by Ted Bell
“What did you see?”
“Maybe nothing. But it sure as hell looked like the wake of a torpedo. Could have been the wake of a sub’s periscope maybe. Either way, it was headed toward us at high speed and it didn’t look promising.”
“A torpedo? Somebody’s firing a torpedo at a cruise ship?”
“Doesn’t make any sense, I know. That’s why I hope to God I was just seeing things. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Our muster station. Where we had the drill back in Miami. That’s where we board the lifeboat.”
“Stokely Jones, this is the last time I will ever, I mean ever — ”
She never finished that sentence.
Two massive explosions rocked the mammoth vessel. One torpedo, from the sound of it magnetic and not impact, had struck amidships, probably exploding directly beneath the Fantasy ’s keel. If that fish had broken the ship’s back, Stoke figured they had about forty-five minutes before she went down with all hands.
And then the second torpedo impacted just forward of the stern. The engine compartment, Stoke thought, feeling the big ship instantly start to lose forward momentum as the big bronze screws stopped turning. After two decades in the U.S. Navy, he could hear when a screw was loose in the bilge. Now all he could hear were the screaming alarms throughout the huge liner. He waited for the captain to make his announcement.
“Attention, all passengers. This is your captain speaking. We have sustained cataclysmic damage. A damage assessment is already under way. However, in the interest of everyone’s safety I am taking no chances. I am now issuing the order to abandon ship. All passengers must report immediately with their life jackets to their assigned muster stations. The crew will assist you in boarding the lifeboats. I repeat, this is your captain speaking… abandon ship. This is not a drill, I repeat, this is not a drill.”
Stoke, with Fancha in his arms, was already en route to the lifeboat muster station.
A board Nevskiy, Lyachin struggled to maintain his composure as his boat continued on a collision course with the now sinking American liner. He stared through the periscope in horror as fire spread and the massive cruise ship’s bow angled sharply down. If there were to be a secondary or tertiary explosion, thousands of innocent civilians could lose their lives.
Including the men aboard his command.
They were now on a collision course with the sinking liner, and control of his boat had been wrested from him. The XO stood beside him, his furrowed brow beaded with perspiration. He’d been scrambling all over the boat, trying to find some way, any way, to regain control. Or, at least shut down the reactor. The reactor had now gone to 105 percent, dangerous in itself, and they were increasing their speed toward the doomed cruise ship.
“Perhaps it’s for the best, Aleksandr,” he said quietly.
“Sir?”
“Better to die out here where we belong than face the wrath of the admiralty.”
“And a firing squad.”
“Yes. That, too.”
“Any chance we’ll scrape beneath her?”
“No, sir. If she continues sinking at the current rate, we’ll impact her bow in less than three minutes.”
“Inform the crew to brace for impact. Officers to remain at their posts, continue attempts to regain control. ”
“Captain, one thought if I may.”
“Of course.”
“The escape trunk is inoperable. But the main hatch has a manual override. We could open it. Scuttle the boat.”
“No. We will attempt to regain control until the end. That is all.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
He saluted and left Lyachin alone with his thoughts for these last few moments. He was headed for the planesman who was desperately trying to rewire his panel in a last-ditch effort to “Conn, Helm! I have regained control!”
“Helm, Conn, make your course one-nine-zero! Hard over!”
“Helm, aye.”
“Conn, engineer. Reactor panels back online.”
“Shut down, I repeat shut down! Go to diesel!”
“Reactor shut down, going to diesel, aye.”
“Planesman, Captain, make your depth one hundred meters. Down thirty degrees on your bow planes.”
“Depth one hundred meters, down thirty degrees on bow planes, affirmative.”
The submarine angled sharply downward. The periscope slid back down into the well with a soft hydraulic hiss. From every corner of the command post great shouts of wild cheering and laughter broke out as the men celebrated their miraculous escape from disaster.
Captain Lyachin breathed a sigh of relief.
He would live to fight another day. But first he would have to prove his innocence to the admiralty. He now had incontrovertible proof that the enemy possessed cyberweapons capable of taking over the most modern Russian submarine. By living to tell the tale, he would have done the navy a great service. How great? An admiral’s worth? Perhaps.
If the brass believed him.
Meanwhile, he would do everything in his power to learn who had secretly managed to steal his submarine from under his boots. If this could happen to the Nevskiy, the entire Russian Navy was now at risk.
C aptain Flagg Youngblood, a U.S. Navy sub driver, was thirty-nine years old, a Naval Academy graduate, and happened to be a native of Austin, Texas. The skipper of the Texas was legendary in the U.S. Fourth Fleet operating in the SOUTHCOM area of focus. He’d been awarded numerous honors and decorations for his valiant service, including the Navy Star, the Silver Star Medal, two Presidential Unit Citations, the Legion of Merit, and the National Defense Service Medal.
His stomping ground, SOUTHCOM, encompassed the Caribbean, Central and South America, and surrounding waters. U.S. Fourth Fleet was originally established in 1943, a time when America desperately needed a command in charge of protecting against raiders, blockade runners, and enemy submarines in the South Atlantic.
The speaker above Youngblood’s head crackled.
“Sonar contact!”
“Talk to me, Jonesie,” the skipper replied.
“Conn, Sonar, new contact bearing two-zero-one. Positive ID on her screws. It’s the Nevskiy, sir. Designate contact Whiskey 7–7.”
“Conn, aye.”
“Conn, Sonar, something really weird is going on out there. Whiskey 7–7 proceeding at periscope depth, speed eighteen knots. Looks like she’s lining up on that big cruise ship. Dead abeam, and-holy Jesus!”
“Sonar, Conn, what the hell was that sound?” the captain said to the Texas ’s sonar officer. He’d been monitoring sonar through his headphones. “Sure sounded like tube doors opening to me.”
“Aye, sir. Nevskiy just opened her number one and two forward tubes.”
“This has to be a dry fire exercise, ain’t it? Damn well better be. That or World War Three.”
“Dry fire, aye, but the outer doors were just opened. Tubes flooding now, skipper. Not like any exercise I’ve ever seen. Looks more like the real thing.”
“What in damn tarnation is that old fox Lyachin thinking about? Sinking a goddamn American cruise ship? Insane!”
“No, sir, I wouldn’t think so.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t think so either, but he’s been pinging the hell out of it.”
“Target of opportunity, sir. Gotta be just practice.”
“What’s his speed and course, Sonar?”
“Speed eighteen knots, depth sixteen, maintaining course two-zero-one and-holy mother of God!”
“Talk to me, Jonesie; tell me I ain’t hearing what I think I heard…”
“Live fire, sir! He just let go two fish!”
“ Nevskiy, Nevskiy, Nevskiy, this is the United States submarine Texas. Confirm the two fish you just launched are dummy warheads, over… shitfire, Russian bastard’s not responding. Nevskiy, Nevskiy, do you read?”
“Fish proceeding to target, sir.”
“Can you ID them as to type?”
“Negative, I can
’t get a clean enough-”
“Damn it! Get me COMUSNAVSO, pronto!”
“Aye-aye, sir, coming up,” the comms officer said, putting through a flash emergency signal to the U.S. Naval Forces Southern Command.
“This is Admiral Walsh.”
Youngblood grabbed his mike and started barking.
“Admiral, this is Captain Flagg Youngblood, SSN 75, with an urgent message for the chief of naval operations. Please inform the CNO we got a Russian sub down here just fired two torpedoes at the American cruise ship Fantasy. Sending her coordinates now. These fish could be deadheads, but we’ll know that soon enough. Tell the admiral I want to report an-”
An underwater concussion rocked the Texas. Then another. Followed by the muffled sounds of two huge explosions.
“Correction. Tell him America has just been attacked by the Russian nuclear submarine Nevskiy, sir. I will notify Coast Guard Miami and USCG Air Station Borinquen, Puerto Rico, to initiate immediate search and rescue in Sector Five. I anticipate heavy casualties, sir. Over.”
“You better know what the hell you’re talking about, son,” the admiral said, and he was gone.
The captain sat back in his command seat and looked at his XO, Lieutenant Bashon Mann.
“Bash, that’s one crazy bastard, Lyachin,” he said, lighting up a fat Cohiba torpedo stogie with his Zippo.
“Insane, sir. All those poor people…”
“Take her up, Bash. We’ll pick up as many survivors as we can. Then we’re going out there to find that sonofabitch and stick a couple of firecrackers up his ass.”
“Start World War III?”
“The Russians already started World War III, remember?”
“Captain, with all due respect-”
“Calm down, Mr. Mann, I’m just… what’s that word… venting. But, by God, I’d like to get in a shooting war with that lunatic. Sonar, Conn, where the hell is that sonofabitch Lyachin?”
“Went deep, sir, three hundred meters, speed twenty-four knots, course oh-two-zero.”
“Roger, sonar. That cowboy’s headed for the trench, getting out of Dodge.”
“Roger that, sir. I would, too.”
Russian prime minister Vladimir Putin was sound asleep in the vast owner’s stateroom of his yacht, Red Star, in the Mediterranean when his private Kremlin line lit up, making a soft pinging sound that wouldn’t go away. It was three o’clock in the morning. You can run from the Kremlin, but you can’t hide, he thought. Hardly an original notion but a deadly accurate one.
He rolled over and reached for the receiver, girding himself for more bad news from his second in command, Dmitry Medvedev. No one ever called at three in the morning with good news. No one ever called at any hour with good news. The curse of power.
Exhausted, he’d just returned from Beijing. A week of grueling meetings with Premier Jintao and other high-ranking Chinese Communist Party officials, trying to bring these madmen to his point of view. The CPC was schizophrenic about forging alliances these days. The Chinese, in their new arrogance, saw themselves as the superpower heir apparent.
One day they were leaning toward their natural ally, Russia; the next, they were attending lavish state dinners at the White House, being wooed by the Americans. The Americans had one big advantage over him. They were indisputably China’s biggest market. Money, it was always money.
“Yes,” Putin said, freighting the word with icy irritation.
“Please excuse the hour, but I had to call you,” Medvedev said. “Very bad news, I’m afraid.”
“You heard from Beijing? No trade agreement?”
“I only wish. Anything from them is better than this.”
“One moment, let me turn on the light… go ahead.”
“Ten minutes ago I received a call from Admiral Vladimir Sergeevich Vysotsky. Our navy commander in chief informed me of a serious incident that occurred two hours ago in the Caribbean Sea. It seems that one of our submarines in that theater, the Nevskiy, has just torpedoed and sunk an American cruise ship carrying five thousand passengers, en route from Miami to Jamaica.”
Medvedev was met with stunned silence at the other end of the line.
“Sir?” he said.
“Yes, yes, I’m here. Who the hell is the captain of that fucking boat? I should know that, I know.”
“Lyachin.”
“Lyachin? He’s one of our best commanders. Has he gone rogue? Insane?”
“Neither, it would seem, although I cannot vouch for his sanity. Naval Operations has been in radio communication with the sub, spoken with him at length. He claims absolutely no responsibility for this action. He says the ship was the victim of some kind of ‘force,’ an inexplicable takeover of all the boat’s systems, including weapons.”
“A ‘force’? Whatever the hell that means, it was this ‘force,’ I suppose, that fired two torpedoes at an American flag vessel?”
“It sounds crazy, I agree.”
“Call Admiral Vysotsky. Tell him I want the Nevskiy to return to home port immediately. As soon as she arrives in port, I want her boarded and every member of the crew arrested and placed in a maximum-security lockdown for individual questioning by KGB political officers. I want Lyachin flown to Moscow for interrogation. A supernatural force took over his submarine? His excuse for this blunder is already reason enough to put him in front of a firing squad. Understood?”
“Completely. Is there anything else I can do at this point, Prime Minister?”
“Yes, Dmitry. Issue presidential orders to put the entire Russian military on a war footing. Highest state of alert. Some madman in Washington may look upon this catastrophe as his personal Lusitania, served up on a silver platter. At long last, a good excuse for a preemptive nuclear strike on the homeland. I’m not being paranoid. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”
“Indeed not. Sorry to call with such bad news. Try to get some sleep.”
“No. I have to call the American president and tell him the Russian government had nothing at all to do with the sinking of their ship. Do you think I can convince him? It will be difficult to explain because, so far, I have no goddamn explanation. Except, of course, Lyachin’s mysterious ‘force.’ ”
Putin replaced the receiver, lay back against his pillow, and tried to figure out what the hell he was going to say to President McCloskey, a smart, leather-tough old cowboy from Montana.
Fifteen
Gloucestershire, England
Turn off the Taplow Common Road, just after exiting the deep green forest that enfolds that highway, and you will come upon a magnificent set of black wrought-iron gates. If the guards recognize you, the imposing gates will swing wide and you will be traveling back in time to another England. You will be motoring at a snail’s pace along the wide curving drive that will eventually lead you to a place called Brixden House. A snail’s pace because you won’t want to miss anything-an extraordinary piece of classical sculpture perhaps, quite voluptuous.
The macadam pathway meanders through countless acres of gardens and parklands. There are apple trees covered in blossoms, jardinieres full of pelargoniums in great blocks of color, and greenhouses covered with walls of nectarines, all scattered hither and thither across the hills. The dapple of sunlight on the deep green croquet lawns, lakes, the flower beds, and splashing fountains give new meaning to the word picturesque.
When you do finally catch sight of it, you will find the house imposing. Built originally in the mid-seventeenth century as a hunting lodge for royalty, the present Edwardian country house stands atop great chalk cliffs. Its countless windows overlook the rolling green Berkshire countryside. The main house, built in the classic Italian style, overlooks an idyllic bend in the Thames.
Built in the 1920s, the enormous Brixden House was the very height of luxury. The Visitor’s Book was a veritable Who’s Who of the era. Playwright George Bernard Shaw made the first of many visits in 1926, Winston Churchill was an occasional guest, as were King George and Q
ueen Mary, Charlie Chaplin, Ambassador Joe Kennedy, and the aviator Charles Lindbergh.
This was the stately ancestral home of Lady Diana Mars. Her fiance, the former chief inspector of Scotland Yard, was currently in the library having a chat with his oldest friend, Lord Alexander Hawke. The smell of beeswax and old leather books and furniture, the scents of spilled liquor and tobacco smoke, all hung in the air, so much so that it was a part of the room’s history that almost had weight.
A John Singer Sargent portrait of Lady Mars’s great-grandmother Nancy hung imperiously above the yawning gape of the great hearth. A vast red velvet sofa faced the fire, big enough for several people to sleep in. An ebony grand piano dominated one corner of the room, though Hawke had never seen anyone lay a hand on it.
It was late afternoon, and the setting sun’s rays slanted through the tall, mullioned windows, casting a lovely pattern across the worn Persian rugs and highly polished wooden floors. Shadows fled up the walls and across the high vaulted ceiling. Beyond the opened windows, only the sounds of rooks, cawing in the trees, the hum of drowsy bees, and an occasional bark from Diana’s dogs, sprawled lazily in the late afternoon sun.
Hawke found Ambrose in the library, standing in the center of the room, trying to rip the cellophane from a fresh deck of playing cards decorated with Lady Mars’s family crest.
“Good evening,” Hawke said.
Congreve voiced his agreement with the sentiment.
“Cards, is it, Constable?”
“Hardly, Alex, it’s my new exercise program. Possibly not up to the standards of your daily Royal Navy regimen, but still, quite a tester.”
“You exercise with a deck of cards?”
“The latest thing, dear boy, the very latest. Observe and grow wise,” he said, and, with a dramatic flourish, flung the playing cards high into the air, scattering them all over the carpet. He then began scampering about the room, bending to pick each card up one by one and stuffing them carelessly into the side pockets of his green velvet smoking jacket.
When he’d pocketed the last one, he straightened, a bit winded, and beamed at Hawke.
“Well, then. What do you think of that?”