Goliath

“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