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.