Goliath

You are a boy who computes equations like Einstein and grasps science like an overheated dog slurps water. You see things differently, your brain able to dissect problems in ways alien to your colleagues. You are fourteen and you wear the same overcoat you’ve worn since grade school, but you’ve just been enrolled in Moscow’s most prestigious university. You are a sheep among thousands of wolves. You spend your days alone in your room, bored with your studies, but lacking the money and companions to occupy your time. Your mind is a sponge that cannot be saturated, so you feed it Shakespeare and Bach and Ludwig van, wondering what pain life has in store for you next.

Covah watches as two of the sleek, steel gray hammerhead shark-shaped minisubs close quickly upon the Russian sub’s twin screws. This time, I am the predator. This time, I am the wolf.

The Typhoon rolls hard to starboard, attempting to distance itself. Goliath banks like a 747 jumbo jet, its bow sensors locked on the Russian sub, its superior hydrodynamic design mirroring the exact movements of its prey.

The two remotely operated mechanical sharks move into position behind the Typhoon’s churning propeller. Steel mouths yawn open, revealing small launch tubes.

With an expulsion of pressurized gas, a lightweight torpedo is fired from the open mouth of each minisub. Launched at point-blank range, the two projectiles slam into the heart of each of the Typhoon’s propeller assemblies, detonating right on the twin seven-blade screws in an explosion of searing hot bubbles and steel.

Aboard the Typhoon

The double explosion buckles the Russian sub, jolting it forward, the screams of the Iranian trainees quickly drowned out by the high-pitched clanging of the ruptured driveshafts, the hideous noise echoing throughout the crippled vessel.

Romanov’s face smashes into the map table. Righting himself, he grabs the ship’s intercom, spitting out a tooth and a mouthful of blood. “Damage report, all departments—”

“Kapitan, engine room. Both screws and driveshafts are gone.”

“What do you mean—gone?”

“The detonations, sir. They took out both propulsion units. We’re dead in the water, Kapitan. The inner hull casings have been compromised, and we’ve got heavy flooding—”

“Seal the compartments. Get your men out of there.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Reactor room, report.”

“Reactor room here. Both reactors still on-line, but there’s been damage. Recommend we shut down and switch to batteries.”

“Do it. Sonar, report. Where’s the vessel that fired upon us?”

“Searching for her now, sir. We’re still having trouble getting a fix.”

“Find that sub now! Where are the Americans?”

“Uncertain, Kapitan. They escaped, then went quiet.”

Romanov signals to his XO. “Get a message to Moscow—”

Another explosion shudders the Typhoon, this one originating from above.

Romanov looks up, his heart pounding.

“Kapitan, this is Ensign Chernov in the missile control center. Missile tube seventeen is flooding. That last explosion blew the outer and inner hatches clear off.”

Aboard the USS Scranton

The USS Scranton hovers silently, six hundred feet below the surface, having crept to within three nautical miles northeast of the damaged Typhoon.

Captain Cubit and his XO stand behind the three sonar technicians, both men watching their monitors intently.

“Another explosion,” Michael Flynn reports, grabbing his headphones. “Sounds of flooding. Sir, I can’t be sure, but I think it came from one of the missile hatches.”

The sonar supervisor wipes sweat from his forehead. “If those warheads detonate, the explosion will make Hiroshima look like a firecracker.”

Flynn turns around. “Captain, the Typhoon’s rising.”

Commander Dennis looks at his CO. “Romanov has no choice. His screws are gone, and his sub’s taking on water. If he doesn’t surface now, he may sink for good.”

The captain nods. “Flynnie, still no sign of Sierra-2?”

“No, sir.”

“Keep searching, she has to be close to the Typhoon. Conn, this is the captain. Come to ahead one-third, bring us to within one mile of Sierra-1. Nice and quiet, Mr. Friedenthal. Keep us at three knots.”

“Three knots, aye, sir.”

“WEPS, Captain. Make the weapons in tubes two, three, and four ready in all respects.”

“Aye, Captain.”