Goliath

“Let’s keep it that way. XO, take us to battle stations, rig ship for ultraquiet running. Sonar, how far ahead of us is the Typhoon?”

“Range, twenty thousand yards. She’s staying on course two-one-zero, moving away from us at a steady fifteen knots. The second sonar contact is trailing about three thousand yards in her baffles, matching course and speed. Flynnie’s right, the Typhoon doesn’t seem to know the contact’s there.”

“Designate second sonar contact Sierra-2. XO, get me a firing solution.”

“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.