Jon did not see any of that. All he saw-all he felt-all he cared for at that moment was the loss of the woman he loved. So quick and so permanent; no last words and no chance for contemplation. In an instant the assassins had taken his Lori from him.
His hands clamped onto his forehead, his mouth hung open, his eyes closed, and his body rocked back and forth.
11. Crash Dive
Trevor sat across from Captain Farway. The two men shared a cup of early morning coffee-or something similar to coffee-inside the Captain’s quarters. Those quarters allowed more space than the cramped rooms with multiple bunks provided for the crew, but all things were relative.
Trevor had politely refused Farway when the Captain had offered those quarters for the trip. Instead, Trevor shared a berth with his son in a tiny cabin a short way down the corridor.
Farway noted the glazed look in the Emperor’s eye and the drops of sweat on his brow.
“Fifth day out and you’re still not used to it?”
“Never, um, never knew I was, well, sorta claustrophobic.”
Farway chuckled and ran a hand over his thinning scalp, saying, “Imagine what it was like in the old days. This boat is a hotel compared to the W-W two subs.”
Indeed, the submarine moved under the water easily and with only the most subtle of motions. The journey across the Atlantic had, so far, been an easy one. If all went well they would make landfall in France later that night.
Trevor ran a hand over his forehead again. He did not feel queasy. Not quite. The Dramamine helped in that regard. He felt-caged. Yes. Trapped. Ever since they had closed that top hatch behind him, JB, and Hauser, Trevor felt trapped; no room to maneuver.
Jorgie handled it much better. He spent most of the trip taking tours of the boat. The sailors onboard viewed him as a kind of mascot, but with an added sense of wonder. After all, no secrets remained onboard a sub. The entire crew understood that Trevor and his nine-year-old boy planned not only to cross the Atlantic, but to march all the way across Europe.
The effect appeared multiplied on the Newport News’ sailors because most of them were well-seasoned, tracing their careers not only over the eleven years since Armageddon, but many years before the end-of-the- world.
On the first day of the trip, Trevor noticed something odd about the crew in that their physical appearances matched so much that it could have been a boat manned by siblings. He found a tactful way of asking the Captain about that and the answer was surprisingly simple. The men on the Newport News had now spent over a decade together, eating exactly the same food, breathing the same filtered air, and living in the same dim light. Their environment chipped away at their differences, like a generation of family living in the same house.
Trevor raised the cup of warm drink to his lips and considered the situation. They might make it to Europe before tonight. That pleased him. It also pleased him that JB still slept in their quarters. His boy needed the rest although the difference between morning, noon, and night held little meaning inside the undersea coffin.
Farway sensed Trevor’s mind planning and assured, “We’ll have you at the rendezvous point in time for dinner.”
“Dinner? Right now it should be breakfast, but I don’t feel like that,” Trevor closed his eyes, pinched his nose, and tried to come to terms with his biological clock. “Right now it feels like the middle of the night. Between being locked up down here and the different time zone I think I’m all screwed up. I shouldn’t even be out of my berth yet, but I couldn’t sleep any more. Is there such thing as sub lag?”
He un-pinched his nose, opened his eyes, and flashed a quick smile. Captain Farway, however, did not smile. He glanced over Trevor’s shoulder with an expression of concern.
Trevor swiveled in his chair. Jorgie stood at the open hatch dressed in his pajamas, holding his wrapped stuffed bunny, and staring at the men through wide, red eyes.
“JB? Buddy? What is it?”
“It’s coming, Father,” the boy’s body quivered. His sense of fear radiated through the room. That feeling of being trapped shivered along Trevor’s spine. “It’s coming for us.”
“What? Huh? JB, what are you talking about?”
The squawk box burst, “Captain Farway to the con.”
Trevor stared at his son. JB stood motionless just outside the open portal. Captain Farway pushed the ‘answer’ button.
“Farway here, go ahead.”
“Sonar contact to aft, sir. Closing fast.”
“Can you identify the contact?”
“Negative, sir.”
Farway ordered, “Call GQ, I’m on my way,” and he stood. So did Trevor.
For a split second JB blocked their exit.
“It’s here, Father. And we’ve nowhere to run.”
For the first time in five days’ worth of uneventful travel underneath the Atlantic Ocean, the bridge of the Newport News came alive. The helmsmen scanned their computer monitors keenly and gripped their steering controls with sweaty palms; the Chief of the Boat paced anxiously between sonar and fire control stations; the Executive Officer shoved a stick of ancient chewing gum in his mouth and worked his jaw as if biting on nails; and the rest stood in a pensive silence waiting for what would come next.
To Trevor’s eye the bridge appeared a strange combination of his expectations. On one hand valves, piping, cramped corners, and the periscope fit with his memories of World War II submarine epics such as Run Silent, Run Deep: a movie he and his father watched several times in the old world.
On the other hand, modern monitors, a vast array of blinking buttons and flashing lights, and the hum of electronics seemed more akin to Star Trek.
In any case, Trevor and his son stood near the Control amp; Attack Center and watched patiently, Jorgie having quickly changed from pajamas to shorts and a t-shirt but still held his wrapped bunny.
Captain Farway hovered at the center of the high tech bridge and tried to understand the situation.
“Chief, break it down for me.”
The Chief of the Boat-a broad shouldered fellow with the jaw of a Marine-answered while looming over the sonar operator’s shoulder, “Contact at two hundred yards and closing fast. Looks to be at fifty knots. Damn, that’s fast.”
“Target info?”
“A little bigger than a torpedo, sir, which is what its sonar profile resembles. Also hearing something secondary-engines of some type-maybe a type of jet propulsion like a Barracuda’s mag-drive.”
The Executive Officer-a thin man who could have appeared at home working in a bank or at an accounting firm-added, “We’re at thirty-five knots and it’s gaining. Helm, prepare for evasive maneuvers.”
“Aye.”
Farway: “Chief. Get on the horn with the engine room and make sure we’ve got everything she can give.”
“Aye, sir. Already did. We’re exceeding the safeties.”
The Executive officer mumbled, “And it’s still closing. One hundred and fifty yards.”
The Captain ordered, “Helm, wiggle our tail. Planesman, drop us another fifty feet hard then trim her out. Launch counter-measures.”
“Helm, aye sir.”
“Aye. Depth down fifty, thirty degree dive.”
Weapons officer: “Drones away.”
XO: “Grab hold.”
The nose of the sub seemed to fall nearly straight down by Trevor’s estimate while at the same time sliding
