Goliath

Simon Covah smooths the thick, rust-colored hairs of his goatee, staring at his bizarre reflection in the dark viewport glass. “As my father would say, ‘it’s time for the thrill of the hunt.’ Sorceress, disable the Russian Typhoon’s engines. Destroy the American sub once it moves into firing range.”

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Aboard the USS Scranton

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has increased its speed to twenty knots and has closed to within eight hundred yards of the Typhoon.”

“Conn, weapons. We’ve lost our firing solution, sir.”

“Damn.” Cubit grips the vinyl arms of his command chair, a recent addition in the Scranton’s control room. He turns to his executive officer. “Suggestions?”

“Fire now and there’s a fifty-fifty chance you’ll accidentally hit the Typhoon and start a war. If you don’t fire, the Typhoon will probably be destroyed. Of course, assuming Goliath just heard our outer doors open, we’re sitting ducks anyway. I say we shit or get off the pot.”

Cubit glances around the control room. To his left is the ship control station, the ship’s control team strapped into their bucket seats, the diving officer hovering close. On the opposite side of the chamber, five technicians man the BSY-1 and weapons console. He feels the eyes of his officers upon him, every man calm on the outside, fear in their guts as they await his next order. “Tell you what, XO, instead of shitting, how about we just flush. WEPS, stand by to compute a new firing solution.” Cubit fingers the 1-MC. “Sonar, this is the captain. Give me two pings down the bearing of Sierra-2.”

The XO’s eyes widen. “You’re alerting Romanov?”

“And pulling our pants down at the same time.”

Two hollow pings echo through the sea like underwater gongs.

Aboard the Typhoon TK-20

“It’s a Los Angeles-class attack sub, Kapitan. Nine thousand meters and closing.”

Romanov’s thick eyebrows rise.

“Kapitan, there’s something else right behind us! Another vessel, very large—”

The captain feels his heart jump-start with adrenaline. “Identify—”

“Unknown origin, sir. Eight hundred meters and closing.”

“Sound alarm. Evasive maneuvers. Left full rudder, all ahead flank!”

Aboard the USS Scranton

“Conn, sonar, the Typhoon’s changed course and increased her speed.”

“Conn, weapons, we’ve reestablished a firing solution on Sierra-2.”

“Match sonar bearings and shoot tube one.”

“Aye, sir, firing tube one.”

The wire-guided Mk-48 Advanced Capability torpedo races out from the bow, the thirty-four-hundred-pound projectile’s sonar seeker homing in on Goliath.

“Captain, own ship’s unit has acquired Sierra-2.”

That’s for the Jacksonville and the Hampton. “WEPS, flood down tubes three and four.”

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has launched two torpedoes, bearing two-two-zero. Sir, both fish went active the moment they were fired!”

“Torpedo evasion! Right full rudder, steady course three-two-zero.”

The terrified helmsman pushes against the wheel, racing the Scranton down and away from the two enemy torpedoes, while simultaneously signaling for flank speed on the engine-order-telegraph. Four dull thumps are heard—the reactor’s coolant pumps shifting to fast speed to provide maximum cooling to the reactors as the turbines throttle open to 100 percent steam flow.

A single explosion reverberates through the interior compartment, the first of Goliath’s torpedoes slamming into the Scranton’s projectile.

“Conn, sonar—sir, one of Sierra-2’s torpedoes just detonated our own ship’s unit.”

Cubit and his XO make eye contact. “An antitorpedo torpedo?”

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 second torpedo just went active. Bearing two-fourthree … Sir, Sierra-2’s torpedo is an Mk-48! Range, twenty-seven hundred yards and closing very fast—”

The sweat-streaked faces of the crew turn to their captain. The Mk-48 is the most lethal torpedo in the world, its seeker head designed to hunt down and destroy enemy subs at great distances—and the Scranton is well within striking range.

The hunter has become the hunted.

“Helm, right full rudder, steady course north. Dive, mark your depth—”

“Nine hundred feet,” the diving officer reports, his pulse racing, his bladder tightening.

“Maintain a fifteen-degree down angle—”

“Conn, sonar, torpedo range now fifteen hundred yards. Impact in eighty seconds—”

“Sir, we’re passing nine hundred feet. Nine-fifty. Nine-sixty …”

The helmsman looks up at the diving officer. The sub’s deep-water tolerance is only 950 feet.

Cubit stares at the second hand sweeping across the face of the gold pocket watch his grandfather had given him long ago, after the leukemia and the futile chemotherapy had taken the life out of the gruff old man. I won’t be needing this now, Tommy. Keep it close to you, and I’ll find a way to be there when you need me …

“WEPS, prepare to launch countermeasures.”