Goliath

Simon Covah unzips the dry suit, too exhausted to move. He looks down at his face mask, staring at his bizarre reflection.

You are only nineteen, but your formal studies are already a distant memory. Your estranged father reenters your life, escorting you to your new taskmasters like a farmer selling his prized cow at the marketplace. Your brain, yearning for space to stretch its gray matter, is once again harnessed, this time by Communist warmongers intent on strengthening the nuclear threat of the Soviet Navy.

Sergey Nikitich Kovalev is the chief designer of a new class of ballistic missile submarines and the first person to take the time to know you. He quickly endears himself as a father figure, one you have been lacking since birth. But Kovalev is empowered by a realm that equates quantity with results, safety as an afterthought. Despite your warnings, the Typhoon-class is built, containing enough engineering and design faults to sink a carrier.

ATTENTION: RUSSIAN ANTISUBMARINE HELICOPTERS HAVE ESTABLISHED AN ARRAY OF SONAR BUOYS AROUND TARGET. LOS ANGELES—CLASS ATTACK SUB STILL AT LARGE. REMAINING IN TARGET AREA YIELDS A 22 PERCENT PROBABILITY OF SUSTAINING DAMAGE. DEFENSIVE PROTOCOL SUPERSEDES SLBM EXTRACTION PROCESS.

“No,” Covah rasps in anger, his hands quivering, “I will not leave until that warship is on the bottom of the ocean!”

Sujan Trevedi whispers into Covah’s good ear. “Simon, there are innocent men on board. There’s no reason to—”

Covah stares at the Tibetan, the man he recruited into his underground peace movement almost twelve years earlier. “No, Sujan, I will not allow a death ship like the Typhoon to survive. Sorceress, override defense protocol. Return to the target area and destroy that Russian submarine.”

ACKNOWLEDGED.

The monstrous steel stingray banks sharply and rises.

Aboard the USS Scranton

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has come about—she’s coming back! Bearing, zero-seven-zero, ascending fast. Skipper, she’s on the surface, doing fifty knots, heading straight for the Typhoon.”

“All stop. Sonar, Captain, what’s Sierra-2’s range to the Scranton?”

“Sir, if she maintains course and speed, she’ll pass directly over us in fifty-five seconds.”

The Goliath streaks along the surface, her five pump-jet propulsors shredding the sea into foam, her dark, winged torso concealed just beneath the waves, her bulbous black head pushing above the Atlantic, plowing the waves like an enraged bull sperm whale. Scarlet eyes blaze through the swells, the sea rolling over the devil fish’s face and spiny back—

—where the exterior hatches of a pair of vertical missile launchers have opened.

Two glistening Harpoon missiles leap into the sky, trailing puffs of fire and smoke, the projectiles streaking toward their prey.

“Three thousand yards—”

Cubit’s heart races faster.

“Conn, sonar, two more Russian torpedoes just entered the water, course, zero-seven-zero, heading right for Sierra-2. Torpedoes are homing—”

“Conn, radar, multiple aerial explosions! Both Russian helicopters destroyed.”

Christ, how do you stop this thing? “WEPS, prepare to fire tube four.” Cubit grits his teeth as the battle scene plays out four hundred feet above his head. She’ll launch her antitorpedo torpedoes, then take out the Typhoon. Play possum. Wait until she’s closer …

“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has launched four torpedoes, all fish active—”

“Rig ship for depth charge—”

Michael Flynn pulls away his headphones as multiple explosions slam into his eardrums. “Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has destroyed both Russian torpedoes. The remaining two Mk-48s are heading directly for the Typhoon. Impact in ten seconds.”

Aboard the Typhoon