Goliath

The two brave Soviet submariners successfully shut down the reactors in time, but Yuri’s friend suffocated in the process. Another four minutes and twenty seconds and the overheated fuel rods would have caused a nuclear meltdown, causing a nuclear plume that could have contaminated the northeastern seaboard of the United States.

At 2300 hours on October 6, a Soviet surface ship finally arrived on the scene to rescue the sub’s crew. The K-219 was flooded and sent to the bottom, its hull cracking open on the seafloor, dispersing its missile fragments and radioactive debris eighteen thousand feet below the surface.

Yuri and the rest of the K-219 crew returned to the USSR to be debriefed and reassigned. A week later, on October 11, Presidents Gorbachev and Reagan met in Reykjavik, Iceland, to begin peace talks on nuclear disarmament.

To this day, most Americans have no idea how close they all came to dying on that fall evening in 1986, the United States continuing to deny any involvement with the sinking of the Soviet submarine. But Yuri Romanov would never forget the bravery exhibited by Sergei Sergeivitch and the rest of Captain Britano’s crew. Years later, he would seek out many of these same men to serve under his own command, including half the officers currently assigned to the refurbished Typhoon.

Ivan Kron, Romanov’s executive officer, climbs up to join Romanov in the bridge. “It’s time, Kapitan.”

“In a moment.” Yuri continues staring at the bow wake. “She’s a big ship, eh Commander?”

“The Iranians don’t deserve her. Delivering her to the Persian Gulf will only rile the Americans.”

The captain leans forward, spitting over the side. “We’re not politicians, my friend. Parliament has its reasons for selling the TK-20.”

“Da, money. But assigning us to train their crew and deliver these weapons is a waste of our time. You are still the most experienced commander in the Northern Fleet. We should have had one of the newer vessels—”

“Like our dear friend, Gennady, who lies at the bottom of the Barents Sea?” The mention of Captain Lyachin and the Kursk disaster momentarily quiets Romanov’s XO.

“Patience is required, Ivan. The admiral will eventually assign us to one of the new Borey-class. For now, let us enjoy the honor of commanding the last Typhoon in the fleet.”

Kron blows snot from his nose. “I prefer the Tomsk, or even one of the older Victors. Overhauling this monster took twice as long as it should have. I’ve heard rumors—drunkenness among the workers, corners cut to save money. Only the newest boats are reliable these days. And these Arabs, they’re desert pigs who know nothing about being a submariner.”

Romanov turns to face his second-in-command. “We do what we must. Have our Iranian friends rig the ship for dive. We’ll give the Americans one last show.”

Barents Sea

22 nautical miles due north

The Los Angeles-class fast-attack sub, USS Scranton (SSN-756), rises silently from the deep, slowing to hover at periscope depth.

“Sixty feet,” the diving officer reports.

“No close contacts.” The OOD gives the “all clear” sign after three rapid sweeps of the horizon.

Captain Tom Cubit peers through the Type-18 search periscope, its low-light operating mode cutting through much of the darkness. “Radio, conn, anything on the VLF?”

“Conn, radio, transmission coming in now, sir.”

“On my way. Officer of the Deck, you have the conn.” Cubit turns the periscope over to his OOD, then makes his way aft down the portside passageway leading into the communications shack to receive the transmission he has been anticipating for the last seventy-two hours.

Thomas Mark Cubit was born and raised in south Philadelphia, a bluecollar section of the city not far from the Delaware River. As a boy he spent much of his free time staring at the rusting gray warships docked in rows of threes at the Philadelphia Naval Yard, occasionally sneaking aboard one to look around. An all-around athlete in high school, Cubit accepted a basketball scholarship to the University of Central Florida, where he met his future wife, Andrea, whose father was a prominent lawyer in Orlando. Upon graduating, Tom skipped law school, much to Andrea’s dismay, deciding instead to enroll in Officer Candidate School (OCS) to pursue a career in the Navy. Cubit’s boyish charm and his down-to-earth style of leadership quickly earned him high marks among his fellow officers and crew, as well as with the Director of Naval Reactors, who selected him for reactor prototype school. From there, Tom was sent to SOBC (Submarine Officers Basic Course) in Groton, Connecticut, then to his first assignment, a two-year stint aboard the USS Boise (SSN 764). The recent captain’s O-6 ranking had been earned after his last assignment aboard the USS Toledo (SSN-769). When the opportunity to take a second command aboard the Scranton had been offered, Cubit jumped on it.