A New World 10 - Storm

Book X of A New World

A Novel by John O’Brien

Copyright © 2014 John O’Brien

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the author. You may contact the author at [email protected]

Also by John O’Brien

A New World Series

A NEW WORLD: CHAOS

A NEW WORLD: RETURN

A NEW WORLD: SANCTUARY

A NEW WORLD: TAKEN

A NEW WORLD: AWAKENING

A NEW WORLD: DISSENSION

A NEW WORLD: TAKEDOWN

A NEW WORLD: CONSPIRACY

A NEW WORLD: RECKONING

A NEW WORLD: STORM

Companion Books

A NEW WORLD: UNTOLD STORIES

A Shrouded World

A SHROUDED WORLD: WHISTLERS

So here we are on the tenth book of the "trilogy". I can't express to you enough how much I have enjoyed writing these books, or how much the characters have become part of my life. They talk to me, their words echoing in my head. Their encounters make my pulse rush. Their fears become my own. They have life, and within these pages, their story is told.

And to you, the reader, my thanks. Without you, the tale of these survivors would never be known.

I used the designation Alpha in lieu of any real Russian attack sub. The closest is the Alfa attack sub, the last of which was decommissioned in 1990. I chose this alternative to any real sub mostly as a place-card holder, so to speak. I chose to base this off of the Akula class, but didn’t really want to name it specifically. Why? I don’t really have an answer to that other than that’s what I chose. Sorry if this has caused any confusion. I also cheated a little on the exact layout of the hospital in the story. Call it a little literary license.

To me, a book is like a rope. At first, it is clean and straight, living a life as it ever has. Then, at some point, it frays and snaps, loose ends waving around on chaotic winds of change. Different threads are formed. The author negotiates those winds, attempting to bring those frayed ends back under control. Yes, he or she broke the rope in the first place, but now must bring those frays back under control. In the end, those loose threads are tied back together. It's no longer the same rope, but there is a semblance of cohesion. It's smooth once again. Not the same as it was, but no longer chaotic. The beginning of this book is just that, attempting to bring loose threads into order. So bear with it, as the ending is one hell of a ride. I hope you enjoy it!

John O’Brien

“Give a single active ping on my mark. Be ready with the counter measures, a snap shot, and to dive deep. Only fire on my command. Ready, mark.”

Far from shore, the sonar blasts through the salt water. The return echo is quick in coming, highlighting the Alpha sub’s position.

“Sir, Hotel One plotted and a firing solution calculated,” the XO quietly reports.

Leonard nods as crew waits tensely for his orders. The
Santa Fe
stands poised and ready for the slightest provocation. Turning toward the sonarman, the crewmember shakes his head to indicate that he doesn’t hear anything new.

“The
Maine
is dead astern of Hotel One and silent,” the XO whispers. “Sonar picked up the locations of both, but there’s no sign of the
Jefferson City
.”

Drifting deep under the Pacific swells, Leonard contemplates their situation. He isn’t comfortable doing nothing, but the situation he created dictates that very thing, unless provoked. Trying to read the Alpha captain’s mind and his intentions, Leonard stands ready to give the order that will lead to a quick and deadly battle. He made the first move and now it’s just a matter of seeing where the ball lands.

Has the world really changed all that much since the downfall? Perhaps not, considering our current position, two adversaries squaring off deep under the water. Each one trying to gain an advantage, listening closely for the first sound of an impending launch. The old way of thinking is still prevalent and it will be difficult getting out of that mode
, Leonard thinks, seconds ticking by in silence.

Thoughts pour through his mind. The events of the world haven’t altered their way of thinking or doing things. Granted, his moves are defensive, but the
Maine
and
Jefferson City
are more than likely maneuvering into positions to attack the other vessel. No, the world under the ocean hasn’t changed much when two combatants meet, their old grievances behind them or otherwise.

Is the Alpha shadowing out of curiosity, carrying out their prior mission from force of habit, or are they trying to initiate contact with another group of survivors? No matter, the fact remains that the safety of this sub and her crew are paramount
, Leonard thinks, knowing that he has put them in a precarious situation.

The lack of orders causes anxiety among the crew, which shows in their tentative looks toward him. On one hand, it’s good that the Alpha hasn’t reacted with an explosion of noise and launched at them. On the other, it could be doing anything, including lining up for a better shot. The seconds tick by and Leonard feels he has given the other captain enough time to respond peacefully if he’s going to.

“Sir, transient noises bearing 210 degrees, two thousand yards. It’s Hotel One,” the sonarman reports.

Leonard turns to give the order to fire, release the countermeasures, and run, leaving the two vessels behind to take the battle to the Alpha.

“They’re blowing their tanks and surfacing, sir.”

Perhaps they heard the others behind and realized they were outmatched
, Leonard thinks, choking back the order on the tip of his tongue.
Or, the captain may have made a decision to initiate contact, having had the same thoughts as myself
.

“Keep us on alert, but bring us to periscope depth, XO,” Leonard orders.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Leonard feels the sub get underway and the deck tilt as they start slowly for the ocean surface. He keeps an eye on the sonarman, ready for any indication that the contact, Hotel One, is attempting to launch. The other subs behind remain silent as the broad nose of the
Santa Fe
drives toward the swells above. Leonard can almost read the minds of the two captains behind. With the noise of the two subs making their way to the surface, they can guess what is happening, but are keeping themselves in position to deliver a killing blow should things go south. Of course, if that should happen, it will more than likely mean the end of Leonard and his crew. If a fight should occur, they’re pretty much a write-off at this point.

With the rolling swells just meters above his head, Leonard peers through the periscope. Sitting on the surface is the darkened hull of a Russian Alpha Class attack submarine, its low profile barely visible at this distance. He sweeps the area, confirming visually what the radar told him only moments ago – the area on the surface is clear with the exception of the lone, stalking sub a little more than a mile away.

“Surface the boat,” Leonard states, echoed immediately by the XO.

The
Santa Fe
rises above the rolling waves, sending a rush of water flowing from the conning tower. The radar shows Hotel One as stationary, keeping only enough headway to maintain steering. Leonard feels a little better about their situation. If there was going to be any shooting, it would have already started. However, that doesn’t mean they are out of danger, only that the two have decided to expose themselves to a little more risk. He’s sure the Alpha has anti-ship weaponry on board, as does he. The Russian captain, however, made the move to surface first, putting himself at significantly more risk, so Leonard is reasonably sure they aren’t about to launch out of the blue.

Lookouts climb the steel ladder. Opening the hatch, splashes of water trickle down the narrow confines. Leonard scales up after the top watch where he’s greeted by a steady wind that has kicked up, not quite whipping spray from the tops of the swells. The waves aren’t overly tall and he is able to mostly keep the other sub in sight as the
Santa Fe
rides up and over the crests, sinking into the troughs between each one. There are moments when both subs dip into troughs together and the Alpha is lost from sight, but it reappears shortly afterward as the next wave brings it higher.

“Steer toward Hotel One. Bring us abeam,” Leonard orders.

Scanning the ocean in his magnified view, Leonard wonders where the others have positioned themselves. He’s sure one sits directly behind the Russian, most likely the
Jefferson City
, with the
Maine
off to one side so they can bracket the Alpha. They are hidden somewhere nearby under the swells and won’t reveal themselves until they are assured everything is safe. Both boats will be relying on their passive sonar to track his boat and the Russians. Sonarmen in each of the trailing subs will be relaying the change in direction of the
Santa Fe
toward the Alpha. They’ll sit in their attack positions, though the
Maine
isn’t really suited for that role, and watch events unfold. That’s what Leonard would be doing were their positions reversed.

Later, spray blows over the gunwales as the raft skips across the wavelets. Tasting the salt water on his lips, Leonard wipes droplets from his goggles. Franklin and Miller from the SEAL team accompany him across the short distance between the
Santa Fe
and the Alpha. Leonard left Krandle and the others behind. If something should happen, he didn’t want to leave the sub completely without highly trained soldiers. However, even though the XO was against Leonard making the trip personally, he was adamant that he not go alone. Leonard thought the risk low, considering the Russian sub had surfaced, but didn’t argue the point.

Another hard bounce sends a splash of cold water into his face, making Leonard reconsider his choice to go. Drawing the
Santa Fe
abeam the Alpha, the two subs attempted to communicate via light signals, but it quickly became apparent that wasn’t going to work. The differences in language and communication styles were too great. At that point, Leonard briefed the officers and, with no small amount of intense "discussion," he decided to make the trek to the other sub. The raft was lowered and the cold, wet trip began.

Cresting another wave and starting down the backside, the
Zodiac
's motor revs as the propeller comes momentarily clear of the water. The Russian sub disappears from sight each time they zoom down into a trough, its low profile becoming visible again as they rise over another swell. With the steady wind blowing, it’s not long before Leonard feels his nose turn bitter cold, then numb. The other sub grows larger with every crested wave.

The water, growing choppier during their trek across, makes it difficult for the rubber craft to stay close to the Alpha. They draw up to the leeward side to make it easier, but the raft still bounces against the rubber-coated hull. Franklin manages to grab one of the long, hooked poles thrust their way, pulling and then holding the raft tight against the sub. Lying low in the water, the deck is only a couple of feet above Leonard. He thinks that it would have been easier if the Russian captain had only surfaced high enough so that the
Zodiac
could have grounded itself against the deck. However, that would not have allowed any of the ship's crew to be present. They were taking their own precautions.

A ladder is hung over the side and, with the assistance of two sailors, Leonard scrambles to the rolling sub’s deck. Franklin and Miller follow and help hoist the rubber craft up after them, where it is temporarily lashed to the deck. Under the watchful eye of several armed sailors, the two SEAL team members remove the waterproofing from their M-4s and shoulder them.

One sailor, standing in front of the armed men, comes to attention. “Welcome to the
Gepard
,” he says, warily eyeing the three of them.

“You speak English well,” Leonard says.

“A little, yes,” the sailor replies.

“Then, thank you. Permission to come aboard?” Leonard asks.

Looking quizzically, apparently not understanding the request, he introduces himself to which Leonard responds in kind.

“Very well. The captain waits in the mass.”

Leonard looks on, thinking he knows what the man means, but not wanting to correct him. The man, who identified himself as the XO of the sub, sees Leonard’s hesitation. “How do you say…the eating area.”

“Ah yes. The mess. We’d be happy to follow,” Leonard responds.

The XO heads toward a hatch. Turning over his shoulder, he looks to Franklin and Miller as they follow Leonard. He seems ready to ask them to stay, but then shrugs and continues. The armed sailors, carrying sub-machine guns, follow a short distance behind the group.

The tension Leonard felt following the detection of the Alpha and subsequent underwater contact diminishes and is nearly absent as he makes his way into the interior. If something was going to happen between the two combatants, it would have already. Being asked inside is akin to being invited into one’s home.

As they make their way through narrow halls, Leonard notes that the layout is not so dissimilar to the
Santa Fe’s
. It’s smaller, but very similar. The passageways are only wide enough for one abreast, so Leonard follows the XO through several twists and turns, descending a ladder to a deck below. Franklin and Miller follow with a couple of armed sailors behind them. Nothing is said, and several times other sailors press against the wall to let them pass. They come to a room with an open doorway. The XO steps in and turns to the side.

“Is Captain Leonard,” he states as Leonard enters.

“Is Captain Azarov,” the XO says, gesturing toward a man who has risen from one of the tables.

Leonard looks at the Russian captain. His graying, short hair is cut close and he looks at Leonard through pale blue eyes, almost the color of glacial ice. The casual uniform covers a medium build, and is tailored in a manner that shows that he keeps himself in shape. All in all, the two captains are about as similar as their submarines.

Leonard steps farther into the room, shaking hands with Azarov. Franklin and Miller crowd in behind with the other Russian sailors following. Azarov says something in Russian to the XO. With a nod, the XO and armed seamen depart.

Smiling, the captain gestures to the seats crowded around the small mess tables.

“Please, Captain, sit. Your men as well.”

Franklin and Miller look to Leonard who shakes his head and nods toward the bulkhead nearest the door. They slide to the side and stand at parade rest near the wall. This may be a new world they live in, and old ways of thinking may have to change, but they’ve just met this Russian crew and he wants to at least present an air of professionalism.

No, things will only change slowly
, he thinks.
Even for me
.

Azarov accepts Leonard’s decision with a shrug and both men sit. The Russian captain calls out the door and a sailor enters.

“Coffee?” Azarov asks Leonard.

“Please.”

Azarov speaks to the steward in Russian and the sailor pours a cup for the both of them, offering some to the two men standing near the door. Franklin and Miller both decline.

“I thank you for not shooting first. You and the
Maine
trailing behind you,” Azarov states, mentioning the missile boat to show that he knows they are there. “We weren’t sure how to contact so we trailed. Things, they are tough, no?”

“They are, Captain. This isn’t the same world it was once. However, it seems some things may not have changed much,” Leonard says.

“Yet here we are, no?” Azarov returns.

“Yet here we are.”

Leonard keeps the fact that the
Jefferson City
is also out there, and more than likely in an optimum firing position, to himself.