Goliath

Gunnar adjusts the eyepiece of his helmet, then steals a glance at his sonar console with his left eye. Eleven small objects—Goliath’s minisubs—are giving chase, their larger mother ship closing in fast from behind. “This could be a short trip.”

A sudden thought. “Rocky … how’s your Morse code?”

Aboard the USS Scranton

Tom Cubit presses his grandfather’s gold pocket watch to his lips, staring at his charts. The Goliath is heading east, moving farther away from his ship with each passing second.

You guessed wrong, Cubit, you screwed up bad …

Commander Dennis moves closer. “Skipper?”

“Yes, XO, we’re going after her. Restart engines. Come to course zero-nine-zero—”

“Conn, sonar, I’m picking up orca sounds, has to be those minisubs. And something else, Skipper, the lead minisub appears to be pinging.”

“Pinging? Belay that order, Chief!”

“Conn, radio, those pings are Morse code, sir. It’s an S.O.S.”

Commander Dennis looks up at his CO. “Joe-Pa?”

“Gotta be. Chief, raise the number one BRA.”

“Aye, sir, raising antenna.”

“Radio, Captain, get me General Jackson on the ELF. Sonar, where’s the Goliath?”

“Trailing the minisubs, bearing zero-eight-zero.”

“Conn, radio, I’ve got Jackson—”

Cubit grabs the microphone. “General, this is Cubit. Joe-Pa’s in one of the minisubs, being chased by the Goliath. Is there any way you can patch us through?”

Aboard the Prototype

Gunnar and Rocky hold on as another mechanical shark rams their vessel’s tail fin.

Five hundred yards behind, the Goliath soars through the ocean like a giant bat in a dark cave, the reflection from its scarlet viewports casting a bloodred hue beneath the frozen surface.

Another impact, this one to port.

“Hold on!” Gunnar wrenches the joystick hard to starboard, smashing the sub’s midwing stabilizer into another steel Hammerhead.

“Gunnar, what happened to that goddamn explosive?”

“Shit if I know.”

Two more bone-jarring collisions, this time from below.

The power flickers off—then on.

“What the hell was that?”

Gunnar checks the battery cells. “You don’t want to know.”

Before she can respond, a red light flashes on the console. Gunnar activates the radio. “Bear, that you?”

A blast of static envelops a faint voice—“Joe-Pa, this … Cubit … Scranton. We … sonar. Come west … two-six-zero—”

The prototype is jarred sideways, the jolt turning the message to pure static.

Rocky’s heart pounds. “An American sub?”

“Yeah, but we’re headed the wrong way … hold on!”

Gunnar aims for the luminescent white root of a behemoth iceberg. Adrenaline pumping, he races the prototype around the face of the submerged mountain, his portside pectoral stabilizer scraping ice.

Circling counterclockwise, faster and faster around the face of the berg, Gunnar’s mind screams at him to veer away, afraid he is about to collide head-on into an unseen escarpment. “Rocky, call out our bearing!”

“Zero-ten-zero … zero-five-zero … three-five-zero … three-three-zero …”

Another jolt from starboard, one of Goliath’s minisubs attempting to ram him into the face of the berg.

“ … two-eight-zero … two-six-zero … two-four-zero—”

“Christ!” Gunnar yanks the joystick hard to starboard—

—as a pair of Scarlet demonic eyes appears from out of nowhere in the darkness, heading straight for them.

Gunnar pulls the prototype into a tight, teeth-rattling 360, looping around and beneath the incoming starboard wing of the Goliath, the turbulence from the leviathan’s five propulsors sending the Hammerhead caroming off the northern face of the iceberg.

Rocky tumbles sideways into Gunnar as he overcompensates to starboard, then veers to port.

He glances down with his left eye, checking his course.

Two-six-zero.

“Rocky, the radio console … fix that loose wire.”

She unhooks her seat belt, feeling behind the radio.

The speaker jumps to life. “ … repeat, west, twelve thousand yards … eastern face, heading north. Do you read?”

Rocky grabs the mic. “Cubit, repeat message!”

A thousand yards back, the Goliath banks hard to pursue.

“ … iceberg, twelve thousand yards … ahead. Follow eastern face, heading north. Stay tight … depth … two-hundred feet.”

“Iceberg?” Rocky glances at the sonar controls. “There it is, twelve thousand yards, right in front of us.”

Aboard the USS Scranton

The radio transmission turns to static.

Cubit prays his message was received. Just keep on pinging, Joe-Pa, just keep on pinging. “Chief, make your depth two hundred feet. Conn, WEPS, firing point procedures, tubes three and four.”

“Skipper, on what bearing? I don’t have a target or a firing solution.”