Endangered Species Ch. 01-08

By late afternoon, the Captain wanted to take a closer look. We'd been running at periscope depth for hours; the ESM mast detected no transmissions, and the radio mast still got nothing. It had been three days since their last radio message. Since then, they'd seen no evidence anyone was alive.

It was now late afternoon, and I was on the 1800-2200 watch in Main Control. Since the discussion last night, we'd moved within a hundred miles of the entrance to the Straits of Juan de Fuca, the border water leading to Seattle and the USS Maine's homeport of Bangor. Sunset was still ninety minutes away when Sonar reported another contact dead in the water. "Periscope depth," the Captain ordered.

I was getting good at this by now. I put the ship at 85 feet on the nose. Once again, we detected no transmissions and received no radio messages as the Captain observed the fishing vessel drifting to our starboard. "Prepare to surface," he ordered. "Get the rescue diver up here."

Ten minutes later, I was up in the sail with the Captain, a lookout, and Midshipman Newman. Mike had to qualify on the enlisted watch station, and a boomer didn't get many opportunities to be a lookout. Petty Officer Turner, the ship's rescue diver, climbed up in his wet suit, carrying his fins, mask, and snorkel. I noticed the Ops Officer had attached a GoPro camera to his mask. "Swimmer ready, Captain," he reported.

"I need to know what is going on over there," the Captain told him. "I can't send a boat over, so you're it. We'll get you as close as possible without risking getting tangled in their nets. You'll have to climb up the nets to the main deck."

"We're close enough now," he said. "That's a five-minute swim for me." Rescue swimmers were in shape and confident; they had to be. More than half of the students entering the school washed out.

"Don't take any chances," the Captain said. "Check the main deck and the pilothouse. Gather any information you can. I don't want you going below decks unless you find survivors."

"No radio, sir?"

"If the bad guys are looking for us, I don't want to tip them off," he replied.

"Understood, sir." He went down the rung outside of the sail to the main deck.

The submarine was at all-stop, rocking slowly in the four-foot seas. I watched our swimmer as he got into the water and started swimming to the fishing boat. "Up ladder," someone said. It was one of our Engineering Laboratory Assistants, a nuclear-qualified mechanic specializing in chemistry and radiation protection. He set a survey instrument and a portable air sampler by our feet before coming up. "The Engineer wants a radiation survey, Captain."

"Carry on." He started the air pump on the sampler, leaving it at our feet. He then picked up the handheld radiation detector and turned it on.

It alarmed seconds later. He acknowledged the alarm and adjusted the range to get it on-scale again. "Captain, it's reading forty-six millirem per hour at chest level. It drops to five millirem per hour in the shade. Only two millirem is beta, sir." I knew enough about submarines to know that was a high dose rate. In an hour up here, we'd absorb more radiation than the average crewman would get on the entire deployment. Since only a small portion was beta (high-energy electrons), the rest was gamma radiation. How much radiation? A chest x-ray was only two millirem.

"Shine?"

"It has to be solar, sir. If the radiation were airborne, it wouldn't change that much." His airborne sampler beeped, and he turned it off. "We should have the results in twenty minutes." He headed back inside.

"Lookouts, get below," he ordered. The two sailors headed down the ladder, leaving us alone. "No point in getting a dose when there's nothing to see."

"Yes, sir." The rescue swimmer had just climbed onto the boat. "Why am I still here?"

"I need you to watch Turner, and you might have to go on deck to help him when he returns," he said. "Do you still think a solar storm did this?"

"I can't think of another cause of what we're seeing, sir." My eyes were watering; I removed my sunglasses and wiped them. "Is the radiation affecting my eyes?"

"Not at that dose rate. It's more likely the ultraviolet coming from the sun. If we get this much solar radiation just before sunset, the ozone layer isn't protecting us. Try not to look into the sun, and keep your sunglasses on."

I pushed my Ray-Bans back into place. Petty Officer Turner came out of the pilothouse and signaled with a throat-cut motion that the crew was dead. He made his way to the side and dropped back into the water. "I guess we know," the Captain said. "We have high dose rates three days after the event, so imagine what it was like that first day?"

"I'd rather not, sir. I'd rather sleep in the locker room laundry bag than smell this stench."

Petty Officer Turner made his way back and reached the sail without me having to get him. "They're all dead, Captain. It looks like they've been dead for days." He handed the Captain his camera.

"Go below and get a shower, Turner. Good job." He went down first, followed by me, then the Captain. A few minutes later, we were back at periscope depth.

For once, I was glad I was still on watch. The Captain called his senior officers to the Wardroom to watch the video. The crew's mess would get the story straight from Turner soon enough.

After I was relieved, I walked into the wardroom. The table was half-full of officers discussing what we could do next. The communications blackout was our biggest worry. We were a survivable nuclear asset, and the solar storm had caught the United States with its pants down. If an electromagnetic pulse hit the western hemisphere, would Russia or China be affected? If not, would they take advantage of the situation?

"We should close the coast until we can contact the Trident base on VHF," the Operations Officer suggested. "Now that the sample results rule out a nuclear attack, it's the fastest way to establish contact."

"We'd have to go halfway through the Straits to get within range, and who knows if they are even capable of hearing us? We've detected NO VHF radio traffic, radars, satellites, or commercial broadcasts. The whole spectrum has gone dark. Everything's been knocked out."

"If we start transmitting, we paint a target on our back," Commander Potter replied. "It would be like being the only flashlight in the room. We are still on patrol; we can't risk it."

"Then how do we get a message to the Navy that we are still here and waiting for orders?"

I had an idea, but I didn't want to say it. I waited as the others proposed and shot down various ideas. When the Captain called on me, I was shocked enough to blurt it out. "A Message to Garcia," I said.

"What?"

The XO looked at me, understanding on her face. Not everyone onboard was from the Naval Academy, so she asked me to explain. "'A Message to Garcia' is taught at the Academy as a lesson about individual initiative when carrying out orders. Usually, we use it to shut down continuous requests for directions on what to do and focus on doing the job. The essay was written in 1899 about the exploits of Lieutenant Andrew S. Rowan. President McKinley gave him a letter before the Spanish-American War to deliver to General Garcia, the Cuban insurgent leader. Nobody knew where he was, but the young man took the President's letter and sealed it in an oilskin pouch. Four days later, he hopped out of a boat and disappeared into the jungle. He reappeared three weeks later on the other side of the island, after finding the General and delivering the message."

"What does that have to do with us," the Engineer asked.

"You need to establish contact with your chain of command but can't risk detection. Write the message, Captain. I'll deliver it for you."

The reaction to that idea was sudden and negative. The Captain shut it down after a few seconds. "You've all thrown out your ideas, and now I want to hear hers," he said. "How would you do this?"

"I'd bring Midshipman Newman with me. He grew up on Bainbridge Island, so he knows the area. We go in at night when the tide is starting to rise. You get us as far into the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound as is safe. Newman and I get in a life raft and paddle for shore. We go to the base, find the Admiral, and deliver your message."

"It's dangerous out there, Midshipman Summers," the Ops Officer said. "Those fishermen died in a day, and it wasn't a pleasant death."

"We know what the danger is, sir. We can hide underground or out of the sun during the day and move at night. It's been three days since the initial event. Given what we've seen, the loss of life in the area will be catastrophic. We're young and healthy, and we aren't integral to the functioning of the Maine."

"You're in the ship's company," the XO objected.

"We both know we're here for training and a chance to get our dolphins," I said. "Right now, that isn't important. Establishing contact with the National Command Authority is."

The discussion went on for fifteen more minutes. "Summers, go find Newman and see if he will volunteer. Nav, set course for the Strait, and get out the tide charts. Ops, to my stateroom. We need to figure out what we're going to say."

The XO looked at her boss. "You're going ahead with this, Captain?"

"Does anyone have a better idea?"

Nope.

"Go. Midshipman Summers, thank you for volunteering. Come see me when you've talked to Newman."

The next night, Mike and I carried a life raft down to the deck of the Maine with our gear bags. We were three miles west of Port Townsend, and the current heading into the Sound was getting stronger. We inflated the raft, put our gear inside, and waved to the Captain on the sail. "GOOD LUCK," he said.

The message was in a Ziplock bag, pinned to my bra above my heart. The submarine submerged below us; it would return to sea and wait for a reply.

The only light came from the rising moon and the Northern Lights display.

We extended the collapsible paddles and made our way to the shore.

Ch. 4

"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream," Mike started to sing.

"Be quiet," I ordered in a low voice. "Voices carry for a long distance over water, and we don't know who is out there."

"Afraid I'll wake the dead? That one doesn't mind."

He wasn't kidding about that. The smell of death was everywhere. I'd tried the trick from TV cop shows, putting Vick's Vapo Rub I got from the Corpsman under my nose. The smell of the ointment helped ease the overpowering stench only a little. I was breathing through my mouth as I paddled on the right side of the small raft. I spotted a bloated body floating past Mike's side. It was the fourth we'd seen in the ten minutes since the submarine left us near the entrance to Puget Sound. Like the others, the skin was burned deep red to black.

"Keep an eye out for a boat that might still work," I told him.

"Like what?"

"A yacht or sailboat might have a dinghy with a small engine that isn't fuel-injected and computer-controlled. Hell, I'd take a rowboat over this thing."

The raft was designed to float, not to paddle. With almost no draft and wide-spaced paddles, it spun in place if only one side paddled. We had to work together to keep it moving forward. It wasn't easy to figure out where we were going, either. The moon was still low, and the well-lit shoreline of a week ago was gone. There were a few points of fire visible in the distance, plus one fire to the southeast.

It was a big fire, and it was in the general direction of Port Townsend. Was the town burning? Probably. It wasn't the only fire we'd seen on the cruise to our drop point. Lacking power and light, any survivors would have built fires to cook on and banish the darkness. Those fires could get out of control, and nothing was left to fight them.

I suspected the orange glow on the horizon was the city of Seattle.

I glanced down at the compass I wore on my wrist. My phone was useless for anything but playing music and a flashlight; there were no cell towers, no 5G data links, and no working charging stations. When it died, I'd probably toss it to save weight. The fire was moving more to our south, meaning the tide was doing a better job of moving us than the paddles were. "We need to get to shore before we pass the fire," I reminded him.

I had a nautical chart folded up in another ziplock bag, tucked into a pocket of my overalls. We'd studied our route on the way, planning to land west of Port Townsend and head overland south to the submarine base. I'd asked the Navigator about boating there instead. "The tide can be so strong heading to Seattle and the Lower Sound that it will sweep you right past your landing spots. You can't wait for the outgoing tide without risking getting caught in the sun or swept out to sea. Better to land west of town, find a place to hide for the night, then make your way down the roads. You're looking at about forty miles of road, give or take, so you should be able to get there in two nights."

"That's going to suck."

"Well, if you can find something with a working motor, you could get there on the water. It's not going to be easy at night without lights, but if you keep the land on your right, you'll get close."

"Yeah," I'd thought. "I could use a sailboat, but that wouldn't be fun at night." We were more likely to crash into something than make it safely. I snapped myself out of the memory and went back to paddling.

"Is there anything better out here," Mike asked?

"I don't know. Anything drifting around would eventually wash out to sea or ground itself."

We kept paddling towards the south as the tide carried us east. Hours passed, and the fire got closer. Finally, I could now hear waves crashing on the shore. "We're getting close to shore."

"Just in time. My back is aching," Mike replied.

I smirked, unwilling to let him know how much my back was protesting. He was bigger than me, but I was a better athlete. "Suck it up and go with it, Newman. It's time for the final sprint." I started paddling harder, forcing him to speed up to match me. I could see the tops of the waves in the moonlight as they broke over the rocks and mud. "Stroke, Stroke, Stroke," I whispered. My arms burned, and my back ached as I paddled hard for shore. Two minutes later, I felt the raft scraping bottom.

Mike jumped out, immediately sinking into the muck. "Dammit," he said.

"Don't lose your boondockers in the mud," I warned him. "It will suck those boots right off."

"Get out and help me then," he said.

I swung my leg over the side, sinking about four inches into the muck. We pulled the raft out of the water, beaching it above the high water mark. Grabbing our gear bags, I guided us up through the rocks and scrub until we reached the top of the beach. There was a four-foot-high ledge we could rest our backs against while we recovered, so we did. Sitting on the broken rocks, the two of us caught our breaths as the Northern Lights danced in the sky above us. "Any idea where we are?"

"Not exactly. We need to find some roads." I hit the button on my watch, illuminating the time. "It's three-twenty. Sunrise is in just under two hours. We had to determine our position and find a place to hole up for the day.

Five minutes later, we scrambled over the rise and further up the shore to find a much higher cliff above us. The sheer rock face went about fifteen feet above our heads, with some broken portions spilling down towards the beach. We made our way along the base to the east, using low-powered red-lensed LED flashlights to illuminate the path. The red lens filters kept us from losing our night vision. "I hate to waste battery power on this," I said.

"We brought lots of extras, and we can't sprain an ankle right now," Mike replied. He was right, dammit. The going was slow and careful on the broken rocks. Ten minutes later, we made our way to the flat land and trees on top. The moon was higher in the sky, illuminating the fields and the homes along the water. "Think anyone is home?"

"We should check," I said. Waterfront was expensive, so the lots were narrow and set well back from the road. I didn't see any lights or fires as we walked to the back of the closest one. I left my bag on the table by the hot tub, then walked to the patio door. I knocked loudly. "Anyone home?"

"You think anyone would answer," Mike said as he joined me.

I tried the handle for the French door. Locked. "Probably not. Look for a way inside. I'll join you in the front."

I worked along the back, checking the doors to the living room and kitchen from the large deck overlooking the water. I checked the kitchen with a flashlight through the window; the expansive kitchen had cherry cabinets, granite counters, stainless steel appliances, and two dead bodies face-down on the tile floor. "Shit."

I was checking the windows when I saw a flash of light inside. I froze, then relaxed when I saw it was Newman. He came to the kitchen door and unlocked it. "We need to open some damn windows if we're going to stay here," he said.

"No shit. Let's get the bodies outside first." A quick check of the house showed no one but the middle-aged couple was left. I grabbed a blanket off the living room couch, and we rolled the woman up in it. We took her outside and carried her to the small garden before doing the same for her husband. "We should bury them," I said.

"Where? This raised bed is only eighteen inches deep. Below that is solid rock," Michael replied. "Millions are dead, Summers. We can't bury them all."

"I know that." I said a quick prayer over them before turning towards the house again. "Search the house for anything that might be helpful for us. We can either stay here or find a better place to wait out the day quickly."

We spent ten minutes walking through the home. There was plenty of food and drink in the kitchen and walk-in pantry, though I didn't even try to open the refrigerator or freezer. I found a closet full of sporting goods; the couple must have been avid outdoors types. I grabbed a pair of Camelback backpacks, two heavily-tinted pairs of ski goggles, and two sleeping bags. The backpacks were much better for our travels than the waterproof bags we'd brought from the submarine. I carried the stuff back to the kitchen counters just as Mike came in from the garage carrying a flat of Gatorade. "What did you find?"

"I tried starting the cars, and they are dead as hell. There is a two-person sea kayak and a couple of mountain bikes out there," he replied. "We'll make far better time on those, even limiting our speed to the range of our flashlights."

It was a good idea. Bikes were quiet, maneuverable, and could carry us farther with less effort than walking. Even if cars clogged the roadways, we could get around them. Kayaks were a decent option as well; light, maneuverable, and easier to paddle than the damn raft. We'd have to watch for tides and other hazards, though. "Any good places to hide?"

He shook his head, no. "Houses around here are built on solid bedrock. Digging basements is expensive, so they have crawlspaces," he told me. "They will keep us out of direct sunlight, but gamma rays go right through the frames. Staying inside will get us killed. We need to get underground."

I thought about what I'd seen. "Or get a lot of rock between us and the sun," I replied. "The cliffs we came up. They face north. We'll find a notch or an overhang, somewhere we can tuck in for the day. That will shield us from the worst."

"Sounds like a plan." He checked his watch. "It's forty minutes to sunrise."

"I found these backpacks. Let's transfer our gear and pack what we need. What do you think, land or sea?"

He thought for a minute. "Biking would be simpler, but we're more likely to run into trouble on the way. Forty miles in a kayak isn't bad, and we can approach the base from the water."