CHAPTER ONE
With a scream of distressed metal, the forward section of the flight deck and part of the bow fell away. The anchor chain on the right side had been severed by the impact, the heat of the high-speed warhead melting clean through it. That anchor dropped listlessly away, dragging along several heavy links of chain and sinking below the waves where it would slowly rust away over the next millennia.
The sheared-off bow swung away into the ocean, hitting with a monstrous splash. The anchor chain on the left side was still intact, and it tugged at the anchor on that side, pulling against the bow end of the carrier as it swept aft of the Nimitz. As it was drawn out, the continuous rattle of anchor chain grated against the wreckage. The increase in drag swung the carrier into an unintended left turn.
A few of the sailors in the forward section managed to find their way to an exit amid the tangled mess. Bodies leapt from twisted girders and warped decks. Most of those who jumped managed to hit the waves, but there were some who misjudged and hit twisted wreckage on their way down, bouncing once or twice before slamming into the ocean, leaving behind smears of red.
The survival situation was just beginning for those who managed to make it clear. Attached by the anchor and its trailing chain, the bow section was inexorably being pulled by the Nimitz. The bow and carrier were in constant danger of colliding together, and it was in this gap that many sailors found themselves. A few were killed when the fallen bow surged over frantic swimmers. Rescue crews among the airborne helicopters were busy darting close to the carrier in their efforts to pluck sailors from the moderate swells.
Inside the fallen section, others were striving to work themselves free. They searched darkened corridors for routes, often finding the way blocked by warped bulkheads or watertight doors that were wedged closed. As the survivors worked away from the front, they started running into wounded or trapped crew members. They stopped when they could to lend assistance, but most of the time, there was nothing they could do except offer a few words of comfort; a promise to visit a sister or friend.
Oftentimes, survivors negotiating the wreckage heard cries for help or whimpers in the darkness, but found themselves unable to get to those calling out. The floating wreckage was creaking and groaning as it was pulled along by the rest of the ship, slowly moving aft of the damaged carrier. Eventually, those staying behind to offer comfort to those trapped or too injured to move found themselves weighed down by tough decisions. If they were to have a chance at survival, they would have to move on to search for a way out. With a tear and parting words meant to comfort, the survivors moved aft, leaving behind their fellow sailors.
* * * * * *
Aboard the bow section:
Standing her watch toward the bow, Seaman Sara Lyons felt anxiety clench her stomach into knots. She hadn’t been in the Navy long and found herself in a warzone on her first tour. When she joined, the United States was in the midst of pulling out of Afghanistan, so she'd thought her timing was good.But, bigger than shit, here she was on the fringes of a war with China.
She was pretty sure that the fleet was under attack, and here she was, sitting on what had to be the largest target in the world. Standing in the middle of a room, surrounded by gray-painted steel bulkheads and under attack, wasn’t the most comfortable of situations. Personally, she’d rather be topside in the open air where she could see what was going on. She felt that it would give her a better chance at survival, but that wasn’t the lot she had drawn. Instead, she was stationed underneath the forward flight deck with the rest of her emergency crew.
Conversation among her fellow sailors sounded forced. The jokes and banter were not terribly funny, but they elicited subdued laughter nonetheless. The fire gear she had donned felt bulky, and she wondered how in the hell she was expected to navigate the narrow passageways.
Readjusting her helmet, Sara was suddenly off the ground. It wasn’t so much that she was lifted off her feet, but rather the floor just fell away. A godawful reverberating clang accompanied the abrupt drop of the deck. The room, the walls, everything around her, including the very air she was breathing, seemed to vibrate as if it were a giant tuning fork.
The entire deck rose to meet her again, forcing the wind out of her as her legs were rammed up into her gut. Screams filled the room as others were caught in the wild gyration. It was as if they were riding a fast-moving elevator that was rocketing toward the top. A monstrous roar coming from the front of the ship pounded on the bulkheads and seemed to compress the air, forcing what little Sara still had in her lungs out through her mouth and nose. Disoriented, she felt hot streamers of snot running down over her lips, and she briefly wondered if she had a bloody nose.
Slamming hard onto the deck, Sara heard a horrendous screeching of metal on metal. Accompanying the unbearable noise, were the gunshot sounds of welds breaking and sheered rivets popping. Sara had a momentary internal video of two speeding train engines colliding.
Oh fuck, we’ve been hit, she thought, partially regaining her senses.
The thought sent panic shooting through her mind and body. A small, measured urge told her she should be doing something. After all, she was on one of the emergency firefighting crews.
The room tilted again, this time to the side. Those in the room were slammed into one of the bulkheads, along with pieces of unsecured equipment. Sara had just started to gather her thoughts when she hit a thick support beam and was thrown off balance. Stars danced in her vision when her helmeted head bashed into a solid steel bulkhead.
A jumble of screeches penetrated her consciousness as heavy equipment shifted in the room, sliding to impact the same wall. The brackets holding a set of lockers broke with a loud pop, and the entire set careened down to slam into some of the sailors stationed with her. One other sound penetrated her mind above the cacophony; Sara gagged and nearly threw up when she realized that the snap and crunch she’d heard were bones and bodies being crushed.
The lights flickered once, twice, and then went out. Emergency lighting, operating on their own battery backups, cast dim illumination throughout the room. What had been identifiable objects became a disturbing jumble of shapes and shadow.
Spitting dust out of her dry mouth, Sara took a moment to mentally go over her body, probing to see if she felt any painful areas. Once she was certain she'd not suffered any serious injury, she rolled over and pushed to her hands and knees. The helmet fell from her head and landed in front of her. In the dim lighting, she saw a giant crack running across it. Darker splotches were gathered on top with drip patterns branching off.
In a moment of panic, she pawed at her head, waiting for the sensation of pain to shoot through her body. But nothing of the sort occurred. Frightened beyond compare, Sara shakily rose to her knees. Kneeling on the bulkhead, which was now functioning as a deck, she once again felt down the rest of her body. Satisfied she was intact and focusing on the gloomy area around her, she could hear others moving.
Retrieving her helmet, Sara removed the attached flashlight and turned it on. The orderly room in which she had been standing was now a complete mess. Panning the light near her, the beam ran across the pale and bloodied face of Warner, a sailor that had just been with her. His smashed head was pinned beneath heavy lockers. Streamers of red fanned out from his head and mouth, shooting across the gray paint. She now knew what had caused the splotches on her broken helmet. Sara remembered the man’s corny jokes and levity he had always attempted to bring to an otherwise tense situation.
“Who’s that with the light?” a voice choked in the shadows.
Swallowing the rising bile, Sara moved the light from the dead sailor's face.
“It’s Sara…Sara Lyons,” she called out, and then realized where she was.
“I mean, Seaman Lyons.”
“Okay, who else is here?” the man called.
Several other voices answered.
“There’s a dead man over here. ...
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