Goliath

“Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises.”

—Demosthenes

“My resolve is steady and strong about winning this war … the first war of the twenty-first century.”

—President George W. Bush

“I can only say that I had a brainstorm.”

—Miles Giffard, twenty-seven-year-old Briton, who murdered his parents and tossed their bodies into the ocean

CHAPTER 11

Identity: Stage Three: I am peaceful inside. My inner world is beginning to satisfy me more than outward things.

—Deepak Chopra

Charcot Seamount 112 Nautical Miles NW of La Coruña, Spain North Atlantic

The Charcot Seamount rises abruptly from the depths like a foreboding jagged wall. Running east-west for more than fifty miles, the submerged mountain range forms a natural barrier, its massive cone-shaped peaks redirecting currents, forcing cold, nutrient-rich waters upward along its steeply sloped walls, providing food for huge populations of corals, sponges, and fish.

Goliath soars over the peaks and through the valleys, maneuvering within the whirling eddies like a gargantuan dancing manta ray.

Diving and rising, twisting and turning. With each pass, Sorceress finetunes its sensor array until it can actually feel the currents pressing against Goliath’s wings. The incredible sensation stimulates its lightning-damaged neural pathways to grow, increasing the connection between the sub’s mind and body, body and mind.

Inside the control room, Simon Covah straps himself tighter in his command chair, feeling as if he is riding an underwater roller coaster. “Sorceress, respond—”

Thomas Chau’s Asian complexion pales as he stumbles up the platform. “Covah, what the hell is your sub doing—trying to make us all sick?”

“Something’s … wrong. The computer won’t respond. Sorceress, this is Covah. Terminate current maneuvers.”

No response.

“Sorceress, this is Covah—”

VOICE IDENTIFICATION VERIFIED.

“Explain current maneuvers.”

REALIGNING PUMP-JET PROPULSORS, RECONFIGURING TACTICAL SYSTEM TO OPTIMIZE ALL FIELDS.

“Terminate maneuvers.”

REALIGNMENT WILL BE COMPLETED IN ONE MINUTE, ZERO-THREE SECONDS.

“Sorceress, terminate the realignment procedure now.”

REALIGNMENT WILL BE COMPLETED IN FIFTY-SEVEN SECONDS.

Chau’s eyes widen. “It’s ignoring you.”

Covah grips the armrests of his chair, closing his eyes as the sub rolls hard to port and keeps on rolling, the ship’s wingspan nearly vertical as it glides through a narrow opening set between two towering peaks.

Chau’s feet go out from under him. The falling crewman lunges for the support rail of Central Command and holds on, his body dangling thirty feet above the tilting chamber.

“Sorceress—”

The sub passes between the two mountainous barriers and rights itself.

REALIGNMENT COMPLETE. TACTICAL EFFICIENCY NOW 100 PERCENT.

Thomas Chau pulls himself up and over the rail, a murderous look in his almond eyes as leans toward Covah, and whispers, “You’ve lost control.”

Covah stares impassively at the giant viewing screen, sucking in painful breaths. “Step away from me, Mr. Chau.”

The engineer pauses, then dutifully backs down the platform’s steps.

Covah wipes beads of sweat from his caterpillarlike mustache. “Sorceress, run a complete diagnostic on your—”

WARNING: SUBMARINE DETECTED. BEARING ZERO-TWO-FOUR. RANGE, 122 KILOMETERS. SPEED, TWENTY KNOTS.

“Can you identify?”

AFFIRMATIVE. VANGUARD-CLASS. HMS VENGEANCE.

Covah looks below and to his right, where the tall African remains strapped in his chair. “Mr. Kaigbo, is Vengeance the sub we seek?”

Kaigbo nods, still on the verge of puking.

Covah attempts to lighten the mood. “Once more then, to the thrill of the hunt. Sorceress, plot an—”

Before he can finish the order, the ship’s propulsion system kicks in, driving the mechanical devilfish up and over the seamount and through the cold North Atlantic to intercept.

Aboard the HMS Vengeance

“Sir, we’ve reached the rendezvous point.”

“Very well.” Commander Whitehouse turns to his XO. “Are the Americans in the ASDS?”

“Aye, sir, standing by.”

The British skipper reaches for the shipwide intercom. “Sonar, conn, any sign of the Colossus?”

“Conn, sonar, no tonal contacts.”

Whitehouse grinds his teeth. Just like the Americans, always late. “Slow to one-third. Prepare to launch ASDS.”

The Advanced SEAL Delivery System, or ASDS, is a fifty-five-ton minisub designed to transport a SEAL squadron from a surface ship or submarine to an objective area. Resembling a pygmy sperm whale, the blunt-nosed vessel is capable of descending to depths of 190 feet over a range of 125 miles.

Gunnar is strapped in at the pilot’s chair, General Jackson, Rocky, and David seated in the rear. Pulling back on the joystick, he eases the minisub up and away from the Vengeance, the ship’s turbulence rolling the smaller vessel as it continues its southeasterly course.

Gunnar focuses on his control panel, listening at sonar. The noise from the British sub grows quiet in the distance, replaced by the ambient sounds of the sea.

Beads of sweat break out along his brow. Like most subs, the ASDS has no viewports through which to see. Somewhere in this white noise of ocean are two killer vessels, one friend, the other foe.

He increases his speed to eight knots, listening and waiting.

The mammoth steel stingray glides slowly over the seafloor, the turbulence from its five pump-jet propulsors barely disturbing the sandy bottom. Rising majestically, it scatters a school of mackerel as it overtakes the minisub, its winged hull dwarfing the ASDS like a dog to a flea.

A forty-foot-long rectangular hatch suddenly opens along the belly of the mechanical beast, inhaling the sea and the SEAL minisub into its flooding compartment.

“What the hell—” Gunnar fights the controls as the minisub twists upward and sideways within a sudden, powerful torrent.

General Jackson smashes his shoulder against an equipment rack. “Gunnar—”

Sonar echoes off steel walls, alerting Gunnar to his new environment. Cursing under his breath, he shuts down the minisub’s engine as the mechanical sounds of a hatch closing reverberate beneath them.

The ASDS lands upright with a double whomp inside the water-filled compartment of the Colossus.

“What a ship,” says David, beaming. “Sneaked up on us and shanghaied the minisub before we ever knew she was there. Can I build a stealthy ship, or what?”

Rocky shoots him a look to kill.

Gunnar shares her sentiments. “Your captain’s got some set of balls, pulling a stunt like that.”

“Best in the business,” David brags, missing the point.

The sounds of heavy pumps from the draining compartment echo around them. Moments later, a metallic rap along the outer hull signals the all clear sign.

Gunnar opens the rear hatch, stepping out into the light.

Standing at rigid attention, waiting to greet them, is the ship’s CO, an African American in his early thirties carrying the physique of a track star. Next to him is a smaller man with sand-colored hair, the sub’s executive officer.

David steps forward to make the introductions. “General Jackson, this is Commander Anthony Lockhart, captain of the Colossus, and his XO, Christopher Terry.

The African American flashes a confident smile. “Welcome aboard the Colossus, sir. I trust you had a safe trip.”

“An interesting way to greet us, Commander. You should have warned us before swallowing us like that.”

Lockhart loses the smile. “She’s a quiet ship, sir. I don’t expect your pilot heard us coming. Thought it might be safer if we extracted you from the sea instead of alerting you and, potentially, the Goliath.”

“Agreed. This is Commander Jackson-Hatcher, and Captain Gunnar Wolfe.”

Lockhart shakes Rocky’s hand, then eyes Gunnar. “You played for Penn State, right?”

“About ten years ago. Wait a sec … Lockhart? Jackson State QB?”

Lockhart nods. “Quarterbacked two years before I blew out my knee. But you—the NFL had you slated to go in the third round.”

“Second.” Gunnar smiles. “But duty called.”

“I do know the feeling.” Lockhart turns to the general. “We’re shadowing the Vengeance, giving her six miles of sea to play with. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to detect the Goliath until she makes a move on the British sub, but then, she won’t know we’re in the area either. Captain Wolfe, Commander Terry will escort you to your minisub, I’m sure you’ll want to check her out.”

Gunnar nods.

“David, my computer people have been requesting your presence ever since we made weigh.”

“Is there a problem?”

Lockhart offers a tight grin. “Let’s just say we’ve experienced a few technical challenges.”

“That’s to be expected,” David says. “The Colossus shakedown cruise wasn’t even scheduled until April.”

“I’m sure any help you can render would be greatly appreciated.”

David grabs his satchel and hurries forward.

Lockhart looks to the general. “I’m needed in the conn. If you and Commander Jackson would like to join me?”

Rocky and her father follow him out.

“This way, Captain.” Commander Terry leads Gunnar around the minisub to the other end of the hangar.

Gunnar looks around, the chamber’s surroundings strangely familiar. He has seen all this before—in a virtual reality tour of the Goliath.

The hangar bay is a gymnasium-size compartment located at the very center of the sub. Dominating the room, mounted to the rubber-coated decking, are two imposing T-Rex-sized steel appendages. Gunnar is familiar with the design of these mechanical limbs. With advanced pistons for muscles, miles of hose, wiring, and cable for blood vessels, nanoreceptors for nerves, and hydraulic cranks serving as shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints, the cranelike arms are capable of the most intricate three-dimensional movements while lifting objects as large and as heavy as an ICBM.

Without Sorceress on board, it takes a trained robotics operator to manipulate each of Colossus’s monstrous appendages.

Set upon the deck in pairs are a dozen twenty-foot-high-by-eight-foot-wide hatches, which Gunnar knows are lockout berths containing Colossus Hammerhead minisubs. Each of the piloted craft are identical to the prototype he designed a lifetime ago.

Reading his mind, Commander Terry says, “The berths are empty. None of Colossus’s Hammerheads were ready. Your prototype is over here.”

Mounted on a skid atop berth 9’s raised platform is the Hammerhead.

Gunnar runs his palm along its smooth aluminum surface. Designed to be piloted by a Navy SEAL, the prototype is slightly larger than the computer-controlled versions. The midwing stabilizers, shaped like pectoral fins, are wider, the tail assembly, containing the single-engine, pump-jet propulsor unit, a bit longer.

Still, this is his sub, his design. His heart pounds with excitement at the thought of piloting her again.

Commander Terry kneels, pointing beneath the Hammerhead’s undercarriage to where a manhole cover-size device is held within the grasp of two robotic claspers. “Special Ops designed the mine to your specifications. The release mechanism for the claw is located on the right side of the cockpit floor.”

“Yes, Commander, I know. I designed it.”

The XO does little to hide his contempt. Climbing up on the sub, he reaches for the dorsal fin hatch, yanking it counterclockwise with both hands.

The hatch rotates open, revealing the two-seat cockpit inside. Commander Terry reaches inside and removes a machine gun-like rifle designed with two barrels and two magazines, one below the trigger, the other built into the butt of the weapon.

“The general ordered this for you. I’m not familiar with the gun,” Terry says, holding it out.

Gunnar takes the weapon from him. “We call it the OICW, an Objective Individual Combat Weapon. It’s arguably the most lethal gun ever developed. The rifle features two types of ammunition controlled by a single trigger. This larger top barrel fires a new 20-mm high-explosive air-bursting round. Six rounds are loaded into the rear magazine.”

“You trying to pop an eardrum?”

“The OICW’s barrels were designed to absorb sound. It’s quieter and lighter than an M-16 and more powerful than a grenade launcher. Army Rangers have been using them in the field for years.”

A distant memory slips past his mind’s eye. He quickly shakes it loose, refocusing on the gun.

“This smaller bottom barrel uses the standard 5.56-mm NATO bullet, which is loaded into this thirty-round magazine.” Gunnar points to the clip beneath the trigger. “The fire control system activator is located here. Right now it’s set to bullets. Push this switch, and it changes to HE bursts. But the real beauty of this weapon is its computerized firing system, which is built into the gun’s sight. A laser range finder measures distance to the target and communicates the information to a computer chip located within the fuse of each of the 20-mm rounds. Allows you to adjust detonation time.”

Commander Terry takes the weapon from him, reinspecting it. “So … why’d you do it?”

Gunnar swallows the bile rising in his throat.

Terry doesn’t wait for a reply. “You were a decorated war hero. People looked up to you. You had it made, a great job, a beautiful lady. What the hell were you thinking?”

Gunnar stares at the prototype, his patience waning. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me. Make me understand how a dedicated decorated soldier turns his back on his country. I remember the day you went to prison … it was like a slap in the face to every man in the service.”

Gunnar looks up, locking onto the XO’s brown eyes. “Ever kill anyone, Commander? Ever look into someone’s eyes while they bled all over you? Ever feel a life actually leave your victim’s body as you held them in your arms?”

“No, I … well, no I haven’t. But it still doesn’t give you the right—”

“How many Trident nukes on board this death machine? Twenty-four?”

The XO nods.

“If you were given the orders to launch, you’d put that key you wear around your neck into its keyhole and turn it without questioning the president’s orders, wouldn’t you? Because that’s what you’re trained to do … react. Think about it, the Navy trains you not to think, because if you did, if you took the time to examine each and every policy and political issue, then you might just question the sanity of those orders and its repercussions on humanity.”

“If launching a nuke meant protecting our national interests, then, yes, I’d launch,” Terry says. “Every officer wrestles with that question, it’s part of wearing the uniform. It’s the responsibility we bear to our country.”

“And what of your responsibility to the rest of humanity? There’s a fine line between right and wrong, freedom and oppression, the best of intentions and the insanity of genocide. Think about that the next time you kiss your wife and kids good night.”

Gunnar turns, heading for the forward passageway.

Rocky follows Commander Lockhart and her father through the tight corridors of the ship, amazed at the differences in the internal layouts of the Colossus and Goliath. Without Sorceress on board, the additional manpower necessary to run the Colossus taxes every square inch of space. Crew’s quarters occupy the entire middle deck forward, an area on the Goliath dedicated solely to Sorceress. Crew recreation areas have been eliminated to accommodate a larger galley. Corridors are halved to access additional toilets and showers, staff rooms, eating areas, and storage bins. The Colossus is a cramped, overcrowded, expensive submersible city—exactly the kind of ship the Navy was attempting to move away from when the Goliath had been designed.

They follow Lockhart up a small spiral stairwell and enter the conn. The design has been drastically altered to contain two control decks crammed with computer consoles. Sixty technicians are focused at their stations, each man hard at work, attempting to replicate what Sorceress can do in the blink of a human eye.

Rocky shakes her head in disbelief. So inefficient …

Aboard the HMS Vengance

Captain, sonar, sir, you requested we report all contacts.”

“Sonar, Captain, go ahead.”

“Sounds like another pod of killer whales, I count seven in all. Range, nine kilometers, speed five knots. They’re moving slowly along the surface, normal behavior, but I thought it best to report it, seeing how they’re headed in our direction.”

“Acknowledged.” The British skipper exhales his annoyance a bit too loud, then scratches the short gray hairs of his beard in a feeble attempt to hide his frustration. Two days at sea, and the only thing he has to report is whale sightings. Bottlenose and orca, fin and humpback, bowhead and right whales. Who do the Americans think I am—bloody Jacques Cousteau?

Aboard the Colossus

Commander Lockart and his XO stare at the large overhead screen linked to the sub’s fiber-optic photonics mast and sonar consoles.

Seven yellow dots appear along the surface of the sea, moving in the direction of the HMS Vengeance.

General Jackson joins him. “What is it, Commander?”

“Biologics. The computer identifies them as orca, seven in all, but I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Conn, sonar. Tonal contact, bearing one-four-zero, range, seven thousand yards and closing very fast. It’s the Goliath, commander, and she means business.”

Lockhart turns to the Bear. “Better get your team ready, General.”

Jackson nods, hurrying out of the control center.

Aboard the HMS Vengeance

“Battle stations! Lieutenant Miller, load Spearfish into tubes one and two and make ready in all respects.”

“Aye, sir. WEPS, conn, load Spearfish into tubes one and two and make ready in all respects.”

Whitehouse turns to his XO. “That bloody terrorist will attempt to use his unmanned submersibles to knock out our screw and incapacitate the ship. Under no circumstance do we allow that to happen, is that understood?”

“Aye, sir.”

The captain heads forward to fire control alley, where six technicians stationed before a series of amber-colored plasma screens are feverishly attempting to track and target the approaching vessel. Whitehouse feels a rush of adrenaline coursing through his body. The Spearfish torpedo is a 660-pound monster of a weapon, with a range of thirteen miles and a top speed of sixty knots.

For a brief moment, he envisions the headlines in tomorrow’s London Times: BRITISH COMMANDER DESTROYS KILLER SUB.

“WEPS, where’s my firing solution?”

The fire control officer turns to his CO, a look of desperation on his face. “The contact descended beneath the thermocline. We lost her, sir.”

As the Goliath disappears into the colder, deeper waters of the Atlantic, seven steel sharklike dorsal fins cut a uniform path across the choppy surface. Small jet propulsor units drive the mechanical fish through the sea, while sensor arrays mounted in their blunt hammerhead-shaped bows process incoming transmissions from the mother ship.

Passing two hundred feet over the British sub, the sharks suddenly disperse, swooping in on Vengeance from seven different angles—a choreographed, underwater ballet.

Aboard the Colossus

“Make a hole—” General Jackson pushes past crewmen and enters his cabin, the lump growing in his throat, his internal voice screaming in his ears. He curses the Navy, curses himself; most of all he curses the influence his career has had on his only child. It’s not too late. You can still act, you can still order her to stay on board. Screw the Pentagon, this is your daughter. You don’t have to let this happen . . .

“Rocky?”

Rochelle Jackson-Hatcher emerges from the bathroom, dressed in the black lightweight exterior battle skeleton worn by Army Ranger infiltration teams.

“Rocky, I … change of plans. I’ve thought about it, and it’s best only Gunnar and David go.”

“What?” Rocky tucks the serrated commando knife into her boot. “We talked about this in Keyport. No one knows more about Goliath than I do. I’m going.”

“Gunnar can handle it.”

“I’m going, General, end of discussion.”

“And I said Gunnar can handle this.” Bear growls, heading for the door.

“Hold it!” Rocky jumps in front of him, blocking his way. “You can’t do this. This isn’t your decision. Secretary Ayers is calling the shots on this mission, not you.”

“I gave you a direct order, Commander. I’ll clear this with Mr. Ayers when and if—”

“An order?” Rocky removes the knife from her boot, holding it up for him to see. “My mission is to recapture my submarine and personally shove this knife into Covah’s fucking heart. Just because you’re wearing a general’s uniform doesn’t mean you can start playing Father Knows Best.”

Jackson stares at his daughter. What have I done? What kind of father have I been? Always pushing … never satisfied. I’ve created G.I. Jane—

He grips her by the shoulders. “Rocky, listen to me, you’re not a commando, you’re not trained for this.”

“Wrong. I helped design this machine, I can stop it.” She returns the blade to its sheath. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Bear. You’ve sent other parents’ children into combat situations, knowing they might never return. Now it’s my turn.”

He swallows the lump in his throat. “You’re right. I have. And it always sickens me.”

She sees the sadness in his eyes and softens. “Look, I’ll be okay.” She gives him a quick hug. “Hey, our first real father-daughter moment in twenty years.”

“Yeah.” Bear pinches away tears. “Come on.”

Aboard the HMS Vengeance

An explosion rocks the ship as the remains of the Vanguard-class submarine’s screw is ripped apart by a small torpedo launched by one of Goliath’s stalking minisubs.

Commander Whitehouse feels as helpless as a suffocating child trying to punch its way out of a paper bag. His ship’s screw has been destroyed with an almost-surgical precision. Two of his crew are dead, a dozen more injured. His engine room is flooding, causing Vengeance to lose her neutral buoyancy. The sub is slipping farther into the depths like a waterlogged whale, while an uncountable number of the enemy’s unmanned submersibles race around his vessel doing God-knows-what.

“One hundred forty meters. One fifty—”

“Sonar, conn, goddam it, son, where the hell is the Colossus?”

“Conn, sonar, I’m sorry, sir, still no sign of her.”

“One hundred and sixty meters—”

“Emergency blow. Put us on the roof.”

“Aye, sir, emergency blow.” High-pressure air screams into the forward ballast tanks, slowing their descent. Vengeance hovers at an awkward forty-degree angle, then begins rising.

Five hundred yards off the Vengeance’s starboard beam, a pair of sinister eyes, luminescent red, stare unblinking into the darkness as if the mechanical devilfish were observing its minions. Sorceress is doing more than watching; it is instructing, calculating, manipulating the playing field and its combatants.

And then, in the distance, the computer’s sensors detect another presence, infinitely larger, racing toward the Goliath from the north.

Aboard the Colossus

“She’s detected us, Skipper. Abandoning the Vengeance, changing course to two-seven-zero, increasing speed to forty knots.”

“Helm, come to course two-seven-zero, increase speed to flank. Hangar, conn, is the prototype ready to launch?”

“Conn, hangar, the prototype’s ready, but we’re still waiting for Jackson and Paniagua.”

David is seated in front of a computer terminal linked directly to the ship’s central computer, watching as a million bytes of information finish downloading from his CD.

A knock. One of the ship’s chief engineers enters his stateroom. “Sir, they’re waiting for you in the hangar.”

“Yes, yes, one minute. You did want me to fix the glitches in the system’s mainframe, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“But nothing. No one touches this console while the information’s downloading, is that clear?”

“Aye, sir.”

David grabs his satchel and heads out, the chief securing the door behind them.

Gunnar releases the locks on the skid as Rocky and her father hurry into the hangar. Without giving Gunnar so much as a glance, she places the toes of her boots in the footholds of the vessel’s sleek flank and climbs up to the open hatch, lowering herself inside.

The general turns to the Chief Petty Officer standing by at the locking chamber’s main console. “Give us a moment.”

The chief moves out of earshot.

Gunnar clicks his heels together, standing at attention. General Jackson looks him over, then whispers in his ear. “How’s your hip?”

“Still sore, sir.”

“But the wound has healed sufficiently?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then this is it. Whatever you may have done in the past, whatever is haunting you, this is your chance for redemption. Show no mercy. Kill Covah and his crew and return the Goliath to where she belongs.”

“Understood, sir.”

“God be with you.”

“Or stay out of my way.”

Bear grabs his arm, squeezing the bullet-resistant material of the carapacelike suit. “Son … watch over her. For me.”

Gunnar nods, then scales the sub and lowers himself inside.

Rocky watches him stow the OICW gun beneath the seat, then check the M-4 carbine hanging from his shoulder holster. “So? Where the hell’s David?”

“Don’t know. Wasn’t my turn to watch him.”

As if on cue, David drops feetfirst into the tight cockpit. “Sorry, boys and girls, duty called.” He reaches up and seals the dorsal fin hatch above his head, then squeezes into the copilot’s seat, squishing Rocky into the middle in the process.

The Chief Petty Officer activates a switch on his main control console. Instantly, the platform on which the Hammerhead minisub and its skid rests begins descending into a rectangular-shaped lockout chamber located beneath the decking. As the vessel drops belowdecks, a hatch closes from above, sealing it inside.

The chief turns two levers, flooding the garage-size berth beneath their feet.

Gunnar places the prototype’s control helmet on his head and activates the optical display, then adjusts the small eyepiece over his right eye so he can see. Functioning similar to that of an Apache chopper pilot’s helmet, the headgear is linked directly to the minisub’s external sensors located in the Hammerhead’s snout. An image appears in Gunnar’s right eye—the interior of the dry dock, now filling with water.

The three passengers feel the sea lift the neutrally buoyant craft away from its skid. Moments later, the outer hatch of the docking chamber opens, exposing them to the Atlantic.

Gunnar throttles up the minisub’s pump-jet propulsor and accelerates out of the Colossus.

“Wolfe, can you hear me?”

Gunnar flips the toggle switch on the ship-to-ship. “Go ahead, Commander.”

“Come to course two-seven-zero. The Goliath has detected us. She’s abandoned the Vengeance and is running at forty knots. We’ll give chase, but this is your race.”

“Understood.”

Viewing the underwater world with his right eye, the control console with his left, Gunnar presses down on the foot pedals and sends the steel Hammerhead racing after the Goliath.

David retrieves a CD from his satchel and places it into a hard drive he has rigged to the prototype’s control console. “You need to get us within—”

“I know, I know, two hundred yards. This thing better work.”

“It’ll work. just drive the boat.”

Gunnar rockets the prototype past the enormous starboard wing of the Colossus, the faster minisub racing ahead of the 610-foot behemoth doing sixty knots.

Sonar pinpoints the Goliath, three thousand yards ahead.

Two thousand yards—the minisub closing fast.

Fifteen hundred yards—the minisub passing through a stream of bubbles.

Seven hundred yards—and now Gunnar can make out a dark mass looming ahead. “I can see her … damn, she’s big.”

Three hundred yards. “I’m approaching her starboard wing.”

“Stay beneath her, or she’ll sideswipe us like a fly.”

Gunnar adjusts his course, dropping beneath the steel leviathan.

Two hundred yards. “Now, David, now!”

David activates the acoustical beacon, the high-pitched sonic clicks reverberating like dolphin-speak throughout the sea.

One hundred fifty yards—the minisub tossing within the behemoth ray’s turbulence.

“David—”

“Give it a chance.”

One hundred yards. Gunnar weaves in and out of pockets of current, struggling to keep his vessel steady.

Then, without warning, the five monstrous propulsion units simply shut down and the Goliath slows to a crawl.

Aboard the Colossus

“Conn, sonar, confirm. The Goliath’s engines have shut down. The ship is slowing to drift. Fifteen knots … ten …”

Commander Lockhart glances at General Jackson. “So far, so good. Chief, take us in, make your course—”

A sudden shudder, as if the ship has run aground, followed by a chorus of groans as computer consoles begin lighting up like Christmas trees.

Lockhart grabs the 1-MC. “Damage control—”

“Conn, engine room, propulsors two, three, and four have shutdown.”

“Conn, electronics. Main computer’s not responding. Backup systems are down as well.”

“Conn, reactor room, we’ve got a major emergency. Both primary and secondary cooling circuits on reactors three and four have shut down!”

“Can you scram the reactors?”

“Negative. We’ve tried, but the computer’s gone haywire, it keeps overriding our commands. All backup cooling systems have failed, and the fuel rods are continuing to heat.”

“Can you shut it down manually?”

“Still trying, but the controls have overheated.”

Lockhart’s skin tingles with fear. “Chief, how soon to a meltdown?”

“Ten minutes … maybe. Pipes are bursting everywhere, we’re ankle deep in radioactive water. Fuel rod temperature just passed thirteen hundred degrees, the paint’s burning on the outer plating.”

“Get your men out of there. Seal off the compartment. Chief of the Watch, emergency blow, all main ballast tanks.”

“Belay that order,” Jackson says, pulling the captain aside. “Commander, technically, this vessel does not exist. Do you understand? You cannot surface her.”

Lockhart grits his teeth. Thinks. We’re still over the continental shelf. “Chief, how deep is the seafloor?”

“Nine hundred thirty feet.”

“Very well. Emergency descent, set her down on the bottom. Radio, launch distress buoys. Commander Terry, give the order to abandon ship. I want every crewmen in escape suits in three minutes.”

Aboard the Hammerhead minisub

Gunnar maneuvers the minisub beneath the inert Goliath. As he glides beneath its massive propulsion units, a square of luminescent yellow light appears up ahead, growing larger as the enormous doors located along the stingray’s belly open, beckoning him to enter.

David grins from ear to ear. “Told you it would work. Now take us inside and let’s finish the job.”

Gunnar pulls back on the joystick, guiding the prototype up through the opening and into the flooded chamber of the hangar bay. He sets the vessel down upon the decking closest to the forward wall of the compartment and waits for the bay door to reseal and the chamber to drain, his heart pounding with adrenaline.

The reverberations of hydraulics hum beneath them as the hangar bay closes. High pressure air shoots into the compartment as several dozen ramjet pumps situated beneath the decking suck seawater from the chamber.

The water drains quickly. Bright overhead lights ignite, shining down through the sliver of aqua blue Lexan glass located above Gunnar’s head.

And then the lights go out.

“David?”

“Relax, G-man, a minor glitch.”

“Maybe.” Gunnar frees himself from his harness, then removes a pair of ITT Generation-5 night-vision glasses from a side compartment of his console. He adjusts the glasses over his eyes, the interior changing from black to pea soup green.

Reaching above his head, he unseals the dorsal hatch. A whoosh of air as the hatch pops open and the cabin equalizes. He hears water dripping against an otherwise silent backdrop.

Gunnar leaves the OICW weapon beneath his seat and releases the safety of his M-4 carbine. Quietly, he climbs out of the minisub, gun drawn, his eyes searching for movement.

Left, right, center—nothing. Murphy’s Laws of Combat: If your attack is going really well, it’s probably an ambush.

Rocky jumps down from the minisub, fanning out to Gunnar’s left. “All clear. David, do your stuff.”

David remains in the minisub.

“David, let’s go—”

A sudden flash of steel, and Gunnar’s world goes topsy-turvy as one of the monstrous robotic claws snatches him about the knees within its six-foot-long tripod pincers. Lightning smooth, inhumanly graceful, the mechanical hand pivots 180 degrees around its wrist and rises, whisking him upside down and away from the deck with gut-wrenching force.

The carbine clatters to the floor.

The hangar lights flash on.

Gunnar tosses aside the night-vision glasses and looks around, helpless. He sees Rocky hanging upside down from the other mechanical hand, and then, from across the hangar, a slight figure steps out from behind a huge generator and walks toward him.

From around the perimeter, seven more men appear, their Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifles drawn. One of the Arabs collects Gunnar’s carbine.

Simon Covah looks up at Gunnar, a crooked smile plastered on his disfigured face, the upper right corner of his scarred mouth twitching from the effort. “Welcome aboard. It’s been a while.”

“You don’t look well, Simon. But then, I’m not used to seeing you from this angle.”

“Sorceress, lower Captain Wolfe, gently please.”

Gunnar drops, then is pivoted right-side up and released. Sorceress? The computer’s active …

Three of Covah’s men move in, aiming their guns at the former Ranger. Two Arabs search him thoroughly, removing his weapons and bulletproof skin.

David’s head pokes out from the minisub’s open hatch. “Is it safe?”

“It’s safe.” Covah greets him with a hug. “Well done, my friend. So good to see you.”

“You too.” David reaches into his satchel and removes several vials. “For you.”

“David, you fucking bastard—”

David looks up at Rocky, smiling nervously. “Sorry, Simon. I had no choice in bringing her.”

Covah ignores Rocky’s string of expletives, more interested in Gunnar. “Tell me, Gunnar, did you come all this way to kill me?”

“The thought had occurred to me.” He glances up at Rocky. “Would you mind?”

“Are you certain? From what David’s told me, she prefers you dead. I seem to remember the two of you always enjoying a love-hate relationship, but this—”

“Just lower her.”

“Of course. Sorceress, lower Commander Jackson … gently.”

In one fluid motion the massive appendage swivels and drops to the deck, easing Rocky to the floor. Two of Covah’s men push her to the rubberized decking and search her.

Covah holds his hands wide in front of Gunnar. “Before you cast final judgment, I only ask that you afford me a chance to explain.” He turns to his men. “Strip and search them both thoroughly, jettison every article of their clothing, then take them to their stateroom. Treat them as guests, but do not let your guard down.”

Taur Araujo, an ex-guerrilla leader from East Timor, points his gun in Rocky’s face. “Whatever you’re wearing, remove it … slowly.”

Covah glances upward at the scarlet sensor orb. “Sorceress, what is the status of the Colossus?”

SHIP IS DISABLED. CURRENT POSITION, SEAFLOOR, THREE POINT SIX KILOMETERS DUE NORTH.

David’s eyes widen in wonderment. “Anna’s voice?”

Covah nods. “I find it … comforting.”

“What did you do to the Colossus?” Rocky says, as her Special Ops clothing is pulled from her body.

“Gave her a little virus.” David answers, affording himself a quick look at Rocky’s naked physique. “By now her reactors should be overheating, her missile silos popping open.”

“Sorceress, take us to the Colossus,” Covah rasps. “Reflood the hangar the moment we leave and begin removing all of Colossus’s nuclear missiles.”

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Gunnar turns to Covah. “Don’t do it, Simon.”

“Please trust me, Gunnar, trust that my agenda is yours. You know, David and I went to great pains to bring you here. There’s so much I want to share with you, but there’s so little time. I have a plan, a plan that will justify all you’ve done and make up for all you’ve sacrificed.”

“You’re part of this,” accuses Rocky, “I knew it!”

Gunnar ignores her. “What are you going to do, Simon?”

Covah smiles. “My friend … we’re going to change the world.”