Goliath

“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