They were now on a collision course with the sinking liner, and control of his boat had been wrested from him. The XO stood beside him, his furrowed brow beaded with perspiration. He’d been scrambling all over the boat, trying to find some way, any way, to regain control. Or, at least shut down the reactor. The reactor had now gone to 105 percent, dangerous in itself, and they were increasing their speed toward the doomed cruise ship.
“Perhaps it’s for the best, Aleksandr,” he said quietly.
“Sir?”
“Better to die out here where we belong than face the wrath of the admiralty.”
“And a firing squad.”
“Yes. That, too.”
“Any chance we’ll scrape beneath her?”
“No, sir. If she continues sinking at the current rate, we’ll impact her bow in less than three minutes.”
“Inform the crew to brace for impact. Officers to remain at their posts, continue attempts to regain control. ”
“Captain, one thought if I may.”
“Of course.”
“The escape trunk is inoperable. But the main hatch has a manual override. We could open it. Scuttle the boat.”
“No. We will attempt to regain control until the end. That is all.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
He saluted and left Lyachin alone with his thoughts for these last few moments. He was headed for the planesman who was desperately trying to rewire his panel in a last-ditch effort to “Conn, Helm! I have regained control!”
“Helm, Conn, make your course one-nine-zero! Hard over!”
“Helm, aye.”
“Conn, engineer. Reactor panels back online.”
“Shut down, I repeat shut down! Go to diesel!”
“Reactor shut down, going to diesel, aye.”
“Planesman, Captain, make your depth one hundred meters. Down thirty degrees on your bow planes.”
“Depth one hundred meters, down thirty degrees on bow planes, affirmative.”
The submarine angled sharply downward. The periscope slid back down into the well with a soft hydraulic hiss. From every corner of the command post great shouts of wild cheering and laughter broke out as the men celebrated their miraculous escape from disaster.
Captain Lyachin breathed a sigh of relief.
He would live to fight another day. But first he would have to prove his innocence to the admiralty. He now had incontrovertible proof that the enemy possessed cyberweapons capable of taking over the most modern Russian submarine. By living to tell the tale, he would have done the navy a great service. How great? An admiral’s worth? Perhaps.
If the brass believed him.
Meanwhile, he would do everything in his power to learn who had secretly managed to steal his submarine from under his boots. If this could happen to the Nevskiy, the entire Russian Navy was now at risk.
C aptain Flagg Youngblood, a U.S. Navy sub driver, was thirty-nine years old, a Naval Academy graduate, and happened to be a native of Austin, Texas. The skipper of the Texas was legendary in the U.S. Fourth Fleet operating in the SOUTHCOM area of focus. He’d been awarded numerous honors and decorations for his valiant service, including the Navy Star, the Silver Star Medal, two Presidential Unit Citations, the Legion of Merit, and the National Defense Service Medal.
His stomping ground, SOUTHCOM, encompassed the Caribbean, Central and South America, and surrounding waters. U.S. Fourth Fleet was originally established in 1943, a time when America desperately needed a command in charge of protecting against raiders, blockade runners, and enemy submarines in the South Atlantic.
The speaker above Youngblood’s head crackled.
“Sonar contact!”
“Talk to me, Jonesie,” the skipper replied.
“Conn, Sonar, new contact bearing two-zero-one. Positive ID on her screws. It’s the Nevskiy, sir. Designate contact Whiskey 7–7.”
“Conn, aye.”
“Conn, Sonar, something really weird is going on out there. Whiskey 7–7 proceeding at periscope depth, speed eighteen knots. Looks like she’s lining up on that big cruise ship. Dead abeam, and-holy Jesus!”
“Sonar, Conn, what the hell was that sound?” the captain said to the Texas ’s sonar officer. He’d been monitoring sonar through his headphones. “Sure sounded like tube doors opening to me.”
“Aye, sir. Nevskiy just opened her number one and two forward tubes.”
“This has to be a dry fire exercise, ain’t it? Damn well better be. That or World War Three.”
“Dry fire, aye, but the outer doors were just opened. Tubes flooding now, skipper. Not like any exercise I’ve ever seen. Looks more like the real thing.”
“What in damn tarnation is that old fox Lyachin thinking about? Sinking a goddamn American cruise ship? Insane!”
“No, sir, I wouldn’t think so.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t think so either, but he’s been pinging the hell out of it.”
“Target of opportunity, sir. Gotta be just practice.”
“What’s his speed and course, Sonar?”
“Speed eighteen knots, depth sixteen, maintaining course two-zero-one and-holy mother of God!”
“Talk to me, Jonesie; tell me I ain’t hearing what I think I heard…”
“Live fire, sir! He just let go two fish!”
“ Nevskiy, Nevskiy, Nevskiy, this is the United States submarine Texas. Confirm the two fish you just launched are dummy warheads, over… shitfire, Russian bastard’s not responding. Nevskiy, Nevskiy, do you read?”
“Fish proceeding to target, sir.”
“Can you ID them as to type?”
“Negative, I can’t get a clean enough-”
“Damn it! Get me COMUSNAVSO, pronto!”
“Aye-aye, sir, coming up,” the comms officer said, putting through a flash emergency signal to the U.S. Naval Forces Southern Command.
“This is Admiral Walsh.”
Youngblood grabbed his mike and started barking.
“Admiral, this is Captain Flagg Youngblood, SSN 75, with an urgent message for the chief of naval operations. Please inform the CNO we got a Russian sub down here just fired two torpedoes at the American cruise ship Fantasy. Sending her coordinates now. These fish could be deadheads, but we’ll know that soon enough. Tell the admiral I want to report an-”
An underwater concussion rocked the Texas. Then another. Followed by the muffled sounds of two huge explosions.
“Correction. Tell him America has just been attacked by the Russian nuclear submarine Nevskiy, sir. I will notify Coast Guard Miami and USCG Air Station Borinquen, Puerto Rico, to initiate immediate search and rescue in Sector Five. I anticipate heavy casualties, sir. Over.”
“You better know what the hell you’re talking about, son,” the admiral said, and he was gone.
The captain sat back in his command seat and looked at his XO, Lieutenant Bashon Mann.
“Bash, that’s one crazy bastard, Lyachin,” he said, lighting up a fat Cohiba torpedo stogie with his Zippo.
“Insane, sir. All those poor people…”
“Take her up, Bash. We’ll pick up as many survivors as we can. Then we’re going out there to find that sonofabitch and stick a couple of firecrackers up his ass.”
“Start World War III?”
“The Russians already started World War III, remember?”
“Captain, with all due respect-”
