread around the country. Those with relatives in California were especially apprehensive.

  Ulrich broke the silence, “You’ve been most helpful, Mr. Sato. Is there anything you require before we part company?”

  Blinking in thought, Hitoshi finally smiled broadly. “Do you have spices? My diet has been rather bland for several weeks now. I can make salt by evaporating seawater, but still … if you have anything that would improve the fish, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  Jack grunted, surprised by the simplicity of the request. “I’m sure we can come up with something from our galley,” he stated with a smile.

  It then dawned on the first officer that perhaps Mr. Sato’s simple wish was a harbinger of what all of their futures might hold. Had life on the planet earth really come to such a point?

  Thirty minutes later, Jack bid farewell to the old fisherman, Hitoshi smiling broadly and waving back as he hustled to store the small bag of pepper, ginger, and teriyaki sauce Utah’s cooks had provided.

  “I hope you make it, old man,” Cisco whispered as the sailboat drifted away from Utah’s hull. “I hope we all make it.”

  Captain Ulrich wasted no time. “If what Mr. Sato said is true, I see no option but to reverse course and head back to San Diego. The damage to the West Coast seems to grow more severe as we travel north, and we eventually have to dock this submarine.”

  Jack had to agree. “At least the San Diego skyline appeared to be intact, sir. Perhaps the Marines are still in control of the base and can put us in contact with the Navy’s command.”

  “Someone has to be in charge. At this point, it might be the National Guard or perhaps a reserve unit. No matter, we can’t drift around the Pacific forever, even if we did have the supplies to feed our people.”

  “How are we going to dock Utah without tugs?” Chief Daniels asked.

  “We’ll just have to guide her into the pier the best we can,” Ulrich shrugged. “Given the circumstances, I don’t think anyone is going to be upset if we scrape a little paint off the hull.”

  Cisco wasn’t so sure about that but had to admit the captain had a valid point. They had to reach shore at some point, and the skipper was as familiar with the facilities in San Diego as anyone.

  When no other alternatives were offered, Ulrich issued the order. “Set a course for Silicon Beach. Keep us a good 35 miles off the coast, just in case. We can’t afford to hit any more obstacles.”

  As they traveled south, the sky outside grew darker, the overcast sky seeming to swirl with a growing intensity. “Looks like a front is moving in, sir,” Jack reported. “Surface wind still remains calm.”

  “Great,” the skipper replied, disdain evident in his tone. “That’s all we need. Docking an 8,000-ton sub is bad enough without a blow bouncing us around the harbor.”

  Utah was nearly 400 feet long with a 30-foot beam, a massive vessel by any measure. Worse yet, her waterjet was the equivalent of a single screw boat, which greatly limited her maneuvering capabilities.

  “I think we should wait offshore until we have good light, sir,” Jack offered an hour later. “It’s almost dusk, and we still have over an hour before we reach San Diego. Trying to dock at night seems like a bad idea.”

  Rubbing his chin, Ulrich seemed indecisive. “Let’s wait and see how much light we have in the harbor. The sub pens are pretty well lit, as I recall.”

  “You’re assuming there is electricity, Captain,” Jack stated.

  “Shit … didn’t think about that.”

  As Utah turned east on the approach to the southern California metropolis, it was obvious that San Diego was indeed off the grid. Where normally there would have been a twinkling field of lights rivaling the Milky Way on a clear night, the crew and lookouts could discern nothing but the dark skyline.

  Jack threw a questioning look at his commander, the distance closing rapidly. If they were going to stay offshore, now was the time to change course. Ulrich seemed determined. “Let’s take her in, Jack. We need to get this crew onto solid earth. Hell, I need to put my own feet on the ground.”

  “Aye, sir,” Cisco responded, not liking the decision one bit.

  There it was again, Jack thought. A rough edge of the skipper’s normally glass-smooth logic.

  Again, the XO’s thinking switched to his responsibilities. It was his job to judge and maintain the mental and physical fitness of the crew, including the top man. Was Ulrich losing it? Or was the captain right … would they all benefit mentally by stepping out on solid ground? Could there be some underlying motivation prompting this seemingly reckless decision? Keep an eye on him, Jack concluded. Hell, keep an eye on all of them.

  With her running lights blazing, Utah entered the main shipping channel. Chief Daniels hefted a large spotlight to the lookout’s post on the sail and soon a bright circle of light was sweeping back and forth across the sub’s path.

  Utah was the captain’s fourth submarine command, the second vessel on his resume that had been based in San Diego. He knew the harbor well.

  As the entrance channel grew narrow, Ulrich’s course corrections came in a nearly steady stream. “Three degrees to port,” he spat into the intercom, soon followed by “two degrees to starboard,” and so forth.

  Entering the section of the expansive harbor reserved for military vessels, familiar hulls began to loom in the distance. They identified several heavy cruisers, numerous destroyers, and one aircraft carrier tied alongside the thick, concrete piers.

  When they finally reached the area reserved for the Navy’s sub-surface fleet, Jack’s heart leapt into his throat. The spotlight illuminated hull after dark, low hull already docked. “Don’t tell me there isn’t a parking spot?” he heard Ulrich joke, the skipper trying to laugh off the stress escalating among the sailors on the bridge. “I’ve never seen this many boats tied up at the same time.”

  Knowing that the channel was far too narrow for Utah to turn around, Cisco began to wonder if Ulrich could back the huge vessel out in the darkness. It was then that an open section of pier appeared within the scope of their light. Thank God for the high beams, Jack mumbled under his breath.

  Ahead of them sat one of the Los Angeles class of subs. Behind was another Virginia boat, one of Utah’s older sisters. The gap between would have been more than enough space if the tugs had been working. Jack couldn’t see any way they were going to ‘parallel park’ on their own.

  “All stop,” Ulrich ordered. Followed a few moments later by, “Man the launch.”

  Commander Cisco watched intently as six crew members motored away from Utah in the sub’s raft. In a few minutes, they were climbing up a metal ladder and hustling both directions along the pier. Jack could see their flashlights bobbing as the team scurried, making ready to man the dock lines.

  “It’s now or never,” Ulrich announced in a hushed tone.

  The skipper’s orders now came in a rapid staccato, the captain barking minor adjustments as he tried to guide the massive boat into what seemed to be a shrinking space. “Right full rudder, all ahead, left four degrees … five degrees … reverse, full power… right full rudder.”

  Utah was barely moving,
yet her mass and single screw was making it nearly impossible to negotiate the opening. Any power applied to the waterjet didn’t produce an immediate reaction, and more than once Jack was positive they were destined to ram an already-docked sub.

  After nearly 20 minutes of back and forth, port to starboard, Jack thought they were actually going to make it. Utah was drifting into the space, plenty of clearance both fore and aft. Sailors in life preservers were now hustling along the deck, readying to catch the lead lines thrown by their mates on the pier.

  Just as Cisco was about to compliment the captain’s extraordinary seamanship, Ulrich frowned. “We’re not going to make it…. Brace for impact!”

  The order was repeated up and down the deck, the sailors waiting on the lines unsure of exactly what to do. None of them had ever tried to dock an unassisted sub before. The tugs had always nestled their boat up to the bollards like a mother tucking her baby into a crib.

  Despite her slow speed, the collision with the pier sent a resounding shudder through the sub’s hull, knocking men to the deck while the squeal of screeching metal disturbed the otherwise quiet harbor. Jack could hear anxious voices from the crewmembers below as they scrambled to regain their footing.

  Six lines arched through the air, each attached to larger rope that was the size of a man’s wrist.

  For a moment, Jack thought Utah was going to bounce off the stout concrete pier, so violent was the impact. One of Chief Daniels’ seamen managed to secure a line to a pillar, and then a half dozen of the crew were pulling hard to position the sub close to the dock.

  “Damage report,” a voice over the intercom broadcast. “Reporting hull breach forward torpedo room. We’re taking on water, sir.”

  “Shit,” Ulrich snapped. “There goes my promotion to admiral.”

  Jack couldn’t tell if the man was serious or not. In reality, he didn’t care, his eyes remaining fixed on the drama unfolding below.

  Utah was far, far too heavy for the sailors to easily pull her tight against the dock. Instead, the chief had his men tightening the lines on each counter-sway of the hull. It was dangerous work, the strain placed on the thick ropes enough to cut through a man’s arm or leg, the physical demands of executing the order almost overwhelming.