by Steve Alten
Covah backs out as the remaining nineteen missile hatches yawn open in unison.
Aboard the USS Scranton
“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.”
Aboard the Typhoon
“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.
Aboard the USS Scranton
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.
Aboard the 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, ascendin
g 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
The Typhoon has surfaced, a dying vessel listing to port, its crew scrambling across the deck in life jackets, tossing inflatable rafts into the sea.
Captain Romanov squints against the morning light as he climbs up into the bridge. Turning to starboard, he sees the two Mk-48 ADCAP torpedoes streaking just below the surface toward his boat.
“Incoming torpedoes! Rafts to port! Everyone into the water—now!”
The Russian sailors glance up at their captain, then jump overboard into the freezing ocean.
Yuri Romanov straddles the sail guard—then stops. Beyond the torpedoes, accelerating toward his boat is a dark forty-foot wake. Two demonic scarlet eyes blaze back at him from within the approaching swell.
“Kapitan, come on!” Ivan Kron reaches up from the deck and grabs Romanov by the ankle, dragging him over the sail’s ice-breaking cover and down the steel ladder.
The two torpedoes slam into the Typhoon’s exposed flank, piercing the superstructure’s five titanium inner layers before exploding.
The hull splits in half, the violent upheaval launching Captain Romanov and his XO into the water. Within seconds, the Arctic sea surges into the ruptured compartments, tearing the behemoth Russian sub apart, dragging its flooding, fractured hull into the icy depths.
Aboard the USS Scranton
“Conn, sonar, two direct hits. Men in the water. I can hear the keel cracking … the Typhoon’s going down fast.”
Cubit squeezes his fists. She’s too fast for our torpedoes. Let her move closer …
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 is slowing. Sierra-2 is circling through the debris field along the surface, range two thousand yards. Coming back this way. Fifteen hundred yards … one thousand … she’s turning away—”
“WEPS, fire tube four.”
“Conn, weapons, torpedo away.”
The Mk-48 ADCAP torpedo spits out of the Scranton’s bow, racing toward the mammoth mechanical stingray circling along the surface.
“Conn, sonar, own ship’s unit has acquired Sierra-2, impact in thirty seconds. Sierra-2 is running … Sierra-2 is going deep. Own ship’s unit is homing …”
“Prepare to cut wires—”
“Sierra-2 is changing course, coming about—”
“WEPS, belay that order! Helm, right full rudder, all ahead flank—”
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 is coming about, heading straight for us!”
“WEPS, detonate own ship’s unit!”
The thunderous explosion of the Scranton’s torpedo echoes through the sub, the concussion wave striking a moment later, rolling the American attack sub hard to starboard. Power flickers off, emergency lights on. Water sprays from a burst pipe. Men rush to close valves, assessing damage even as they stabilize their stations, their training and duty to the ship barely restraining the primordial instinct to panic. The claustrophobia and fear tighten around each submariner’s throat like a vise.
Cubit grabs the 1-MC. “Sonar, report—”
“Conn, sonar, she tried to double back on us but you nailed her first. A miss, but the explosion must have damaged her. She’s slowed to fifteen knots, bearing one-two-zero, range three thousand yards. Sounds like we bent one of her pump jets, it’s creating a lot of cavitation.”
“XO, damage report?”
“All stations reporting. Flooding under control. Minor damage only.”
“Let’s finish this business before she runs. Helm, all ahead two-thirds, left full rudder, steady one-two-zero. WEPS, make the weapons in tubes one and two ready in all respects.”
“Aye, sir, making tubes one and two ready in all respects—”
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 is increasing speed. Twenty knots, twenty-five—”
“WEPS, match sonar bearings and shoot tubes one and two.”
“Aye, sir, firing one and two.”
Cubit squeezes the padded arms of his chair. Come on, baby, catch her, nail her right in the ass. In his mind’s eye he imagines Goliath’s untrained crew panicking as they struggle to reload two antitorpedo torpedoes.
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has launched two torpedoes, bearing one-three-zero, heading straight for own ship’s units one and two.”
More antitorpedo torpedoes … Cubit swears under his breath. Goddamn American ingenuity … “WEPS, what’s the status on tubes three and four?”
“Three ready, four still reloading.”
“Make tube three ready in all respects—”
“Conn, sonar,” Flynn’s voice has risen noticeably, “Sierra-2’s torpedoes have bypassed three and four, both torpedoes heading straight for us!”
“Torpedo evasion—torpedo evasion!” The emergency command causes the helm to go to flank speed, the diving officer to race the ship to evasion depth, and weapons to launch countermeasures.
The Scranton rolls, Cubit holding on as his ship nose-dives toward the seafloor, the two Mk-48 ADCAPS descending quickly in pursuit, the CO’s face flushed purplish red with anger. Goddamn motherfucker sookered me in …
“Conn, sonar, both torpedoes active, six hundred yards and closing.”
The crew holds on, their limbs shaking, their prayers, silent and whispered, reaching out to heaven as their ship descends toward hell.
“Eight hundred feet—” The Chief of the Watch stares at the depth gauge and holds on, the sweat pouring from his cherub pink face.
“Torpedoes, four hundred yards and closing—”
“Helm, prepare to launch noisemakers, prepare for emergency blow.”
“Conn, sonar, impact in twenty seconds—”
“Launch noisemakers now! Emergency blow, left full rudder, steady to course two-seven-zero, thirty-degree up angle on the—”
Commander Dennis yells, “Rig ship for explosion!”
The two torpedoes race past the Mark 2 torpedo decoys and detonate, the explosions rolling the Scranton as she turns, pushing her keel out from under her, the impact wave shaking her interior like a pickup truck bolting over a curb.
Darkness blankets the control room, pressurized air hissing into the space.
The reverberations cease. The battery picks up loads, emergency lights bathing the internal compartments in red
. The crew’s racing pulses slow.
“This is the captain …” the voice calm, restoring faith. “All stations report.”
“Conn, maneuvering, we’ve got a leak in the primary coolant system. Scramming the reactor. We’re restricted to battery power until we can rise to periscope depth and start the emergency diesel.”
“How bad is the leak?”
“Appears to be contained to the discharge station in engine room forward, sir.”
“Sonar, conn, report.”
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2’s torpedoes were vectored off by our countermeasures. No other contacts to report.”
“Where’s Sierra-2? What happened to our own torpedoes?”
A long pause. “I’m sorry, Captain, she outran them. Sierra-2’s gone.”
“I don’t know what your destiny will be, but one thing I know; the only ones among you who will be really happy are those who will have sought and found how to serve.”
—Dr. Albert Schweitzer
“I was proud to be Nixon’s son-of-a-bitch.”
—H. R. Haldeman, President Nixon’s chief of staff, who participated in the Watergate scandal
“From our first meeting I swore to follow you anywhere—even unto death. I live only for your love.”
—Eva Braun, Adolf Hitler’s mistress
CHAPTER 8
Naval Undersea Warfare Center
Keyport, Washington
Gunnar feeds his dollar bill into the slot, presses E-6, and watches the chocolate bar drop into the bin.
“Breakfast of champions, eh G-man?”
He turns, recognizing the voice.
David Paniagua is a bit stockier than he remembers, and clean-shaven, with the ponytail of his brown hair pulled through the back of his Tampa Bay Buccaneers cap. An old pair of jeans is visible beneath his white lab coat.
Smiling, David rears back and punches Gunnar hard on the shoulder. “That’s for disappearing on me after I went out of my way to pick you up at Leavenworth. I spent four months looking for you, you bastard.”