Goliath

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?”