Goliath

“Hell is full of good meanings and best wishes.”

—George Herbert

“Hell is other people.”

—Jean-Paul Sartre

CHAPTER 7

Kingston Inn

Kingston, Washington

The hotel room is musty, its drab olive green carpet reeking of the decrepit odors of mildew. Gunnar lies spread-eagled on the king-size bed. He stares at the television screen, the football game growing hazy as his eyes begin glazing over from exhaustion.

The knock startles him awake. He pulls back the drab, mothball-scented curtains, takes a peek outside, then quickly unchains the door.

The woman enters. “Shut the door. We don’t have much time.”

Gunnar obeys, his head still in a jet-lag fog. “Jesus, what are you doing here? I thought—”

“Don’t think, sit and listen.” She checks the bathroom, verifying they are alone.

Gunnar smooths the entanglement of bedclothes, then sits on the edge of the mattress, watching as she leans back against the dresser to face him, her arms folded in displeasure across her wiry frame.

Dr. Elizabeth Goode has the pale complexion and demeanor of someone who spends the majority of each workday’s eighteen waking hours in a windowless laboratory. The shoulder-length hair is still brown, though graying around the part. The gaunt face—librarian pretty—is still devoid of makeup. Dark circles shadow the hazel eyes—eyes that take in everything. “You look like hell, G-man.”

“Been there.”

“No, you’ve been to purgatory. Hell is what’s going to break out unless you stop Simon.”

“And why should I do that?”

“Because this is all your fault.”

“My fault?”

“That’s right. If you had followed my instructions and downloaded the virus when I told you to, then you’d be watching television with Rocky and your 2.5 kids right now, instead of listening to some old lab rat babble in this dumpy motel room.”

“Well, guess I screwed up. Next time, do it yourself.”

“There won’t be a next time, but there will be another Goliath.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dr. Goode shoots him a chastising look. “Don’t be so naive. You really think the DoD was going to walk away from this project, just because of a mere 2-billion-dollar setback? Goliath’s sister ship, the Colossus, has been under construction since your second year in prison.”

“Jesus …” Gunnar feels light-headed.

“She was built in total secrecy; even Congress doesn’t know about it. Vice President Maller covertly diverted funds from the Energy Department for years. The entire base is run by the NSA like a military prison. And there’s no almost crossover in personnel from the GOLIATH Project.”

“Almost?”

“Not me, I flatly refused. It was never my decision to put Sorceress on board the Goliath, and I wasn’t about to let that happen again. Colossus is being outfitted with the Virginia-class computers. The ship won’t be autonomous, but it’s still the second-most dangerous thing in the sea.”

“What are you asking me to do?”

“Take Jackson’s offer. Rejoin his team.”

“Forget it. I don’t even know why Jackson needs me?”

“It wasn’t Jackson who requested you. It was David Paniagua.”

“David?” Mention of Dr. Goode’s former assistant stirs distant memories.

“David’s in charge of the COLOSSUS Project.”

“I thought you said—”

“David was appointed when I refused. He has a plan, one that can get you and an infiltration team aboard the Goliath. You can retake the ship before Simon does any more damage.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then the holocaust that follows will be on your head.”

She starts for the door, then turns. “Gunnar, I’m sorry for everything that’s happened, but you have to finish this business. Be careful.”

“Yeah … thanks.”

She offers a consoling look, then leaves.

Gunnar watches from the window as she crosses the street and climbs inside a waiting car.

Elizabeth Goode leans back against the gray leather seat as the Lincoln swerves into traffic.

“So?”

“He’ll do it.” She looks away, swallowing the lump rising in her throat.

General Jackson nods, satisfied. “Thank you, Dr. Goode. And now, you and your sons are free to leave the country.”

Norwegian Sea

Aboard the USS Scranton

Tom Cubit leans forward, staring at the BSY-1 low-frequency passive and active search-and-attack sonar. “Where is she, Flynnie?”

“If I’m right, sir, she’s directly behind the Typhoon.”

“You think the Typhoon knows she’s in her baffles?”

“I doubt it, Skipper. She’s quiet, just a whisper.” He points to the pattern of green snow running vertically along his screen. “Every few seconds I get a whiff of a ghost signature, nothing solid. Those damn propulsors are smooth as silk.”

“How big is this thing?”

“Hard to tell without going active. If I’m right, she’s big, as wide as the Typhoon is long, only real flat, like she has wings. She’s smooth and curved in all the right places. It’s like trying to find a Stealth bomber. Sonar can’t seem to gain a foothold on her.”

“Does she know we’re here?”

“No, sir, I don’t think so.”

“Let’s keep it that way. XO, take us to battle stations, rig ship for ultraquiet running. Sonar, how far ahead of us is the Typhoon?”

“Range, twenty thousand yards. She’s staying on course two-one-zero, moving away from us at a steady fifteen knots. The second sonar contact is trailing about three thousand yards in her baffles, matching course and speed. Flynnie’s right, the Typhoon doesn’t seem to know the contact’s there.”

“Designate second sonar contact Sierra-2. XO, get me a firing solution.”

“Aye, sir, already working on it.”

“Conn, Captain, come ahead one-third, stay on course two-one-zero. Michael-Jack, think you can track Sierra-2?”

“Now that I know what to listen for, yes, but only over a very short range. I can’t really hear her, I’m just sort of focusing in on the dead spot she’s leaving in the water.”

“Do whatever it takes, just don’t lose her.”

“Aye, sir.”

Cubit heads back to the control room. “XO, where’s my firing solution?” “Sorry, sir, FCS is unable to maintain a solid fix. The contact keeps maneuvering, and sonar only has a weak trace. Sierra-2’s just too flat in the water.”

“Then let’s change the angle. Sonar, conn, estimate Sierra-2’s depth.”

“Best guess—five hundred feet, Captain.”

“Chief, make your depth eight hundred feet, ten-degree down angle. Let’s see if we can sneak a peek under her skirt.”

“Aye, Captain, making my depth eight hundred feet, ten-degree down angle.”

The helmsman pushes down on the wheel. “Six hundred feet. Seven hundred—”

“Captain, the BSY-1 has acquired a good tracking solution on Sierra-2.”

“WEPS, Captain, match generated bearings. Flood tubes one and two. I want full safeties on. If we get a clear shot, we’ll take it.”

Commander Dennis leans toward Cubit, and whispers, “We accidentally hit that Typhoon, and we could start World War III.”

“Conn, sonar, I’m getting two more tonals, both originating from Sierra-2.”

“Torpedoes?”

“Negative, sir, they’re larger, moving out ahead of Sierra-2, heading for the Typhoon. Sir, I’m registering ambient sounds, like orca.”

If they wanted to sink her, they’d have done it by now. What the hell are they doing? “Sonar, conn, designate new bearings Sierra-3 and Sierra-4. WEPS, conn, open outer doors for torpedo tubes one and two.”

Aboard the Goliath

A volumetric map of the vicinity appears on the large overhead control room monitor. Simon Covah stares at the display, the wave of adrenaline teasing a distant memory.

You’re eight years old when your father returns from a six-month mission and declares he’s enrolled you in a boarding school in Moscow. You’re terrified inside, but you put on a brave face, because one less mouth to feed at home would make it easier on your poor mother. At the school, you become the object of ridicule, a slovenly carrottop too frail to compete on the playing field. So you turn inward, mastering your studies, becoming the youngest graduate in the history of the school. You do not feel your parents’ pride, your only motivation—to escape the school and its physics professor, a man whose sexual perversions will stain your psyche for the rest of your days.

The haunting female voice of Sorceress reverberates from the speaker.

ALERT-ONE. TONAL CONTACT, BEARING ZERO-SIX-ZERO, RANGE 5,742 METERS, DEPTH, 782 FEET. CLASSIFICATION: UNITED STATES, LOS ANGELES-CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE. OUTER TORPEDO DOORS HAVE OPENED. PROBABILITY OF TORPEDO LAUNCH: 62 PERCENT. ENGAGING DEFENSIVE PROTOCOL. COUNTERMEASURES ARMED, ANTITORPEDO TORPEDOES LOADED INTO TUBES ONE AND TWO. GOLIATH OFFENSIVE FIRING SOLUTION PLOTTED. MK-48 ADCAP TORPEDOES LOADED INTO TUBES THREE THRU SIX.

Simon Covah smooths the thick, rust-colored hairs of his goatee, staring at his bizarre reflection in the dark viewport glass. “As my father would say, ‘it’s time for the thrill of the hunt.’ Sorceress, disable the Russian Typhoon’s engines. Destroy the American sub once it moves into firing range.”

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Aboard the USS Scranton

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has increased its speed to twenty knots and has closed to within eight hundred yards of the Typhoon.”

“Conn, weapons. We’ve lost our firing solution, sir.”

“Damn.” Cubit grips the vinyl arms of his command chair, a recent addition in the Scranton’s control room. He turns to his executive officer. “Suggestions?”

“Fire now and there’s a fifty-fifty chance you’ll accidentally hit the Typhoon and start a war. If you don’t fire, the Typhoon will probably be destroyed. Of course, assuming Goliath just heard our outer doors open, we’re sitting ducks anyway. I say we shit or get off the pot.”

Cubit glances around the control room. To his left is the ship control station, the ship’s control team strapped into their bucket seats, the diving officer hovering close. On the opposite side of the chamber, five technicians man the BSY-1 and weapons console. He feels the eyes of his officers upon him, every man calm on the outside, fear in their guts as they await his next order. “Tell you what, XO, instead of shitting, how about we just flush. WEPS, stand by to compute a new firing solution.” Cubit fingers the 1-MC. “Sonar, this is the captain. Give me two pings down the bearing of Sierra-2.”

The XO’s eyes widen. “You’re alerting Romanov?”

“And pulling our pants down at the same time.”

Two hollow pings echo through the sea like underwater gongs.

Aboard the Typhoon TK-20

“It’s a Los Angeles-class attack sub, Kapitan. Nine thousand meters and closing.”

Romanov’s thick eyebrows rise.

“Kapitan, there’s something else right behind us! Another vessel, very large—”

The captain feels his heart jump-start with adrenaline. “Identify—”

“Unknown origin, sir. Eight hundred meters and closing.”

“Sound alarm. Evasive maneuvers. Left full rudder, all ahead flank!”

Aboard the USS Scranton

“Conn, sonar, the Typhoon’s changed course and increased her speed.”

“Conn, weapons, we’ve reestablished a firing solution on Sierra-2.”

“Match sonar bearings and shoot tube one.”

“Aye, sir, firing tube one.”

The wire-guided Mk-48 Advanced Capability torpedo races out from the bow, the thirty-four-hundred-pound projectile’s sonar seeker homing in on Goliath.

“Captain, own ship’s unit has acquired Sierra-2.”

That’s for the Jacksonville and the Hampton. “WEPS, flood down tubes three and four.”

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has launched two torpedoes, bearing two-two-zero. Sir, both fish went active the moment they were fired!”

“Torpedo evasion! Right full rudder, steady course three-two-zero.”

The terrified helmsman pushes against the wheel, racing the Scranton down and away from the two enemy torpedoes, while simultaneously signaling for flank speed on the engine-order-telegraph. Four dull thumps are heard—the reactor’s coolant pumps shifting to fast speed to provide maximum cooling to the reactors as the turbines throttle open to 100 percent steam flow.

A single explosion reverberates through the interior compartment, the first of Goliath’s torpedoes slamming into the Scranton’s projectile.

“Conn, sonar—sir, one of Sierra-2’s torpedoes just detonated our own ship’s unit.”

Cubit and his XO make eye contact. “An antitorpedo torpedo?”

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 second torpedo just went active. Bearing two-fourthree … Sir, Sierra-2’s torpedo is an Mk-48! Range, twenty-seven hundred yards and closing very fast—”

The sweat-streaked faces of the crew turn to their captain. The Mk-48 is the most lethal torpedo in the world, its seeker head designed to hunt down and destroy enemy subs at great distances—and the Scranton is well within striking range.

The hunter has become the hunted.

“Helm, right full rudder, steady course north. Dive, mark your depth—”

“Nine hundred feet,” the diving officer reports, his pulse racing, his bladder tightening.

“Maintain a fifteen-degree down angle—”

“Conn, sonar, torpedo range now fifteen hundred yards. Impact in eighty seconds—”

“Sir, we’re passing nine hundred feet. Nine-fifty. Nine-sixty …”

The helmsman looks up at the diving officer. The sub’s deep-water tolerance is only 950 feet.

Cubit stares at the second hand sweeping across the face of the gold pocket watch his grandfather had given him long ago, after the leukemia and the futile chemotherapy had taken the life out of the gruff old man. I won’t be needing this now, Tommy. Keep it close to you, and I’ll find a way to be there when you need me …

“WEPS, prepare to launch countermeasures.”

“Aye, sir, preparing to launch countermeasures.”

“Depth now passing one thousand feet. One thousand fifty …”

Cubit blinks away perspiration from his eyes, his brain dissecting the numbers, his lips moving silently as his mind calculates. Surviving a torpedo attack at close range requires steady nerves and more than a bit of luck. He recalls a favorite expression of his old skipper aboard the Toledo: When it comes to actual combat, a coward will shit his pants, while a brave man merely pisses.

The computer on board the pinging Mk-48 validates Scranton as its target, the projectile increasing its speed to sixty knots, pinging faster …

“Conn, sonar, torpedo bearing two-one-seven, range seven hundred yards … torpedo has acquired … torpedo is range-gating!”

“Launch countermeasures! Helm, hard left rudder, steady course two-seven-zero. Dive, thirty-degree up angle—”

Two acoustic device countermeasures are expelled into the sea and begin spinning, their gyrations simulating the Scranton’s propeller.

The sub lurches, rolling hard to starboard as her screw catches the ocean, driving the sixty-nine-hundred-ton ship upward, her hull plates groaning under the stress, her terrified crew tossed sideways.

“Conn, sonar—torpedo impact in thirty seconds—”

“Chief of the Watch, conduct a one-second emergency blow of all main ballast tanks.”

“One-second blow, aye, sir!” Struggling to stand against the thirty-degree up angle, the chief auxiliary man reaches above his head, grabbing the two gray handles of the ship’s emergency blow system, and, with a great lunge, thrusts them upward.

A deafening sound rips through the sub as 4500 psi pressurized air is released from the air banks into the five main ballast tanks surrounding the Scranton’s pressurized hull, thereby expelling their water to drastically lighten the ship.

The incoming torpedo homes in on the noise.

Almost immediately, the Chief of the Watch depresses and pulls down on the “chicken switches,” holding on as the Scranton surges upward like a beach ball from the bottom of the pool.

Lost in the “knuckle” of noise, the incoming torpedo continues descending, following the countermeasures until it has hopelessly lost track of the evading submarine. Running out of fuel, it spirals downward and implodes in the deep recesses of the North Atlantic.

“Conn, sonar, torpedo destroyed!”

Sighs of relief, cheers, and a few whispered prayers of thanks rise in a chorus from the nerve-wracked crew.

Cubit mops perspiration from his face. “All stop.”

“All stop, aye, sir.”

“Dive, vent the main ballast tanks.”

“Vent the tanks, aye, sir.”

“Sonar, Captain, where’s Sierra-2?”

“Conn, sonar, I lost contact, sir.”

“Where’s the Typhoon?”

“Sir, Sierra-1 has changed course to two-six-zero, range thirty thousand yards, moving away from us at twenty knots. She’s running, Skipper.”

Aboard the Typhoon

“Load torpedoes one and two,” Captain Romanov orders. “Match bearings. Prepare to fire.”

“Not yet, Kapitan,” Ivan Kron calls out. “Range to bearing is less than two hundred meters. She’s right behind us and still closing.”

This is madness, is the man trying to ram us? “Let’s shake her loose. Helm, right full rudder, come to course zero-eight-zero—”

“Kapitan, two more contacts, much smaller, closing on both propeller shafts. I’m sorry, sir, I thought they were biologics.”

Aboard the Goliath

Simon Covah stands before one of the immense Lexan viewports, the reinforced glass casting its crimson glow across his flesh-and-steel face. A powerful outer light in Goliath’s flattened triangular bow ignites, the intense lighthouselike beacon piercing the darkness of the sea, illuminating the stern of the fleeing Typhoon.

You are a boy who computes equations like Einstein and grasps science like an overheated dog slurps water. You see things differently, your brain able to dissect problems in ways alien to your colleagues. You are fourteen and you wear the same overcoat you’ve worn since grade school, but you’ve just been enrolled in Moscow’s most prestigious university. You are a sheep among thousands of wolves. You spend your days alone in your room, bored with your studies, but lacking the money and companions to occupy your time. Your mind is a sponge that cannot be saturated, so you feed it Shakespeare and Bach and Ludwig van, wondering what pain life has in store for you next.

Covah watches as two of the sleek, steel gray hammerhead shark-shaped minisubs close quickly upon the Russian sub’s twin screws. This time, I am the predator. This time, I am the wolf.

The Typhoon rolls hard to starboard, attempting to distance itself. Goliath banks like a 747 jumbo jet, its bow sensors locked on the Russian sub, its superior hydrodynamic design mirroring the exact movements of its prey.

The two remotely operated mechanical sharks move into position behind the Typhoon’s churning propeller. Steel mouths yawn open, revealing small launch tubes.

With an expulsion of pressurized gas, a lightweight torpedo is fired from the open mouth of each minisub. Launched at point-blank range, the two projectiles slam into the heart of each of the Typhoon’s propeller assemblies, detonating right on the twin seven-blade screws in an explosion of searing hot bubbles and steel.

Aboard the Typhoon

The double explosion buckles the Russian sub, jolting it forward, the screams of the Iranian trainees quickly drowned out by the high-pitched clanging of the ruptured driveshafts, the hideous noise echoing throughout the crippled vessel.

Romanov’s face smashes into the map table. Righting himself, he grabs the ship’s intercom, spitting out a tooth and a mouthful of blood. “Damage report, all departments—”

“Kapitan, engine room. Both screws and driveshafts are gone.”

“What do you mean—gone?”

“The detonations, sir. They took out both propulsion units. We’re dead in the water, Kapitan. The inner hull casings have been compromised, and we’ve got heavy flooding—”

“Seal the compartments. Get your men out of there.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Reactor room, report.”

“Reactor room here. Both reactors still on-line, but there’s been damage. Recommend we shut down and switch to batteries.”

“Do it. Sonar, report. Where’s the vessel that fired upon us?”

“Searching for her now, sir. We’re still having trouble getting a fix.”

“Find that sub now! Where are the Americans?”

“Uncertain, Kapitan. They escaped, then went quiet.”

Romanov signals to his XO. “Get a message to Moscow—”

Another explosion shudders the Typhoon, this one originating from above.

Romanov looks up, his heart pounding.

“Kapitan, this is Ensign Chernov in the missile control center. Missile tube seventeen is flooding. That last explosion blew the outer and inner hatches clear off.”

Aboard the USS Scranton

The USS Scranton hovers silently, six hundred feet below the surface, having crept to within three nautical miles northeast of the damaged Typhoon.

Captain Cubit and his XO stand behind the three sonar technicians, both men watching their monitors intently.

“Another explosion,” Michael Flynn reports, grabbing his headphones. “Sounds of flooding. Sir, I can’t be sure, but I think it came from one of the missile hatches.”

The sonar supervisor wipes sweat from his forehead. “If those warheads detonate, the explosion will make Hiroshima look like a firecracker.”

Flynn turns around. “Captain, the Typhoon’s rising.”

Commander Dennis looks at his CO. “Romanov has no choice. His screws are gone, and his sub’s taking on water. If he doesn’t surface now, he may sink for good.”

The captain nods. “Flynnie, still no sign of Sierra-2?”

“No, sir.”

“Keep searching, she has to be close to the Typhoon. Conn, this is the captain. Come to ahead one-third, bring us to within one mile of Sierra-1. Nice and quiet, Mr. Friedenthal. Keep us at three knots.”

“Three knots, aye, sir.”

“WEPS, Captain. Make the weapons in tubes two, three, and four ready in all respects.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Michael-Jack, is the Typhoon still ascending?”

“Aye, sir. I make her depth two hundred feet. One-eight-zero … one-five-zero … whoah, hold on—”

“What is it?”

“Sir, the Typhoon just struck something.”

“Identify—what was it?”

“Stand by, sir.” Ensign Flynn closes his eyes to concentrate. “Son of a bitch, I don’t believe it … Sir, it’s Sierra-2. She must be lying directly on top of the Typhoon, preventing her from surfacing.”

Aboard the Typhoon

The oil-covered faces of the Typhoon’s crew look up in bewilderment as the reverberation of the collision registers in their bones.

“Forty-five meters from the surface, Kapitan. We’ve stopped rising.”

The sound of straining metal against an immovable object echoes above their heads.

Romanov fights to maintain his composure. “It’s the other sub. She’s pinning us below the surface.”

Pale, frightened faces stare at the Russian captain in disbelief.

“Damage control, how much water have we taken on?”

“About two thousand tons, Kapitan. All damaged compartments are now sealed, and the ballast tanks are blown.”

“Kapitan, sonar. Sir, I can hear divers in the water.”

Aboard the Goliath

The watertight door of the claustrophobic chamber seals, activating a violet-red interior light. Simon Covah adjusts his face mask for the third time as the icy cold sea fills the pressurized compartment. The thirty-three-degree water rises to his chest, the bulky dry suit barely able to keep his body warm. He pulls the hood tighter around his face and cheek, the dull throb in his mangled earhole signaling the steady increase in atmospheric pressure within Goliath’s massive locking chamber.

The disease that threatens his life has spread throughout his body, the effects of the treatment leaving him weak. Still, Covah refuses to succumb to the cancer. This is my ship, my mission. I’ll do what needs to be done or die trying …

The violet-red light blinks off, replaced by an electric green. The outer door opens. Covah stares into the deep blue void, then follows the other two divers into the sea.

Slow, sluggish movement as Covah descends, the haunting grind of metal against metal ringing in his good ear. The scar tissue bordering his steel plate tightens from the change in pressure.

Struggling to descend, he releases more air from his buoyancy-control vest. Falling faster now, he looks below. The dark back of the immobile Typhoon seems to jump up at him, the huge submarine fighting to find its equilibrium against its larger, heavier oppressor. Above, blotting out the sun like a titanium ice floe is the immense undercarriage of the Goliath. The steel stingray’s enormous keel has come to rest over the top of the Typhoon’s sail, preventing the Russian sub from rising, crushing its periscope in the process.

Two unmanned minisubs hover above the Typhoon’s blown missile hatch, the Hammerhead’s underwater lights trained on the vented silo. Covah swims awkwardly toward the hole, directing the beam of his own flashlight inside. Six feet below, the glistening white nose cone of the 185,000-pound R-39U nuclear missile stares back at him like a bizarre eyeball.

Covah glances at the bright red eyes of the two shark-shaped submersibles. He holds up the remote manipulator device, a small, pronged object the size of a cellular phone. Okay, Sorceress, watch what I am doing. Watch and learn.

Entering the flooded silo headfirst, Covah reaches down, slipping his left arm between the nose cone and the control section of the post-boost vehicle (PBV) just below it. After opening an access panel, he attaches the magnetic backing of the object to the guidance panel, the remote unit quickly establishing a connection.

Upon contact, Goliath’s brain instantly initiates a link with the Typhoon’s outclassed computer system, its invading commands downloaded in a nanosecond. The Russian missile’s fuel hoses disconnect, and then the enormous projectile begins spinning, rotating higher out of the vented silo.

Covah backs out as the remaining nineteen missile hatches yawn open in unison.

Aboard the USS Scranton

“Yes, sir, that’s what I heard. Multiple missile hatches aboard the Typhoon just popped open.”

“Radio, Captain, any reply from Naval Intelligence?”

“No, sir.”

“Send another message. Inform them the Typhoon is at launch depth, and her missile hatches have opened. Commander, is it possible for Goliath’s crew to launch those missiles?”

“If they can access the hatches, they can override the launch codes.”

“Conn, Captain. How close are we to the Typhoon?”

“Six thousand yards, sir.”

“WEPS, this is the captain. Plot a firing solution on Sierra-1.”

Commander Dennis motions Cubit aside. “Tom, you can’t fire on a Russian submarine.”

“Naval Intelligence believes there may be as many as half a dozen nukes on board that Typhoon. I can’t just sit here and allow Covah to launch those missiles.”

Michael Flynn presses his headphones tighter. “Captain, I hear something different, sounds like a winch, coming from Sierra-2. Stand by—”

Cubit and Dennis stare at the sonar technician, watching a bead of sweat make its way down the man’s temple.

“Skipper, I can’t be sure, but I think … I think they’re stealing the Russian’s missiles.”

Aboard the Typhoon

“I’m sorry, Kapitan, we can’t seem to override the system. The missiles have been disengaged from their launch tubes and are being removed, one at a time.”

“Pirates?” Captain Romanov slams his fist against the map table, cracking the plastic top. “This will not happen, not on my watch. Chief, reflood the ballast tanks manually. Prepare to scuttle the ship.”

An Arab turns to his Iranian captain, translating the Russian’s order into Farsi. The Iranian captain’s eyes widen. Within moments, six Iranian officers are chest-to-chest with their Russian hosts, the air hostile with obscenities and hand gestures.

“Kapitan, radio room. Sir, two Russian helicopters approaching from the northeast. ETA sixteen minutes.”

Romanov looks to his executive officer, who is trying to pacify his Iranian counterpart. Kron wipes perspiration from his thick mustache. “I suggest we stay put, Kapitan, and keep our enemy occupied. Our helicopter’s torpedoes will make fast work of these pirates.”

Simon Covah watches from the hull of the Typhoon as another Russian SLBM is hauled by steel cable and winch out of its vertical launch tube and guided into Goliath’s hangar, an immense pressurized compartment located along the underbelly of the ship. He checks his watch, cursing to himself. The interference of the Los Angeles–class attack sub has cost him precious time. Though he is fairly confident the American submarine commander will not fire upon them while they remain so close to the Typhoon, he is just as certain the Russian helicopters will.

Looking up, he is surprised to see another diver, Thomas Chau, swim down to him. The Asian points up to the Goliath.

Covah nods, signaling: One more.

The diver shakes his head no, dragging his captain toward the ship.

Aboard the USS Scranton

The Scranton hovers silently, sixty feet below the surface, one mile due west of the crippled Typhoon. Tom Cubit’s face presses against the rubber eyepiece of the periscope, focusing on the dark silhouette of Goliath’s head, a black island of synthetic rubber-coated steel peeking just above the swells. “WEPS, Captain, stand by to fire.”

“Aye, sir, standing by.”

“Conn, ESM, Russian choppers, approaching from the northeast. Twenty-two miles and closing fast. ETA, four minutes.”

“Took ’em long enough.” Cubit takes another long look through the periscope at the Goliath, still finding it hard to fathom the sub’s incredible size. “All right, gentlemen, let’s kill this thing. WEPS, open outer doors of tubes two and three, firing point procedures, Sierra-2. Chief, take us down slowly, make your depth two hundred feet.” Cubit’s voice is calm, methodical, though he knows he is again placing his sub in harm’s way. Come on you bastard, move away from the Typhoon.

“Russian choppers, ten miles—”

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 is moving out. Course, two-seven-zero. You guessed right, Skipper, she’s heading our way, five thousand yards and closing. She’s going deep.”

Beads of sweat drip from Cubit’s forehead as his mind analyzes this new game of cat and mouse.

“Four thousand yards—”

Does she know we’re here? If no, she’s ours. If yes … “WEPS, fire tubes two and three.”

“Firing tubes two and three, aye, sir.”

“Conn, radar, two helicopters, moving directly over Sierra-2.”

“Conn, sonar, multiple objects have just entered the water. Sonar buoys, Skipper. Sonars are pinging … Conn, sonar, four more objects just entered the water. Type-65 Russian torpedoes—two on us, two on Sierra-2.”

“Emergency deep, come to course two-zero-zero, all ahead flank. Rig ship for depth charge, release two noisemakers—”

“Conn, sonar, own ship’s units two and three have acquired Sierra-2, range two thousand yards and closing at fifty-five knots. Skipper, the two Russian torpedoes chasing us have disengaged.”

Cubit, staring at the sweeping second hand of his grandfather’s watch, mutters, “Thanks, Yuri …”

“Conn, sonar, the two Russian torpedoes have acquired Sierra-2. Own ship’s units are homing! Sierra-2s running, but she can’t hide. Four torpedoes bearing down upon her … impact in twenty seconds—”

The XO slaps Cubit on the shoulder. “You nailed her.”

“Captain, sonar—sir, Sierra-2’s gone!”

“Say again?” Cubit feels the blood drain from his face. “Sonar, Captain, what do you mean, gone?”

“Sir, she went from thirty to sixty-five knots like a rocket and blew right past the torpedoes.”

Cubit closes his eyes in stunned silence.

Aboard the Goliath

Simon Covah unzips the dry suit, too exhausted to move. He looks down at his face mask, staring at his bizarre reflection.

You are only nineteen, but your formal studies are already a distant memory. Your estranged father reenters your life, escorting you to your new taskmasters like a farmer selling his prized cow at the marketplace. Your brain, yearning for space to stretch its gray matter, is once again harnessed, this time by Communist warmongers intent on strengthening the nuclear threat of the Soviet Navy.

Sergey Nikitich Kovalev is the chief designer of a new class of ballistic missile submarines and the first person to take the time to know you. He quickly endears himself as a father figure, one you have been lacking since birth. But Kovalev is empowered by a realm that equates quantity with results, safety as an afterthought. Despite your warnings, the Typhoon-class is built, containing enough engineering and design faults to sink a carrier.

ATTENTION: RUSSIAN ANTISUBMARINE HELICOPTERS HAVE ESTABLISHED AN ARRAY OF SONAR BUOYS AROUND TARGET. LOS ANGELES—CLASS ATTACK SUB STILL AT LARGE. REMAINING IN TARGET AREA YIELDS A 22 PERCENT PROBABILITY OF SUSTAINING DAMAGE. DEFENSIVE PROTOCOL SUPERSEDES SLBM EXTRACTION PROCESS.

“No,” Covah rasps in anger, his hands quivering, “I will not leave until that warship is on the bottom of the ocean!”

Sujan Trevedi whispers into Covah’s good ear. “Simon, there are innocent men on board. There’s no reason to—”

Covah stares at the Tibetan, the man he recruited into his underground peace movement almost twelve years earlier. “No, Sujan, I will not allow a death ship like the Typhoon to survive. Sorceress, override defense protocol. Return to the target area and destroy that Russian submarine.”

ACKNOWLEDGED.

The monstrous steel stingray banks sharply and rises.

Aboard the USS Scranton

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has come about—she’s coming back! Bearing, zero-seven-zero, ascending fast. Skipper, she’s on the surface, doing fifty knots, heading straight for the Typhoon.”

“All stop. Sonar, Captain, what’s Sierra-2’s range to the Scranton?”

“Sir, if she maintains course and speed, she’ll pass directly over us in fifty-five seconds.”

The Goliath streaks along the surface, her five pump-jet propulsors shredding the sea into foam, her dark, winged torso concealed just beneath the waves, her bulbous black head pushing above the Atlantic, plowing the waves like an enraged bull sperm whale. Scarlet eyes blaze through the swells, the sea rolling over the devil fish’s face and spiny back—

—where the exterior hatches of a pair of vertical missile launchers have opened.

Two glistening Harpoon missiles leap into the sky, trailing puffs of fire and smoke, the projectiles streaking toward their prey.

“Three thousand yards—”

Cubit’s heart races faster.

“Conn, sonar, two more Russian torpedoes just entered the water, course, zero-seven-zero, heading right for Sierra-2. Torpedoes are homing—”

“Conn, radar, multiple aerial explosions! Both Russian helicopters destroyed.”

Christ, how do you stop this thing? “WEPS, prepare to fire tube four.” Cubit grits his teeth as the battle scene plays out four hundred feet above his head. She’ll launch her antitorpedo torpedoes, then take out the Typhoon. Play possum. Wait until she’s closer …

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has launched four torpedoes, all fish active—”

“Rig ship for depth charge—”

Michael Flynn pulls away his headphones as multiple explosions slam into his eardrums. “Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has destroyed both Russian torpedoes. The remaining two Mk-48s are heading directly for the Typhoon. Impact in ten seconds.”

Aboard the Typhoon

The Typhoon has surfaced, a dying vessel listing to port, its crew scrambling across the deck in life jackets, tossing inflatable rafts into the sea.

Captain Romanov squints against the morning light as he climbs up into the bridge. Turning to starboard, he sees the two Mk-48 ADCAP torpedoes streaking just below the surface toward his boat.

“Incoming torpedoes! Rafts to port! Everyone into the water—now!”

The Russian sailors glance up at their captain, then jump overboard into the freezing ocean.

Yuri Romanov straddles the sail guard—then stops. Beyond the torpedoes, accelerating toward his boat is a dark forty-foot wake. Two demonic scarlet eyes blaze back at him from within the approaching swell.

“Kapitan, come on!” Ivan Kron reaches up from the deck and grabs Romanov by the ankle, dragging him over the sail’s ice-breaking cover and down the steel ladder.

The two torpedoes slam into the Typhoon’s exposed flank, piercing the superstructure’s five titanium inner layers before exploding.

The hull splits in half, the violent upheaval launching Captain Romanov and his XO into the water. Within seconds, the Arctic sea surges into the ruptured compartments, tearing the behemoth Russian sub apart, dragging its flooding, fractured hull into the icy depths.

Aboard the USS Scranton

“Conn, sonar, two direct hits. Men in the water. I can hear the keel cracking … the Typhoon’s going down fast.”

Cubit squeezes his fists. She’s too fast for our torpedoes. Let her move closer …

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 is slowing. Sierra-2 is circling through the debris field along the surface, range two thousand yards. Coming back this way. Fifteen hundred yards … one thousand … she’s turning away—”

“WEPS, fire tube four.”

“Conn, weapons, torpedo away.”

The Mk-48 ADCAP torpedo spits out of the Scranton’s bow, racing toward the mammoth mechanical stingray circling along the surface.

“Conn, sonar, own ship’s unit has acquired Sierra-2, impact in thirty seconds. Sierra-2 is running … Sierra-2 is going deep. Own ship’s unit is homing …”

“Prepare to cut wires—”

“Sierra-2 is changing course, coming about—”

“WEPS, belay that order! Helm, right full rudder, all ahead flank—”

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 is coming about, heading straight for us!”

“WEPS, detonate own ship’s unit!”

The thunderous explosion of the Scranton’s torpedo echoes through the sub, the concussion wave striking a moment later, rolling the American attack sub hard to starboard. Power flickers off, emergency lights on. Water sprays from a burst pipe. Men rush to close valves, assessing damage even as they stabilize their stations, their training and duty to the ship barely restraining the primordial instinct to panic. The claustrophobia and fear tighten around each submariner’s throat like a vise.

Cubit grabs the 1-MC. “Sonar, report—”

“Conn, sonar, she tried to double back on us but you nailed her first. A miss, but the explosion must have damaged her. She’s slowed to fifteen knots, bearing one-two-zero, range three thousand yards. Sounds like we bent one of her pump jets, it’s creating a lot of cavitation.”

“XO, damage report?”

“All stations reporting. Flooding under control. Minor damage only.”

“Let’s finish this business before she runs. Helm, all ahead two-thirds, left full rudder, steady one-two-zero. WEPS, make the weapons in tubes one and two ready in all respects.”

“Aye, sir, making tubes one and two ready in all respects—”

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 is increasing speed. Twenty knots, twenty-five—”

“WEPS, match sonar bearings and shoot tubes one and two.”

“Aye, sir, firing one and two.”

Cubit squeezes the padded arms of his chair. Come on, baby, catch her, nail her right in the ass. In his mind’s eye he imagines Goliath’s untrained crew panicking as they struggle to reload two antitorpedo torpedoes.

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has launched two torpedoes, bearing one-three-zero, heading straight for own ship’s units one and two.”

More antitorpedo torpedoes … Cubit swears under his breath. Goddamn American ingenuity … “WEPS, what’s the status on tubes three and four?”

“Three ready, four still reloading.”

“Make tube three ready in all respects—”

“Conn, sonar,” Flynn’s voice has risen noticeably, “Sierra-2’s torpedoes have bypassed three and four, both torpedoes heading straight for us!”

“Torpedo evasion—torpedo evasion!” The emergency command causes the helm to go to flank speed, the diving officer to race the ship to evasion depth, and weapons to launch countermeasures.

The Scranton rolls, Cubit holding on as his ship nose-dives toward the seafloor, the two Mk-48 ADCAPS descending quickly in pursuit, the CO’s face flushed purplish red with anger. Goddamn motherfucker sookered me in …

“Conn, sonar, both torpedoes active, six hundred yards and closing.”

The crew holds on, their limbs shaking, their prayers, silent and whispered, reaching out to heaven as their ship descends toward hell.

“Eight hundred feet—” The Chief of the Watch stares at the depth gauge and holds on, the sweat pouring from his cherub pink face.

“Torpedoes, four hundred yards and closing—”

“Helm, prepare to launch noisemakers, prepare for emergency blow.”

“Conn, sonar, impact in twenty seconds—”

“Launch noisemakers now! Emergency blow, left full rudder, steady to course two-seven-zero, thirty-degree up angle on the—”

Commander Dennis yells, “Rig ship for explosion!”

The two torpedoes race past the Mark 2 torpedo decoys and detonate, the explosions rolling the Scranton as she turns, pushing her keel out from under her, the impact wave shaking her interior like a pickup truck bolting over a curb.

Darkness blankets the control room, pressurized air hissing into the space.

The reverberations cease. The battery picks up loads, emergency lights bathing the internal compartments in red. The crew’s racing pulses slow.

“This is the captain …” the voice calm, restoring faith. “All stations report.”

“Conn, maneuvering, we’ve got a leak in the primary coolant system. Scramming the reactor. We’re restricted to battery power until we can rise to periscope depth and start the emergency diesel.”

“How bad is the leak?”

“Appears to be contained to the discharge station in engine room forward, sir.”

“Sonar, conn, report.”

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2’s torpedoes were vectored off by our countermeasures. No other contacts to report.”

“Where’s Sierra-2? What happened to our own torpedoes?”

A long pause. “I’m sorry, Captain, she outran them. Sierra-2’s gone.”