with his deacons and all three joined the major and the councilman. “How can we be of service, Major?”
“Well, your eminence, according to Mister Collins, that Navy boat down there has four LNG/Diesel powered turbine engines to help make her move.”
“Does it?” Inquired Wentworth with genuine curiosity, even if he didn’t have clue why he was being told this.
Thompson touched the Vicar’s elbow, directing the man to look harder while keeping him well back in the tree line overshadowing the roof where the defoliated branches still gave them cover. “Natural Gas doesn’t suffer from the same kinds of trouble that traditional liquid fuels do, but without the ability to store long term, it has likely cooked off. I would dearly like it if you were to speak with the Lord and ask his favor. In the end, it is my fondest wish that the men who ran that ship loaded her with diesel and that it remains uncorrupted as a good Navy ship’s fuel should.”
Wentworth looked at his deacons and looked back at Thompson “Gladly we will help if we can.”
Plimpton watched with amusement as Thompson continued, “Please pray, if you will, sirs, that the fuel in that vessel is still plentiful so that we may use it to obtain what appears to be a shipload of power generating wind turbines. Please pray that our Sentinel possesses the power to kill the Northerners quickly.” The minister raised an eyebrow at that, then turned to try to see the ship full of wind turbines. Thompson said, “You can’t see it Vicar or they might spot us and their devil companions grab our minds. Beckman, lend the vicar the goggles.”
It was still on the dark side of 04:00. Dean lay awake in the Captain’s bunk alone. He and the others had spent the entire previous day fruitlessly scouring every possibility for fuel. Having once again ended the day empty handed, it was beginning to look hopeless and general morale was falling rapidly. Like a broken record skipping over the same words, he tossed and turned, considering various lame pep talks while staring at the pitch-black ceiling. While he had been gone, Eliza had moved her meager gear out of the room. As he vaguely pondered the electric pops and squiggles that his eyes used to fill in the emptiness above him, a second broken record of thoughts reminded him over and over of his empty bed. How quickly he had gotten used to her warm body next to his – how annoying were these feelings of regret? He was mildly startled by a knock. Fully clothed, but for his boots, he stood and went to the door with his heart full of hope that she had changed her mind. He opened it to Sergeant Green looking very awake. “Grab your helmet. Hernandez needs you topside pronto.”
“What’s up?” asked Dean as he threw on his boots and coat. As he grabbed his helmet, he noted that Green hadn’t formally addressed him.
“Engine. Not ours.”
Dean felt adrenaline shoot into his muscles and he double-timed it behind Green. As they emerged onto the deck, he expected to hear an engine, but was greeted instead by silence. He stepped over to Hernandez, helmet on, staring hard to south. “What’s up Chief?”
“Dial up the mics on your helmet and focus in the direction I’m pointing.” He did so and could distinctly hear the echo of a muffled power plant bouncing among the countless boats that were either at anchor, dashed on the shore or sunken in the harbor. Where it was coming from exactly was impossible to tell. Hernandez asked, “Hear it?”
“Yes.”
“Noticed it maybe ten minutes ago. Seems to be getting closer. Damn quiet.”
Dean found his memories swirling back to another life, an amphibious landing at Mehran Naval Airbase, the battle to secure nukes - grave injuries, friends lost. Then safely back on the USS John Paul Jones, the gentle thrumming of those engines – lots of time in the fog of painkillers contemplating a new life after what would likely be an honorable discharge. “Sir?” asked
“Well, your eminence, according to Mister Collins, that Navy boat down there has four LNG/Diesel powered turbine engines to help make her move.”
“Does it?” Inquired Wentworth with genuine curiosity, even if he didn’t have clue why he was being told this.
Thompson touched the Vicar’s elbow, directing the man to look harder while keeping him well back in the tree line overshadowing the roof where the defoliated branches still gave them cover. “Natural Gas doesn’t suffer from the same kinds of trouble that traditional liquid fuels do, but without the ability to store long term, it has likely cooked off. I would dearly like it if you were to speak with the Lord and ask his favor. In the end, it is my fondest wish that the men who ran that ship loaded her with diesel and that it remains uncorrupted as a good Navy ship’s fuel should.”
Wentworth looked at his deacons and looked back at Thompson “Gladly we will help if we can.”
Plimpton watched with amusement as Thompson continued, “Please pray, if you will, sirs, that the fuel in that vessel is still plentiful so that we may use it to obtain what appears to be a shipload of power generating wind turbines. Please pray that our Sentinel possesses the power to kill the Northerners quickly.” The minister raised an eyebrow at that, then turned to try to see the ship full of wind turbines. Thompson said, “You can’t see it Vicar or they might spot us and their devil companions grab our minds. Beckman, lend the vicar the goggles.”
It was still on the dark side of 04:00. Dean lay awake in the Captain’s bunk alone. He and the others had spent the entire previous day fruitlessly scouring every possibility for fuel. Having once again ended the day empty handed, it was beginning to look hopeless and general morale was falling rapidly. Like a broken record skipping over the same words, he tossed and turned, considering various lame pep talks while staring at the pitch-black ceiling. While he had been gone, Eliza had moved her meager gear out of the room. As he vaguely pondered the electric pops and squiggles that his eyes used to fill in the emptiness above him, a second broken record of thoughts reminded him over and over of his empty bed. How quickly he had gotten used to her warm body next to his – how annoying were these feelings of regret? He was mildly startled by a knock. Fully clothed, but for his boots, he stood and went to the door with his heart full of hope that she had changed her mind. He opened it to Sergeant Green looking very awake. “Grab your helmet. Hernandez needs you topside pronto.”
“What’s up?” asked Dean as he threw on his boots and coat. As he grabbed his helmet, he noted that Green hadn’t formally addressed him.
“Engine. Not ours.”
Dean felt adrenaline shoot into his muscles and he double-timed it behind Green. As they emerged onto the deck, he expected to hear an engine, but was greeted instead by silence. He stepped over to Hernandez, helmet on, staring hard to south. “What’s up Chief?”
“Dial up the mics on your helmet and focus in the direction I’m pointing.” He did so and could distinctly hear the echo of a muffled power plant bouncing among the countless boats that were either at anchor, dashed on the shore or sunken in the harbor. Where it was coming from exactly was impossible to tell. Hernandez asked, “Hear it?”
“Yes.”
“Noticed it maybe ten minutes ago. Seems to be getting closer. Damn quiet.”
Dean found his memories swirling back to another life, an amphibious landing at Mehran Naval Airbase, the battle to secure nukes - grave injuries, friends lost. Then safely back on the USS John Paul Jones, the gentle thrumming of those engines – lots of time in the fog of painkillers contemplating a new life after what would likely be an honorable discharge. “Sir?” asked
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