The End: The Book: Part One by JL Robb - HTML preview

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“… nations will be in anguish and perplexity at the roaring and tossing of the sea.”

Luke 21:25

Grand Cayman was a beautiful but small island, just 250 miles south of Cuba and 300 miles northwest of Jamaica.

Unique among the Caribbean Islands, the highest peak on Grand Cayman was less than sixty feet. There were actually three islands in the chain: Grand Cayman, Cayman Brac and Little Cayman. Together they comprised less than one hundred square miles of land mass, and Grand Cayman was the largest at seventy-six.

First discovered in 1503 by Christopher Columbus, the islands have no natural rivers or streams, no natural washes into the sea. The earth itself was Mother Nature’s filter and was comprised of limestone and ironstone. This filtering process was what provided the crystal-clear, blue water and what made it one of the most appealing destinations in the western hemisphere. The Cayman Trench was the deepest trench in the Caribbean and kept the beach waters of the British island gentle and quiet.

Jeff visited Grand Cayman numerous times before opening his SCUBA business. On the Island, SCUBA was very competitive. Once known for diving and sea turtles, Cayman had become one of the most desired tourist establishments in the hemisphere.

There never was much surf on Seven Mile Beach. The Cayman Trench, Jamaican Trench and other deep, underground arteries kept the seas serene.

As they lay curled together in the hammocks, Jeff’s thoughts of love and romance far outweighed the sound of surf; and he was daydreaming. They seemed really, really happy, he thought. Just like old times. Maybe.

Grand Cayman Island’s white and sandy Seven Mile Beach was actually only 5.2 miles long but somehow was named  Seven Mile Beach. Gotta love the Brits.

The beach, almost flat, was lined with beautiful, majestically tall, Norfolk Island Pines on one side, and the silently lapping, crystal blue sea on the other, the slight sounds of a very tame and sedate surf.

Jeff and Melissa had spent many-a-romantic sunset on Seven Mile Beach over the years, usually shared with their  best friends, the Doreys. When the four got together, it was always a hoot. Sometimes, Jeff remembered, his cheek muscles would hurt from laughing so much. However, this day was not bringing laughter and would not be funny. This day promised to be a day of death and destruction on Grand Cayman Island.

That death and destruction would remain unknown to the Chechnyan commander of the K-155 Nerpa nuclear submarine, now just a few hundred miles from the Panama Canal. The sub made slow, steady progress, quietly.

When the evening darkened under the moonless sky, the Nerpa would surface and launch a single nuclear tipped cruise missile, destined for the Pedro Miguel Locks. The detonation would fuse the locks shut, eliminating passage of the U.S. Navy’s Third Fleet from the Pacific Ocean to the Caribbean, thus delaying any access for the San Diego based U.S. Naval Forces.

The 51 mile canal took many years and lives to build, with almost 22,000 deaths during construction, most from malaria and yellow fever, mosquito-borne diseases. It would only take a split-second to destroy it. That destruction would come in a few hours, just before the start of a new and tragic year.

After completing the destruction of the canal, the Nerpa would head up the east coast of the United States. The sub could stay underwater for 90 days before food would need to be replenished. Being nuclear powered, there would be no need for fuel. Their primary need would be to remain undetected by any U.S. attack submarines.

New Year’s Eve morning was young when jihadist Ricky was stopped in Louisiana by a Lake Charles policewoman. He wasn’t speeding and did nothing to draw attention to himself, other than a Confederate Flag in the rear window. He had  simply been cruising at three miles per hour over the  speed limit, the few cars on the road passing on his left. While exiting the highway onto the off-ramp, he heard the news commentator speaking of the numerous cases of smallpox in Europe. Ricky- Vinny was proud of his twin brother, and he wondered if his brother was still alive.

The police officer approached Ricky’s truck from the driver’s side; and he handed the lady police officer his driver’s license and insurance information, calm and cool as always. Subconsciously, he hoped for a little action. His wishes were about to come true.

Admiral Justin P. McLemore and Sheryl Lasseter left Atlanta’s beautiful Fox Theater after attending Andrew Lloyd Weber’s rock opera, Jesus Christ Superstar. After tonight, the Fox would remain closed until the asteroid dilemma was resolved. Many businesses around the globe had closed until further notice.

As they exited the studio, Sheryl held Justin’s arm, lightly. She looked at him and said, “That is the best play I’ve ever seen. Do you remember when the play premiered? I think it was 1970? I went to see it, and our church almost ostracized me.”

“I know,” and he liked the feel of a sexy woman at his side. It had been way too long, forever it seemed. He had married the U.S. Navy as a young man so many years before and had never really had the experience and joy that marriage could provide, that very special attention and companionship rather than camaraderie.

“Sheryl, I have seen that play several times since 1973 when the movie was released. I’ve seen the movie so many times I can recite it. I never could really figure out why churches weren’t promoting it rather than condemning.”

The early evening was too warm and muggy for December in Atlanta, a trend that continued from the past summer, the hottest summer since records started being recorded in 1850. Walking along Peachtree Street, Sheryl asked Justin what the “P” stood for, the first letter of a little used middle name.

“It stands for Philip, my father’s first name, from the Greek word Philippos. Are you impressed?”

“I am, and I love that name. Queen Elizabeth’s husband’s name is Philip. Very noble, Admiral sir. Can I call you Philippos, or do you prefer Justin?”

“Phil works for me,” he replied.

As they walked toward the parking decks a few blocks from the Fox, The Admiral noted the three young men following behind. Darkness was approaching from the west, an  unwelcome intrusion, possibly. The men stood out from the crowd, and were definitely not Fox patrons, with their pants hanging almost to the ground.

The Admiral had learned long ago that the world was full of mirrors and he used them, watching the three men’s reflections in the rear windows and side-view mirrors adorning the cars parked along the street.

He wasn’t too concerned but remained alert. There were many reports circulating since all the terrorist activity of the previous summer, reports of rogue street gangs beginning to scavenge on the innocent. He remained on high alert.

“You can call me anything Sheryl, just call me.” They laughed, and Phil took her hand in his. He was finding himself even more attracted to the 50’s-something woman and her air of elegance. She did not resist.

Turning the corner onto Ponce de Leon Avenue, the parking decks were just two blocks away. The three men followed, and now there was no crowd. The Admiral checked his shoulder holster, comforted by the easily accessible Glock. The hair on the back of his neck told him that his adrenaline was running on high, and he entered the fight-or-flight mode that could save or take one’s life in an instant. His grip on Sheryl’s hand tightened slightly.

Sheryl, like The Admiral, had been around the block a few times; and she had also noticed the three men as she glanced at the opposing plate glass windows of the numerous shops along the way. Entering the first level of the deck, Sheryl put her right hand into her purse, pulling her left hand from Phil’s grip.

“Give it up fat boy!” The voice was standard street-thug, and now The Admiral was ticked. He was anything but fat. “And tell Grandma to hand over the purse.”

The couple stopped in their tracks to face the three thugs, two with 9” knives and the short guy with a silver pistol resembling a .38 special.

Melissa lay silently, eyes closed, enjoying the ever-present trade winds that kept the temperatures comfortable.

“I could live with eighty-three degree days and seventy- degree nights,” she said softly, too softly for Jeff to hear, even if he hadn’t been dozing.

“Jeff?”

No answer.

Jeff was in dreamland, a semi-consciousness that wasn’t  quite sleep but deep enough that he didn’t hear Melissa call his name; and he was thinking about all the things going on in his life, and everyone else’s life too. He was really concerned about the black comet, as Hutz Putz called it, that the nuclear deterrent might not succeed. We would know soon, since 1300 missiles were on the way. Then there was the blip and all the other stuff! He finally relaxed, and drifted into dreams and fantasies of Melissa.

“Jeff, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” He was half awake and heard nothing. It seemed like he might have felt something though.

“What did it sound like?”

“I don’t know. It was kind of a soft boom, like a clap of thunder a long, long way away. But I could feel it, in the ground.”

“Probably a sonic boom.”

Jeff drifted again, tired from the dive and the stress of not really knowing where he stood with Melissa, she was so noncommittal. She had refused every night to stay with him, but at the same time, she acted interested. Maybe tonight. Soon he was in dreamland again, a land where there were no booms. Dreams can be so real. This was one of those.

In Atlanta, Leon Haskins noted, as had The Admiral and Sheryl when leaving the Fox earlier that same afternoon, that the day was warm for a New Year’s Eve. Leon was preparing the Discovery 1000 for the first night cruise, reluctantly approved by the Army Corps. At $ 500 a pop, the sub was quickly reserved. Nimrod made some last minute checks and unlocked the pilot storage area, just to make sure the briefcase nuke had maintained its programming. It had.

Dreamland was good to Jeff, leaving him almost breathless; and he became convinced it was real. Melissa was fully clothed in the dream, which was disappointing, but she kissed him. The kiss had the excitement of that first kiss in high school, when you know, this has got to be love. What else could it be?

The kiss was long and tender, not one of those grappling matches you see in some of the movies. The way a kiss was meant to be.

Melissa was the first to notice the silence, the non-sounds of the surf. Earlier she enjoyed the lapping of the sea against the sand, but now, silence.

“Why is it so quiet?” she asked out loud. The sounds of silence were echoing, almost screaming. As drowsy as she was, she knew the waves should be gently lapping at the shore, just a few feet away. She sat up in the hammock and looked seaward.

“Jeff, wake up!” It was almost a shout.

Beginning to waken but still swooning in a sea of dreamy bliss, Jeff was admiring her perfect breasts, concealed but still visible through the white knit top. He leaned over to kiss...

“Jeff? Wake up!” This was a shout.

“Take that silly blouse off baby, and I’ll show you who the man is!”

Jeff awoke from his dream with his own shout. The couple with their two children standing just a few yards away was not amused, though the guy gave Jeff a thumbs up. At first Jeff thought the woman was having a seizure but then noticed they were both trying to stifle their laughter; and he was a bit embarrassed. The couple had no idea what was happening in the surf, or they surely wouldn’t have been laughing. This day would not bring laughter to Grand Cayman Island.

“Jeffrey, what were you dreaming?”

Now awake, Jeff was rather disappointed that it had only been a dream.

“Never mind, you don’t want to know,” and he smiled as the memory stirred. Then he noticed the silence of the sea. No lapping watery sounds, no seagulls squawking in the air above. The silence almost reverberated.

With the stifled laughter in the background now gone, no one wondering if Melissa really was going to take off her blouse, there seemed to be a rumble of sound somewhere in the distance. It wasn’t like the boom they heard earlier, and felt.

Where there had been surf just five minutes before, the sand was bare as far as one could see, fish, rays and squid, flipping in a dance of oxygen deprivation, twisting and shouting, but not  the kind that Chubby Checker sang about.

Jeff tried to remember if all those squid had been out there when they were doing their shore dive? There were a bunch, but man. This would be a good night for calamari fishing, but he did not make the joke.

On the horizon, as far as one could see, a banner began to form, small at first, a mere dark-gray ribbon of curtain along the distant sea, stretching horizontally on the surface of the world. Growing ever-so-slightly against the wall of air that bordered  the sea, the banner grew in height, every half-inch of growth indicating that the tsunami was closer. And it grew.

As the ground shimmied, like a mild earthquake, the wind began to pick up. The distant sound was different now; low and moaning, almost a howl. The ribbon continued to silently grow.

There were a few sun worshipers lounged in beach chairs, some standing in awe of what was happening with the sea. No one expected a tsunami in The Cayman Islands, and some children ran out into the sea to pick up fish and shells.

“Run!” Jeff shouted as he grabbed Melissa’s hand, and he briefly thought about Gray and Andi. Where were they? He well knew the signs of a tsunami, had known them long before the Indonesian tsunami of 2004. Before that cataclysmic event, another in a growing list, everyone called them tidal waves.

“Run!” Jeff shouted to the couple and their children that were standing behind them. He continued to shout at the tourists while on the run to the hotel. They had to get to the roof. He was no longer tired.

They ran into the lobby of Cayman Grand, shouting tsunami as they entered the hall to the stairwell. They could not take a chance on the elevator. Exiting into the top floor hallway, Jeff told Melissa to hurry and hoped the door to the  mechanical room was unlocked. It was, and he turned the handle. He was glad they grabbed the inflated BCs, because the buoyancy compensators might just save their lives. Gray and Andi again crossed his mind, and he hoped they were far out to sea when the tsunami passed. In deep water, tsunamis were almost undetectable.

Crawling through the roof hatch and onto the sun damaged roof, Jeff and Melissa strapped on the BCs. Once secure, they ran to the side of the building, looking out to sea as the wave began its shore landing. It was approaching fast but began to slow as the wave encountered the sloping surface, but still fast, probably 200 miles per hour. It would slow drastically when the sea surface became shallower, and the wave would grow proportionately. It would grow and grow.

Before Jeff could really think about the possibility of the wave actually coming over the roof of the hotel, it happened. The last thing Jeff remembered before washing over the side of the building and towards Rum Point, slammed nearly unconscious by building material that had been left on the roof, was his beautiful Melissa. She disappeared in a rush over the side toward the parking lot below.

Just before midnight, when the tourist submarine at Lake Lanier was supposed to be surfacing for the New Year’s Eve fireworks show, it dove deeper instead. No one noticed that the submarine had moved closer to the Buford Dam, the water was too dark. The guests began to grumble and Nimrod, over the speaker system from his secure cabin, told the guests there appeared to be a slight malfunction, nothing to worry about. He assured them they would make it to the surface on time for the fireworks, Insha’Allah.

In just 52 seconds, Nimrod would join the royalty of Islamic martyrdom in the land of seventy-two virgins.

One of the two security guards on top of Buford Dam spotted a soft light deep under the lake, approaching the dam, which  was a definite no-no. It never occurred to them until the last second that it might be the tourist sub.

Now with only 28 seconds to go, the tourists appeared more frightened than angry. Had they heard him say Insha’Allah?

“I will blow the ballasts in a few seconds, everything is ok.” Nimrod was not reassuring, his voice beginning to crack with excitement. A couple of tourists were Russian and thought they noticed a Chechnyan or Bosnian accent in the sub pilot’s voice.

One of the security guards reached for his Nextel to call his superior, when the sky lit up, a bright-white light that was not fireworks; but it wouldn’t matter now. The security guards were blinded just before they vaporized into nothingness.

High in the sky, thousands of miles above the Indian Ocean,  a geosynchronous, military satellite detected a missile launch as the clock struck twelve. A similar event occurred over the western Atlantic near the Gulf of Mexico, though this launch was viewed by a boatload of tourists on a Carnival Cruise Lines ship, headed back to port in Jacksonville, just south of the St. Mary’s Nuclear Submarine Base.

Now the real war would begin.