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
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—”