Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (60 page)

“Yeah, we
swung down by the Marina earlier.  A lot of boats out there are missing or sunk
or damaged.  There’s still a good number just fine though, I guess.  Don’t
really know the difference, actually.  But the fishing party we sent out?  They
caught a shit load of fish.  Said to send someone with a bigger truck to help
haul ‘em in.  Big fuckers, man.”

“Thank
God!” Erik said.  His idea had finally paid off.  Now if they could continue to
catch fish, they’d at least have a steady supply of meat and protein. 
Something behind Erik caught Hoss’s eye.

“Whoops,
there’s your buddy.  I’ll leave you two lovebirds to chat.  Later man.”  Hoss
waited until Lentz walked within hailing distance before kick starting his hog
to life and roaring past the older man just as he tried to speak.  Erik
suppressed a grin.

“That man
insults
me,” Lentz said quietly, watching the biker disappear into the Freehold,
hooting at a guard on top of the main gate.  The guard waved back and signaled
those behind the gate to keep it open for Lentz and Erik.

Erik handed
the manifest over to Lentz.  “Hoss found a supply truck today.  Here’s what was
in it.  Only thing left,” Erik said as Lentz perused the crinkled paper.  “Was
some flour and spices and baking supplies.  I think we should send out a party
to bring it in, ASAP.”

“Hmmmm…yes…I’ll
bring this up before the committee.”

Erik put
his hands on his hips and looked down at the hot baked dirt under his feet for
a second, getting control of his temper.  It was all too short with Lentz
lately.  He finally looked up.  Lentz was watching him, eyebrows raised, like a
teacher watches a suspected troublesome student.  “You’re taking it to the
committee?” Erik asked.

“Yes. 
That’s what I said.”

“But that’s
going to take a while…someone may come along and take the flour—“

“Then it
wasn’t meant for us, was it?”

“What? 
What’s that supposed to mean?  Are you going religious on me now?”

“I meant to
speak to you about the fishing plan you set up.  It’s not working.”

Erik’s mind
raced to catch up, he was still thinking about the committee.  “The fishing
team?  Hoss just said they caught a boatload today!  They need help bringing it
home, as a matter of fact.” 
Ha, take that you crotchety old bastard!

Lentz
paused and stroked his smooth chin, almost to point out Erik’s mangy looking
beard which he had been growing since the troubles started weeks ago.  Lentz’s
expression seemed to say, ‘Look here what I see, hark, ‘tis a barbarian at the
gate.’  Instead, he muttered, “Hmm…yes.  Indeed.”

“Indeed
what?
”

“Where is
this help supposed to come from?  You have us stretched too thin.  What with
the guards already in training and your silly play time with those
swords
—“

Erik felt
his hand instinctively grip the pommel of his
katana
, hanging at his
side in its scabbard.  “Say
what?
”

“I believe
you heard me, Mr. Larsson.”

“Hey, don’t
take that tone of voice with me, Lentz.  If it weren’t for my men with those
silly
swords
, this place would be a smoldering ruin and we’d all be dead by now,
or have you forgotten the Battle?”

Lentz
sniffed and looked down his nose at Erik.  “No, I dare say none of us has
forgotten the so-called Battle.  But I tell you again, it is the opinion of the
committee that
you
have stretched us too thin.  I only meant to come out
here to catch you alone,” he said, raising a hand to forestall Erik’s
outburst.  “So that I could inform you in private that we are considering
removing you from your post as head of Security.”

Erik’s jaw
dropped.  “I…
what?
”

“I did not
come here to argue with you, Mr. Larsson, only to inform you of what the
committee
is doing.  After all, until they decide otherwise—“

“You mean
until
you
decide otherwise,”

Lentz
looked at Erik with an expression that said, ‘That’ll be enough of that, young
man.’  Aloud, he said, “Until
they
decide otherwise,
you
are
still one of the administrators of this community and as such are entitled to
know the workings of said administration.”

Erik
brushed past Lentz in frustration.  “I don’t have time for this.  Captain
Williams and his National Guard patrol will be by soon and I’ve got to—“

“Yes, I
know,” Lentz called out, causing Erik to turn around.  “There is a group of
five or six that plan to join the good Captain and move in to the Safe Zone.”

Erik shook
his head in desperation.  “They’re gonna regret that…”

“They’re
only leaving because they can’t stand
you
any longer.”  The ex-school
administrator said sweetly as he shuffled past Erik into the Freehold.  Erik
stood in the road and fought back the urge to scream.

Instead, he
resolved to get himself, Brin, Ted and his family and any who wanted to follow
out of the Freehold and into the country before something happened.  There were
plenty of ‘somethings’ to worry about nowadays.  The strange group of survivors
they had nicknamed the Hand People, the U.N. invasion, the still-roving bands
of criminals, disease, lack of food and water.  The list kept growing until
Erik cut if off and stormed into the Freehold.

THIRTY MILES OUT in
front of the
Roosevelt
battlegroup
,
the
U.S.S.
Hampton
,
one of the two surviving fast attack nuclear submarines attached to the Big
Stick raced ahead towards Gibraltar, the open Atlantic and home.  They were
running fast and silent, just south of the Balearic Islands on the western edge
of the Med. 

During the
attack on the
Roosevelt
, the underwater shockwave created by the
thermonuclear explosion and the subsequent electromagnetic pulse crippled the
two other ‘Silent Sticks’, sending one to Davy Jones’ locker and the other to
the surface to be towed by a support vessel. 

None of the
submarines assigned to defend the
Roosevelt
escaped without damage.  In
the case of the
Hampton
, it was only superficial and easily repaired. 
As a result, she held the honor being the tip of the sword for the
battlegroup.  Her sister ship, the
U.S.S. Scranton
, was less than a mile
to starboard.

“Conn,
Sonar, contact bearing zero-one-nine.  Range, two miles,” called the cracking
voice of the
Hampton
’s sonar officer of the watch upon hearing the new
contact light up his display screen and his headphones.

Commander
Rick Umbris made his way to the sonarman’s ‘office’.  “Whatcha got, Townsend?”

The young
man fresh out of high school looked up nervously from his screen.  He was first
in his class and was considered one of the rising stars in the Atlantic Fleet.  Umbris
was proud to have him on his fast attack boat.

Townsend
scrunched up his face, concentrating, and pressed his headphones tight.  “Twin
screws...big fat surface vessel, sir.  She’s moving slow.”  His eyes popped
open.  “Active sonar…very faint, but they’re scanning.  Sorry sir, it’s at the
limit of our gear, set passive.”  His training officer listened for a second
then nodded towards the CO, affirming his student’s assessment.

The boat’s
skipper clapped him on the back, confirming everything the young man said by
looking at the computer screen before him.  “Good work.  Decrease speed to ten
knots,” Umbris called over his shoulder, eyes still on the screen.  “Let’s take
this nice and slow.”

“Ten knots,
aye,” replied the big XO from the command center.   Lieutenant Commander
Lawrence Whittaker was a large black man with the body of a football player and
the mind of an engineer.   “Make your speed ten knots, “ he barked. 

The massive
cylinder of steel, gliding through the ocean water as quiet as a whisper,
slowed imperceptibly.  She was rigged for silent running and as one of the
newest
Los Angeles
class subs, the
Hampton
was one of the hardest
to detect.  Even when running war-games with her own fleet, she routinely
slipped past sonar nets.

“Speed is ten
knots, Cap’n,” said Lt. Commander Whittaker.

“Very
well,” replied the commander as he returned to the nerve center of the nuclear
submarine.  “I have the Conn,”

“Cap’n has
the Conn,” called out the XO.

“What’s the
ID?” asked Commander Umbris.

“Conn, Sonar,
she’s being run up by the computer as a Spanish warship.  Frigate, F100 class;
she’s a big ol’ twin gas turbine.  I think they use a Raytheon built sonar
system…” replied the young sonar operator, consulting the computer screen. 
“She sounds rigged for anti-submarine warfare, sir.”

“Very
well.  What’s her mood?”

“Sounds
like a bull in a china shop, sir,” the young enlisted man shook his head
confidently.  “Got no idea we’re here.”

“Well,
then, keep us clear of her and warn the fleet.“

“Aye, sir,”
replied the XO.  He turned to the communications center to advise the
Roosevelt
via their UHF towed array, a long cable stretching hundreds of feet out behind
the quietly advancing submarine.

“Conn,
Sonar!  Multiple contacts,
Jesus
, sir!”

Commander
Umbris raced from the Conn back to the young sonar operator.  “What is it?”

Looks like
a
fleet
, sir!  Look, there’s two more, they’re just coming into
range…man, it’s up to six already.”

“They’re
spread out for anti-sub alright,” said the
Hampton’s
chief sonarman. 
“My guess is they’re not going to be fooling around.  My count is seven.”  He
took the headset from his pupil and was back in command of the sonar
operations. 

“Eight,”
countered the skipper, pointing at the computer screen. 

“Yup. 
That’s a destroyer, there.  But it ain’t Spanish.  My guess is it’s a
Frenchman. 
Suffren
class by the signature,” said the Chief with a
frown.  “Fast sumbitch too.”           

“Looks like
we stumbled onto the welcoming party, Cap’n,” boomed the XO’s deep voice. 
Commander Umbris could imagine the smile.

The CO put
his hands on his hips, knowing full well that all eyes in the Conning Tower
were on him.  He took a moment to think.  Anything he said would have dramatic
affect on the already tense crew.

“I haven’t
heard anything about the Spanish being against us, but I know damn well the
French
are,” the skipper said.  He remembered the President’s speech.  They had picked
it up when the
Hampton
went to periscope depth to check in with the
fleet.  He had confirmed his orders with the Admiral and could hear the fateful
words echo in his mind:  “
We’re trying to get home…if you can, avoid the
enemy.  If you can’t, cut a path right through ‘em.  We’re not going to let
anything or anyone stop us from reaching the Coast
.”

“Any chance
we could make it through that sonar net, son?” asked the CO.

Young
Townsend looked up, eyes wide.  “Sir, they’re all pinging on active.  Even if
we got lucky, it’s almost impossible to penetrate a screen like that.“

“They think
there’s something out here, sir.  They’re thinking they’re ready for us,” added
the Chief.

“Where they
goin’?”

“Sir, their
course and speed are constant heading due east.”

“They’re
looking for us aren’t they?” asked the XO over his commander’s shoulder.

“Yep.  Only
we found ‘em first.”  The attack sub’s commander made up his mind fast.  He
calculated odds.  “There’s
nine
of them now…”

“Hardly
seems fair, don’t it?” asked the XO.  The young sonarman looked up, scared.

“Yeah.  We
should see if they got ten before we move in,” grinned Commander Umbris.  He
moved back to the Conn.   “
Battlestations!
”

“Battlestations,
battlestations, this is
not
a drill!  All hands to battlestations!”
barked out the XO over the boat’s intercom.  Instantly men began running to
posts, waking comrades and preparing for a fight.  The ship went from a calm
sleepy ‘night’ to an angry hornet’s nest bathed in eerie red lights in
seconds.  Within a minute, the ship was calm again, coiled and ready to strike.

Lt.
Commander Whittaker looked at his stopwatch when the ship was reported battle
ready and frowned.  He expected better.  Their next drill would be a doozy.

 “Weps, get
me firing solutions on that French garbage scow,” ordered the Commander over
the microphone that hung near the periscope station, satisfied that the boat
was ready for war.

The boat’s
Weapons Officer complied quickly.  “
Lock ‘n’ load, Skipper!
” came the
voice over the command center’s speaker.

“Load and
flood tubes one and three, I want the Tomahawks on standby,”

“
Flooding
tubes one and three, aye, aye, Captain,
” replied Weps.  Seconds later:  “
Tubes
one and three flooded, sir.  Tomahawk missiles prepped and standing by.
”

“Sonar,
Conn,” called out the Commander.

“
Conn,
Sonar, aye
,” replied Townsend’s adolescent voice over the intercom.

“Any sub contacts?”

“
Negative
sir, all surface vessels
.”

“Very
well.  Weps, Conn, lock in firing solutions and prepare to fire.”    

“
Firing
solutions locked, sir
…”

The
Commander rubbed his chin and thought for a second on his intended course of
action.  For a split second, he hesitated.  After all, his boat had not been
attacked yet by the French
or
the Spaniards.  Was he starting a war? 
Then the other part of him flooded his mind with the memory of the nuclear
missile nearly hitting the
Roosevelt
and the subsequent Egyptian air
strikes.  He remembered the sense of helpless he felt as they listened to the
battle, unable to do anything from under the waves.  He remembered the
President’s speech.  He remembered the Marines that were slaughtered off the
coast by some cowardly Russian sub.

“Range to
target?” he asked gruffly.

“
1,700
yards.”

Commander
Umbris nodded.  “If the world wants a war, by God we’ll give it to ‘em…” he
paused, then said a single sentence, pointing his finger forward, towards the
enemy.

“Fire tubes
one and three!” 

CAPTAIN, THE HAMPTON
has engaged the enemy.  French destroyer,
Suffren
class.  They’ve found
a small surface fleet about twenty miles west of our position!” said the
Roosevelt’s
XO, storming into the Captain’s cabin holding an onion paper facsimile hot off
the printer from the Command and Control Center.

“Get CAP in
the air, take us to battle stations.  This is it!”

“Aye, aye,
sir!”

MON DIEU!  TORPEDO in
the water!” shrieked the French sonar operator on board the destroyer targeted
by the as yet unseen
Hampton
.

“Where did
it come from?” asked the captain in a voice more calm than he felt.

“No contact—it
just appeared—-wait, now there’s two torpedoes…active pinging.”  The young
Frenchman’s long thin face took on a sweaty sheen quickly.  “They’ve acquired
us, sir!” he said, voice cracking.

“Countermeasures! 
Now!
” ordered the surprised French commander.  “Flank speed, hard to
starboard.”  As the doomed ship obeyed his commands, the Frenchman began to
pray, something he hadn’t done in years.

“Torpedoes
inbound, they have acquired us…time to impact, 42 seconds!” called out the
sonar operator.  Panic flashed across the face of more than one man on the
bridge.

“Battle
stations!  Inform the Admiral.”  Klaxons scorched the air as the French ship
suddenly came alive with activity.

When the
bridge lights faded to be replaced by red background lights, the captain called
out, “God
damn
it, where did they come from!?”

“Time to
torpedo impact, 21 seconds!” called out the sonarman.  His voice was getting
higher pitched.           

“There,”
pointed the XO through this binoculars.  “Port bow!”  More than one set of eyes
suddenly peered out the forward windows.  The twin streaks of phosphorescent
white-green gave away the location of the needles of death that raced towards
their appointment with the French ship.

“
Another
torpedo…” the sonarman moaned.

“Where?”
asked the stunned commander. 
Was not two enough?
  “Where is the
target?”

“No
target!  They all just appeared out of nowhere.   Heading towards the
Anjou!
”

“Let
them
worry about it then,” replied the commander, gripping his captain’s chair with
white knuckles.

“The first
two torpedoes went right through the countermeasures.  Time to torpedo impact,
12 seconds…nine, eight, seven,
six
,” the atmosphere on the bridge was so
tense, the captain swore he could taste it.

“
Two
…”

“
One
…”
the young sonarman removed his headphones and closed his eyes in silent prayer.

GOT ‘IM!  CHEERED
Townsend, hand to his headset.  “
Target struck by both torpedoes!  I’m
getting…she’s breaking up, sir, secondary explosions…
”

The room
erupted with cheers and waving fists.  The first blow had been struck.         

Commander
Umbris didn’t share in his crew’s jubilation yet, however.  “Take us up to
launch depth and pop up the hatches,” he ordered, bringing the cramped room to
silence.  “All ahead flank speed—I want us through the thermal layer as fast as
possible.”

“Aye sir,
launch depth at flank speed,” replied the XO.  The
Hampton
eased up on
its glide planes as the single propeller began to churn the ocean and push the
massive sub from its hiding spot beneath the thermal layer of the ocean.  As it
passed through the area where the cold deep water met the warmer surface water,
the
Hampton
would be briefly visible on sonar screens throughout the
enemy fleet.  It was a risk Commander Umbris was willing to take.  He knew that
once clear of the turbulent waters, his submarine’s superior engineering would
bring it back under the cloak of stealth.