I thought there was multiple chapters or at least part of a few chapters. What is your opinion on what happened to the Greenbrier in the P&S universe?
Protect & Survive Miami: End of Watch
- Thread starter wolverinethad
- Start date
Chapter 63
Sarasota, Florida
March 23, 1984
The yacht from Fort Myers turned into Big Sarasota Pass, the gateway to the bays of the city, with the dirty morning sun in the east only serving to spotlight the massive plume of smoke still, after 29 days, rising from the ruins of Tampa and St. Petersburg. The glare was mitigated by the cloud cover that had been fairly omnipresent in those 29 days, but even still, it took a moment for the Guardsman on watch at the bow to notice what he saw. Shouting for the lieutenant, he handed over the binoculars, and within seconds, the lieutenant let out a low whistle. “I’ll be damned, that’s a Navy sub laying inshore. It must’ve taken a shot from someone, because it’s down about ten degrees at the bow there,” the Lieutenant said. He turned to the leader of the Sarasota group. “That thing there when you left?”
“No, that wasn’t there for sure. I wonder if they brought help too,” replied Randy.
The yacht carefully weaved its way through the haphazard mass of boats and dinghies scattered throughout the bay. It seemed like anyone who had a boat ready to go had booked it south from St. Pete the moment news of the initial blasts in Germany were reported. As they approached the Bayfront Marina, to the north of the massive submarine, the calm was broken by a loudhailer. “Attention! Yacht approaching this marina, identify yourselves!” The lieutenant grabbed the radio and dialed up the guard frequency. “This is Lieutenant Everett, Florida National Guard. I’ve got a squad of Guardsmen, doctors, and some supplies. Who am I speaking to?” The loudhailer replied, “This is Lieutenant Commander O’Reilly, United States Navy and the XO of that sub you see off to your starboard side. I’m damned glad to have you Guardsmen here with help. This place is in bad shape, Lieutenant.”
The yacht steered its way in to a berth right in front of a tiki bar of some sort, looking rather forlorn. A group of submariners in their navy blue fatigues were there to meet them and help tie the yacht safely to the dock. A senior chief petty officer saluted Lt. Everett, and then directed his men to help the soldiers offload their gear. The chief took the FNG officer to meet Lt. Cmdr. O’Reilly, sitting at the bar. Salutes were again exchanged. “Lieutenant, welcome to Sarasota. Where’d you all come from?” “Fort Myers, sir. Some men from here drove down, went through hell to reach us. We’re about the only untouched region in the state south of Tampa, I imagine. The radio reports keep saying it’s Fallout Black all the way across the center of the state, from Tampa all the way to Canaveral. I don’t know how long you’ve been here, but the few reports we’ve gotten…Florida’s taken it right on the chin and in the nuts, too, sir.”
The USN officer chuckled at that. “Yeah, well, see that sub? It’s Hammerhead, SSN-663, and we took out several Soviet subs before and during the Exchange. Used almost all our torps doing it, too. We left port in Kings Bay a week before the shooting started, loaded up with enough food for 120 days at sea. So, after the nukes stopped flying, we stayed out to sea, patrolling the Gulf and staying away from any radiation, hoping when things died down we could find someplace safe and untouched to put in at. Wouldn’t you know it, though, a few days ago, we’re in our usual pattern of not hearing a goddamn thing, and suddenly we do hear something. Sonar runs a trace, and there’s a fucking Soviet Yankee missile boat out there. I couldn’t believe it, the balls in hanging around here! Not to mention, we don’t know if they’ve got nukes left or not. So, the skipper, he tried to do the peaceful thing, you know, enough people are dead, the planet’s a wreck, so he picked up the Gertrude and hailed them as if he didn’t know who they were. Well, the Soviet skipper, he decided to try and book it, and he’s a good skipper, too, because after he ran, we sent our last torps after him, and he dodged two and only got nicked by the third. Now we’ve got a problem. There’s a Sov missile boat out there and he showed hostile intent. The skipper decides to seal the forward spaces, since there’s no more torps to fire, and he guns the sub and rams them midships, just like Nelson at Tralfalgar, and it worked! Bad Soviet welding, caused a seam to burst and they tried to blow air and surface but the water came in faster than they went up and that was that.”
O’Reilly continued, “Well, now we’ve just sunk another sub, we’re heroes and all that shit, but we’re also nosing down and that’s not good, so the captain blows ballast, we head to the surface, and move as quickly as we could back to shore. Sarasota was the closest fallout free place we could find, and we got inshore, halfway beached the girl, but there wasn’t much we could do about that, and there isn’t a working sub shipyard anywhere close by, so we’re now officially Building 663 of Sarasota Naval Station, I guess. At least the reactor’s fine and we’re using it to power the hospital a bit south of here. The casualties…son, you don’t even want to imagine it. There’s a place called Payne Park that’s inshore a bit, and it’s turned into the biggest mass grave since Auschwitz, probably.” The Navy man shuddered.
*****
Miramar, Florida
March 25, 1984
After days spent listening to shortwave broadcasts and defragmented radio traffic, Carr and Phillips sat Manny down to discuss their next move. They said that based on what they’d heard and what they knew a post-nuclear world would look like, the best thing they could do for themselves would be to leave Miramar. If they stayed, they’d be facing refugees eventually, in more numbers than they could deal with, and with more problems than anyone would want. A few men, led by a trusted “sergeant” of Manny’s, would stay behind in the house, keeping it safe and intact should they need to return there. Shortwave two-way radios were assigned, with codes arranged for security.
The men loaded a pickup with two gas drums in the back for emergency refueling, along with supplies, while three other vehicles (an old Charger and two Jeep Wagoneers) filled with men and guns. Headlights were duct-taped to slits so that the light emitted would be minimal. At dusk, the convoy set off, headed north on US-27 before turning west onto the I-75/FL-93 highway through the Everglades. The route would take them through the Miccosukee Reservation, including a service plaza for truckers. There was no avoiding it, and by keeping the lights low, they hoped to avoid any contact. The drive was quiet, nobody wanting to say anything for fear of giving away their position, a fear that was illogical given the paucity of any moving vehicle or person on this route. As they neared the service plaza, everyone tensed up, expecting a roadblock of redneck truckers or irate Indians. Instead, the lead Charger slammed on the brakes, causing everyone else to do the same. Sticking out into the road was the cockpit and front fuselage of a Soviet Badger bomber, and as the men got out and explored with flashlights, they could see what had happened. The rear of the plane and an engine had landed on the service plaza just off the road, and as could be expected, the plaza had gone up in a very substantial blaze or explosion. There was no trucker roadblock because they’d likely all burned to death.
The front fuselage, though, was intact. Scorch marks decorated the steel and Soviet insignia of the bomber’s remains as a couple of Manny’s mercenaries explored inside. There was no sign of the pilots, meaning they’d either parachuted out and become gator food, or some other similar and horrible fate had met them. Inside the cockpit was a couple of radios, maps, and material that the ex-Agency men could decipher and use. Carr looked over one of the maps and realized it was their targeting map. They’d been headed for Pensacola and Mobile, apparently. He shivered at the thought, then refolded it and shoved it in his pocket. After a few more minutes, everyone piled back into the vehicles and continued off. Destination: Naples.
March 23, 1984
The yacht from Fort Myers turned into Big Sarasota Pass, the gateway to the bays of the city, with the dirty morning sun in the east only serving to spotlight the massive plume of smoke still, after 29 days, rising from the ruins of Tampa and St. Petersburg. The glare was mitigated by the cloud cover that had been fairly omnipresent in those 29 days, but even still, it took a moment for the Guardsman on watch at the bow to notice what he saw. Shouting for the lieutenant, he handed over the binoculars, and within seconds, the lieutenant let out a low whistle. “I’ll be damned, that’s a Navy sub laying inshore. It must’ve taken a shot from someone, because it’s down about ten degrees at the bow there,” the Lieutenant said. He turned to the leader of the Sarasota group. “That thing there when you left?”
“No, that wasn’t there for sure. I wonder if they brought help too,” replied Randy.
The yacht carefully weaved its way through the haphazard mass of boats and dinghies scattered throughout the bay. It seemed like anyone who had a boat ready to go had booked it south from St. Pete the moment news of the initial blasts in Germany were reported. As they approached the Bayfront Marina, to the north of the massive submarine, the calm was broken by a loudhailer. “Attention! Yacht approaching this marina, identify yourselves!” The lieutenant grabbed the radio and dialed up the guard frequency. “This is Lieutenant Everett, Florida National Guard. I’ve got a squad of Guardsmen, doctors, and some supplies. Who am I speaking to?” The loudhailer replied, “This is Lieutenant Commander O’Reilly, United States Navy and the XO of that sub you see off to your starboard side. I’m damned glad to have you Guardsmen here with help. This place is in bad shape, Lieutenant.”
The yacht steered its way in to a berth right in front of a tiki bar of some sort, looking rather forlorn. A group of submariners in their navy blue fatigues were there to meet them and help tie the yacht safely to the dock. A senior chief petty officer saluted Lt. Everett, and then directed his men to help the soldiers offload their gear. The chief took the FNG officer to meet Lt. Cmdr. O’Reilly, sitting at the bar. Salutes were again exchanged. “Lieutenant, welcome to Sarasota. Where’d you all come from?” “Fort Myers, sir. Some men from here drove down, went through hell to reach us. We’re about the only untouched region in the state south of Tampa, I imagine. The radio reports keep saying it’s Fallout Black all the way across the center of the state, from Tampa all the way to Canaveral. I don’t know how long you’ve been here, but the few reports we’ve gotten…Florida’s taken it right on the chin and in the nuts, too, sir.”
The USN officer chuckled at that. “Yeah, well, see that sub? It’s Hammerhead, SSN-663, and we took out several Soviet subs before and during the Exchange. Used almost all our torps doing it, too. We left port in Kings Bay a week before the shooting started, loaded up with enough food for 120 days at sea. So, after the nukes stopped flying, we stayed out to sea, patrolling the Gulf and staying away from any radiation, hoping when things died down we could find someplace safe and untouched to put in at. Wouldn’t you know it, though, a few days ago, we’re in our usual pattern of not hearing a goddamn thing, and suddenly we do hear something. Sonar runs a trace, and there’s a fucking Soviet Yankee missile boat out there. I couldn’t believe it, the balls in hanging around here! Not to mention, we don’t know if they’ve got nukes left or not. So, the skipper, he tried to do the peaceful thing, you know, enough people are dead, the planet’s a wreck, so he picked up the Gertrude and hailed them as if he didn’t know who they were. Well, the Soviet skipper, he decided to try and book it, and he’s a good skipper, too, because after he ran, we sent our last torps after him, and he dodged two and only got nicked by the third. Now we’ve got a problem. There’s a Sov missile boat out there and he showed hostile intent. The skipper decides to seal the forward spaces, since there’s no more torps to fire, and he guns the sub and rams them midships, just like Nelson at Tralfalgar, and it worked! Bad Soviet welding, caused a seam to burst and they tried to blow air and surface but the water came in faster than they went up and that was that.”
O’Reilly continued, “Well, now we’ve just sunk another sub, we’re heroes and all that shit, but we’re also nosing down and that’s not good, so the captain blows ballast, we head to the surface, and move as quickly as we could back to shore. Sarasota was the closest fallout free place we could find, and we got inshore, halfway beached the girl, but there wasn’t much we could do about that, and there isn’t a working sub shipyard anywhere close by, so we’re now officially Building 663 of Sarasota Naval Station, I guess. At least the reactor’s fine and we’re using it to power the hospital a bit south of here. The casualties…son, you don’t even want to imagine it. There’s a place called Payne Park that’s inshore a bit, and it’s turned into the biggest mass grave since Auschwitz, probably.” The Navy man shuddered.
*****
Miramar, Florida
March 25, 1984
After days spent listening to shortwave broadcasts and defragmented radio traffic, Carr and Phillips sat Manny down to discuss their next move. They said that based on what they’d heard and what they knew a post-nuclear world would look like, the best thing they could do for themselves would be to leave Miramar. If they stayed, they’d be facing refugees eventually, in more numbers than they could deal with, and with more problems than anyone would want. A few men, led by a trusted “sergeant” of Manny’s, would stay behind in the house, keeping it safe and intact should they need to return there. Shortwave two-way radios were assigned, with codes arranged for security.
The men loaded a pickup with two gas drums in the back for emergency refueling, along with supplies, while three other vehicles (an old Charger and two Jeep Wagoneers) filled with men and guns. Headlights were duct-taped to slits so that the light emitted would be minimal. At dusk, the convoy set off, headed north on US-27 before turning west onto the I-75/FL-93 highway through the Everglades. The route would take them through the Miccosukee Reservation, including a service plaza for truckers. There was no avoiding it, and by keeping the lights low, they hoped to avoid any contact. The drive was quiet, nobody wanting to say anything for fear of giving away their position, a fear that was illogical given the paucity of any moving vehicle or person on this route. As they neared the service plaza, everyone tensed up, expecting a roadblock of redneck truckers or irate Indians. Instead, the lead Charger slammed on the brakes, causing everyone else to do the same. Sticking out into the road was the cockpit and front fuselage of a Soviet Badger bomber, and as the men got out and explored with flashlights, they could see what had happened. The rear of the plane and an engine had landed on the service plaza just off the road, and as could be expected, the plaza had gone up in a very substantial blaze or explosion. There was no trucker roadblock because they’d likely all burned to death.
The front fuselage, though, was intact. Scorch marks decorated the steel and Soviet insignia of the bomber’s remains as a couple of Manny’s mercenaries explored inside. There was no sign of the pilots, meaning they’d either parachuted out and become gator food, or some other similar and horrible fate had met them. Inside the cockpit was a couple of radios, maps, and material that the ex-Agency men could decipher and use. Carr looked over one of the maps and realized it was their targeting map. They’d been headed for Pensacola and Mobile, apparently. He shivered at the thought, then refolded it and shoved it in his pocket. After a few more minutes, everyone piled back into the vehicles and continued off. Destination: Naples.
I don't know when I'll write more, but the idea for this popped into my head and I actually got out of bed to write this out, so hopefully you all enjoy it.
Shadow Master
Banned
Oh yes, I did and I expect that I'm not alone. Well done, sir, and eagerly awaiting more...
USS Hammerhead may now be giving her country her best service. Providing power to the hospital will make one hell of a difference. With a bit of work she may also be able to provide power for all of Sarasota.
The geographical layout is going to mitigate against that, I think, plus getting all of the right components to make that work for them. Plus, I think the Sturgeons had a mast radar, which is definitely going to be in operation to guard against raiders and such. I will potentially do another chapter soon, but the details of Sarasota are going to quite resemble what was seen in the original. When you're the closest untouched place near a location that saw massive destruction, there will be quite a bit of ugliness.
Adding to the throng and hoping inspiration will strike. I for one am not so interested in poking the open sores of the worst of the postwar world but rather in the story of its recovery, and this TL's Florida has a more solid basis than I would usually imagine.
I am of two minds whether I want the author to ever clarify that or leave it unknown forever. At some point, assuming the reforming Florida regime asserts itself to reach this truckstop, examination of the ruins of the rear fuselage should reveal whether any damaged bombs remain and I hope fairly responsible authorities claim and sequester any before some wildcats do! I would guess that if the nukes did not detonate during the fire, they are now too damaged in one way or another to do so, but their cores will just go on being so much hazardous radioactive metal, not to mention the possibility of someone someday cobbling together some sort of detonation scheme. But as noted, there is no way to tell they were not fleeing the scene of the crime though God knows where a Soviet aircrew might have hoped to ditch with reasonable expectations of survival. Cuba perhaps but they'd have to be very optimistic either that the island would not get the level of hits it actually did, or great confidence in plans to get them to shelters and perhaps evacuation via submarine or something. Honestly I wonder if a better plan for Soviet bomber crews would not have been to have ditch zones in the middle of the Gulf or even Atlantic where they are told to expect a submarine to scoop them up; such zones where the USN would not be looking for a live threat might be both in easier reach of a completed bomb drop and more obscure for vengeful US forces looking to mop up. The abandoned plane itself, instead of lying around as detectable wreckage, sinks to the bottom hopefully leaving no easily found traces. The time window with floating crew waiting for pickup is relatively short and then there is nothing to be found but a sub sneaking away from battle.
Meh, maybe the pickup zone was in the Atlantic somewhere?
Meanwhile I don't think I was ever convinced that the Soviets actually based nuclear bomber aircraft in Cuba OTL--they certainly were about to during the Cuban Missile Crisis buildup, but Khrushchev visibly removed them, and in any later era I think the Soviets would simply not have been able to get away with it without this triggering a major confrontation crisis right then and there. Perhaps in an ATL the USA backs down, making some back channel acknowledgement the Soviets can indeed base a few there without the USA going berserk about it, then later administrations accepting it as normal and simply tasking southeastern based interceptors with taking them out?
And doing the math for range with bombloads doesn't seem to support their being based at more distant Cold War allies, or that they could get there without being observed and protested effectively. By the time we get to places like Angola where large swathes of terrain are firmly Soviet bloc allied and far enough back from CONUS that the Americans might not pitch a fit, the range is so long the point of putting bombers there is pretty dubious, at least for such a role as striking at US soil. For taking out South Africa or Brazil, maybe.
So I remain mystified by this aspect of P&S canon and put it down to the general failures of realism.
Makes for a diverting interlude though.
But Sarasota seems so messed up trying to build up from there seems a lost cause. It would probably be better for Hammerhead to be patched up enough to be towed down to Fort Myers and double down on building this relatively favored spot up as a bastion of expanding civilization. Sarasota ought to be systematically evacuated and abandoned I think, albeit with some watchful eyes of some kind making sure bad guys of various stripes don't hole up there.
Of course if it is feasible to move Hammerhead the entire hospital should also be dismantled and its equipment also relocated in Fort Myers.
Oh, well, I figured Sarasota might be sustainable as a temporary survival camp, but that the land around it is too contaminated to be reclaimed for some time to come, so only as long as leftover food can be scrounged. If that were the case, perhaps food could be brought in to keep Sarasota occupied, but unless there are unique production opportunities such as factories or machine shops that cannot also be cannibalized and relocated in a less blighted location, I don't see the usefulness of raising food elsewhere and shipping it to such virtual Moon colonies. And surely if the land around is blighted, fallout must seep into the water supply and be brought to the town as dust more than would be the threat at Fort Myers?
Chapter 64
Chapter 64
March 23, 1984
Sarasota, FL
The Guardsmen were on the Hammerhead, enjoying the hospitality of the ship’s captain, Commander Eddie Fisher, which meant the best meal they’d had in weeks. Fisher had cooked the last frozen steaks from the galley for the visitors, seeing as they’d brought help and hope to this part of the state. The Guardsmen and Navy men traded stories, sitting in the mess (the wardroom was simply too small for this group), and Lieutenant Everett got more details of what the Sturgeon-class sub had seen in the past five weeks before its sudden placement on shore duty. Some of them were chilling, such as how the radioman had to be confined to quarters for over a week after the Exchange on tranquilizers because hearing the cries of terror and desperation as the Seventh Seal was opened was too much for the young man from Missouri. Others were exciting, such as the battle with the Yankee in the Gulf. Everett professed his amazement at how well the sub had held up given the ramming (the slight ten degree downward tilt had led one of the Guardsmen to joke that magnetic cups and plates should have been included). O’Reilly, who was an engineering specialist as well as executive officer, explained how the Sturgeons had been built with such situations in mind. By locating the ballast tanks and flood pumps in a certain manner and by sealing the watertight doors to the torpedo room, the sub could take a torpedo hit or a ramming without sinking immediately. Fisher jumped in to explain that such an event was incredibly rare, but since he had no help to radio for, and with no knowledge of what, if anything, remained of America, he wasn’t going to let a Soviet missile boat off the hook. It was the sort of decision Churchill would’ve loved (having uttered the memorable phrase, “Those who dare, win”).
With that story told, Fisher turned serious. “Lieutenant, I hear Fort Myers and the surrounding area got off without a scratch. That makes it important. It’s the future of this area, such as it is. Is there any chance we’d be able to move the healthy people down there?” Everett shook his head. “No, sir, this yacht is the biggest boat we’ve got, and we’re conserving fuel as much as possible to handle emergencies. The power plant down there is natural gas and oil, and the Governor did his best to stockpile in areas that were believed to not be targets so there’d be some infrastructure left. He even diverted from the stocks we received during the ramp-up to war. If we could drive this on something else, it’d be a start, but nobody else has a large boat there. The Major isn’t going to want to risk this back and forth. I mean, we want to help, sir, that’s why we’re here, I just don’t know how we could get the healthy folks down there, and they’d need to bring whatever supplies you have here in terms of food and all, or everyone’ll be starving soon enough.”
Fisher leaned in closely. “Okay, kid, I understand that, and you’re not wrong, but we’ve run into an absolute disaster here. O’Reilly told me that he clued you in about the park. They’ve been doing nothing but burying dead for weeks. People were literally on the Skyway Bridge when the nukes hit, and it started falling in the water. Imagine that scramble, like a movie, except that the people were flash-blinded and burnt. Some cars made it okay, others just stopped working and they had to get out and run as the bridge started going down. Despite that, they were the lucky ones. The ones who got out of Tampa were worse. The thermal pulse literally caused skin to melt off, hair to burn to a crisp, and other things I don’t even want to mention. Most of those folks died on the road near Bradenton, a mix of radiation, burns, desperate suicide, or locals who performed mercy killings. The authorities did their best to corral people back this way so the Black Plague didn’t stage a sequel amongst the living, but there’s typhoid there, and that’s nearly as bad when it comes down to it. The hospital has long since run out of antibiotics, anesthetic is down to the local variant scrounged from dentists, and order has nearly broken down more than once.
If we hadn’t gotten here, this town would’ve devolved into anarchy with a nice touch of medieval diseases running rampant. We rigged the reactor to power the hospital, so the docs can work with lights and air conditioning and life support machines for people who have a halfway decent chance. Pretty much everyone that got out of Bradenton is sleeping at the high school, which is right down the street from the hospital and also drawing power from our reactor. It’s keeping things together by a thread, small oases that resemble life before the end of the world came, but it’s not gonna be enough when starvation starts setting in. Too many people, not nearly enough food. We’ve shared some of our stock, but our boat holds 125 men tops, and there’s gotta be 70,000 people here with the Bradenton folks. So, do you know of anything else that can be done?”
A light clicked on inside Everett’s head. “Sir, do your radios work?”
“Yeah, why?” asked Fisher.
“Well, sir, I know the codes and frequencies for Gainesville. Gainesville is where the government’s at. We’ve been able to receive broadcasts through relays, but haven’t gotten much in the way of messages to them because we didn’t have the transmission strength to reach up there. We know they are there and active because of the broadcasts. This sub, I’m sure you’ve got the power to break through the interference and reach them, and that might just get this place the help it needs,” the young lieutenant said, excitement creeping into his voice. Fisher took him to the radio room, and sure enough, for the first time since before the Exchange, the Guardsman had reached Gainesville with sustained communication. He ended up giving a report for nearly fifteen minutes, after which Commander Fisher was asked a whole host of questions too. At the conclusion of it, Governor Graham had convened a planning meeting to see what supplies could be sent to Sarasota, and more importantly, how to get them there safely [this meeting was the one quoted in Chapter 62].
*****
Rescues were being contemplated elsewhere, too. The evacuation of NAS Pensacola was deemed to be of the utmost importance by Gulf States Command. The survival of New Orleans’ airport and the airliners grounded there was the method by which it could happen. The problem was, what to do about everyone else? Rad levels had died down enough by the 20th to where those in the bunker were able to go and evaluate the situation. First had come the grim parts, the barracks filled with a mixture of those who were sick, but not dying, and those who had died, hundreds of them. The base hospital, running on half-staff and filled with civilians and soldiers, was on the verge of complete anarchy, having been locked inside for nearly three weeks, running on emergency power reserves. Despite that, it was better than everyone being dead.
Nobody dared to leave the base to evaluate the town.
On the 23rd, after further discussion with General Barrow, the main runway was cleared of fallout, maintenance crews taking short shifts driving sweepers wearing NBC suits, and all of it was swept into a hangar that had been emptied, and when the job was done, the hangar was sealed tightly and the doors covered in caution tape. Forty-five minutes after that task was completed, several 727s began landing, quickly taking on the maintenance crews and living survivors from the barracks and hospital, and then turning around immediately and heading back to New Orleans. Captain Rockwell then supervised the loading of the base’s lone C-130 Hercules with spare parts for the fighter planes that were lined up on the tarmac, leaving as closely together as possible. When that job was completed, the base operations officer, a lieutenant commander, volunteered to stay behind and oversee what was left. It was a horrid task, and Rockwell couldn’t let the young man do it. The Navy captain insisted that he leave, and Rockwell would stay instead. His family had gone home a week before the war started, and everyone at NAS Pensacola was his family as well. A father never leaves his family behind. The C-130 taxied to the runway, and as it took off, Rockwell stood on the tarmac, saluting it. He had gotten nearly a thousand people out of Pensacola, mainly those who were vital to safeguarding the nation. It was his finest hour.
March 23, 1984
Sarasota, FL
The Guardsmen were on the Hammerhead, enjoying the hospitality of the ship’s captain, Commander Eddie Fisher, which meant the best meal they’d had in weeks. Fisher had cooked the last frozen steaks from the galley for the visitors, seeing as they’d brought help and hope to this part of the state. The Guardsmen and Navy men traded stories, sitting in the mess (the wardroom was simply too small for this group), and Lieutenant Everett got more details of what the Sturgeon-class sub had seen in the past five weeks before its sudden placement on shore duty. Some of them were chilling, such as how the radioman had to be confined to quarters for over a week after the Exchange on tranquilizers because hearing the cries of terror and desperation as the Seventh Seal was opened was too much for the young man from Missouri. Others were exciting, such as the battle with the Yankee in the Gulf. Everett professed his amazement at how well the sub had held up given the ramming (the slight ten degree downward tilt had led one of the Guardsmen to joke that magnetic cups and plates should have been included). O’Reilly, who was an engineering specialist as well as executive officer, explained how the Sturgeons had been built with such situations in mind. By locating the ballast tanks and flood pumps in a certain manner and by sealing the watertight doors to the torpedo room, the sub could take a torpedo hit or a ramming without sinking immediately. Fisher jumped in to explain that such an event was incredibly rare, but since he had no help to radio for, and with no knowledge of what, if anything, remained of America, he wasn’t going to let a Soviet missile boat off the hook. It was the sort of decision Churchill would’ve loved (having uttered the memorable phrase, “Those who dare, win”).
With that story told, Fisher turned serious. “Lieutenant, I hear Fort Myers and the surrounding area got off without a scratch. That makes it important. It’s the future of this area, such as it is. Is there any chance we’d be able to move the healthy people down there?” Everett shook his head. “No, sir, this yacht is the biggest boat we’ve got, and we’re conserving fuel as much as possible to handle emergencies. The power plant down there is natural gas and oil, and the Governor did his best to stockpile in areas that were believed to not be targets so there’d be some infrastructure left. He even diverted from the stocks we received during the ramp-up to war. If we could drive this on something else, it’d be a start, but nobody else has a large boat there. The Major isn’t going to want to risk this back and forth. I mean, we want to help, sir, that’s why we’re here, I just don’t know how we could get the healthy folks down there, and they’d need to bring whatever supplies you have here in terms of food and all, or everyone’ll be starving soon enough.”
Fisher leaned in closely. “Okay, kid, I understand that, and you’re not wrong, but we’ve run into an absolute disaster here. O’Reilly told me that he clued you in about the park. They’ve been doing nothing but burying dead for weeks. People were literally on the Skyway Bridge when the nukes hit, and it started falling in the water. Imagine that scramble, like a movie, except that the people were flash-blinded and burnt. Some cars made it okay, others just stopped working and they had to get out and run as the bridge started going down. Despite that, they were the lucky ones. The ones who got out of Tampa were worse. The thermal pulse literally caused skin to melt off, hair to burn to a crisp, and other things I don’t even want to mention. Most of those folks died on the road near Bradenton, a mix of radiation, burns, desperate suicide, or locals who performed mercy killings. The authorities did their best to corral people back this way so the Black Plague didn’t stage a sequel amongst the living, but there’s typhoid there, and that’s nearly as bad when it comes down to it. The hospital has long since run out of antibiotics, anesthetic is down to the local variant scrounged from dentists, and order has nearly broken down more than once.
If we hadn’t gotten here, this town would’ve devolved into anarchy with a nice touch of medieval diseases running rampant. We rigged the reactor to power the hospital, so the docs can work with lights and air conditioning and life support machines for people who have a halfway decent chance. Pretty much everyone that got out of Bradenton is sleeping at the high school, which is right down the street from the hospital and also drawing power from our reactor. It’s keeping things together by a thread, small oases that resemble life before the end of the world came, but it’s not gonna be enough when starvation starts setting in. Too many people, not nearly enough food. We’ve shared some of our stock, but our boat holds 125 men tops, and there’s gotta be 70,000 people here with the Bradenton folks. So, do you know of anything else that can be done?”
A light clicked on inside Everett’s head. “Sir, do your radios work?”
“Yeah, why?” asked Fisher.
“Well, sir, I know the codes and frequencies for Gainesville. Gainesville is where the government’s at. We’ve been able to receive broadcasts through relays, but haven’t gotten much in the way of messages to them because we didn’t have the transmission strength to reach up there. We know they are there and active because of the broadcasts. This sub, I’m sure you’ve got the power to break through the interference and reach them, and that might just get this place the help it needs,” the young lieutenant said, excitement creeping into his voice. Fisher took him to the radio room, and sure enough, for the first time since before the Exchange, the Guardsman had reached Gainesville with sustained communication. He ended up giving a report for nearly fifteen minutes, after which Commander Fisher was asked a whole host of questions too. At the conclusion of it, Governor Graham had convened a planning meeting to see what supplies could be sent to Sarasota, and more importantly, how to get them there safely [this meeting was the one quoted in Chapter 62].
*****
Rescues were being contemplated elsewhere, too. The evacuation of NAS Pensacola was deemed to be of the utmost importance by Gulf States Command. The survival of New Orleans’ airport and the airliners grounded there was the method by which it could happen. The problem was, what to do about everyone else? Rad levels had died down enough by the 20th to where those in the bunker were able to go and evaluate the situation. First had come the grim parts, the barracks filled with a mixture of those who were sick, but not dying, and those who had died, hundreds of them. The base hospital, running on half-staff and filled with civilians and soldiers, was on the verge of complete anarchy, having been locked inside for nearly three weeks, running on emergency power reserves. Despite that, it was better than everyone being dead.
Nobody dared to leave the base to evaluate the town.
On the 23rd, after further discussion with General Barrow, the main runway was cleared of fallout, maintenance crews taking short shifts driving sweepers wearing NBC suits, and all of it was swept into a hangar that had been emptied, and when the job was done, the hangar was sealed tightly and the doors covered in caution tape. Forty-five minutes after that task was completed, several 727s began landing, quickly taking on the maintenance crews and living survivors from the barracks and hospital, and then turning around immediately and heading back to New Orleans. Captain Rockwell then supervised the loading of the base’s lone C-130 Hercules with spare parts for the fighter planes that were lined up on the tarmac, leaving as closely together as possible. When that job was completed, the base operations officer, a lieutenant commander, volunteered to stay behind and oversee what was left. It was a horrid task, and Rockwell couldn’t let the young man do it. The Navy captain insisted that he leave, and Rockwell would stay instead. His family had gone home a week before the war started, and everyone at NAS Pensacola was his family as well. A father never leaves his family behind. The C-130 taxied to the runway, and as it took off, Rockwell stood on the tarmac, saluting it. He had gotten nearly a thousand people out of Pensacola, mainly those who were vital to safeguarding the nation. It was his finest hour.
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I'm sorry I didn't answer this before, I just kind of forgot about it.
Quite honestly, it'd been kept completely secret. The Soviets didn't know about it, because it was such an unlikely place, hell, few in Congress knew about it, and it was their own shelter! So, the question is, when do you evacuate? If they left at H-Hour, when the first tanks stormed over the border, then yeah, they're safe down there, but in a part of America so devastated that who knows if anyone could reach them? Raven Rock and Mount Weather are curiously unmentioned for the most part in the story, and my only real nitpick with the whole Prospero substory was that Reagan knew firsthand that Mount Cheyenne would never survive a nuclear war. He'd been briefed as a candidate in 1979 by CINC-NORAD that the bunker, despite all their efforts, was unlikely to survive because an entire regiment (six launchers) of SS-18s with 25 megaton warheads was targeted on it. I just do not buy that he would've flown there, and even though the narrative is fantastic, the underlying premise is just wrong. Here's a look at the damage:
Anyway, back to the Greenbrier. If they left on day 1, they're safe, even on day 2. If they waited until Kassel to begin evacuating Congress, it's a fool's errand at that point. I imagine a fair amount of them would not have gone without their spouses in any case, so a full Congress is unlikely, especially since this was not a bolt-from-the-blue war. We know Bob Dole had gone home to Russell with Liddy, who was in the Cabinet and ended up becoming President.
What happened to Amber's (Manny's girlfriend) family in the Panhandle? IMO, even without being near the Eglin or Tyndall blasts, they're still screwed, because they're getting the radiation from the blasts in Mobile, Eglin, and/or Tyndall, depending on where they are...
BTW, good updates...
BTW, good updates...
Yeah, it is, @wolverinethad...
On a side note, a three-hour rough draft of The Day After is on YouTube and here's a link:
How many films can say they helped contribute to a decrease in tensions between the Soviets and the US (this film freaked out Reagan enough that he began trying to decrease tension; Nicholas Meyer, who directed The Day After, was suffering from flu-like symptoms during the making of the movie that were later determined to be caused by clinical depression and, when you consider what he was researching for this movie, it's entirely justified)? Threads is worse, from what I've heard; I've only seen that film up to the attack sequence...
ITTL, The Day After will be considered Harsher in Hindsight...
On a side note, a three-hour rough draft of The Day After is on YouTube and here's a link:
How many films can say they helped contribute to a decrease in tensions between the Soviets and the US (this film freaked out Reagan enough that he began trying to decrease tension; Nicholas Meyer, who directed The Day After, was suffering from flu-like symptoms during the making of the movie that were later determined to be caused by clinical depression and, when you consider what he was researching for this movie, it's entirely justified)? Threads is worse, from what I've heard; I've only seen that film up to the attack sequence...
ITTL, The Day After will be considered Harsher in Hindsight...
One reviewer said "Threads makes The Day After look like A Day At The Races."
Having watched the entirety of Threads, I'm inclined to agree. Hell, it makes Protect and Survive look like an after-school special. It certainly ruined The Day After for me, anyway - I couldn't take it seriously for seeming far too rosy in comparison.
Oh God, yes. It just absolutely goes to complete hell. The level of regression is disturbing, the final scene horrifying.
Edit: The only thing I think about Threads that is unrealistic is that the nuclear winter effect is overblown. 25°C temperature drop in summer seems ridiculous. That would mean temps as low as 23°F/-4°C in June/July. I feel like that strains credulity, since even "The Year without A Summer" in 1816 saw only a 3-5°C drop.
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