Location: RSF Drakon, SSBN

In the Pacific Ocean

Latitude: 11° 09ˊ S

Longitude: 176° 17ˊ W

Depth: 813 meters

Time: 1512 hours

Date: 2 May 2030

RSF Drakon hovered in the Pacific Ocean just below a thermal transient—a sharp shift in water temperature that could reflect incoming sound waves. They were naturally occurring and provided protection from discovery. Drakon had recently been involved in a major battle against the Chinese fleet, its first real test at ocean battle, and had performed brilliantly. It had survived nearly unscathed.

Nearly.

Captain Ivan Arkady Ventinov stood on the bridge of his warsub, the largest ever put to sea in the oceans—on the surface or below—and felt enormous pride surge through his body. His entire history had led him to this point in his career. Born to government officials, raised in Moscow and socialized around aristocrats and politicians his entire life, he had had a meteoric rise in the Russian Submarine Fleet. His parents and their associates had been his connections, and he had made use of them time and time again. His peers had complained about him having advantages that they didn’t, but Ventinov didn’t care. He used any method possible to drive himself further in the RSF. During his early years in the fleet, he frequently called on contacts to aid him in his training, ensuring him promotions and opportunities that others simply didn’t have access to. Within a few years of his entrance in officer training school, he was a full rank ahead of his classmates, and every year since, the gap widened. Others eyed him with bitterness and envy, but they knew to hold their tongues. Once, early on, a young officer had dared to voice his displeasure, and within days he’d been forced out of the RSF, thanks to a call Ventinov had made to one of his father’s political friends.

No one complained openly after that.

He had used everyone he could to increase his status in the fleet, for Russia was too important to leave to the sheep. Someone had to lead the others toward strength and victory. To bring Russia back from the dismal cellar of failure, and toward a future that mirrored the strength of history. Ventinov had longed for Russia to return to the greatness of previous centuries, but he knew things on the surface were falling apart. Nations were struggling as ocean levels rose and as temperatures soared and arable land disappeared.

He understood, like others within the ruling class, that the oceans were the newest and most promising frontier for Russia to recover her former glory, and he had fought hard to make this day happen.

The bridge’s ceiling was completely transparent, providing a wonderful view of the ocean and the sky far above. When the ship descended too deep for light to penetrate from above, the computer could project images of nearby contacts on the canopy. It was nearly sixty meters long, encompassing the entire command and control chamber on the dreadnought. Around him were countless consoles and stations, where loyal Russians sat and worked on systems; light shone upward at their faces, sending twisting shadows across their features, and there was a pervasive murmur of voices as they gave orders and received information.

Drakon—Dragon in English—was a marvelous warsub. Glorious, even. Ventinov had commanded many different classes of ships in the RSF—Devil, Leonov, Minsk, Kirov, and even the missile boat Eliminator Class—and had served on others, but this Dreadnought was the greatest and most powerful of them all. His background in naval tactics and history and his experience had led to this day . . .

The day that Russia would retake its place at the forefront of world events, capture the greatest prize of all—ocean resources that other nations were scrambling to stake claim to—and strike fear in the hearts of all ocean-going nations on Earth. The warsub was a monumental achievement for Russian scientists; senior government officials right at the top had pushed them to create this weapon.

And they had succeeded, brilliantly.

The warsub was unparalleled in undersea travel. It was the largest, most well-armed, fastest and best-armored vessel in the water, without question. Its top speed was 467 kilometers per hour, and was the first—and only—SCAV ship in the RSF. This seemed odd to Ventinov, because the Soviet Union had invented the technology for its torpedoes in the 1970s. Other nations had taken the technology and had improved upon it, leaving Russia far behind, especially after the collapse in later years.

Ventinov unconsciously clenched a fist behind his back. But now, he thought . . . now Russia was back.

They had just displayed their power over the Iron Plains region in the Pacific Ocean, east of the Philippines. It was an area rich in iron nodules—deposits precipitated from outgassing vents in ridge axis regions. Geology was a science foreign to him, but the rich iron deposit, stretching across an area the size of Brazil, was what appealed to Russia. They needed resources like this, and others from the oceans, to expand their power. For too long they had succumbed to environmental and economic collapse.

Russia had thrown everything into this quest, thanks to their newest leader Gavriil Ghorzinski, and had created the newest class of warsub, Dreadnought. They had also retrofitted earlier versions with newer technologies. They had replaced some altogether, such as the Vostok Class vessels, which were now fast and stealthy with a large complement of weaponry. Each only had twelve crew, but the nation had put forty-two of them into service quickly.

Of course, some of the nations west of Russia had suffered for this achievement, notably Ukraine, Belarus, and Poland—all of whom were now part of the new Russian Empire.

Dragons were very much a part of Russian folklore. Most had three heads, walked on hind legs, and spit fire.

Spit fire.

Yes, Drakon would spit fire, but from its stern. It used its fire for speed.

Dragons also typically represented foreigners in Russian mythology, and they would use its namesake, this massive titanium-alloyed beast, to destroy anyone who stood in Russia’s way.

Ventinov stared at the sea over his head. Inside, his guts twisted. The ship had been sitting there, in one place, for too long. He wanted to move. To attack. Already they had destroyed two USSF bases and over sixty Chinese vessels, but there was so much more to do.

“Give me a report,” he said in a quiet tone to his executive officer, who approached silently from behind.

One torpedo had made it through their countermeasure net, and despite Drakon’s high rate of speed away from the battle, it had impacted dangerously near to her SCAV water intakes. Repairs were necessary. Crews had been working on them since they had found the thermal boundary. They did have a backup system, but the captain demanded that the primary intakes be fixed and the backups used only in emergency.

“Engineers continue working on the intake hatches. Damage is more extensive than previously thought. The intake tubes are also—”

“Just get it done,” he growled in response. “Next.”

“We continue to hide below the thermal boundary. Chinese warsubs have passed near, but have not spotted us.”

This made Ventinov angry. He did not want potential victims to power in and out of their targeting field without Drakon acting. He ground his teeth at this news.

His XO, Gregor Sukilov, continued, “The USSF is suffering. Huge sections of Virginia and California are flooding, although they have shored up the Norfolk seawall. We killed many in the attack.”

“Vessels?”

“No. Mostly personnel, though there were some hull ruptures. Not many though.”

“Damn.”

“Captain, the tsunami plow had a greater effect on the buildings in the area. Not on ships that can float or descend under water. And the nuclear bombs were not powerful. They were just enough to break the seawalls.”

He snapped a look at Sukilov. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

His XO’s face paled. “I did not say such a thing.”

“You implied it.” Ventinov turned away. “Spend the next two shifts working in engineering. Maybe that will teach you.”

He had said it in a calm, yet bitter tone.

There was also the fact that an operator had activated the noise shield too late during the first attack. They had planned to use it before they extended the tsunami plow, but this had not happened.

That operator was now dead.

“Aye, aye, sir.” The XO’s gaze was on the deck.

“What else?”

“The Americans are scrambling to figure out who attacked them and how. We have reports that they have enlisted the aid of Trieste.”

Ventinov turned to the man. “Say again?”

“The underwater colony off Florida’s coast.”

“I know what Trieste is. They were involved in the battle last year in the Gulf of Mexico. They surrendered to the USSF.”

Sukilov swallowed. “Yes, sir. But now they are working together, apparently to solve the mystery.”

Ventinov suppressed a hollow chuckle. “Perhaps this news will help us pick our future targets.”

“Yes.”

“It will also please our guest, wouldn’t you say?”

“Probably.”

The captain paced the long aisle between consoles as he considered the situation. They had made their presence known, there was no doubt of that. They had devastated both coasts of the United States with sudden and unexpected attacks. Then they’d hurt the Chinese.

But there were others who needed lessons as well.

The French, for instance. They had surprised Russia in the last century, building a massive undersea navy despite a faltering economy, and they had more power in the oceans than even Russia. This was disconcerting, especially for the Russian leader, Ghorzinski, because the French had long been a Russian adversary.

But for so many years Russia had been weak, quiet, and a minor player on the world stage.

But no more.

Drakon would turn the tide in the oceans.

More dreadnoughts would soon put to sea. The country had thrown itself into the RSF program, the revitalization and creation of new and powerful technologies. It was just a matter of time.

But for now, for Ventinov, his job was to forge a foothold in the oceans for Russia, and hold onto it, using the dreadnought’s might, until the RSF could add to the fleet.

And as for the next target, who would it be?

France, perhaps? China again?

He stared at a map of the region, and at the nearby undersea colonies.

Maybe that was the best course of action after all, he mused. Take out the undersea cities before they can ally with each other and become more powerful.

Yes. He clenched his fists again behind his back. They would be easy targets.