by Ted Bell
“Pick up that phone and get the captain. Now! This is an emergency!”
“I’m sorry, but passengers—”
Stoke flashed the CIA badge Harry Brock had given him for situations just like this. The guy blanched, picked up the phone, spoke briefly, and handed the phone across the counter. Stoke somehow managed to convey urgency but speak calmly.
“Captain, you need to sound the ship’s alarm. Now. All passengers and crew need to don life jackets and muster at their stations. No time to explain. The problem is off your starboard bow at ninety degrees. It’s either a torpedo wake or the wake of a submarine periscope headed directly for you at high speed. Collision course . . . Yes, Captain, evasive action, right now.”
Stoke dropped the phone and raced down the wide staircase, taking the steps three at a time.
“All ahead two-thirds, make your depth one hundred,” Captain Lyachin said. “Fifteen degrees down on the bow planes.”
“Ahead two-thirds, depth one hundred meters, fifteen down,” came the reply.
Lyachin took a slow drag on his Sobranie. It was the most expensive Russian cigarette but worth every ruble. “Come to heading two-zero-two.”
“Aye, Captain. Turn on my mark, course two-zero-two. Speed, eighteen knots. Depth, one hundred meters . . . mark.”
“Diving downward, course two-zero-two.”
“Two-zero-two, aye.”
“Speed eighteen knots.”
“Speed eighteen knots, aye.”
“We’ll slip right under that fat tourist barge bastard’s belly,” Lyachin said, grinning at his XO.
“A brush with the angel of death,” the XO replied, smiling, “and he won’t even know it.”
A second later, the blast of the boat’s alarms began sounding, an awful din that turns every submariner’s stomach. Dim red emergency lights began flashing in the CCP. Every man at his post stared at his screen in disbelief. The XO scrambled, moving from post to post, assessing the situation.
“What the hell is happening?” Lyachin said.
“We still have propulsion, sir, reactor normal, but all our operating and propulsion systems have been . . . co-opted.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Lyachin shouted. He’d never heard the word co-opted and he didn’t like words he’d never heard.
“No longer in our control, sir. It’s as if . . . as if the sub is operating independently. We’ve lost the helm, the diving planes, and . . . holy mother of God!”
“What?”
“The two torpedoes in the forward tubes just went live, sir! They’re showing ‘armed’ on my panel! And the . . . my God . . . outer doors of tubes one and two . . . they’re opening, sir, on their own. Tubes flooded . . . what the hell is going on?”
“Weapons Officer, shut everything down. Disarm! Now!” Lyachin said. “Go to Fail-Safe! Kill it!”
“Can’t execute, Captain. Nothing on my panel is responding.”
“Torpedo room, close the outer doors. Helm, come right to one-eight-zero.”
“Helm is frozen at two-zero-two, sir! She’s maintaining a heading directly to the target, sir.”
“Torpedo room?”
“Outer door controls not responding. Both torpedoes armed. Active guidance to target. Launch sequence countdown has been initiated.”
Lyachin went white. “How long have we got?”
“Sixty seconds to launch, sir.”
The captain looked at his XO.
“The entire boat has been infected,” he said.
“Infected?”
“Fifty seconds to launch.”
“Some kind of cyberweapon. We’re about to sink an American cruise ship, Aleksandr. Go forward and see if there’s anything you can do to stop that from happening.”
The XO stared into his captain’s eyes with stunned disbelief for a millisecond and then he bolted from the CCP. Both men knew there was nothing to be done.
“Thirty seconds, Captain.”
Control of their submarine, and their fate, had been snatched from them in the blink of an eye. And by whom? They would never know.
“Fifteen seconds. Ten. Five . . .”
Lyachin closed his eyes and waited for the muffled explosive sounds that would signal the end of a very long and distinguished career in the Russian Navy. Not to mention the end of his life, blindfolded, his back to a wall at Lubyanka Prison in Moscow.
Fourteen
Stokely Jones smoked soles down the ship’s starboard B Deck corridor, careening from one bulkhead to the other as the liner pitched and yawed in the heavy seas. He stopped just outside stateroom 222 and slid the card key into the slot. He found his bride just the way he’d left her—stunned, scared, still bleeding and huddled in the corner on the floor.
He knelt beside her, kissed the top of her head, and examined the wound more carefully. Stitches could wait, but he had to stop the bleeding. He scrambled into the head, grabbed a terry hand towel, and soaked it in warm water. Then he carefully folded it into a workable compress. Looking for something to secure it with, he spotted a pair of pantyhose hanging over the shower door.
“We’ve got to get out of here, honey,” he said quietly once the compress was firmly in place on her temple. Her eyes went wide with fear as he pulled two life vests from the cabinet above her.
“What? What is it, Stokely?” she asked, her eyes wide with terror. “Are we sinking?”
“No. But I saw something I didn’t like,” he said, grabbing her rain gear and his from hangers and her pair of running shoes. “Up on deck. Here, put these on. I’ll help you get to your feet.” As she struggled into the clothing, he put his own life vest on, then helped her with her own.
“What did you see?”
“Maybe nothing. But it sure as hell looked like the wake of a torpedo. Could have been the wake of a sub’s periscope maybe. Either way, it was headed toward us at high speed and it didn’t look promising.”
“A torpedo? Somebody’s firing a torpedo at a cruise ship?”
“Doesn’t make any sense, I know. That’s why I hope to God I was just seeing things. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Our muster station. Where we had the drill back in Miami. That’s where we board the lifeboat.”
“Stokely Jones, this is the last time I will ever, I mean ever—”
She never finished that sentence.
Two massive explosions rocked the mammoth vessel. One torpedo, from the sound of it magnetic and not impact, had struck amidships, probably exploding directly beneath the Fantasy’s keel. If that fish had broken the ship’s back, Stoke figured they had about forty-five minutes before she went down with all hands.
And then the second torpedo impacted just forward of the stern. The engine compartment, Stoke thought, feeling the big ship instantly start to lose forward momentum as the big bronze screws stopped turning. After two decades in the U.S. Navy, he could hear when a screw was loose in the bilge. Now all he could hear were the screaming alarms throughout the huge liner. He waited for the captain to make his announcement.
“Attention, all passengers. This is your captain speaking. We have sustained cataclysmic damage. A damage assessment is already under way. However, in the interest of everyone’s safety I am taking no chances. I am now issuing the order to abandon ship. All passengers must report immediately with their life jackets to their assigned muster stations. The crew will assist you in boarding the lifeboats. I repeat, this is your captain speaking . . . abandon ship. This is not a drill, I repeat, this is not a drill.”
Stoke, with Fancha in his arms, was already en route to the lifeboat muster station.
Aboard Nevskiy, Lyachin struggled to maintain his composure as his boat continued on a collision course with the now sinking American liner. He stared through the periscope in horror as fire spread and the mas
sive cruise ship’s bow angled sharply down. If there were to be a secondary or tertiary explosion, thousands of innocent civilians could lose their lives.
Including the men aboard his command.
They were now on a collision course with the sinking liner, and control of his boat had been wrested from him. The XO stood beside him, his furrowed brow beaded with perspiration. He’d been scrambling all over the boat, trying to find some way, any way, to regain control. Or, at least shut down the reactor. The reactor had now gone to 105 percent, dangerous in itself, and they were increasing their speed toward the doomed cruise ship.
“Perhaps it’s for the best, Aleksandr,” he said quietly.
“Sir?”
“Better to die out here where we belong than face the wrath of the admiralty.”
“And a firing squad.”
“Yes. That, too.”
“Any chance we’ll scrape beneath her?”
“No, sir. If she continues sinking at the current rate, we’ll impact her bow in less than three minutes.”
“Inform the crew to brace for impact. Officers to remain at their posts, continue attempts to regain control. ”
“Captain, one thought if I may.”
“Of course.”
“The escape trunk is inoperable. But the main hatch has a manual override. We could open it. Scuttle the boat.”
“No. We will attempt to regain control until the end. That is all.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
He saluted and left Lyachin alone with his thoughts for these last few moments. He was headed for the planesman who was desperately trying to rewire his panel in a last-ditch effort to—
“Conn, Helm! I have regained control!”
“Helm, Conn, make your course one-nine-zero! Hard over!”
“Helm, aye.”
“Conn, engineer. Reactor panels back online.”
“Shut down, I repeat shut down! Go to diesel!”
“Reactor shut down, going to diesel, aye.”
“Planesman, Captain, make your depth one hundred meters. Down thirty degrees on your bow planes.”
“Depth one hundred meters, down thirty degrees on bow planes, affirmative.”
The submarine angled sharply downward. The periscope slid back down into the well with a soft hydraulic hiss. From every corner of the command post great shouts of wild cheering and laughter broke out as the men celebrated their miraculous escape from disaster.
Captain Lyachin breathed a sigh of relief.
He would live to fight another day. But first he would have to prove his innocence to the admiralty. He now had incontrovertible proof that the enemy possessed cyberweapons capable of taking over the most modern Russian submarine. By living to tell the tale, he would have done the navy a great service. How great? An admiral’s worth? Perhaps.
If the brass believed him.
Meanwhile, he would do everything in his power to learn who had secretly managed to steal his submarine from under his boots. If this could happen to the Nevskiy, the entire Russian Navy was now at risk.
Captain Flagg Youngblood, a U.S. Navy sub driver, was thirty-nine years old, a Naval Academy graduate, and happened to be a native of Austin, Texas. The skipper of the Texas was legendary in the U.S. Fourth Fleet operating in the SOUTHCOM area of focus. He’d been awarded numerous honors and decorations for his valiant service, including the Navy Star, the Silver Star Medal, two Presidential Unit Citations, the Legion of Merit, and the National Defense Service Medal.
His stomping ground, SOUTHCOM, encompassed the Caribbean, Central and South America, and surrounding waters. U.S. Fourth Fleet was originally established in 1943, a time when America desperately needed a command in charge of protecting against raiders, blockade runners, and enemy submarines in the South Atlantic.
The speaker above Youngblood’s head crackled.
“Sonar contact!”
“Talk to me, Jonesie,” the skipper replied.
“Conn, Sonar, new contact bearing two-zero-one. Positive ID on her screws. It’s the Nevskiy, sir. Designate contact Whiskey 7-7.”
“Conn, aye.”
“Conn, Sonar, something really weird is going on out there. Whiskey 7-7 proceeding at periscope depth, speed eighteen knots. Looks like she’s lining up on that big cruise ship. Dead abeam, and—holy Jesus!”
“Sonar, Conn, what the hell was that sound?” the captain said to the Texas’s sonar officer. He’d been monitoring sonar through his headphones. “Sure sounded like tube doors opening to me.”
“Aye, sir. Nevskiy just opened her number one and two forward tubes.”
“This has to be a dry fire exercise, ain’t it? Damn well better be. That or World War Three.”
“Dry fire, aye, but the outer doors were just opened. Tubes flooding now, skipper. Not like any exercise I’ve ever seen. Looks more like the real thing.”
“What in damn tarnation is that old fox Lyachin thinking about? Sinking a goddamn American cruise ship? Insane!”
“No, sir, I wouldn’t think so.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t think so either, but he’s been pinging the hell out of it.”
“Target of opportunity, sir. Gotta be just practice.”
“What’s his speed and course, Sonar?”
“Speed eighteen knots, depth sixteen, maintaining course two-zero-one and—holy mother of God!”
“Talk to me, Jonesie; tell me I ain’t hearing what I think I heard . . .”
“Live fire, sir! He just let go two fish!”
“Nevskiy, Nevskiy, Nevskiy, this is the United States submarine Texas. Confirm the two fish you just launched are dummy warheads, over . . . shitfire, Russian bastard’s not responding. Nevskiy, Nevskiy, do you read?”
“Fish proceeding to target, sir.”
“Can you ID them as to type?”
“Negative, I can’t get a clean enough—”
“Damn it! Get me COMUSNAVSO, pronto!”
“Aye-aye, sir, coming up,” the comms officer said, putting through a flash emergency signal to the U.S. Naval Forces Southern Command.
“This is Admiral Walsh.”
Youngblood grabbed his mike and started barking.
“Admiral, this is Captain Flagg Youngblood, SSN 75, with an urgent message for the chief of naval operations. Please inform the CNO we got a Russian sub down here just fired two torpedoes at the American cruise ship Fantasy. Sending her coordinates now. These fish could be deadheads, but we’ll know that soon enough. Tell the admiral I want to report an—”
An underwater concussion rocked the Texas. Then another. Followed by the muffled sounds of two huge explosions.
“Correction. Tell him America has just been attacked by the Russian nuclear submarine Nevskiy, sir. I will notify Coast Guard Miami and USCG Air Station Borinquen, Puerto Rico, to initiate immediate search and rescue in Sector Five. I anticipate heavy casualties, sir. Over.”
“You better know what the hell you’re talking about, son,” the admiral said, and he was gone.
The captain sat back in his command seat and looked at his XO, Lieutenant Bashon Mann.
“Bash, that’s one crazy bastard, Lyachin,” he said, lighting up a fat Cohiba torpedo stogie with his Zippo.
“Insane, sir. All those poor people . . .”
“Take her up, Bash. We’ll pick up as many survivors as we can. Then we’re going out there to find that sonofabitch and stick a couple of firecrackers up his ass.”
“Start World War III?”
“The Russians already started World War III, remember?”
“Captain, with all due respect—”
“Calm down, Mr. Mann, I’m just . . . what’s that word . . . venting. But, by God, I’d like to get in a shooting war with that lunatic. Sonar, Conn, where the hell is that sonofabitch Lyachin?”<
br />
“Went deep, sir, three hundred meters, speed twenty-four knots, course oh-two-zero.”
“Roger, sonar. That cowboy’s headed for the trench, getting out of Dodge.”
“Roger that, sir. I would, too.”
Russian prime minister Vladimir Putin was sound asleep in the vast owner’s stateroom of his yacht, Red Star, in the Mediterranean when his private Kremlin line lit up, making a soft pinging sound that wouldn’t go away. It was three o’clock in the morning. You can run from the Kremlin, but you can’t hide, he thought. Hardly an original notion but a deadly accurate one.
He rolled over and reached for the receiver, girding himself for more bad news from his second in command, Dmitry Medvedev. No one ever called at three in the morning with good news. No one ever called at any hour with good news. The curse of power.
Exhausted, he’d just returned from Beijing. A week of grueling meetings with Premier Jintao and other high-ranking Chinese Communist Party officials, trying to bring these madmen to his point of view. The CPC was schizophrenic about forging alliances these days. The Chinese, in their new arrogance, saw themselves as the superpower heir apparent.
One day they were leaning toward their natural ally, Russia; the next, they were attending lavish state dinners at the White House, being wooed by the Americans. The Americans had one big advantage over him. They were indisputably China’s biggest market. Money, it was always money.
“Yes,” Putin said, freighting the word with icy irritation.
“Please excuse the hour, but I had to call you,” Medvedev said. “Very bad news, I’m afraid.”
“You heard from Beijing? No trade agreement?”
“I only wish. Anything from them is better than this.”
“One moment, let me turn on the light . . . go ahead.”
“Ten minutes ago I received a call from Admiral Vladimir Sergeevich Vysotsky. Our navy commander in chief informed me of a serious incident that occurred two hours ago in the Caribbean Sea. It seems that one of our submarines in that theater, the Nevskiy, has just torpedoed and sunk an American cruise ship carrying five thousand passengers, en route from Miami to Jamaica.”
