Hunter Killer (Movie Tie-In), page 1
DANGER UNDER THE SEA
“Torpedoes passed astern!” Tommy Zillich yelled as he listened to the headset, his hands pressing the earpieces closer to his ears so he could hear everything going on out there. “We may be clear!”
Toledo was still angling sharply downward, toward the bottom, racing to get clear of the Russian weapons. They had all heard the deep rumble of the other submarine as it exploded. Now the control room was silent, everyone listening for the high-pitched scream of the incoming weapons.
That sound, as all the men aboard knew, would signal their immediate death.
A few of them breathed sighs of relief when they heard Zillich’s report. Glass knew better. They weren’t free yet. Those two torpedoes were still out there, still searching doggedly for them.
The sonar man confirmed his worst fears.
“Torpedoes! Both coming out of the baffles!” Zillich yelled over the 7MC. Now he had lost his calm demeanor. His voice was high and strained. “They’re closing!”
The Russian weapons had crossed astern of them and then turned back, looking once again for Toledo. They were both still relentlessly coming after them.
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
Copyright © 2012 by George Wallace and Don Keith
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Previously published as Firing Point
Ebook ISBN: 9781984805270
Signet premium edition (Firing Point) / July 2012
Berkley movie tie-in edition (Hunter Killer) / October 2018
Motion Picture Artwork © 2018 Summit Entertainment, LLC. All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
About the Author
How little do the landsmen know of what we sailors feel,
When the waves do mount and the winds do blow!
But we have hearts of steel.
—“The Sailor’s Resolution” (eighteenth century)
Prologue
Captain Second Rank Sergei Andropoyov pulled the heavy sealskin coat even more tightly around his body and stepped out of the Naval Command Building into the bitter Arctic wind. He hated winters in this gray godforsaken land. The sun never dared rise above the horizon and the icy wind, its fangs bare, howled in off the Barents Sea, just a few miles to the north.
At times Sergei wondered why anyone would ever build a submarine base in a desolate place such as this, but he knew the answer: water. When she was a mighty sea power, Mother Russia needed access to the world’s oceans, and this was the best she had. The warm southern ports were all bottled up on inland seas, but here, ports on the bleak, bitter-cold Kola Peninsula offered a gateway to the West. Submarines could depart into a narrow ribbon of open water in the Barents Sea before disappearing under thousands of square miles of Arctic ice. Driving submarines out of this extreme environment demanded hard men and strong ships, but those sailors and boats had done their jobs for the motherland, and had done them well.
Captain Andropoyov pulled the fox fur hat even farther down over his ears and yanked the heavy fur-lined mittens onto his stiffening hands. He glanced around before stepping off the little stoop into the horizontally blowing snow. The dull gray buildings that made up the Polyarnyy Northern Fleet Submarine Base added no color at all, nothing that might alleviate the drabness of the landscape. They only served to funnel the icy winds into an even more concentrated blast of knife-sharp cold.
Andropoyov walked quickly to the slushy street that ran in front of the building and jumped into the backseat of the old black Zil waiting at the curb. He didn’t utter a word to the tall, thin man who held the car’s door open for him. Michman Tschierschkey slammed the door shut and scurried around to climb into the driver’s side.
“Back to the ship, Captain?” he asked, rubbing his nose with both hands to get the circulation going again.
“Oh, da, Tschierschkovich,” Andropoyov said without even looking up. “It is time for us to be sailors again.”
The two men had sailed together for as long as Andropoyov could remember. Tschierschkey had been a draftee on board the old submarine Kommosellet when Andropoyov first reported aboard, fresh out of the Soviet Naval School at Stalingrad. Much had changed in the years since. The city was called St. Petersburg once again, the Soviet Union no longer existed, and the mighty Northern Fleet of the U.S.S.R. was nothing more than a rusting shell.
That is, except for Sergei Andropoyov’s new submarine. The K-475, Gepard, waited in the covered sub pen at Shkval on Olenya Bay, newly completed and hungry for her first taste of the sea.
“We have orders, Captain?” Tschierschkey asked, his eyes wide as he turned to look back at his commander.
“We sail with the tide.” Andropoyov met the gaze of the thin man, his eyes squinting in mock anger. “Admiral Durov will not be sympathetic if we are late because my insolent driver wanted to sit here in front of his headquarters and chat.”
Tschierschkey wore a broad grin as he turned and ground the car’s starter. He already had the inside of the old Zil warm, just the way he knew Andropoyov liked it. The captain slipped off the heavy mittens and pulled the fur cap from his head, revealing a disheveled shock of white-blond hair. He sat back in the seat and sighed as the old michman pulled away from the curb, skewing a bit on the patchy ice in the roadway.
The ride over the steep, potholed streets back to where his boat awaited him would give Andropoyov time to reflect on the meeting he had just completed. Admiral of the Northern Fleet Durov had been his usual imperious self, but as well as he knew him, Sergei had never seen him act quite the way he had this morning.
Over his career, Durov had single-handedly built the Soviet Northern Fleet into the largest, most potent submarine force in the world. Then, as he was not shy about telling anyone who would listen, he had watched it all be discarded by the spineless politicians in Moscow. On several occasions Sergei Andropoyov had seen him foam at the mouth as he ranted on and on about the castration of his beloved submarine service, all to appease the Americans and the clear-eyed capitalists in his own nation who would rather be rich than omnipotent, comfortable instead of supreme.
The old admiral had been much more subdued than normal this morning. Oddly subdued, Sergei thought. Still, Durov had been in no mood for pleasantries. He acknowledged Andropoyov’s greeting with little more than a grunt and a broad wave to take a seat. The glasses of tea were not even cool enough to drink without scalding their lips before the old man had rushed into the briefing, as if the information might grow cold and useless if it was not consumed at once.
“Sergeiovich, you have done well. I am told the K-475 is ready ahead of schedule for her first sea trials. She will do the Rodina proud. Our first new submarine in ten years! As much as I would love to show her off to them, even the Americans with their damnable spy satellites have no idea she exists. Nor do most of the bureaucrats back in Moscow. We must keep it so as long as we are able.” The admiral sipped his tea and eased back in the plush padded leather chair, crossing his legs, a near smile on his lips. Andropoyov tried not to stare. He had never seen the old man so relaxed. Andropoyov had to listen hard to hear his words when he spoke again. “You will get under way with the evening tide, Captain. The K-461 will escort you to your operating area. You have not been certified to carry weapons yet, so K-461 will be your guard.”
“I understand,” Andropoyov said. He sipped his tea, not sure what else to say. He could hear the ticking of the admiral’s desk clock, the shriek of the wind as it gusted around the corner of the building.
Durov stared into his glass for a long moment, as if he was studying the liquid for something that might be hidden there. He set the glass down and opened a drawer on the ornately carved antique wooden desk. He withdrew a large buff-colored envelope sealed with red wax and imprinted with the emblem of the Russian Navy.
“Here are your orders, Captain. Open them after you submerge, which you will do as soon as possible, before you reach the mouth of the Murmansk Fjord.” He slid the fat envelope across the desk. “There are no American satellite overflights tonight, but we expect an American submarine is out in the Barents Sea doing what they so arrogantly call a ‘gatekeeper mission.’ You will slip past him without being detected. Is everything understood?”
It was obvious the briefing was over. Andropoyov stood, saluted, and answered crisply, “Yes, sir! Gepard will not fail you, nor the Rodina.”
“Yes, I know. You will give your all.”
Even the man’s words seemed cold, detached, as unfeeling and aloof as the wind off the Barents Sea.
Andropoyov lifted the envelope, surprised by its heftiness, turned on his heel, and marched out of the office. He was happy to have a mission for his new boat, but still thrown a bit off balance by the odd demeanor of his admiral.
Now, as they pulled away, he looked out the Zil’s side window, back toward the headquarters building, toward Admiral Durov’s window. His breath fogged the glass and the squatty gray building was lost in the blowing snow before he could get it wiped clear.
* * *
* * *
Admiral of the Northern Fleet Alexander Durov watched the old Zil pull away from the curb. He turned abruptly from the window and stared hard at the other man who now sat in his office.
“There he goes, the impertinent little ass. Are you ready for your mission?” Durov asked.
Captain Second Rank Igor Serebnitskiv set the crystal glass of vodka down hard onto the priceless Louis XIV table. Trickles of condensation ran down onto the ancient shellac, ruining the surface, but Serebnitskiv paid no attention. He took his feet down from where they were resting on the polished wood of the admiral’s desk and rose to stand at the window, beside the older man.
“Da, I am ready. Volk will sail as soon as I am back on board. I think I will take special pleasure in ridding the world of Sergei Andropoyov. I have suffered enough of his arrogance. Ever since Stalingrad, I have been forced to absorb—”
Durov held up a hand to cut him off and cracked a rare smile. “Just don’t be too eager, nephew. Much more is at stake here than your own personal vendetta against our Captain Andropoyov. You must be patient, make sure the American is in place first. Andropoyov is a sacrificial lamb. His loss will be the impetus we need to overcome those weak-kneed old men in the Dumas.” The admiral flushed red, his eyes narrowing. “Their cowardice is robbing the Rodina of our rightful place as the world’s leader. Their stupidity will send our beloved motherland right back to medieval times. You will be the catalyst that drives them from the Kremlin.”
Serebnitskiv stiffened. “I will not fail you, Uncle. Now I must go to my ship.”
Durov gave an offhand wave of dismissal, but then grabbed his nephew’s shoulder in what had to be a painful pinch. The younger man refused to flinch.
“Remember the old Roman warriors’ saying: ‘Return either with your shield or on it.’ If you fail me . . . if you fail our union . . . it would be far better that you not return at all.”
Serebnitskiv summoned all the confidence he could muster, nodded, and strode from the room, closing the heavy wooden double doors behind him.
Durov listened as his nephew’s steps echoed down the hallway and through the door to the outside. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed the telephone stored there. He dialed a number and waited for the clicks that signaled the encryption device was engaged. He began talking as soon as he was sure of the voice on the other end of the line.
“They sail this evening. All is going well. Our part of the plan is in motion. There is no turning back now. We must meet to discuss your progress. The dacha at Sochi the day after tomorrow. We will expect a full report of your progress on the New York front.”
He returned the phone to the drawer and leaned back in his chair. By the time Serebnitskiv did his work, Durov would be on the warm beaches of the Black Sea. If anything went wrong, deniability would be more plausible if he was far away.
He could feel the excitement pulse in his veins. All the gears of this complicated machine were in motion. It was something he desperately needed. A military man required action in order to maintain life. Years of careful planning, of clandestine meetings, of nurturing the relationships with the Organizatsiya, the Russian Mafia, were culminating in a glorious series of events.
He returned to the window, sipping the cold black tea without tasting it, gazing off into the distance where the wind whipped white tops on the fjord’s surface.
Soon he would no longer need to swallow his pride like bitter bile. Soon he and his nation would achieve the glory they had so long been denied.
How fitting that it would all be set in motion out there, beneath the surface of that dark, icy sea.
Chapter 1
The vicious storm raged out of the north, hundred-knot winds lashing the sea, churning waves to the height of a ten-story building before crashing back down with the awesome force of tons of seawater. Wind-driven spray froze into hard bullets that whipped across the maelstrom. Deep gray sky and gunmetal-colored sea blurred into one, the horizon obliterated by the dense fog of driving ice and snow.
Deep beneath the surface of the punishing Barents, the American submarine rocked as gently as a porch swing on a calm summer night. The easy motion was a quiet reminder of the terrible winter storm that raged three hundred feet above. The officers of the USS Miami, SSN 755, were seated around the wardroom table, taking their time finishing their dessert and coffee. The remains of dinner had been cleared. The men still present discussed the day’s events and plans for the next. The sub’s navigator and engineer half listened as they played cribbage at the far end of the table.
Commander Brad Crawford pushed away an empty ice-cream bowl and leaned back in his chair, stretching mightily.
“So, how is the whale watching going, Doctor? Figured out what they’re saying to each other yet?”
Dr. David Croley, lost in his thoughts, looked confused when he glanced up from his own dessert dish. He pushed his reading glasses back up on the bridge of his nose, smoothed down a few wild strands of what was left of his hair, and gave a carefully considered answer to the captain’s offhand question.
“The taping is going very well, Commander. Of course, in the strictest sense of the word, we are not trying to determine the content of their communications, only the modality of the interchange.”
The tall, balding scientist was the lone non-Navy person at the table. Dr. Croley headed a small team of oceanographers from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, on board Miami to study the migration patterns of narwhals. While the animals’ summer travels were well documented, little was known about the winter activities of the Arctic-dwelling whales. Few people could see these vocal, sociable, tusked whales during the colder months, the horrible weather up on the surface a prime reason why. The Navy and the Miami were assisting Dr. Croley, allowing him to track the mammals across an entire Arctic winter.
Commander Crawford held up his hands in mock surrender and laughed. “Doc, I just wanted to know how it was going. Are the narwhals cooperating?”
