Outskirts Press, INC.

The Past Instructs the Future

In the threat of nuclear war, the President orders USS Constitution, America's oldest continually commissioned warship, to escape, hoping Old Ironsides will survive to inspire a post-apocalyptic world. On the eve of her sailing, her master disappears, taken on a fantastic voyage through space and time.

The concisely written paragraphs on a single cover page more than effectively revealed the sensational urgency behind them. Continuity of Government programs run on National Security Agency computers, so secret only the head of the House and Senate Intelligence Committees were aware they existed, had locked on to patterns detected during the last ninety days. As of late last night, the findings were indisputable. Like Al’s summons, the final paragraph was chillingly succinct: “Based on analysis of intelligence intercepts, unprecedented deployments of Russian and Chinese navies, dramatically heightened terrorist chatter among ISIL cells within U.S. borders, an attack on the United States has grown from possible to probable.” Al studied Hiram’s face as he read further. He took another measure of the man he knew well, knowing the effect his words would have on him. Propped on his elbows he spoke slowly, “This is it, my friend. Unless things change, and start praying they do and damn fast, the world is most likely about to experience nuclear war.” Hiram looked back at the paper: “…from possible to probable.” The words were numbing. Hiram laid the folder down as though it might explode. For reasons he did not understand, he stood and walked again to the window. He ran his hands through his long hair and rubbed his deeply tanned face. He could not speak, only lovingly gaze again at the Old Ironsides. “I guess there’s no doubt?” was all he could finally manage, knowing there was no doubt, but hoping, bargaining -- somehow -- that someone far away was overreacting. He stood and walked again to look out the window. If Al had said anything, Hiram would not have heard. The view was all he could, or wanted to process. Only one single light was still on, the one on the fantail that lit the stars and stripes. His nation’s flag hung motionless over the gilded letters proudly carved nearly two hundred years ago into the ship’s broad transom. Answers to his questions were coming into focus. He knew why he was there. He wrote the scenario. He focused on the flag wondering where and for how much longer it would waive over the land of the free, if at all. In the chaos of a world facing the unspeakable horrors of total Armageddon, Commander Al Kahn, USN, civilian sailing master H.H. Haynes and a hundred twenty-five hand-picked crewmen were about to carry out what most likely would be their final orders. USS Constitution was about to sail into eternity.