Goliath

“Commander, something’s not right—” She turns.

Strejcek is gone.

The explosions toss her from her chair, slamming her facefirst into the console.

Aboard the USS Jacksonville

The sonar technician turns to his supervisor, the twenty-year-old ensign’s face pale. “Multiple explosions, sir. Sounds like heavy damage. Jesus, the carrier’s taking on water—”

The Jacksonville’s sonar supervisor grabs the 1-MC, his heart pounding in his chest. “Conn, sonar—multiple torpedoes in the water! Bearing one-zero-five, range eight thousand yards. Torpedoes are Chinese, SET-53s. Sir, two of the torpedoes have acquired the Hampton.”

“Battle stations! Officer of the Deck, come to course one-seven-zero.” Commander Kevin O’Rourke’s skin tingles, as if he is about to step off a precipice. He turns to his diving officer as a dozen more men rush to take positions in the control room. “Dive, make your depth six hundred feet. WEPS, get me a firing solution—”

The weapons supervisor sounds stunned. “Trying, sir, but nothing’s coming up on the BSY-1—”

“Conn, sonar, I’m picking up a flurry of cavitation … it’s coming from the seafloor, two thousand yards dead ahead. Sir, something massive just rose off the bottom—”

“Right full rudder, all ahead flank—”

“Conn, sonar, two torpedoes in the water! Bearing, one-seven-zero, coming straight at us—”

“Change course, come to two-seven-zero, thirty degrees down on the fairwater planes.”

Helmsman Mike Schultz is seventeen and fresh out of high school, a junior sailor piloting a sixty-nine-hundred-ton, nuclear-powered attack sub. Schultz wipes the sweat from his palms, then pushes down on the steering wheel before him, maneuvering the Jacksonville’s fairwater planes, which protrude like small wings from the submarine’s sail.

“Launch countermeasures, both launchers.”

The chief repeats the captain’s orders.

“Conn, sonar, one of the torpedoes fell for the countermeasures, the other two fish have acquired and are homing. Bearing two-one-zero, best range twelve hundred yards—”

“Launch the NAE. Reload both launchers with ADC’s. Helm, right full rudder—”

“Conn—sonar, torpedoes still with us … six hundred yards … impact in sixty seconds.”

The perceived temperature within the suddenly claustrophobic steel chamber is rising.

Petty Officer Third Class Leonard Cope stares at his console, fighting to breathe, sweat dripping on his monitor. “Conn, sonar, torpedo impact in thirty seconds—”

“Rig ship for impact—”

“Conn, sonar, I’ve got a bearing, very faint—”

“Identify—”

“No known registry on the computer database, but goddamn this thing’s big.”

“Firing point procedures—Sierra-1, ADCAP torpedo. Make tubes one and two ready in all respects.”

“Aye, sir. Tubes one and two ready in all respects.”

“Solution ready,” the XO reports.

“Weapons ready. Thirty-five percent fuel remaining, run-to-enable two-five-hundred yards.”

“Ready—shoot!”

Two Mk-48 Advanced Capability wire-guided torpedoes spit out from the Jacksonville’s bow, homing in on the unknown aggressor.

“WEPS, release countermeasures, come to course three-one-zero—”

Petty Officer Cope grabs his headphones as an explosion tears at his eardrums. Then he hears something he has never heard before—the frightening crunch of an imploding steel hull.

A heavy pulse of structural vibrations shudders the Jacksonville. Power flickers off. Emergency lights illuminate the frightened faces of the junior members of the crew, hyperventilating at their stations.

“Conn, sonar, sir, that explosion … it was the Hampton.”

“Skipper, contact has launched two more torpedoes, both active—”

Two hundred and fifty yards to the west, the Jacksonville’s two Mk-48 ADCAP torpedoes have slowed to forty knots. Onboard sonars ping, searching the sea for the enemy contact, the weapon’s real-time computers sending highly processed data back to the sub via a trailing fiber-optic wire.

Two consecutive returns. The torpedoes accelerate, pinging faster—

—before slamming nose first into two antitorpedo torpedoes.

The concussion wave from the double detonations sends reverberations through the Jacksonville’s interior hull, as it rolls the submarine hard to port.

“Conn, ship’s own were struck by antitorpedo torpedoes! Both ADCAPS destroyed—”

Captain O’Rourke stares at his XO, a cold chill running down his spine. His sub, one of the finest in the world, has been outgunned and outmaneuvered.

“Skipper, incoming torpedo! Impact in ten seconds—”

“Brace for impact!”