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Authors: Alex Berenson
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could only run, and hope.
00:05:56 . . . “Range?”
“Three hundred fifty yards. Still on us.”
“Is he slowing?” The torpedo wouldn’t stop all at once. It would sputter to a halt as it exhausted its stores of kerosene and hydrogen peroxide.
“Not yet.” Kang turned the Dolphins hat around. “Time for a rally cap.”
00:07:03 . . . “Range?”
“Under two hundred . . . a hundred fifty now.” Kang’s tone was steady. “Wait . . . he’s slowing.” Hope crept into his voice. “He’s at thirty-eight knots. Thirty-seven.” The hope faded. “He’s still coming. A hundred yards now.”
Even so, the torpedo was now hardly gaining ground on the Phantom—and it was near the end of its effective range. If they could just stay ahead for a minute longer, they might get free.
“Sixty-five yards . . . Sixty . . . but he’s lost another two knots. Down to thirty-four. He’s hardly catching us now. Fifty yards.”
And now Beck could see the wake of the torpedo, cutting through the flat waves, chasing them, trying to destroy them. It was just a mindless piece of steel, but Beck hated it more than he’d ever hated anything.
“Only forty yards,” Kang said. Then his voice lifted. “He’s down to thirty-three.” At thirty-three knots the torpedo wasn’t closing anymore.
“That’s right,” Beck said to the thing behind them. “Die. Get lost and die.”
“Thirty-two.” Kang didn’t try to hide his joy. “We’re outrunning him!”
In their excitement neither Beck nor Kang noticed that a red warning light had flared on the dashboard. “Oil!” Choe yelled. “Oil!”
“What?”
Choe pointed at the light, the engine oil-pressure warning light. They’d run the damaged Mercury too hot for too long. Minute by minute, the oil leak had worsened. They’d dripped oil like blood across the sea. Now the engine had no oil left at all, and—
With a loud thunk , it seized up, leaving the Phantom without power.
And no power meant the Phantom was a floating paperweight.
With only its momentum to carry it along.
But the torpedo hadn’t forgotten them.
And even as Beck put all this together, the Alligator slammed into the Phantom’s keel. The torpedo’s firing pin smashed backward. Electricity flowed into the firing cap, setting off the charge. A fraction of a second later, the Alligator’s warhead exploded, blasting the boat with 670 pounds of explosive.
The Russians had designed the Alligator to sink destroyers and cruisers, big ships with thick steel hulls. The Phantom didn’t stand a chance.
The explosion threw the speedboat twenty feet in the air. The blast wave tore through the cabin in a fraction of a second, splitting the four men inside into unrecognizable bits. They had no time for last words or even last thoughts, just a bright flash of pain followed by the unknown and unknowable. By the time the blasted hull of the Phantom crashed into the sea, they were dead.
The boat itself lasted longer. It burned for ninety seconds, a floating funeral pyre visible in the night for miles. Then water filled its hull and it sank, taking its crew of corpses to the bottom of the sea.
6
EVEN BEFORE THE PHANTOM DISAPPEARED beneath the waves, word of its destruction was spreading.
The North Koreans knew first, of course. The sonar operators on the Nampo , the submarine that had launched the torpedo, picked up the explosion immediately. After radioing its commanders, the Nampo chugged toward the wreckage, seeking survivors. It found no life, just an oil slick and pieces of the Phantom’s hull.
The torpedo had blown apart the Phantom at 12:08 A.M. By 12:25, word of its sinking had reached North Korean’s military headquarters in Pyongyang, a crumbling concrete building ringed with antiaircraft guns and missile batteries. Five minutes later, Kim Jong Il, the chubby gnome who ruled North Korea, received a report of the Phantom’s sinking at his palace in Pyongyang. He celebrated with a glass of
00:05:56 . . . “Range?”
“Three hundred fifty yards. Still on us.”
“Is he slowing?” The torpedo wouldn’t stop all at once. It would sputter to a halt as it exhausted its stores of kerosene and hydrogen peroxide.
“Not yet.” Kang turned the Dolphins hat around. “Time for a rally cap.”
00:07:03 . . . “Range?”
“Under two hundred . . . a hundred fifty now.” Kang’s tone was steady. “Wait . . . he’s slowing.” Hope crept into his voice. “He’s at thirty-eight knots. Thirty-seven.” The hope faded. “He’s still coming. A hundred yards now.”
Even so, the torpedo was now hardly gaining ground on the Phantom—and it was near the end of its effective range. If they could just stay ahead for a minute longer, they might get free.
“Sixty-five yards . . . Sixty . . . but he’s lost another two knots. Down to thirty-four. He’s hardly catching us now. Fifty yards.”
And now Beck could see the wake of the torpedo, cutting through the flat waves, chasing them, trying to destroy them. It was just a mindless piece of steel, but Beck hated it more than he’d ever hated anything.
“Only forty yards,” Kang said. Then his voice lifted. “He’s down to thirty-three.” At thirty-three knots the torpedo wasn’t closing anymore.
“That’s right,” Beck said to the thing behind them. “Die. Get lost and die.”
“Thirty-two.” Kang didn’t try to hide his joy. “We’re outrunning him!”
In their excitement neither Beck nor Kang noticed that a red warning light had flared on the dashboard. “Oil!” Choe yelled. “Oil!”
“What?”
Choe pointed at the light, the engine oil-pressure warning light. They’d run the damaged Mercury too hot for too long. Minute by minute, the oil leak had worsened. They’d dripped oil like blood across the sea. Now the engine had no oil left at all, and—
With a loud thunk , it seized up, leaving the Phantom without power.
And no power meant the Phantom was a floating paperweight.
With only its momentum to carry it along.
But the torpedo hadn’t forgotten them.
And even as Beck put all this together, the Alligator slammed into the Phantom’s keel. The torpedo’s firing pin smashed backward. Electricity flowed into the firing cap, setting off the charge. A fraction of a second later, the Alligator’s warhead exploded, blasting the boat with 670 pounds of explosive.
The Russians had designed the Alligator to sink destroyers and cruisers, big ships with thick steel hulls. The Phantom didn’t stand a chance.
The explosion threw the speedboat twenty feet in the air. The blast wave tore through the cabin in a fraction of a second, splitting the four men inside into unrecognizable bits. They had no time for last words or even last thoughts, just a bright flash of pain followed by the unknown and unknowable. By the time the blasted hull of the Phantom crashed into the sea, they were dead.
The boat itself lasted longer. It burned for ninety seconds, a floating funeral pyre visible in the night for miles. Then water filled its hull and it sank, taking its crew of corpses to the bottom of the sea.
6
EVEN BEFORE THE PHANTOM DISAPPEARED beneath the waves, word of its destruction was spreading.
The North Koreans knew first, of course. The sonar operators on the Nampo , the submarine that had launched the torpedo, picked up the explosion immediately. After radioing its commanders, the Nampo chugged toward the wreckage, seeking survivors. It found no life, just an oil slick and pieces of the Phantom’s hull.
The torpedo had blown apart the Phantom at 12:08 A.M. By 12:25, word of its sinking had reached North Korean’s military headquarters in Pyongyang, a crumbling concrete building ringed with antiaircraft guns and missile batteries. Five minutes later, Kim Jong Il, the chubby gnome who ruled North Korea, received a report of the Phantom’s sinking at his palace in Pyongyang. He celebrated with a glass of
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