couldn’t play a part in wiping out the remnants of the human race. He had to give the world a chance.
He had to give his daughter a chance. This … disease … this thing … it wasn’t enough. Not to warrant the death he could deal out. He had to stop it.
The world deserved a shot at making it right.
“Sir,” the sonar operator said softly, over the blaring of an impact alarm. “It’s been a pleasure serving with you.” He was staring down the hallway leading into the bridge, his eyes wild. He checked the magazine of his pistol carefully, and walked out of the bridge, his weapon already trained on targets downrange. The pistol spoke several times before the man’s screams echoed against the steel walls.
Outside the submarine, a large black shape was approaching, sonar locator active, its head packed with high explosives. With no one at the sonar station, Marcus had no warning. But it would have availed him little to know of the death that was being dealt to him.
He could do nothing to prevent it.
The impact of the Russian torpedo splintered several plates at the stern of the ship, and the cold Pacific water began to pour into the already doomed boat. As the dark liquid filled the stern quickly, driven by water pressure that was only increasing as the massive boat was pulled down by the ballooning weight of thousands of gallons of water, Marcus shook his head and rose from the cold deck. Blood spurted from his injured arm, and his vision was tunneling.
He heard the rush of water behind him. He groaned and pulled himself forward. The deck was now at a forty five degree angle, and he knew he didn’t have much time. The boat would implode in minutes—possibly seconds—at this depth.
Ahead of him, the fire controls were undamaged, levers and touch screens showing normal readouts, counting down to the launch of the boat’s full compliment of thermonuclear weapons. If he didn’t act now, twenty-four nuclear weapons with fourteen warheads packed into each missile would rain fire and death on millions of people, both alive and dead.
He couldn’t die like this. Even in the face of the world’s own disease, he couldn’t end it in murder.
The boat groaned beneath him as he reached a shaking hand for the controls and a sudden impact threw him to the floor as the unmistakeable sound of shattering metal and protesting steel echoed in the small space. The bow had ruptured, and the deck was pitching forward as water poured into the lower compartments. He had less than a minute to cancel the launch.
Nuclear missiles have two key components: the launch sequence, which actually pushes the projectiles from their tubes, and the detonation command, which detonates the nuclear warheads. Both sequences can be overridden, but on the newest version of command software, they had to be overridden separately.
But Marcus only had time to enter one sequence of commands.
Water was pouring into the bridge from the corridor outside, and a crewman was struggling to his feet directly in front of the fire control panel. Water began to push up from beneath the deck, and he glanced at the depth monitor and winced—they were well below their maximum rated depth, and still falling.
Marcus did the only thing that could sooth his conscience in the face of imminent death.
He cancelled the launch sequence, keeping the live missiles in their tubes.
As the depth gauge read nearly 1800 feet, Marcus fought the tide of frigid water to push himself back into his chair. The chair in which he had spent countless hours thinking about his family and the sun. He reached for the photo that was no longer there, and felt the water reach his waist and crawl toward his chest.
Beside him, a hand burst from the roiling saltwater, gripping his arm tightly with a cold, white hand.
At least he died with a clear conscious, he thought to himself. No one would perish because of his actions. The world would have a chance.
He
He had to give his daughter a chance. This … disease … this thing … it wasn’t enough. Not to warrant the death he could deal out. He had to stop it.
The world deserved a shot at making it right.
“Sir,” the sonar operator said softly, over the blaring of an impact alarm. “It’s been a pleasure serving with you.” He was staring down the hallway leading into the bridge, his eyes wild. He checked the magazine of his pistol carefully, and walked out of the bridge, his weapon already trained on targets downrange. The pistol spoke several times before the man’s screams echoed against the steel walls.
Outside the submarine, a large black shape was approaching, sonar locator active, its head packed with high explosives. With no one at the sonar station, Marcus had no warning. But it would have availed him little to know of the death that was being dealt to him.
He could do nothing to prevent it.
The impact of the Russian torpedo splintered several plates at the stern of the ship, and the cold Pacific water began to pour into the already doomed boat. As the dark liquid filled the stern quickly, driven by water pressure that was only increasing as the massive boat was pulled down by the ballooning weight of thousands of gallons of water, Marcus shook his head and rose from the cold deck. Blood spurted from his injured arm, and his vision was tunneling.
He heard the rush of water behind him. He groaned and pulled himself forward. The deck was now at a forty five degree angle, and he knew he didn’t have much time. The boat would implode in minutes—possibly seconds—at this depth.
Ahead of him, the fire controls were undamaged, levers and touch screens showing normal readouts, counting down to the launch of the boat’s full compliment of thermonuclear weapons. If he didn’t act now, twenty-four nuclear weapons with fourteen warheads packed into each missile would rain fire and death on millions of people, both alive and dead.
He couldn’t die like this. Even in the face of the world’s own disease, he couldn’t end it in murder.
The boat groaned beneath him as he reached a shaking hand for the controls and a sudden impact threw him to the floor as the unmistakeable sound of shattering metal and protesting steel echoed in the small space. The bow had ruptured, and the deck was pitching forward as water poured into the lower compartments. He had less than a minute to cancel the launch.
Nuclear missiles have two key components: the launch sequence, which actually pushes the projectiles from their tubes, and the detonation command, which detonates the nuclear warheads. Both sequences can be overridden, but on the newest version of command software, they had to be overridden separately.
But Marcus only had time to enter one sequence of commands.
Water was pouring into the bridge from the corridor outside, and a crewman was struggling to his feet directly in front of the fire control panel. Water began to push up from beneath the deck, and he glanced at the depth monitor and winced—they were well below their maximum rated depth, and still falling.
Marcus did the only thing that could sooth his conscience in the face of imminent death.
He cancelled the launch sequence, keeping the live missiles in their tubes.
As the depth gauge read nearly 1800 feet, Marcus fought the tide of frigid water to push himself back into his chair. The chair in which he had spent countless hours thinking about his family and the sun. He reached for the photo that was no longer there, and felt the water reach his waist and crawl toward his chest.
Beside him, a hand burst from the roiling saltwater, gripping his arm tightly with a cold, white hand.
At least he died with a clear conscious, he thought to himself. No one would perish because of his actions. The world would have a chance.
He
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