The watertight door of the claustrophobic chamber seals, activating a violet-red interior light. Simon Covah adjusts his face mask for the third time as the
icy cold sea fills the pressurized compartment. The thirty-three-degree water rises to his chest, the bulky dry suit barely able to keep his body warm. He pulls the hood tighter around his face and cheek, the dull throb in his mangled earhole signaling the steady increase in atmospheric pressure within
Goliath
’s massive locking chamber.
The disease that threatens his life has spread throughout his body, the effects of the treatment leaving him weak. Still, Covah refuses to succumb to the cancer.
This is my ship, my mission. I’ll do what needs to be done or die trying
…
The violet-red light blinks off, replaced by an electric green. The outer door opens. Covah stares into the deep blue void, then follows the other two divers into the sea.
Slow, sluggish movement as Covah descends, the haunting grind of metal against metal ringing in his good ear. The scar tissue bordering his steel plate tightens from the change in pressure.
Struggling to descend, he releases more air from his buoyancy-control vest. Falling faster now, he looks below. The dark back of the immobile Typhoon seems to jump up at him, the huge submarine fighting to find its equilibrium against its larger, heavier oppressor. Above, blotting out the sun like a titanium ice floe is the immense undercarriage of the
Goliath
. The steel stingray’s enormous keel has come to rest over the top of the Typhoon’s sail, preventing the Russian sub from rising, crushing its periscope in the process.
Two unmanned minisubs hover above the Typhoon’s blown missile hatch, the Hammerhead’s underwater lights trained on the vented silo. Covah swims awkwardly toward the hole, directing the beam of his own flashlight inside. Six feet below, the glistening white nose cone of the 185,000-pound R-39U nuclear missile stares back at him like a bizarre eyeball.
Covah glances at the bright red eyes of the two shark-shaped submersibles. He holds up the remote manipulator device, a small, pronged object the size of a cellular phone.
Okay, Sorceress, watch what I am doing. Watch and learn.
Entering the flooded silo headfirst, Covah reaches down, slipping his left arm between the nose cone and the control section of the post-boost vehicle (PBV) just below it. After opening an access panel, he attaches the magnetic backing of the object to the guidance panel, the remote unit quickly establishing a connection.
Upon contact,
Goliath
’s brain instantly initiates a link with the Typhoon’s outclassed computer system, its invading commands downloaded in a nanosecond. The Russian missile’s fuel hoses disconnect, and then the enormous projectile begins spinning, rotating higher out of the vented silo.
Covah backs out as the remaining nineteen missile hatches yawn open in unison.
“Yes, sir, that’s what I heard. Multiple missile hatches aboard the Typhoon just popped open.”
“Radio, Captain, any reply from Naval Intelligence?”
“No, sir.”
“Send another message. Inform them the Typhoon is at launch depth, and her missile hatches have opened. Commander, is it possible for
Goliath
’s crew to launch those missiles?”
“If they can access the hatches, they can override the launch codes.”
“Conn, Captain. How close are we to the Typhoon?”
“Six thousand yards, sir.”
“WEPS, this is the captain. Plot a firing solution on Sierra-1.”
Commander Dennis motions Cubit aside. “Tom, you can’t fire on a Russian submarine.”
“Naval Intelligence believes there may be as many as half a dozen nukes on board that Typhoon. I can’t just sit here and allow Covah to launch those missiles.”
Michael Flynn presses his headphones tighter. “Captain, I hear something different, sounds like a winch, coming from Sierra-2. Stand by—”
Cubit and Dennis stare at the sonar technician, watching a bead of sweat make its way down the man’s temple.
“Skipper, I can’t be sure, but I think … I think they’re stealing the Russian’s missiles.”
“I’m sorry,
Kapitan
, we can’t seem to override the system. The missiles have been disengaged from their launch tubes and are being removed, one at a time.”
“Pirates?” Captain Romanov slams his fist against the map table, cracking the plastic top. “This will not happen, not on my watch. Chief, reflood the ballast tanks manually. Prepare to scuttle the ship.”
An Arab turns to his Iranian captain, translating the Russian’s order into Farsi. The Iranian captain’s eyes widen. Within moments, six Iranian officers are chest-to-chest with their Russian hosts, the air hostile with obscenities and hand gestures.
“
Kapitan
, radio room. Sir, two Russian helicopters approaching from the northeast. ETA sixteen minutes.”
Romanov looks to his executive officer, who is trying to pacify his Iranian counterpart. Kron wipes perspiration from his thick mustache. “I suggest we
stay put,
Kapitan
, and keep our enemy occupied. Our helicopter’s torpedoes will make fast work of these pirates.”
Simon Covah watches from the hull of the Typhoon as another Russian SLBM is hauled by steel cable and winch out of its vertical launch tube and guided into
Goliath
’s hangar, an immense pressurized compartment located along the underbelly of the ship. He checks his watch, cursing to himself. The interference of the Los Angeles–class attack sub has cost him precious time. Though he is fairly confident the American submarine commander will not fire upon them while they remain so close to the Typhoon, he is just as certain the Russian helicopters will.
Looking up, he is surprised to see another diver, Thomas Chau, swim down to him. The Asian points up to the
Goliath
.
Covah nods, signaling: One more.
The diver shakes his head no, dragging his captain toward the ship.
The
Scranton
hovers silently, sixty feet below the surface, one mile due west of the crippled Typhoon. Tom Cubit’s face presses against the rubber eyepiece of the periscope, focusing on the dark silhouette of
Goliath
’s head, a black island of synthetic rubber-coated steel peeking just above the swells. “WEPS, Captain, stand by to fire.”
“Aye, sir, standing by.”
“Conn, ESM, Russian choppers, approaching from the northeast. Twenty-two miles and closing fast. ETA, four minutes.”
“Took ’em long enough.” Cubit takes another long look through the periscope at the
Goliath
, still finding it hard to fathom the sub’s incredible size. “All right, gentlemen, let’s kill this thing. WEPS, open outer doors of tubes two and three, firing point procedures, Sierra-2. Chief, take us down slowly, make your depth two hundred feet.” Cubit’s voice is calm, methodical, though he knows he is again placing his sub in harm’s way. Come on you bastard, move away from the Typhoon.
“Russian choppers, ten miles—”
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 is moving out. Course, two-seven-zero. You guessed right, Skipper, she’s heading our way, five thousand yards and closing. She’s going deep.”
Beads of sweat drip from Cubit’s forehead as his mind analyzes this new game of cat and mouse.
“Four thousand yards—”
Does she know we’re here? If no, she’s ours. If yes … “WEPS, fire tubes two and three.”
“Firing tubes two and three, aye, sir.”
“Conn, radar, two helicopters, moving directly over Sierra-2.”
“Conn, sonar, multiple objects have just entered the water. Sonar buoys, Skipper. Sonars are pinging … Conn, sonar, four more objects just entered the water. Type-65 Russian torpedoes—two on us, two on Sierra-2.”
“Emergency deep, come to course two-zero-zero, all ahead flank. Rig ship for depth charge, release two noisemakers—”
“Conn, sonar, own ship’s units two and three have acquired Sierra-2, range two thousand yards and closing at fifty-five knots. Skipper, the two Russian torpedoes chasing us have disengaged.”
Cubit, staring at the sweeping second hand of his grandfather’s watch, mutters, “Thanks, Yuri …”
“Conn, sonar, the two Russian torpedoes have acquired Sierra-2. Own ship’s units are homing! Sierra-2s running, but she can’t hide. Four torpedoes bearing down upon her … impact in twenty seconds—”
The XO slaps Cubit on the shoulder. “You nailed her.”
“Captain, sonar—sir, Sierra-2’s gone!”
“Say again?” Cubit feels the blood drain from his face. “Sonar, Captain, what do you mean, gone?”
“Sir, she went from thirty to sixty-five knots like a rocket and blew right past the torpedoes.”
Cubit closes his eyes in stunned silence.
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.
“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.”