Authors: Steve Alten
Goliath (12 page)
Cubit hangs up the 1-MC. “Sonar, conn, how close are we to the Typhoon?”
“Conn, sonar, four miles. Contact has changed course to two-one-zero, now heading southwest, increasing speed to ten knots.”
“Officer of the Deck, make your depth five hundred feet. Bring us to within three miles of the Typhoon’s baffles, then match speed and course.”
“Aye, Skipper, making my depth five hundred feet, coming to course two-one-zero. I am closing to within three miles of the contact, then matching speed and course.”
406 nautical miles southwest of Bear Island
The dark, reinforced-steel hull of the Typhoon, nearly two football fields in length, pushes silently through the frigid waters of the North Atlantic as it heads south toward Iceland.
Captain Romanov straps himself into his command chair. Although his
ship’s passive sonar reports no tonal bearings, experience tells him that an American submarine, probably a Los Angeles-class attack sub, is hovering somewhere in the vicinity. “Helm, hard right rudder, reverse engines.”
ship’s passive sonar reports no tonal bearings, experience tells him that an American submarine, probably a Los Angeles-class attack sub, is hovering somewhere in the vicinity. “Helm, hard right rudder, reverse engines.”
“Aye,
Kapitan
, hard right rudder, reversing engines.”
Kapitan
, hard right rudder, reversing engines.”
The Typhoon’s bow swings sharply to starboard, the great ship cavitating as its propellers fight to keep their hold on the sea.
“Conn, sonar, contact is coming about, changing course to three-three-zero, reducing speed to five knots.”
“Helm, all stop.”
“All stop, aye, sir.”
Long minutes pass as the
Scranton
hovers silently in five hundred feet of water, waiting for its Russian quarry to resume her course.
Scranton
hovers silently in five hundred feet of water, waiting for its Russian quarry to resume her course.
“Conn, sonar. Sir, I’m registering ambient sounds, approaching from the northeast. Range, twenty-two-thousand yards, closing at six knots.”
Coming up behind us
. Cubit’s pulse quickens. “Helm, all stop. Sonar, what is the classification of the contacts?”
. Cubit’s pulse quickens. “Helm, all stop. Sonar, what is the classification of the contacts?”
The sonar supervisor’s voice answers over the intercom. “Sir, initial classification is biologics. Believe they may be humpbacks.”
Cubit closes his eyes. The attack on the
Jacksonville
and
Hampton
had been preceded by cetacean acoustics. At this time of year, the North Atlantic was teeming with migrating whales, all heading south for the winter to breed. “Sonar, Captain, I want to know if those whales accelerate toward our boat.”
Jacksonville
and
Hampton
had been preceded by cetacean acoustics. At this time of year, the North Atlantic was teeming with migrating whales, all heading south for the winter to breed. “Sonar, Captain, I want to know if those whales accelerate toward our boat.”
“Aye, sir.”
Ease up, Cubit, don’t go paranoid. It’s a big ocean out there, filled with thousands of whales. Don’t do anything to spook the Typhoon … or your crew.
“Conn, sonar, the Typhoon has resumed its course—two-one-zero, increasing speed to fifteen knots.”
Not yet, give him some distance
… “Steady, gentlemen.”
… “Steady, gentlemen.”
“Eighteen knots—”
“Very well. Helm, all ahead one-third—”
“Aye, sir. All ahead one-third.”
“Conn, sonar, I’m getting another set of ambient sounds. Very faint.”
“Belay that order, helm. All stop.”
“All stop, aye, sir.”
“Sonar, Captain, what do you hear?”
“I don’t know, sir. It’s gone now.”
Cubit pushes past his officer of the deck and heads forward, joining his
sonar supervisor, who is leaning over Michael Flynn’s luminescent green console. “Talk to me, Michael-Jack. What did you hear?”
sonar supervisor, who is leaning over Michael Flynn’s luminescent green console. “Talk to me, Michael-Jack. What did you hear?”
“I don’t know, Skipper, it was sort of a
whooshing
noise. Like sand blowing away from the bottom.”
whooshing
noise. Like sand blowing away from the bottom.”
“Sand?”
“Yes, sir. Lots of sand. Like something massive just lifted off the seafloor.”
“Hell is full of good meanings and best wishes.”
—George Herbert
“Hell is other people.”
—Jean-Paul Sartre
Kingston, Washington
The hotel room is musty, its drab olive green carpet reeking of the decrepit odors of mildew. Gunnar lies spread-eagled on the king-size bed. He stares at the television screen, the football game growing hazy as his eyes begin glazing over from exhaustion.
The knock startles him awake. He pulls back the drab, mothball-scented curtains, takes a peek outside, then quickly unchains the door.
The woman enters. “Shut the door. We don’t have much time.”
Gunnar obeys, his head still in a jet-lag fog. “Jesus, what are you doing here? I thought—”
“Don’t think, sit and listen.” She checks the bathroom, verifying they are alone.
Gunnar smooths the entanglement of bedclothes, then sits on the edge of the mattress, watching as she leans back against the dresser to face him, her arms folded in displeasure across her wiry frame.
Dr. Elizabeth Goode has the pale complexion and demeanor of someone who spends the majority of each workday’s eighteen waking hours in a windowless laboratory. The shoulder-length hair is still brown, though graying around the part. The gaunt face—librarian pretty—is still devoid of makeup. Dark circles shadow the hazel eyes—eyes that take in everything. “You look like hell, G-man.”
“Been there.”
“No, you’ve been to purgatory. Hell is what’s going to break out unless you stop Simon.”
“And why should I do that?”
“Because this is all your fault.”
“My fault?”
“That’s right. If you had followed my instructions and downloaded the virus when I told you to, then you’d be watching television with Rocky and your 2.5 kids right now, instead of listening to some old lab rat babble in this dumpy motel room.”
“Well, guess I screwed up. Next time, do it yourself.”
“There won’t be a next time, but there will be another
Goliath
.”
Goliath
.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dr. Goode shoots him a chastising look. “Don’t be so naive. You really think the DoD was going to walk away from this project, just because of a mere 2-billion-dollar setback?
Goliath
’s sister ship, the
Colossus
, has been under construction since your second year in prison.”
Goliath
’s sister ship, the
Colossus
, has been under construction since your second year in prison.”
“Jesus …” Gunnar feels light-headed.
“She was built in total secrecy; even Congress doesn’t know about it. Vice President Maller covertly diverted funds from the Energy Department for years. The entire base is run by the NSA like a military prison. And there’s no almost crossover in personnel from the GOLIATH Project.”
“Almost?”
“Not me, I flatly refused. It was never my decision to put
Sorceress
on board the
Goliath
, and I wasn’t about to let that happen again.
Colossus
is being outfitted with the Virginia-class computers. The ship won’t be autonomous, but it’s still the second-most dangerous thing in the sea.”
Sorceress
on board the
Goliath
, and I wasn’t about to let that happen again.
Colossus
is being outfitted with the Virginia-class computers. The ship won’t be autonomous, but it’s still the second-most dangerous thing in the sea.”
“What are you asking me to do?”
“Take Jackson’s offer. Rejoin his team.”
“Forget it. I don’t even know why Jackson needs me?”
“It wasn’t Jackson who requested you. It was David Paniagua.”
“David?” Mention of Dr. Goode’s former assistant stirs distant memories.
“David’s in charge of the COLOSSUS Project.”
“I thought you said—”
“David was appointed when I refused. He has a plan, one that can get you and an infiltration team aboard the
Goliath
. You can retake the ship before Simon does any more damage.”
Goliath
. You can retake the ship before Simon does any more damage.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then the holocaust that follows will be on your head.”
She starts for the door, then turns. “Gunnar, I’m sorry for everything that’s happened, but you have to finish this business. Be careful.”
“Yeah … thanks.”
She offers a consoling look, then leaves.
Gunnar watches from the window as she crosses the street and climbs inside a waiting car.
Elizabeth Goode leans back against the gray leather seat as the Lincoln swerves into traffic.
“So?”
“He’ll do it.” She looks away, swallowing the lump rising in her throat.
General Jackson nods, satisfied. “Thank you, Dr. Goode. And now, you and your sons are free to leave the country.”
Aboard the USS
Scranton
Scranton
Tom Cubit leans forward, staring at the BSY-1 low-frequency passive and active search-and-attack sonar. “Where is she, Flynnie?”
“If I’m right, sir, she’s directly behind the Typhoon.”
“You think the Typhoon knows she’s in her baffles?”
“I doubt it, Skipper. She’s quiet, just a whisper.” He points to the pattern of green snow running vertically along his screen. “Every few seconds I get a whiff of a ghost signature, nothing solid. Those damn propulsors are smooth as silk.”
“How big is this thing?”
“Hard to tell without going active. If I’m right, she’s big, as wide as the Typhoon is long, only real flat, like she has wings. She’s smooth and curved in all the right places. It’s like trying to find a Stealth bomber. Sonar can’t seem to gain a foothold on her.”
“Does she know we’re here?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so.”
“Let’s keep it that way. XO, take us to battle stations, rig ship for ultraquiet running. Sonar, how far ahead of us is the Typhoon?”
“Range, twenty thousand yards. She’s staying on course two-one-zero, moving away from us at a steady fifteen knots. The second sonar contact is trailing about three thousand yards in her baffles, matching course and speed. Flynnie’s right, the Typhoon doesn’t seem to know the contact’s there.”
“Designate second sonar contact Sierra-2. XO, get me a firing solution.”
“Aye, sir, already working on it.”
“Conn, Captain, come ahead one-third, stay on course two-one-zero. Michael-Jack, think you can track Sierra-2?”
“Now that I know what to listen for, yes, but only over a very short range.
I can’t really hear her, I’m just sort of focusing in on the dead spot she’s leaving in the water.”
I can’t really hear her, I’m just sort of focusing in on the dead spot she’s leaving in the water.”
“Do whatever it takes, just don’t lose her.”
“Aye, sir.”
Cubit heads back to the control room. “XO, where’s my firing solution?” “Sorry, sir, FCS is unable to maintain a solid fix. The contact keeps maneuvering, and sonar only has a weak trace. Sierra-2’s just too flat in the water.”
“Then let’s change the angle. Sonar, conn, estimate Sierra-2’s depth.”
“Best guess—five hundred feet, Captain.”
“Chief, make your depth eight hundred feet, ten-degree down angle. Let’s see if we can sneak a peek under her skirt.”
“Aye, Captain, making my depth eight hundred feet, ten-degree down angle.”
The helmsman pushes down on the wheel. “Six hundred feet. Seven hundred—”
“Captain, the BSY-1 has acquired a good tracking solution on Sierra-2.”
“WEPS, Captain, match generated bearings. Flood tubes one and two. I want full safeties on. If we get a clear shot, we’ll take it.”
Commander Dennis leans toward Cubit, and whispers, “We accidentally hit that Typhoon, and we could start World War III.”
“Conn, sonar, I’m getting two more tonals, both originating from Sierra-2.”
“Torpedoes?”
“Negative, sir, they’re larger, moving out ahead of Sierra-2, heading for the Typhoon. Sir, I’m registering ambient sounds, like orca.”
If they wanted to sink her, they’d have done it by now. What the hell are they doing?
“Sonar, conn, designate new bearings Sierra-3 and Sierra-4. WEPS, conn, open outer doors for torpedo tubes one and two.”
“Sonar, conn, designate new bearings Sierra-3 and Sierra-4. WEPS, conn, open outer doors for torpedo tubes one and two.”
A volumetric map of the vicinity appears on the large overhead control room monitor. Simon Covah stares at the display, the wave of adrenaline teasing a distant memory.
You’re eight years old when your father returns from a six-month mission and declares he’s enrolled you in a boarding school in Moscow. You’re terrified inside, but you put on a brave face, because one less mouth to feed at home would make it easier on your poor mother. At the school, you become the object of ridicule, a slovenly carrottop too frail to compete on the playing field. So you turn inward, mastering your studies, becoming the youngest graduate in the history of the school. You do not feel your parents’ pride, your only motivation—to escape
the school and its physics professor, a man whose sexual perversions will stain your psyche for the rest of your days.
the school and its physics professor, a man whose sexual perversions will stain your psyche for the rest of your days.
The haunting female voice of
Sorceress
reverberates from the speaker.
Sorceress
reverberates from the speaker.
ALERT-ONE. TONAL CONTACT, BEARING ZERO-SIX-ZERO, RANGE 5,742 METERS, DEPTH, 782 FEET. CLASSIFICATION: UNITED STATES, LOS ANGELES-CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE. OUTER TORPEDO DOORS HAVE OPENED. PROBABILITY OF TORPEDO LAUNCH: 62 PERCENT. ENGAGING DEFENSIVE PROTOCOL. COUNTERMEASURES ARMED, ANTITORPEDO TORPEDOES LOADED INTO TUBES ONE AND TWO. GOLIATH OFFENSIVE FIRING SOLUTION PLOTTED. MK-48 ADCAP TORPEDOES LOADED INTO TUBES THREE THRU SIX.
Simon Covah smooths the thick, rust-colored hairs of his goatee, staring at his bizarre reflection in the dark viewport glass. “As my father would say, ‘it’s time for the thrill of the hunt.’
Sorceress
, disable the Russian Typhoon’s engines. Destroy the American sub once it moves into firing range.”
Sorceress
, disable the Russian Typhoon’s engines. Destroy the American sub once it moves into firing range.”
ACKNOWLEDGED.
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has increased its speed to twenty knots and has closed to within eight hundred yards of the Typhoon.”
“Conn, weapons. We’ve lost our firing solution, sir.”
“Damn.” Cubit grips the vinyl arms of his command chair, a recent addition in the
Scranton
’s control room. He turns to his executive officer. “Suggestions?”
Scranton
’s control room. He turns to his executive officer. “Suggestions?”
“Fire now and there’s a fifty-fifty chance you’ll accidentally hit the Typhoon and start a war. If you don’t fire, the Typhoon will probably be destroyed. Of course, assuming
Goliath
just heard our outer doors open, we’re sitting ducks anyway. I say we shit or get off the pot.”
Goliath
just heard our outer doors open, we’re sitting ducks anyway. I say we shit or get off the pot.”
Cubit glances around the control room. To his left is the ship control station, the ship’s control team strapped into their bucket seats, the diving officer hovering close. On the opposite side of the chamber, five technicians man the BSY-1 and weapons console. He feels the eyes of his officers upon him, every man calm on the outside, fear in their guts as they await his next order. “Tell you what, XO, instead of shitting, how about we just flush. WEPS, stand by to compute a new firing solution.” Cubit fingers the 1-MC. “Sonar, this is the captain. Give me two pings down the bearing of Sierra-2.”
The XO’s eyes widen. “You’re alerting Romanov?”
“And pulling our pants down at the same time.”
Two hollow pings echo through the sea like underwater gongs.
“It’s a Los Angeles-class attack sub,
Kapitan
. Nine thousand meters and closing.”
Kapitan
. Nine thousand meters and closing.”
Romanov’s thick eyebrows rise.
“
Kapitan
, there’s something else right behind us! Another vessel, very large—”
Kapitan
, there’s something else right behind us! Another vessel, very large—”
The captain feels his heart jump-start with adrenaline. “Identify—”
“Unknown origin, sir. Eight hundred meters and closing.”
“Sound alarm. Evasive maneuvers. Left full rudder, all ahead flank!”
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