Goliath

“This is the captain. By now, you’ve heard about the attack and sinking of the Ronald Reagan and her carrier group. All of us lost good friends, and the devastation of this unprovoked attack is surely taking a heavy toll on each one of us. While our nation can afford time out to grieve and attempt to recover from the initial shock of this attack, we must be ready now. Everyone aboard this vessel has a responsibility to each member of the crew and to this ship, and your ability to focus can mean the difference between life and death.

“Our mission is not to join in the hunt for the Goliath, but to locate and shadow the Typhoon TK-20, which we believe to be heading into the Persian Gulf. As you know, relations between the United States and Russia are a bit tense right now, the sale of the Typhoon to the Iranians no doubt adding salt to the wound. If the Goliath is still lurking somewhere in our vicinity, then she may cross our path, forcing a confrontation. Gentlemen, your officers and I have the utmost confidence that each one of you will stay focused and perform your duties as professionals. While the vessel that sank the fleet may be faster than Old Ironsides and more difficult to detect, remember that we have the more experienced crew. Experience makes the hunter, gentlemen, not the gun. Rig for silent running. Captain out.”

Cubit hangs up the 1-MC. “Sonar, conn, how close are we to the Typhoon?”

“Conn, sonar, four miles. Contact has changed course to two-one-zero, now heading southwest, increasing speed to ten knots.”

“Officer of the Deck, make your depth five hundred feet. Bring us to within three miles of the Typhoon’s baffles, then match speed and course.”

“Aye, Skipper, making my depth five hundred feet, coming to course two-one-zero. I am closing to within three miles of the contact, then matching speed and course.”

Norwegian Sea

406 nautical miles southwest of Bear Island

The dark, reinforced-steel hull of the Typhoon, nearly two football fields in length, pushes silently through the frigid waters of the North Atlantic as it heads south toward Iceland.

Captain Romanov straps himself into his command chair. Although his ship’s passive sonar reports no tonal bearings, experience tells him that an American submarine, probably a Los Angeles-class attack sub, is hovering somewhere in the vicinity. “Helm, hard right rudder, reverse engines.”

“Aye, Kapitan, hard right rudder, reversing engines.”

The Typhoon’s bow swings sharply to starboard, the great ship cavitating as its propellers fight to keep their hold on the sea.

Aboard the USS Scranton

“Conn, sonar, contact is coming about, changing course to three-three-zero, reducing speed to five knots.”

“Helm, all stop.”

“All stop, aye, sir.”

Long minutes pass as the Scranton hovers silently in five hundred feet of water, waiting for its Russian quarry to resume her course.

“Conn, sonar. Sir, I’m registering ambient sounds, approaching from the northeast. Range, twenty-two-thousand yards, closing at six knots.”

Coming up behind us. Cubit’s pulse quickens. “Helm, all stop. Sonar, what is the classification of the contacts?”

The sonar supervisor’s voice answers over the intercom. “Sir, initial classification is biologics. Believe they may be humpbacks.”

Cubit closes his eyes. The attack on the Jacksonville and Hampton had been preceded by cetacean acoustics. At this time of year, the North Atlantic was teeming with migrating whales, all heading south for the winter to breed. “Sonar, Captain, I want to know if those whales accelerate toward our boat.”

“Aye, sir.”

Ease up, Cubit, don’t go paranoid. It’s a big ocean out there, filled with thousands of whales. Don’t do anything to spook the Typhoon … or your crew.

“Conn, sonar, the Typhoon has resumed its course—two-one-zero, increasing speed to fifteen knots.”

Not yet, give him some distance … “Steady, gentlemen.”

“Eighteen knots—”

“Very well. Helm, all ahead one-third—”

“Aye, sir. All ahead one-third.”

“Conn, sonar, I’m getting another set of ambient sounds. Very faint.”

“Belay that order, helm. All stop.”

“All stop, aye, sir.”

“Sonar, Captain, what do you hear?”

“I don’t know, sir. It’s gone now.”

Cubit pushes past his officer of the deck and heads forward, joining his sonar supervisor, who is leaning over Michael Flynn’s luminescent green console. “Talk to me, Michael-Jack. What did you hear?”

“I don’t know, Skipper, it was sort of a whooshing noise. Like sand blowing away from the bottom.”

“Sand?”

“Yes, sir. Lots of sand. Like something massive just lifted off the seafloor.”

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

—George Herbert