George Wallace - Hunter Killer [Movie Tie-In]

They had to stay outside the narrow sonar cone in front of the torpedo, the area where the weapon sensed its prey.

Miller couldn’t believe his own words when he next yelped.

“Conn, sonar. Two torpedoes! Bearing zero-two-one and zero-one-eight! Signal strength is increasing!”

Crawford groaned. Two torpedoes—the son of a bitch was using standard Russian tactics. He had fallen into a trap. The bastard must have been “ice picked” out there somewhere, just waiting for him to amble by. Had it been the same sub that had made the distress call? Why would they be shooting at someone who was trying to help them?

“Torpedoes bear zero-two-one and zero-one-eight! Still closing. Both are active!”

How the hell could they manage to evade these two deadly weapons bearing down on them and then turn and shoot that bastard?

No way to outrun them.

Maybe they could lose them up there in the ice. That was their only hope.

“Dive, make your depth one-two-zero feet.”

Gerson stared hard at Crawford. “Skipper, there are ice keels hanging down to at least one hundred and fifty feet!” he protested. “We hit one of those and we’re dead!”

Crawford shouted right back, “We don’t outsmart those torpedoes and we’re just as dead. I’m hoping they lose us in the ice.”

Miami angled upward and raced for the new depth. There was no time for anyone to spy the massive ice keel dead ahead. At thirty knots, they were outrunning the ability of the underice sonar to see what lay ahead of them. The keel only jutted downward to ninety feet, but that put it even with Miami ’s main deck.

The jagged chunk of ice started to print out on the display. The sonar watchstander shouted a warning. It was too late.

When the sub slammed into the keel, the mass of granite-hard ice raked hard into Miami ’s sail, shearing it off neatly. Tons of cold seawater flooded into the control room through the hatch, the chopped-off periscopes, and the dozens of other hull penetrations. The boat stopped dead. The men on board were slammed forward with the momentum, smashing into whatever unyielding piping or equipment protruded there.

She had just lurched to an abrupt stop, just begun to settle and sink away from the ice keel with the sudden weight of the inflowing water, when the two Russian torpedoes arrived simultaneously.

One passed under the engine room and exploded, ripping a massive gash through the thick steel of the sub’s skin. Ice-cold water rushed in through the immense rupture. The force of the explosion lifted the massive main turbines off their bedplate and slammed them sideways into the hull. The huge steam pipes ripped free and poured live steam into the engine room, scalding everyone there.

The other torpedo exploded just outside the crew’s mess room, the force blasting through the hull, sending red-hot shrapnel spraying around the crowded room, slicing through flesh, instantly killing the sailors there before they could even realize what was happening.

The doomed sub, defeated, sank slowly, inexorably into the deep, the sea continuing to rush in through rents and tears along her length.

By the time the Miami came to rest a thousand feet below, the sea had already jealously claimed as its own the once proud submarine and all the souls on board.

Igor Serebnitskiv laughed out loud and pounded the nearest bulkhead with glee. His crew stared at him, not fully understanding what had just happened. Some wondered if their captain had gone mad.

Serebnitskiv was oblivious of those looks.

It was done.

He listened to the sounds of ocean water as it rushed into the carcass of the dying ship. He could hear the sizzle of ice-cold water hitting steaming-hot pipes, and make out the crushing of bulkheads as they collapsed under the awesome pressure of the sea.

Then the final sound, the grinding and tearing as the sub’s lifeless remains plowed into the stony bottom of the ocean.

He had been cursing himself for not pursuing the Americans when they went racing past him the first time. There had been no time to shoot and he dared not make noise that would alert them of his presence.

He knew they would not abandon another ship in distress, that they would be back. Americans were weak and predictable that way. He had been right.

Now there was nothing to do but wait a few dull, boring days until that annoying underwater telephone on Gepard went silent. Until there would be no chance of any witnesses remaining.

He could go home to tell his uncle what he had accomplished out here in this bitter sea.

Go home to toast the renewed glory of the Rodina .

Go home and help lead the new revolution.

Admiral Alexander Durov sat on the porch of the seaside dacha, gazing out over the blue waters of the Black Sea. A warm breeze blew in, bringing with it the refreshing scent of salt air and the clamor of fishermen already heading out for their night’s work. The sun burned a fiery orange as it sank into the sea. The lights of Nizhneye Dzhemete were already blinking on, adorning the hills along the shore to the north of the dacha with a necklace of white pearls.

Durov loved this place. It was so different from the frigid wasteland of the Kola Peninsula where he now spent so much of his time. His boyhood home was a few kilometers north of here. He had spent much of his early career at the vast naval bases at Novorossiysk, a mere thirty kilometers to the south.

Beautiful and comfortable as this place was, Alexander Durov knew the future of Russia lay much farther north, up there in the frozen Kola, with its open access to the world’s oceans, not here on this warm, closed sea.

Boris Medikov sipped his vodka and watched the admiral, the red glow of the setting sun reflected in his still-clear eyes.

“Alexanderovich, you are a million kilometers away.”

Durov turned to look at him and shook his head. “No, Boris, my friend, I am right here. I am enjoying allowing the healing warmth to soak into these old bones.”

Medikov leaned back into the padded cushions of the overstuffed chair and sighed. He was a dark-haired, handsome man. He looked to be a full decade younger than his fifty years. It was his eyes, though, that most people noticed. They were dark, deep, and appeared to be hooded, even when they were wide-open.

“Ah yes. This is far better than the chill winds blowing through Moscow nowadays. I must confess, I find the nightlife around here a little slow for my tastes.”

Durov grimaced and took a drink of his own vodka. “You Muscovites are all alike. You must have action and excitement in your lives all the time or you feel you are missing something vital to living. You never take the time to enjoy the quiet things in life.” He waved his glass in a long, slow sweep around the horizon. “Just look out there. The serenity of this place is balm for the aching soul.”

Medikov chuckled. “It may be enough to soothe an old man’s soul, but as for me, I prefer a beautiful woman wrapped in furs to soothe mine.”

“ Ne kulturny , no culture,” Durov mumbled, and shook his head as he rose from his chair. He ignored the slight sliver of pain behind his breastbone as he stood. “Come, Boris. I didn’t pull you away from your women wrapped in furs to watch sunsets with an old man. We have important things to discuss.”

He walked through the double doors and inside the dacha. Medikov had to hurry to follow in his wake.

The two men stepped into the admiral’s bookcase-lined study. Well-thumbed naval history books shared shelf space with tomes covering grand military strategy. Interestingly, there were also texts there that discussed stock markets and international finance. Interspersed around the volumes were the trophies and mementos of a lifetime spent serving at sea. There were detailed ship models, well-used brass chronometers, and other nautical bric-a-brac. A huge Georgian mahogany desk filled much of the floor space. Off to one corner, facing a now-cold brick fireplace, were two red leather armchairs with a dainty tea table set between them. The table was burdened with a large bottle of white wine, chilling in a silver ice bucket, and two crystal wineglasses.