A New Sun at Fifteen Fathoms
SF
Thirty minutes till extraction. Kaf stands on the rusting deck and gazes over the atoll. Below the emerald green water, a monster is dangling. Kaf looks at his partner, as she kneels in the glare of the sun.
Etha is checking the monitors. She rises, dictates a few readings, places her hands on a metal railing not yet hot from the morning sun. She peers into the lagoon. Her eyes match the water.
Kaf watches her. He is exacting in appearance: close-cropped white hair, pale skin, a blue tunic hugs a lean frame. He makes a clipped gesture. “Look at all these ghost ships.”
The lagoon is the final port of call for a fleet of destroyers, aircraft carriers, battleships. The Independence, the New York, the Crittenden, the Pensacola, the Saratoga. All American vessels except two war trophies: the German Prinz Eugen, and from Japan the dark-hulled Nagato. Zombie ships. How many will be afloat after the monster is unleashed?
Kaf and Etha stride the Saratoga’s deck, marveling at the bulk of ancient armaments, listening to the metallic ring of their footsteps.
The morning brightens. The atoll is electric, sizzling like lightning on a mountaintop. Etha tugs her baseball cap. She wears tan slacks and halter top. An olive-drab “ribbon” circles her neck.
