“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.”
“Aye, sir, preparing to launch countermeasures.”
“Depth now passing one thousand feet. One thousand fifty …”
Cubit blinks away perspiration from his eyes, his brain dissecting the numbers, his lips moving silently as his mind calculates. Surviving a torpedo attack at close range requires steady nerves and more than a bit of luck. He recalls a favorite expression of his old skipper aboard the
Toledo: When it comes to actual combat, a coward will shit his pants, while a brave man merely pisses.
The computer on board the pinging Mk-48 validates
Scranton
as its target, the projectile increasing its speed to sixty knots, pinging faster …
“Conn, sonar, torpedo bearing two-one-seven, range seven hundred yards … torpedo has acquired … torpedo is range-gating!”
“Launch countermeasures! Helm, hard left rudder, steady course two-seven-zero. Dive, thirty-degree up angle—”
Two acoustic device countermeasures are expelled into the sea and begin spinning, their gyrations simulating the
Scranton
’s propeller.
The sub lurches, rolling hard to starboard as her screw catches the ocean, driving the sixty-nine-hundred-ton ship upward, her hull plates groaning under the stress, her terrified crew tossed sideways.
“Conn, sonar—torpedo impact in thirty seconds—”
“Chief of the Watch, conduct a one-second emergency blow of all main ballast tanks.”
“One-second blow, aye, sir!” Struggling to stand against the thirty-degree up angle, the chief auxiliary man reaches above his head, grabbing the two gray handles of the ship’s emergency blow system, and, with a great lunge, thrusts them upward.
A deafening sound rips through the sub as 4500 psi pressurized air is released from the air banks into the five main ballast tanks surrounding the
Scranton
’s pressurized hull, thereby expelling their water to drastically lighten the ship.
The incoming torpedo homes in on the noise.
Almost immediately, the Chief of the Watch depresses and pulls down on the “chicken switches,” holding on as the
Scranton
surges upward like a beach ball from the bottom of the pool.
Lost in the “knuckle” of noise, the incoming torpedo continues descending, following the countermeasures until it has hopelessly lost track of the evading submarine. Running out of fuel, it spirals downward and implodes in the deep recesses of the North Atlantic.
“Conn, sonar, torpedo destroyed!”
Sighs of relief, cheers, and a few whispered prayers of thanks rise in a chorus from the nerve-wracked crew.
Cubit mops perspiration from his face. “All stop.”
“All stop, aye, sir.”
“Dive, vent the main ballast tanks.”
“Vent the tanks, aye, sir.”
“Sonar, Captain, where’s Sierra-2?”
“Conn, sonar, I lost contact, sir.”
“Where’s the Typhoon?”
“Sir, Sierra-1 has changed course to two-six-zero, range thirty thousand yards, moving away from us at twenty knots. She’s running, Skipper.”
Simon Covah stands before one of the immense Lexan viewports, the reinforced glass casting its crimson glow across his flesh-and-steel face. A powerful outer light in
Goliath
’s flattened triangular bow ignites, the intense lighthouselike beacon piercing the darkness of the sea, illuminating the stern of the fleeing Typhoon.
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.
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.”
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.”
“Michael-Jack, is the Typhoon still ascending?”
“Aye, sir. I make her depth two hundred feet. One-eight-zero … one-five-zero … whoah, hold on—”
“What is it?”
“Sir, the Typhoon just struck something.”
“Identify—what was it?”
“Stand by, sir.” Ensign Flynn closes his eyes to concentrate. “Son of a bitch, I don’t believe it … Sir, it’s Sierra-2. She must be lying directly on top of the Typhoon, preventing her from surfacing.”