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USS Texas

Pacific Ocean

78 miles west of Saipan

Four days prior

“What’s its position now?”

“Dead ahead, Captain. Distance 525 meters. She looks like she’s descending.”

“What’s our depth and speed?”

“Eight hundred and fifty feet; 12 knots, Captain.”

Captain Sandra Lynn Frost, 36, famous for her meteoric rise through the officers ranks and one of a handful of women selected to command a hunter-killer submarine in the U.S. Navy, kept her eyes on the large flat screen. The screen, dubbed the “IMAX” by the crew, wrapped halfway around her command and control bridge, and was partitioned into several data delivering displays. It was the most obvious and stunning change after the Virginia-class attack sub’s most recent modernization and refit period.

Although most of the sub’s sensors, armament and electronics remained untouched, the entire bridge was revamped, designed by WEPS to give a more spacious and futuristic look. The control room was widened and lengthened. Instead of the claustrophobic spaces choked with consoles as on previous generations of subs, the bridge on the Texas was designed for more comfort and maneuverability.

Consoles for navigation, weapons, sonar and communications were spread out and partitioned, yet easily accessible to the captain who could freely walk about in the new spacious area. The overhead, or ceiling was raised; pipes, ducts and protruding devices were recessed or hidden, giving more bulkhead, or wall space for the endless panels of computer screens. The captain’s chair or console was comfortably in the center of the space like an island surrounded by rows of consoles on each side and to the rear. And from that vantage point, Captain Frost could comfortably view the massive panoramic screen ahead of her.

Digital imagery computers synchronized with the sub’s sonar gear gave a 3D video-game-type rendering of what was in front of and around the sub in real time. Other parts of the screen, as well as smaller screens imbedded on the bulkheads gave the bridge crew of 15 people all the battle data and tactical information they needed.

Frost, highly-respected for her cool under pressure, was also known for her affinity for Colonial British Navy customs, addressing everyone, officer and enlisted, as “Mister” or “Miss.” This had a calming effect on everyone, and added a nostalgic and chivalrous touch to their positions. All but her XO, Commander Roy Lesher, was addressed this way. He was addressed as Roy. They dated after the Academy years ago, so they kept their familiarity intact. Familiarity was very important to Frost who abandoned the strict, parochial style of vernacular on her bridge, and instead encouraged a more relaxed and common form of communications amongst her officers and crew. She’d never felt comfortable with the Navy’s robotic style of belting out orders or pre-determined responses, and when she became commanding officer she ordered her crew not to “respond” but to “talk” to one another.

The present situation was getting less than comfortable for the officers and enlisteds on the bridge as the chase continued. True to her name and reputation, Frost kept her voice calm despite her watch crew’s growing agitation.

“She’s diving, Captain!”

“Calm down, Miss Evans,” she answered placidly to a young sonar officers. “That’s what submarines do.” This drew a small chuckle from the personnel. “We’re going to take a closer look at her. Prepare to dive. Mister Price, bow planes 20 degrees down angle.”

“Twenty degrees down angle, aye.”

“Make our speed 18 knots.”

“Speed, 18 knots,” repeated Lesher into his mike.

“Let’s follow her down. Dive.”

“Commence dive. Twenty degrees down angle.”

Petty Officer First Class Price, sitting in the bow planesman seat pushed his steering wheel down until the digital display read 20 degrees. The sub arched down slightly as she decended.

“She’s leveling off, ma’am.”

“What’s her depth?”

“One thousand and twenty feet, ma’am.”

“Level off at the same depth, Mister Price.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Frost looked over to Lesher on her left who was working another computer near the sonar screens.

“Have you found anything, Roy?” The man cocked his head slowly as he checked his data.

“Yes and no, Captain. She’s got at least three propellers, so she’s huge. But the cavitation signature is not in our sub ID database, and our database is up-to-date.” He shook his head again. “Call me crazy, but despite her speed and depth, she doesn’t appear to be a military sub.”

“Well, that’s probably the best we’re gonna get at this range with passive sonar. We’re going to have to get closer,” Frost responded. Lesher continued.

“If we get close enough, we might be able to take some photos to send back to SUBPAC.” Frost was already nodding in agreement before her XO completed his sentence.

“Let’s catch up with her a bit. Increase speed to 23 knots.” Lesher raised the mike to his mouth.

“Increase to 23 knots.”

“When we get within 300 meters, open the window.”

“Roger that.”

It didn’t take long for the Texas to catch up. But in that time, Frost could see that her crewmembers were visibly anxious, staring rigidly at their instruments or at the IMAX screen. The image on the screen showed the digitally-detailed rendering of the Texas from an aerial and side view, moving closer in behind the computer-generated oblong shape labeled “Unidentified.” Also rendered was the topography of the area they were in, such as undersea ridges, mountains and canyons.

“Three hundred meters, Captain.”

“Roger that. Open the window, Roy.”

“Roger. IMAX transfer to outer view.” As if someone had turned off the interior lights and drew open the curtains, the IMAX screen’s view transformed from digital images to live. Like standing behind the glass of a SeaWorld aquarium, the view of the ocean came alive. Using the outer underwater cameras embedded into certain parts of the hull, the IMAX program was a new edition to the submarine fleet.

Created by the nation’s famed WEPS design laboratories, it allowed commanders to see and supervise undersea rescue operations, cable laying, topography surveying, mine placement and defusing, and under-hull repair of other ships without sending out divers. But in this instance, it would be used for visual ship identification.

When the IMAX cameras turned on, the scene was grey and dark. Foam and bursting water bubbles filled the screen.

“We’re in her baffles.”

“Two hundred and fifty meters.”

“Thank you, Miss Evans. Decrease speed back to 18 knots.”

“Aye, Captain. Reducing speed to 18 knots.”

“Let’s get out of this bubble bath. Come right 15 degrees. Angle out.”

“Come right 15 degrees. Angle out.”

With Frost’s every order, repeated by the XO, the action or maneuver was executed by the navigation, propulsion and sonar watch officers and technicians.

Whether on the bridge itself, or from the engine and maneuvering rooms back aft, the sailors of the Texas moved the sub exactly as Frost commanded. She had trained them brilliantly and they took pride in her trust. It didn’t matter where the answers or results came from, Frost trusted the people who stated them, and acted on their instincts as if they were her own.

“Two hundred meters, Captain. One hundred and eighty and slowing. One hundred and fifty meters and steady.”

“Distance to the object?”

“We’re 70 meters abeam of her.”

“Roy, bring the camera view left. It’s still pretty murky. Can any of you see anything?” The bridge crew of 15, split between officers and enlisteds shook their heads. “Turn on the exterior search light from the mast.”

“Search light on, Captain.” With the powerful light beaming into the depths, they penetrated the dark waters for about 70 meters. A few fish, and a swarm of krill swam in and out of the glow of the light. Other than that, there was only blackness, bubbles and the silhouette of the forward part of the sub.

“Swing the light on her, Roy. Let’s see this thing.” Lesher used the console-imbedded mouse ball and turned the mast light to the left.

“Oh my God!” a startled voice exhaled. Other whispers were clearly audible in low, nervous tones.

“Look at the size of that thing!”

“It’s gotta be nearly two times the size of the our boat!”

“The shape!” voiced Lieutenant Bingham, the weapons officer. “Look at those sharp edges and fins. Look at those angled slats, like something extends out of them.”

“Is it Chinese? North Korean? Russian?”

“More like Romulan!” Lesher mused.

“Let’s calm down everybody,” Frost soothed. “This is obviously an experimental design of some sort. Look for any written or imprinted identification.”

“Captain, sonar imagery has this thing close to 100 feet longer than the Texas, and about 30 feet wider,” Evans stated in near disbelief.

“It looks like it’s got armored plating,” breathed Lieutenant Christiansen, the communications officer. “Yes! Layered, armored plating.”

Lesher moved to Frost’s side and away from listening range of the others.

“What do you think, Sandra Lynn?” he whispered.

“I don’t know what to think. But something tells me we should get the hell out of here and report this.”

“I agree completely.”

“But we need to take pictures first and get them to the analysts at Pearl. This could be a prototype of some kind. Prepare the photonics mast for rapid shoot. We won’t have the luxury of time.” Lesher nodded and left to attend the console that controlled the masts of the sail.

“Okay, Captain. We’ll start at her props then work our way forward. Commencing photo run now.” The mast camera took the first photo with a brilliant flash that lit up the churning propeller area. Suddenly, as if stung by a bee, the vessel swung its massive hull to the right.

“SHE’S COMING RIGHT!” yelled Evans. “SHE’S GONNA HIT US, CAPTAIN!”

“Hard to starboard, Mr. Price,” ordered Frost coolly. “Emergency dive, 40 degrees down angle. Execute.”

“Emergency dive, 40 degrees down angle! Executing!” repeated Price as he shoved the bow planes wheel forward.

“Sound collision alarm, XO.” Lesher hit the button.

The bridge pitched down sharply. Everyone braced against their consoles as the sub dove, narrowly escaping the hulking mass swinging over them like a giant crane.

“Great move, Captain!”

“Secure collision alarm. What’s our depth?” The clanging alarm ceased.

“Approaching 2,000 feet,” answered Lesher. “Getting close to test depth.”

“You’re right, Roy. Level out at 2,000 and reassess our position.”

“Leveling out, Captain. Two thousand feet depth,” reported Lesher who was standing over Price.

“Miss Evans, where is that monster?”

“It’s. . .it’s. . .” Evans’ mouth hung open in disbelief, unable to answer. Lesher saw her momentary paralysis and moved quickly to her and looked at her monitor.

“It’s in front of us, Captain. Thirty degrees starboard at 1,300 meters.” He turned to Frost. “It’s coming right at us!”

“Jesus! That fast!?” said a voice behind Frost. But she didn’t hear it.

“Sound general quarters.”

“Sounding general quarters!” The repetitive drone of the alarm filled the speakers throughout the sub as every sailor hurried to their assigned emergency battle station.

“What’s her speed?”

“Twenty-five knots!”

“Let’s get closer to the surface so we can send a message to SUBPAC. Increase speed to 25 knots. Take us up. Thirty degrees up angle.”

“Increase speed to 25 knots. Bow planes 30 degrees up angle,” repeated Lesher. The room now rotated upward in a 30-degree angle, and the crew’s voices again throttled with adrenaline and nervousness. All, except Captain Frost’s, who maintained her controlled demeanor.

“Bogey at 1000 meters!”

“Mister Bingham, flood forward torpedo tubes.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Mister Avila, prepare a message for SUBPAC on our contact with the bogey. Coordinates and time of contact, et cetera. You know what to do.”

“Yes, ma’am!” answered Lieutenant Avila, the ship’s COMMS officer.

“What’s our depth?”

“One thousand seven hundred feet!”

“Bogey now at 500 meters, Ma’am!”

“All tubes flooded, Captain!”

“Open torpedo bay doors, Mister Bingham.”

“Doors opening!”

“We’re at 1,500 feet, Captain!”

“Bogey at 350 meters!”

“Prepare countermeasures, full spread.”

“Countermeasures ready, Captain!”

“Have they opened their doors?”

“No, ma’am!”

“IT’S GOING TO RAM US!” shouted Evans.

“Calm down, Miss Evans,” calmed Frost. “I need your focus now.” She looked at Lesher and nodded her head.

“Sound collision alarm.” Lesher hit the button, sending the Claxton staccato through the sub’s speakers again. The sound further unnerved the crew who hadn’t heard both alarms together since their initial training days.

“Increase speed to flank.”

“OH MY GOD!”

“Shut up, Rita!” Lesher snapped harshly at Evans. He pulled the mike to his mouth, still glaring at the young ensign on her first cruise.

“Increase speed to flank!” he resumed. No one could tell, but Lesher’s professional calm was beginning to unhinge itself with every frightened utterance of the crew. He looked nervously at Frost. Her expression was as placid and concentrative as if she were playing chess. She studied the several screens adjacent to the IMAX from her captain’s chair, calculating their information with her rapidly-moving blue eyes. While everyone’s voice rose, shook or gasped, she showed no desperation in hers. Her orders and comments were voiced as quietly and confidently as if she were giving marriage counseling. This was something Lesher had always loved about her.

“Mister Bingham, arm your torpedoes manually. We may have to shoot at pointblank range.”

“Arming torpedoes, Captain!” Bingham’s fingers tapped the weapons control keyboard desperately.

“How’s your message going, Mister Avila?”

“I’m good, ma’am! Just need a couple more hundred feet before I send her.”

“What’s our depth?”

“We’re at 1,200, Captain!”

“Very well.”

“All four torpedoes armed and ready to shoot, ma’am.”

“Very well.”

As if sensing his nervousness, Frost turned to Lesher and gave him an encouraging nod with the slightest hint of a smile. This brought him back, fueling his adrenaline with a renewed sense of courage. He nodded and mouthed “Thank you.”

“Bogey now at 250 meters!”

Lesher leaned back to Frost.

“It’s going to be close, Sandy,” he whispered.

“I know, Roy.”

“LOOK AT THE SCREEN!” shrieked Petty Officer Lowe, sitting at another sonar position. Lesher nimbly jumped next to Evans and covered her mouth with his hand to prevent her scream. It was he who spoke, and he spoke loud enough to cause everyone to momentarily freeze.

“Oh my God, Sandy! What is that!?”

All heads turned up to the IMAX. The view of the ocean was still dark, but less murky as they catapulted towards the surface. The water was now a lighter shade of green and schools of fish and individual species were discernable. But in that clarity was another image in the distance.

The nose of the other submarine emerged out of the deep blue just 150 meters away, coming towards them from a 35-degree angle on the starboard side. Its nose was not conical or traditionally bulbous, but tapered down to an opened-mouthed scoop like the maw of a gargantuan sea bass. The mouth was hinged, able to swing down. The lips of the mouth were of reinforced steel, thick and hideously scarred as if used as a battering ram.

Within the cavernous scoop was a massive, pointed object with riffling blades like a gigantic drill bit. Rising up from the roof of the long snout, and arcing back over the spine of the vessel were four rows of dorsal arches that flared out in increasing degrees. The tips of the arches were separated by at least five feet and gradually expanded over the surface of the sub. The tops of these solid arches were serrated with iron teeth. Each arch looked like a giant table saw blade; the thickness of each saw tooth was at least six-inches. Each blade tapered down from the teeth to base which was at least two-feet thick. The peak of the blades were at least 30 feet before the arched down aft and unseen. Between the two innermost blades was a space or groove about four feet wide and opened to the sea, that ran the length and contour of the sub for some unseen distance.

The entire forward section of the vessel was covered with armored plating that looked more like iron scales, giving the vessel a menacing reptilian look. After 50 feet of the pronounced armor, the rest of the body seemed of normal submarine plating. There didn’t appear to be a traditional center sail or conning tower. Only as the sub drew closer did anyone see a tower, equally menacing in design, in the distance.

“Can you hear that?” someone asked. “Is that us?” The question went unanswered for it was instantly obvious that it was not them. It was the sound of a thunderous, mechanical churning by some gigantic undersea turbine. The cacophony definitely had a rhythm, a timing. The staccato sounded rotary-like, cyclic and grinding. It penetrated the hull and reverberated throughout the ship. Like a gigantic washing machine, the repetitive grind grew louder as the sub drew closer.

“That is definitely not us,” answered Frost. “What’s our depth?”

“One thousand feet!” yelled Christian through the din.

“We don’t have time now. Roy, tell Mister Avila to send the message.” Lesher turned to the COMMS position.

“Send the message!” he yelled. Avila gave a thumbs up and turned to his console. He knew that a thousand feet was still too deep for his equipment to send a strong signal; nevertheless, he pressed the SEND button and his pre-typed signal was transmitted. Just as a precaution, he hit the SEND button several times to insure that the signal transmitted as they continued to climb; hopefully, one would get through if, for obvious reasons, they stopped their ascent.

Frost reached for Lesher and pulled him near.

“Are we still taking pictures of this thing?”

“Yes. The mast is set on object-search mode. Whatever it does, wherever it goes, the cameras are on it.”

“Roy, if something happens, jettison the camera mast. It’s designed to float to the surface.” Lesher looked into her large blue eyes with complete understanding and nodded.

“HERE IT COMES!!!” When Frost and Lesher turned their eyes to the IMAX, it was too late.

“IT’S GOING BENEATH US!” For a moment there seemed to be a collective sigh of relief. The vessel had not shot any torpedoes and it wasn’t ramming them; at least, not directly. Suddenly a deafening sound pierced the bridge, silencing everyone. Amid the deafening grinding sound, there was now the sound of ripping, yawning iron. The bridge shook violently, knocking those who were standing to the deck.

“IT’S CUTTING US OPEN!”

“Roy, the IMAX view beneath us.” For the first time in the two years he’d served with her, Lesher saw Frost’s eyes reflect urgency. He manually changed the camera views using his toggle. The view was captured and it was horrifying. They watched as the vessel drove its arched, table saw blades into the belly of the Texas. It sliced through the double hull in a straight line, slowing only when the teeth got caught in the thick tangle of the wreckage ripped out.

“BREACH!” yelled Lesher. He reached for the mike and pressed the 1MC button. “ATTENTION ALL HANDS! ATTENTION ALL HANDS! BREACH IN THE HULL! AMIDSHIPS FORWARD THE REACTOR ROOM! BIRTHING COMPARTMENT! I SAY AGAIN, BREACH IN THE HULL! AMIDSHIPS FORWARD THE REACTOR ROOM IN BIRTHING! SECURE ALL WATERTIGHT DOORS FORE AND AFT OF BIRTHING!”

The collision stopped their ascent abruptly as the blades of teeth bit into the Texas’ hull. The attacker’s sheer size and weight dragged the sub down more than 100 feet before it ripped free. It moved off leaving behind a massive churning cloud of twisted debris. The deafening staccato followed it into the shadows. With its bowels cut open, crews struggled to keep the flooding from spreading to the reactor room aft and the bridge forward.

“There should be no one in birthing since GQ was sounded,” voiced Frost with regained calm. She turned to the sonar rack. “Miss Evans, Mister Lowe, find that sub. Reduce speed to 10 knots to give damage control time to assess the damage. Mister Price, resume surfacing.” Lesher still had the mike in his hand.

“Reduce speed to 10 knots.”

“Is everyone okay in here?” asked Frost. “Damage report.”

“Reduce speed to 10 knots,” Lesher said into the mike. He turned to Frost.

“CON SONAR! BOGEY INCOMING! PORTSIDE, 97 DEGREES! FOUR HUNDRED METERS OUT!” yelled out Lowe.

“Hard to port, Mister Christian. Mister Bingham, prepare to fire torpedoes one through four, at my command.”

“Torpedoes ready!”

“THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY METERS!”

“Steady. Everyone brace for impact.”

“THREE HUNDRED METERS!”

“Fire, Mr. Bingham.” All four forward torpedoes shot out of their tubes, temporarily visible via the IMAX cameras on the sub’s nose. Four trails of bubbles roped forward and disappeared.

“Track them. Reload, Mister Bingham.” A digital rendering of the two subs plus the four torpedoes were displayed on another screen near the IMAX. They waited silently; the horrible grinding noise could be heard in the distance, getting louder.

“Three, two, one!” called out Bingham. Suddenly the IMAX screen flashed three times with brilliant light. “THREE DIRECT HITS, CAPTAIN! The fourth missed!” The undersea explosions caused huge walls of bubbles and wave concussions that rocked the Texas.

“Great shooting, Mister Bingham. Continue assent and get me that damage report.”

“Roger that, ma’am!” Lesher was smiling as he moved to his position to check the damage report. Then he stopped. All heads turned toward the IMAX as the grinding sound returned again.

“BOGEY AT 150 METERS! TWENTY-FIVE KNOTS!”

“Sweet mother of God!” breathed Lesher.

“Mister Bingham, fire!”

“TOO LATE! BRACE FOR IMPACT!”

The monster came in fast and low, heading straight for the same location it previously hit. In the next second Captain Frost showed that she was a human being.

“EMERGENCY BLOW!” she yelled. “BLOW ALL TANKS!” But before that order was performed, the intruder ripped into the jagged perforations again. The saw blades tore deeper into the ship as the sub pitched up. The Texas’ hull moaned hauntingly as its beams, strakes and frames snapped and collapsed. The booming grinding noise was made more deafening by the sounds of tons of metal crumpling or being ripped free. Power and lighting flickered on the bridge and then went out. In the darkness the sub shook forcefully, and the booming, ripping sound finally brought the nightmare to all: The Texas was being cut in half.

“Captain, we lost all communications with engineering!” rasped Lesher. “No responses from anyone aft of us!”

“Emergency lights, and activate secondary power grid,” ordered Frost as the bridge seemed to bounce now and sway. The lights came back on and the computers flickered back to life.

“Mister Bingham, are those torpedoes ready?” There was no answer. “Mister Bingham?”

“Sandra Lynn!” Frost turned towards Lesher’s voice. He and Bingham were kneeling over Evans who was laying on the deck hyperventilating. Her face had lost all color and her eyes were bulged.

“She’s in shock,” said Bingham. Frost left her command chair and knelt next to the young woman.

“I’ll take care of her. Go, on, Mister Bingham, man your position. Prepare the next spread of torpedoes.” She turned to Lesher. “Prepare to jettison the photonics sail, Roy.” She sat down on the deck, raised Evans up so that her head pressed against her chest and cradled her in her arms. “Someone get me a wet cloth and some water.”

Lesher struggled to get back to his position as the bridge rolled violently from left to right. Then it subsided momentarily, as did the noise, just in time for Lesher to yell.

“CAPTAIN! THE IMAX!” She raised her head to a chorus of gasps from her crew.

“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!” someone wailed. Frost herself didn’t know if what she was seeing was real. The cameras amidships delivered the ghastly view of half the sub separated and slowly plummeting into the darkness. The open maw that was once the birthing compartment and the reactor room vomited wreckage and oil. Lights from sparking circuitry flickered continuously as it sank. As much as 200 feet of submarine, and over 100 men and women—still alive—disappeared into the abyss in a belching vortex of debris and bubbles.

“WE’RE STILL FLOATING!” gasped Price on the verge of tears.

“All subs from 2015 were designed with compartmented insulation in the event of a hull breach,” responded Lesher. “The insulation is between hulls and inflates automatically.”

“Then why didn’t they float!? WHY DIDN’T THEY FLOAT!?”

“Keep your voice down, Mr. Price, if you please.”

“I’m sorry, Captain.”

“Those blades must have severed the Co2 igniters that pump the insulation.” Lesher had no other answer for the petrified young man. He himself didn’t know how long he could keep his cool.

“At this depth, we don’t have much time,” said Frost again in perfect calm. “The insulation is only designed for depths of 500 feet or less. Especially on this boat. We’re older, so we got the insulation system as a late refit.” Evans had come to, but was crying softly in Frost’s embrace.

Lesher looked at his commanding officer for a brief moment and was reminded why he fell in love with her years ago. No sweat, no nervous twitching or shaking hands. Her face looked placid; her voice was not only calm, but acquiescent. It occurred to him that she had made peace with herself and the situation.

“THERE IT IS! DEAD AHEAD!” yelled Price. The vessel was sailing away again, but before it was completely out of view, Frost looked up.

“Fire full spread, Mister Bingham.” Once more the torpedoes blew out of their tubes; four perfect bubble trails speared into the darkness. Moments later, four brilliant explosions lit up the IMAX screen to the vengeful cheers of all.

“SINK, MOTHER FUCKER!” thundered Price.

“GREAT SHOOTING, BING!” cheered another. But the laughter and applause soon died as the grinding sound emerged again in the distance. They could see the blurred object approaching.

“NO FUCKING WAY!”

“Everyone, come to me,” said Frost. “Sit down around me. Everyone.” The crew got up and knelt or sat in a small campfire circle.

“Give me the 1MC, Roy.” Lesher reached up and pulled the corded phone down. Evans did her best to sit up on her own and moved over to Bingham.

“This is the captain. For those of you still with me, I want to say that it has been an honor serving you on this great vessel. Our names will now be immortalized in the halls of the great submariners who have served before us. I am, and have always been proud of you. May God bless you all. Farewell.” She gave the phone back to Lesher and looked at everyone. Most had tears in their eyes.

“Roy, jettison the photonic sail.” With the touch of a button, the long tubular camera apparatus detached from the main mast. It’s auto-discharge pin fired, inflating airbags within and launching it on its long journey to the surface.

“It’s done, Captain.” Lesher sat back down next to her.

The IMAX automatically went black, darkening the bridge.

“Hold hands, everyone. Let’s be together.” They did so immediately, their grips tightening as the massive grinding sound drew deafening again. She looked at them all.

“Let us not forget our friends whom we served with. Let us be proud of what we did, and let us not forget what we’ve shared together.” Lesher could see her tears in the darkness. She reached her hands behind her head and untied her hair bun. She shook free her long blonde hair and nestled her head on Lesher’s chest.

“You’re all my heroes,” she uttered as their world began to shudder violently around them. “And I love you all.”

She then raised her head to face Lesher’s, her hand caressing his cheek.

“Hold me, Roy. Like before.” He pulled his arms tightly around her and held her like he used to. She buried her face in his chest. He closed his eyes and smelled the honey and lavender fragrance of her hair for the last time.