THE LAST OHIO
Brad R. Torgersen
It was daylight on the Taiwan Strait.
The sky was partly cloudy with great broad bands of sunlight dancing across the surface of the blue ocean. Commander Evelyn Coombs, the USS Nevada’s captain; her executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Mike Whitford; and Master Chief Kruger stood on the Ohio-class submarine’s tower deck and gazed through three identical sets of long-range binoculars at the island of green that lay five miles off their bow.
“That’s it, Skipper,” Whitford said with conviction as he brought his binos down and replaced them with his customary set of aviation sunglasses.
“Doesn’t look like much,” Kruger commented as he continued to watch through his binoculars.
Kruger was a grizzled old sailor at least twice as old as Coombs, and as tall as he was wide. He knew more about ships and the people who sailed them than any other crewmember. The running joke onboard was that Kruger had sailed the original submarines of two prior world wars, and Evelyn could almost believe it as she watched the ancient man’s deeply lined face squint against the bright sunshine. Many of the younger sailors on the Nevada had lovingly resorted to calling him Grandpa Ben.
Whitford was an opposite of the hoary old Kruger in every way save competency. Tall, relatively young for his rank, sculpted like a bodybuilder, and possessing a chiseled face that any girl could fall for. The man was what Commander Coombs often considered to be the glue that held the ship together. When the crew needed a pep rally, he was there for them. And when the ship itself showed signs of suffering, he managed to pull the necessary parts from somewhere, or at least come up with an adequate improvisation.
Right now Coombs needed both their opinions as she tried to figure out how to best approach their rendezvous. Up ahead was their point of interest: one of the many small islands belonging to the chain once known as the Pescadores. On this specific island was a world leader who had been missing—or so Coombs thought—for over two years. Did President Wester have any idea what had happened since the bombs fell? What the world powers had done to each other? Why had he suddenly come up for air, now, and in this particular place?
“Opinions, gentlemen,” Evelyn ordered softly.
The old man and the young one screwed their faces up into thoughtful expressions as they watched the wave tops lap across the ship’s bow. Mike took a long time in considering, and his answer had the slowness of thought still being formed.
“I’m not sure what to think,” Whitford said, frowning. “It’s been a while since we answered to any authority besides yours, Skipper, and I’m not sure I want to go back to the way things were. The secretary of defense, the Joint Chiefs, you remember how they bungled Afghanistan. Then came Russia in Ukraine. And the stand-off with Beijing, over Taiwan supposedly having nukes. I can’t say Washington, D.C., particularly distinguished itself navigating any of that mess. If this is the President we’re dealing with, I’ve got half a mind to tell him to go fuck himself.”
Evelyn smiled slightly as Whitford blushed at his own audacity. There had been a time when the young executive officer would have followed any of the Joint Chiefs into the maw of Hell itself.
The hard lesson—during and since the nukes had launched—had changed him.
“Gramps?” Evelyn asked as she regarded her second man.
Kruger chuckled once and turned to snort and spit a massive loogie into the water, and then faced his commander.
“Is that a show of disapproval?” Coombs asked.
“Take it as you want, ma’am,” Kruger deadpanned. “But I’m inclined to agree with the XO. I’m in no hurry to subject myself to a chain of command that blew the civilized world to pieces.”
“I see,” Evelyn replied, then turned to face the island once more. As far as she could tell, they were the only surface ship in the area. If the sonar arrays hadn’t been permanently fouled a year earlier, she could have checked for other subs. But not even the ingenious Whitford had found a way to replace those incredibly complex parts, so the Nevada was about as effective as a bat with its eardrums removed.
“Guys,” Evelyn said hesitantly, “I’m not too hot, either, on the idea of getting called back in by the boss—not after such a long absence. And I know how we all feel about the way the world died. But we did take an oath that predates the war. I think we’re obliged to heed the President’s call. If it is in fact him. And there’s really only one way to be sure.”
Kruger and Whitford nodded a few times, and then silently stared across the water.
“It’s just weird as hell that Whitford is here,” Kruger remarked. “Last we knew, Air Force One went down over the Arctic.”
“It could have been Air Force Two,” Coombs said. “We never verified any of those final transmissions.”
“So, the President makes an emergency landing,” Whitford said. “If true, why not on Taiwan proper?”
“Too many mushroom clouds making it obvious it was a bad idea,” Kruger speculated.
“Maybe,” Coombs said. “Have the radio guys work up a coded response.”
The three turned from their watch and strode back down into the depths of the ship. Several minutes later, an encrypted call was made to the island for identification and clearance to approach. This signal was followed by an equally encrypted reply which welcomed the Nevada and her crew, and asked them to circle to the far side of the island where they could pull up to a dock and disembark. The President would meet them there.
The lengthy pier that stretched from the small island’s southern tip looked new. The girders that made up its mass had not had time enough in the water to corrode.
Commander Coombs, flanked by Kruger and Whitford, stood at the head of that pier and watched solemnly as a horde of sharp-looking officers wearing uniforms from every US military branch came toward the moored Nevada. Their steps resounded on the dock like the shuffling of cattle hooves, and their smiles sparkled in the late afternoon sun whose light was cascading across the ocean.
“Ahoy there, Commander Coombs!” said a well-built man who walked to the front of the crowd. He wore no uniform, but instead sported a stylish cotton oxford shirt and a pair of relaxed-fit denim pants. His teeth sparkled brightest of all, and his toned and muscled figure spoke of impeccable self-maintenance. Evelyn was surprised to see that President Ray Wester hadn’t changed a bit from his pre-war interviews. As the entourage came to a stop just short of Evelyn, Wester extended a large palm toward her.
“Commander?” he said, his deep, solid voice resonating with a power all its own.
“Mister President,” she said, shaking his hand. “It really is you.”
He gave her a few quick pumps before he let her palm go and shoved both of his mitts into his jeans pockets.
“In the flesh,” Wester said jovially, then his eyes proceeded to scan the length of the Nevada. As he drank in the sight of the world’s last—perhaps?—nuclear missile sub, he leaned forward and gave off a low whistle. For many moments, Coombs and her men just looked about them, trying to think of official-sounding things to say, then Wester tore himself away from the image of the ship and got handshakes from Whitford and Kruger.
“Damned marvelous to see you folks after all this time!” Wester said enthusiastically. “There aren’t too many of you left in the world, and our country needs every one of you if she’s going to get back on top where she belongs.”
Evelyn and her two chaperones nodded, but inside, the skipper had mixed feelings. It seemed that the president was at least aware that the US military had been all but wiped out. But did he know the country they all remembered—the America of their youth—was a radioactive blast zone?
Evelyn wanted to probe him with questions, but decided against it as she was engaged in a flurry of new handshakes with the men and women making up the president’s entourage. They were all Admiral this or General that. Some faces were dimly recognizable from the few high-level meetings Coombs had been privy to before the war. Most were no more familiar to her than Adam. But they all knew exactly who she was and had nothing but good things to say about her and the Nevada.
The president invited Coombs, Kruger, and Whitford back to the shore, but Grandpa Ben stopped them short and addressed the president bluntly.
“I don’t mind if we come have an exclusive visit, but we’ve got boys and girls on that tub who ain’t seen liberty in many a long moon. Would I be pissin’ on the welcome mat if I asked permission to have them stretch their legs?”
The brass behind Wester looked silently from one to the other and then back at the master chief. Wester, however, took the old man’s vernacular in stride and slapped the old sailor on the back, telling him that the island was the crew’s oyster. The men and women of the mighty Nevada could have whatever they wanted on the island.
“Ma’am,” Kruger said to Coombs, detaching himself from the party that was heading back to shore, “if you don’t mind?”
Evelyn looked back at her ship and then into the old man’s eyes.
“Sure, Master Chief,” the commander said with a smile, and then turned to walk away.
After a few steps she stopped and turned and looked at Kruger again.
“Just make sure they don’t get into too much trouble?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Kruger saluted her sharply. She returned the salute. The old master chief made his way back to the foredeck of his craft and dropped down an open hatch.
Coombs and Whitford were left to silently make their way behind the brass and the President as they walked to the beach. Then they followed a winding path that led up into the large hills of the green island. Half of Evelyn’s mind concentrated on Wester. The man engaged in animated conversation about how much work was to be done and how miraculous it was to have Coombs and her ship arrive in one piece. The other half of Evelyn’s mind was focused on the intense green leaves of the tropical plants that surrounded her and the calls from birds that drifted from branch to branch. On too many a seashore since the nukes had fallen, Evelyn had found nothing but blasted, irradiated ashes where mighty forests had once stood. She soaked up the essence of life as much as she could. Somehow, this little speck of land had been spared.
The trail stopped abruptly at a huge, armored door set into the face of a boulder. There was a hand-scan identifier to one side, and one of the brass placed her fingertips on the scanner’s surface and gave a mumbled voice-identifier code. The door beeped happily at her and then slid noiselessly up into the rock to reveal a spotless and well-lit tunnel that spiraled down into the island’s depths.
For many minutes they went downward, their steps echoing all around. The stairs below blocked all view of the spiral that might have lain beyond, giving the sensation that the stairs would go on forever. But the trip eventually ended in a great, high-ceilinged cave that appeared to have been fashioned by human hands. The cave was littered with office cubicles and computerlike boxes. Everything was illuminated by hundreds of bright lights on wire-suspended racks that dangled a few feet from the upper surface of the cave.
The computerlike boxes beeped and whirred happily, while an occasional voice could be heard from one of the cubicles.
“My holy of holies,” Wester said, motioning with a flourish.
Coombs and her XO were taken aback by the sight of all the high technology and people that milled about the office space. She hadn’t seen such a sight since before the war.
“Where did all of this come from?” Mike Whitford asked in a soft voice as he looked around him. “I don’t remember ever hearing about a stronghold such as this. Not off the coast of mainland China, anyway.”
“Ancient Chinese secret, my boy,” Wester said with a wink. “But I forget, you’re probably too young to remember that commercial. Hell, I am almost too young. Anyway, this was Taiwan’s, but I worked up a supersecret lease with them before the war. Built it all myself with the black-project money I was able to skim off the Pentagon. I always had a feeling something like this would come in handy. And when the missiles launched, I was right.”
Wester almost glowed with the pride of having outwitted the holocaust. Then he seemed to remember who he was talking to—seeing the expression on Coombs’s and Whitford’s faces—and assumed a more somber attitude.
Coombs regarded the president and found herself remembering why the man had been elected to office. He was good. He had an actor’s handsomeness as well as charm. Plus, he exuded the kind of manly aura some had once attributed to President Clinton, long ago.
“Impressive,” Coombs said, motioning at all the cubicle and computer equipment. “I would assume these people are the ones who reestablished a link with the communications satellite you used to call us?”
“Yes, and much more,” Wester said, smiling again. “These are some of the brightest boys and girls I could sift out of the government, before the end. They’ve been putting all kinds of our orbiting toys back to use. Survey satellites, weather satellites, even a telescope or three.”
“What about the lunar colony?” Whitford asked.
Coombs felt her heart flutter slightly at that question. She knew the moon settlers who’d gone with Musk included Whitford’s sister.
The president frowned—if just for an instant—and then tried to cover for it with a rushed smile.
“We’ve been in touch with them, too,” he said.
“Really?” Whitford replied, his eyes wide and his breathing heightening. “What’s the news?”
“Son, I wish I could tell you more about the moon,” the President said, “but they’ve been pretty cagey about what information they’re willing to share. Musk liked to be his own man before the war, and he likes being his own man even more, now that nobody on Earth can tell him what to do.”
“I am sure we can find out about Sheryl,” Coombs said to her XO, “but what’s really gotta be hammered out is: What good is the Nevada to you now, Mister President?”
“I like an officer who doesn’t small talk,” President Wester said. “But now’s not the right moment to talk about Nevada’s new mission. Before that happens, there are many details to attend to. I guess you and yours have been fairly isolated since the bombs dropped. I am amazed the Nevada is in one piece, frankly, and still operating under her own power! There’s plenty of time to talk about your future. Meanwhile, I expect you and your first officer to get my team a complete list of every consumable you need, and every broken part that’s gotta be replaced.”
“Aye, sir,” Whitford replied for both him and his skipper.
“After that, then?” Coombs pressed.
“After that,” the President said, still smiling as he always did, “yes, we’ll do a full cross-briefing. But I expect you and Lieutenant Commander Whitford to go do some of that ‘leg stretching’ your crusty master chief was talking about. Relax. Enjoy civilization for a bit. Just know we’re here for you.”
Captain Coombs chewed her tongue for a moment as she judged Wester, feeling him out, and not liking what she felt. But then, maybe he was right? What was there, after all, to be unsure of? He was the President, and everything so far seemed completely legit.
“Forgive me, sir,” Coombs said, “I think I’ve just been out to sea too long. You’re right. Some bona fide R and R would be good.”
Wester clapped both Coombs and Whitford on their backs, and then had the two submarine officers ushered out by a pair of admirals. Mildly dazed, Coombs allowed herself to be led back up to the surface and to the dock, where she was shocked out of her befuddlement by the sight of utter pandemonium. The sub’s remaining complement were splashing about on the beach nearby, spraying what appeared to be huge cans of beer all over each other and screaming wildly. On the beach just a few yards up toward the tree line, a massive ice cooler full of the beer cans sat enticingly in the sunshine, and several barbecue pits roared with fresh flame. The popular tunes of the pre-war era blared from a portable Bluetooth stereo someone had placed next to the cooler, and for a brief instant Coombs allowed herself to forget that the world had annihilated itself.
Whitford was hesitant.
“What’s the matter, Mike?” Coombs asked.
“Skipper, a minute ago you were cool as an ice cube. Now you’re willing to succumb to . . . this—”
“Insanity?” Coombs finished for him.
“You could call it that,” Whitford said, watching the cavorting crewmembers with unease.
“I know how you feel, Mike. But what is, and is not, sane, is strictly a matter of majority rule. And in this case”—the commander panned a hand around her, in reference to their screaming, hollering comrades—“you and I are definitely the minority.”
Coombs watched Whitford blanch as she popped the Australian-label beer open—foam frothing across her hand and arm as she did so—and tip it in his direction. When he didn’t immediately take it, she shrugged, then took a long, grateful tug on the can. And gave off a gasp of approval.
“God, I didn’t realize how much I missed this shit,” she said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve to clear away the residual wetness.
“I’ve always thought it tasted more like last year’s horse piss, ma’am,” Whitford replied with a frown.
Coombs looked at her XO for a moment, deciding whether he had made a joke or not, and then laughed heartily and tossed the open can to a nearby petty officer who thankfully caught it and slurped it down.
“You’re right, Mike. Let’s let the crew enjoy themselves, while we go draw up the must-have list. As long as the President is offering to buy, I say we take him for all he’s got.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Whitford agreed heartily.
Once inside the sub, Coombs and Whitford caught up with Kruger, and together they made their rounds of the ship. No problem went ignored. No missing nor damaged nor malfunctioning part was overlooked. Three hours later, they returned to the surface to find their thoroughly smashed crew sitting around the barbecue pits and yodeling God knew what sea songs.
“I love a good liberty,” Kruger said approvingly.
“Then why don’t you join them?” Evelyn said honestly.
“Naw, ma’am. At my age, a sailor tends to get a little partied out. I killed off too many brain cells when I was a kid. Can’t afford losin’ the ones I got left. Though, I am amazed to see they’ve got steaks, burgers, and hot dogs for us. Where in the world did they find the beef?”
The skipper smiled, and then she and her two mates walked back up the dock, savoring the feel of the night breeze as it wafted in again from the sea. Once on land, three clean and properly pressed junior officers met them. Each wore a different US military branch uniform, but they all had respectful smiles on their faces. And each was strikingly attractive.
“The President would like us to show you to your quarters now,” the lead female junior officer said.
“Quarters?” Kruger said with surprise.
“Yes, Master Chief,” the woman replied. “The President believes that you may appreciate not having to sleep in the confines of your ship after all this time. He offers the use of more . . . hospitable surroundings?”
“Lead on,” Coombs said.
The three junior officers did so, and within a short time had taken the three submariners along a winding path that went some distance around the circumference of the island to a spot that had been cleared and set with row upon row of beach bungalows. Electric lights glowed from each structure, and the three junior officers split, taking the captain, then the XO, and finally the chief of the boat in different directions.
“Wait,” Evelyn said, holding up a hand to stop her escort, a pretty young man whose name tag read Ralling, “what about our inspection report on the Nevada?”
“The President said it could wait till morning, ma’am,” Ralling said with a smile as he ushered her through a sliding door and then touched the electric key to slide it shut. Outside, the sounds of the waves rolling on the sand could still be heard. Inside, all the comforts and luxury of a twenty-first-century high-class hotel could be found. Massive bed, massive bathroom, massive kitchen—at least in comparison to the cramped confines of the Nevada—to include a fully stocked fridge and pantry, and an entertainment center that dominated an entire wall of the single living room.
Coombs gawked for a few minutes as she wandered from area to area, and then back to where Ralling waited patiently for her.
“Christ, what is all this?”
“Only the best for the fighting men and women, ma’am,” Ralling replied evenly as he clasped his hands behind his back at parade rest.
“But . . . do all of you live in such luxury on this island?”
“I’m just an ensign, ma’am, so I don’t have quarters like this. But, I am happy to say, what I’ve got now is a thousand times better than any quarters I’d have ever gotten before the war.”
“Amazing,” Evelyn said softly as she sat in an overstuffed reading chair. She was in a fairylike wonderland, or so it felt—after so much time wandering the world’s oceans, the last of the Ohio-class missile boats, trying to see what few parts of the world remained in the wake of the conflagration.
Coombs sat like that for a good ten minutes, just staring off into nothingness as she metabolized the day. She had not known such pleasurable surroundings in all her life, even before the war. A sizeable fortune must have been invested in her bungalow, and from the looks of it, there were hundreds of such units lining this side of the island. The president had managed to build all this using black-budget money?
“Ma’am, is there anything else I can do for you?” Ralling asked with a warm smile as she continued to sink into her daze. She slowly looked up at him, not understanding what he had said, and then snapped back to awareness.
“Huh? Oh, no. Thank you. Sorry. Wool-gathering. You are dismissed.”
Ralling looked about him and then down at the floor. He cleared his throat experimentally.
“Ma’am,” he said, stepping close to her and looking into her brown eyes. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Ralling’s face held a friendly smile, and his deep blue eyes penetrated hers. Evelyn found that the young man was wearing a mildly fragrant cologne. The smell was almost intoxicating, and she felt her breathing increase as he continued to stare unblinking into her eyes with his own. Evelyn’s already pink cheeks turned bright vermilion when she realized there was much more to Ralling’s offer than she had assumed.
She tore her eyes away from his.
“Umm, uh, no! No, thank you, Ensign Ralling. I’ll be fine,” Coombs blurted, smiling nervously and feeling the urge to giggle like she was fourteen again. And she felt incredibly stupid because of it.
Ralling nodded a few times, still smiling, and turned to stride to the door. He pressed the open key, and then stepped into the night air. Before he left, he turned to face her again.
“Ma’am, if you change your mind for any reason at all, just use the communications wand on top of your entertainment center. It gets you most of the channels on the island, and will buzz me first if you use it to get an outside line.”
Evelyn waved him off, then allowed a good five minutes to pass before a series of half-crazed giggles ripped across her throat, and then small sobs.
What in the hell was this place, anyway? What was it doing to her? For the briefest of moments she had actually considered taking the strong young guy up on his subtle offer. Despite the fact she outranked him. That was a huge no-no for any field-grade officer, to indulge herself with a junior one. But it had been forever since she’d tumbled with any man. And there was no question at all that she sorely missed such recreation.
Further thoughts on these matters only yielded further confusion and more sobbing.
“Too fucking much,” she finally sniffed, wiping at her nose. “I should just get some damned sleep and figure this all out tomorrow.”
Morning brought with it soft light, the sound of gently breaking waves, and a small buzzing sound that refused to go away. Evelyn swam in her unconscious for a moment, then decided that the noise was too annoying to let continue. She roused herself from her bed and stumbled to the front room. The noise was coming from beyond the front door. She tapped a hand idly on the lock panel, and the door slid open to reveal the young Ralling, still as handsome as the night before.
Evelyn stared at him for a moment, eyes blinking, and then she stood up straight as he snapped her a salute.
“Ma’am, the President is ready to hear your wish list,” Ralling said crisply.
Evelyn returned the salute and was about to proceed out the door with the young aide when she realized that she hadn’t changed before going to bed. She’d slept the whole night in her blue digital-camo working uniform.
“Oh Christ,” Evelyn muttered.
“No worries, ma’am. The President is not expecting you until ten-hundred hours. You’ve got time to get cleaned up and grab a bite with your mates. I also took the liberty of bringing you this.”
Ralling produced a shrink-wrapped package from behind his back. Evelyn accepted it and discovered it contained nicely starched khakis. Specifically, a naval officer’s uniform.
Evelyn thanked Ralling and tossed the package on the reading chair. The young officer spun on his heel and walked swiftly away while Evelyn leaned against the open doorframe and looked out across the dawn sea as it gently rolled in from the horizon. There was an unreal feeling in the air that had not dissipated from the evening before—a feeling that was alarming, as well as intoxicating. Here, in this place, all the hard reality of the post-nuke Earth was melting away before a wonderland of comforts and luxuries that no one on the Nevada had ever seen, nor had expected to ever see.
But, Commander Coombs supposed, rank did have its privileges. Of course the President would deck the place out like a resort.
Evelyn let these thoughts continue as she strode back to the bathroom and quickly stripped. Inside, she tapped fingers on the control pad and felt a refreshing burst of hot water spray across her body from the nozzles in the ceiling and walls of the shower stall. Soap came easily from a push dispenser, and very quickly Evelyn was clean as a whistle.
She stepped from the shower, toweled off, then spent a few minutes assembling the packaged uniform and slipping it on. Everything necessary had been provided, including pins, ribbons, rank, and so forth.
She was met on the deck outside by the sight of Kruger clopping toward her. Like Evelyn, he was dressed in brand new khaki, but he was frowning as he approached her.
“Good night?” she asked, wondering what might have happened. “Where’s the XO?”
“Haven’t seen him yet, ma’am,” Kruger said. “And his place was empty when I got there, before coming here. He must have gone ahead of us, Skipper.”
“And there’s something else, isn’t there?” Evelyn said, growing uneasy.
Kruger’s face turned pink.
“The young female lieutenant who escorted you last night?” Coombs guessed.
“Hell, ma’am, is it that obvious?”
“She’s young enough to be your granddaughter, Ben,” Coombs scolded. “And besides which, she’s commissioned. Jesus, what were you thinking?”
“She was very smooth when she came onto me,” Kruger admitted. “Very smooth. And she talked like she knew the old days. Like she knew the Navy from when I was a young man. We talked about the old times, practically like she’d been there. Well, one thing led to another, and . . . shit, I’m still a man, aren’t I? And it’s been a long, long time.”
Coombs thought about Ralling and his tacit offer.
The uneasy sensation inside her, intensified.
“How about the rest of the crew?” she asked.
“Sawing logs, most of them. Sleeping off those hangovers.”
“Did you take roll?”
“No,” the master chief admitted. “But where could they hope to go?”
“Nowhere I guess,” Coombs said. “Come on, let’s go find Whitford. Something’s truly strange here. I mean, we ought to be overjoyed at the discovery of this place. But I can’t shake a subtle, bad vibe. And I really want to talk to the President some more.”
The pair walked back toward the center of the island following signs as they went. They eventually bumped into several more officers. These officers directed them on the path back to the main door to the innards of the island, and soon they found themselves back in the computerized cavern where they had been just the afternoon before. An aide met them there and directed them through a series of corridors to a large conference room where they were offered seats and full plates of breakfast.
The President joined them.
“So, Commander, do you have that list for me?” Wester asked with a smile as he tore into his bacon, eggs, and manhole-cover-sized pancakes.
Evelyn passed the President a small thumb drive across the table, and he promptly dropped it into a slot near his knee. The list appeared in the center of the table on a pop-up digital display.
Several brass joined the group at that point, entering from side doors, and the two crewmembers of the Nevada quickly found themselves engaged in a running discussion on what worked aboard the Nevada, what didn’t, and the items in between. Many of the generals and admirals were amazed to hear that the ship had survived as well as she had over the many months at sea, without proper refit or refurbishment. Coombs was quick to point out the outstanding efforts of her XO in these areas—despite the fact he was conspicuously elsewhere. She made a mental note to really find out why as all the brass made their own notes on their personal computer pads while she spoke.
When the report had been made in full, the President and his staff vanished into an adjoining office and left the two submariners to pick at the remains of their meals.
“You think we’ll get half of what we asked for?” Kruger asked.
“I don’t know what we’re going to get,” Coombs replied. “This place is a little like Santa’s workshop at the North Pole. I wouldn’t be surprised if we got nothing, or if we got a whole new ship. It’s just so hard to say. We have no idea what kind of spare parts the president has holed up in this place.”
“Well, Commander,” President Wester said with a smile as he and the brass walked back into the conference room, “you will be pleased to know that we can help you with all these problems. We’re fully equipped to make the repairs necessary to the Nevada, and will gladly supply the necessary staff to get your ship back to a full complement, too.”
Commander Coombs sat back in her chair and placed a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
“Thank you, Mister President. We could not have hoped for this much. It’s almost a miracle, really.”
“I know,” the President replied, still smiling. “I know.”
“So, when can we get to work?” Kruger asked one of the admirals who flanked the President. The flag officer simply darted his eyes in Wester’s direction, and then looked back to Kruger.
“Nonsense, Master Chief Kruger!” the President said. “You people haven’t even been on liberty for a full day, and you’re ready to go back to work? At least have the sense to enjoy our hospitality! The work can wait.”
More handshakes followed, then Coombs and Kruger were shuffled out of the conference room and back to the surface where they found their entire boat empty of personnel, save for a tiny handful of petty officers whom Whitford had posted dockside as shore patrol.
Day two was a louder, more raucous repeat of the first. All the tension, grief, and mixed emotions of the war—followed by the long loneliness at sea—were all coming out in one great drunken venting. Every sailor had steam to blow off and made the most of his or her time on the President’s little Shangri-la, including more than a few pairs splitting off to head back to their quarters—not even trying to hide their intent.
Coombs patrolled the beaches in her bare feet, watching the sky and the surf, and wondering what had happened to her executive officer. Though the bizarre nature of her situation still loomed large in her mind, she forced herself not to worry about it. This was very likely going to be the last taste of the old world that she or any of the other sailors would ever get.
Occasionally she ran across one of the strangers from the island itself. They exchanged friendly banter, talked of the upcoming repair work to the Nevada, and the one time she saw Kruger—alone, he made it plain for her to see—she speculated heavily on what it was the President wanted with the sub. Two-thirds of Nevada’s launch tubes still held missiles, each armed with warheads. Was that what this was all about? The President’s ability to exert power—either by threat or through deterrence? As yet, Coombs still had no idea if any of the other world leaders had survived. The few major ports the Nevada had visited had all been disasters. She’d had to make call at much smaller ports, bartering for supplies, where the locals ruefully recounted tales of survival, and of scratching a living from what was left.
By comparison, the crew of the Nevada now enjoyed heaven.
That evening, food was served by the President himself. He wore a comfortable-looking Hawaiian shirt and a set of flattering cotton slacks. The meal was several grades above beach barbecue.
Evelyn allowed the man in the door, noting that two Marines seemed to want to follow.
“Men, I think I can handle this,” Wester said over his shoulder. The Marines reluctantly withdrew and closed the door behind them.
“Nobody from the Secret Service survived the war?” Evelyn said as he placed the tray of scrumptious-smelling food down on the bungalow’s single meal table, and began setting out silverware and plates.
“Military formalities, Commander. Mostly to humor my staff of admirals and generals.”
Wester finished setting up the table and then motioned at the seat opposite his. Evelyn slowly took that seat, then began serving herself without making a sound. Her eyes held Wester’s—expectantly.
“You know, I guess I was foolish to expect you and your people to just fall back in after all this time,” he said. “You’re wondering where I’ve been, and what happened to the chain of command when the nukes obliterated the country. Yes, I know things are dire back home. Yes, I know it looks bad for me to be here—with all this sumptuous luxury—when life back in the States is hell for most.”
“Yes,” Evelyn admitted. “All of that’s crossed my mind.”
“But I want you to realize I’m pretty different, now. I’m not the kind of president you had at the start of the war. This whole thing has changed me as much as it has changed everyone else. Including yourself.”
“Maybe, Mister President,” Coombs said. “But have your policies? I have to assume the Nevada is going to be part of your plan to reassert yourself in a world that is largely leaderless.”
“I don’t expect a woman like you to understand the subtler nature of international diplomacy. But whether you like it or not, humans are political animals. Because of this fact, I can only see more destruction in our future if somebody doesn’t step out there, and lead. We’ve got the one—and maybe only—chance to unite this damned globe under my government. An opportunity sitting in our palms. If we don’t take it, I don’t think anything can prevent us from backsliding all the way to the Stone Age.”
Evelyn watched Wester calmly as his speech became more and more heated. The fire in his eyes as he spoke told her that he truly believed what he was saying. There was also the matter of his natural charisma, which was starting to go to work on Coombs despite her best effort. She knew that if she wasn’t careful, the man could have her all turned around by the end of the night.
“That may be, sir,” Evelyn said, “but we tried it once your way, and look what happened.”
Wester waited silently, his attitude telling Evelyn that he expected more than that. But she volunteered nothing further. If the deaths of billions weren’t evidence enough of the failure of doing business the old way, then she did not know what was.
When Wester could see he would get no more reply, he dug into his food, purposely not watching the commander.
They ate in silence for a good long time. Evelyn wondered why the man had even bothered to come down and see her in the first place.
“Why do you care anymore what I think?” Coombs asked bluntly as she finished off her plate and pushed it away.
“I could stick any one of my brass on your boat, Commander, but I’d rather not have to. I think I’m smart enough to realize that the men and women on your sub will respond poorly to me putting some pencil-pushing admiral in charge. That will dramatically reduce the efficiency of your people, and endanger the goals of this country.”
There he went again, referring to the United States as if it were still a real thing. Coombs inwardly groaned.
“You can’t convince me to go around threatening people with nukes anymore,” she said flatly. “I did that once already. I even had my bluff called. And the millions of dead that I’ve now got on my conscience refuse to leave me alone. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”
Wester stopped in midchew and looked past her shoulder, off to a window where the sun was just starting to wane. His expression held hints of something far away; a distant, serious memory. His brows furrowed slightly and there was the faintest vibration in his eyes.
“Yes, I know. Believe me. I know.”
“Then why?”
Wester swallowed his unchewed bite, swabbed his mouth with a napkin, and then stood abruptly.
“You want to know how I survived? How this whole place remained intact despite the war? When Air Force One landed here on two good engines, we were running on fumes, and most of the United States lay under a radioactive pall. The runway was old, and too short. We went off the end, lost the landing gear, and halfway rolled, eventually breaking up into pieces. The fire should have gotten those of us who lived, but there was something strange about the flames. Something strange in the flames. I heard voices, as if many crying out together, then coalescing into one voice. It promised us—promised me—there would be a future. For a price.”
As the man spoke, Commander Coombs watched the skin on his face slowly crinkle then evaporate off the muscle and tissue underneath. Her mouth hung open as she witnessed the formerly handsome man’s hair fall out and fluttered to the ground like bird feathers, but disappearing into wisps of gray ether before they reached the floor. His clothes quickly deteriorated until they were but blackened, ragged scraps dangling from the cooked muscle and sinew underneath. A skull’s visage now stared at her.
“Join us,” the barbecued cadaver said, extending its blackened, skeletal hand. “The nukes woke something up in this part of the world. Something which has slept for a thousand years. Maybe it was all those souls suddenly shuffling off their mortal coils? Maybe it was something else. I can’t pretend to understand it, even now. Except to say I live. And so do all who serve me. They live as well. After a fashion. And so will you.”
Evelyn screamed like she’d not screamed since she was a small child newly woken from a horrible nightmare, jumped up from the table, running to the opposite end of the room, where she slammed her palm repeatedly on the electronic button for the door. When it opened, she pelted out into the gloaming.
Whitford was there to block her way. Or, at least, what passed for Whitford. His skin was sickly white, as were his eyes—no pupils nor irises. His starched khaki uniform was as clean as could be, but there was an unmistakable stench of death to him as he spread his arms to prevent Captain Coombs from passing.
“Don’t fight it,” he said. “Fighting just makes it harder.”
“This isn’t real,” Evelyn shouted. “None of it can be!”
“I didn’t think so, either,” Whitford said. “But the wraiths have a way of convincing you.”
“Wraiths?” Evelyn said, blinking her eyes, not understanding.
“The President’s right,” Whitford said. “Something awoke in this part of the world, once the bombs fell. The Chinese are an old people, after all, and once upon a time, they knew an ancient magic. Mostly forgotten, until so much human and animal life perished all at once. Then the magic came out of its slumber. Dark, and hungry.”
Again, Evelyn screamed like she was a small girl and spun ninety degrees—leaping off the pavement and onto the sand, then charged out across the beach as the dying light gave way to blackest night. Behind her she could hear the voices of both Whitford and the President—or what had become of them—calling for her. Warning her that she wasn’t going to escape. In her mind, Evelyn desperately hoped this was a bad dream. That she was still back at her suite, sawing logs, or even in her bunk aboard ship. Anywhere but here, now, running blindly from a sudden, wretched dream.
Commander Coombs ran until she was gasping for air—the sand making it hard to keep up her pace—and then she saw the dock lights where her ship was still moored. The tiny figures of the shore patrol still standing watchfully.
Out of the dark, a body tackled her.
Commander Coombs went down like a sack of oats, and felt a large, warm hand close over her mouth.
“Shhhhh,” hissed a voice in her ear. “They might hear you!”
Kruger’s hand slowly slipped from her face when she didn’t resist him.
“Master Chief!” she hissed back. “What the hell is happening here?”
“Hell is too right by half,” Kruger said quietly into her ear. “If you’re like me, you had some visitors tonight who made you an offer you weren’t meant to refuse. Like me, I reckon you said, ‘No!’ and got out as fast as your legs would take you.”
“It can’t be real,” Evelyn panted. “It can’t.”
“I was never much for chapel in my adult years,” the master chief said, “but if my great-grandmother could see me now, she’d say this was the bona fide Devil’s work.”
“We’ve got to get to the sub!” Evelyn said.
“Too late,” Kruger said sadly. “I was headin’ back from the dock, to see if I could find you, when you practically ran over me. The Nevada appears taken, ma’am. The shore patrol . . . gone, like Whitman’s probably gone. And a lot of others.”
Captain Coombs slowly got to her feet, and looked away from shore, back to the land.
“But what about all . . .”
She never finished her thought, as the many lights from the many bungalows and suites began to smear and grow fuzzy, like rain on an automobile windshield during a downpour, until suddenly every single building took on a distorted, not-quite-distinct, and decidedly vaporous quality—the light no longer warmly yellow, but orange, fading to red, which faded into the blackness around them.
An unearthly moan seemed to rise from the land, as if a thousand voices wailed. Then, ten thousand. None distinct in their own right, but all joined in a terrible choir of pain and longing.
“We’ll swim for it!” Commander Coombs shouted, and reversed herself, preparing to spring down the sand to the water’s edge, and dive in. Except, the waves were alight with ghastly glowing figures that slowly came up out of the water. They didn’t hurry. There was no need. With so many—most little more than skeletons, mobilized by some unseen force which compelled them forward—there was nowhere for either Coombs nor Kruger to go. Quickly, the apparitions surrounded the pair of US Navy personnel, who stood back-to-back and glared at the spectral remains of men and women who’d perished and were now seemingly reborn. Albeit in the most awful manner one might conceive. The evil emanated from them, like a palpable wave.
“I wish I could say something other than, it’s been an honor serving with you, ma’am,” Kruger said over his shoulder. “May the Lord please take mercy on us.”
HMS Defiant was a Type 45 guided-missile destroyer. Perhaps the last any British shipyard would ever produce. Converted to nuclear just before the onset of the war, she’d sailed much farther from home than any of her siblings. On her bridge, the men and officers of the Royal Navy maintained their alert. It had been a long time since anyone or anything had reached out to them via encrypted satellite communication. At first, Commander Jenkins had suspected someone from Hong Kong might be calling. Hong Kong still having its British roots, not quite killed by the communists since their takeover at the beginning of the new millennium. But instead of Hong Kong—surely destroyed—the satellite messages had aimed the Defiant to a tiny bundle of islands off the western coast of Taiwan, which had been badly decimated in the opening moments of the war, and from which all life had been presumed extinguished.
Until now.
“What do you make of it?” the commander asked his XO.
“Bloody peculiar,” the XO replied. “But the codes match up. Somehow, there’s United Kingdom territory on the horizon. Though I can’t rightly say how that’s possible. We’d be fools to take the codes at face value.”
“And we’d never forgive ourselves if we didn’t get in closer and have a look. It’s been a long time since any of us saw friendly faces. And while we struggled to find safe ports in Australia and New Zealand—those poor bastards—maybe some little scrap of home remains? Here? Right at the center of where it all started?”
“Aye, sir,” the XO said. “Wouldn’t that be a miracle?”
The Defiant sailed toward the coordinates.