Goliath

“A man suffers little from unfulfilled wishes if he has trained his imagination to think of the past as hateful.”

—Friedrich Nietzsche, German philosopher

“I would kill a Turk, but I wouldn’t torture them.”

—Anonymous Serbian priest expressing his disapproval of the torture of Muslims

“That was a good hunt. There were a lot of rabbits here.”

—Anonymous Serbian soldier, while looking over a field piled with the bodies of Muslims

“We are a race of savages and have no pity.”

—Adolf Hitler

CHAPTER 13

Aboard Goliath

Rocky lies facedown on the bunk, her swollen, singed right hand wrapped in a wet towel. Gunnar is seated on the floor beside her. He brushes aside the straw-colored blond hair, matted with perspiration, and massages her neck.

“Don’t touch me.”

A heavy click, and the stateroom door swings open. The African and Asian enter the cabin, followed by a third man, a white-haired Albanian in his late fifties. All three carry assault rifles. “On your knees, the two of you.”

“She’s hurt.”

The older man, a physician, examines her burn. “I’ll get some salve for this—”

“Tafili, later.” The Asian removes two plastic dog collars from a satchel. “Simon’s requested your presence as our dinner guests. We prefer not to carry weapons. These devices should keep you on your best behavior.”

Thomas Chau slips the collar around Rocky’s throat, locking it in place so that its two quarter-inch metal prongs press against the back of her neck, fitting snugly against the base of her cervical vertebrae. A small black receiver rests along one side of her throat.

“Rigged these myself,” the Albanian physician boasts. “The Russians used similar collars to train our attack dogs. Quite simple really. The remote is linked to the sub’s computer.”

Chau fastens the remaining collar around Gunnar’s neck. “Let’s have a quick test. Sorceress, a level-two charge.”

A brilliant explosion of pain—sudden and devastating—sizzles through every nerve ending in Gunnar’s body. He collapses to the deck, writhing on the floor like an epileptic having a violent seizure, the purple lights blinding his eyes.

The electrical charge subsides. Gunnar rolls over, spitting up a frothy, acrid saliva. He senses Rocky next to him, the woman gagging as well.

The Albanian physician bends over them. “That was a level-two charge. Please don’t do anything rash, a level-ten charge would fry you like bacon.”

“Simon’s rules are simple,” Chau states. “The two of you are guests, under constant surveillance. Overstep your boundaries and the computer will dole out the appropriate response. Now come with us.”

The three men exit.

Gunnar slips his hand beneath his waistband, groaning in agony as he palpates a small spot below his right hip. The tender point just beneath the skin is scorching hot.

Rocky helps him to his feet. Arm in arm, they follow the three men down the corridor to a small galley. The rest of the crew is already inside, seated around a large rectangular table secured to the deck. Plastic utensils litter the white Formica top. The scent of fresh-baked pizza drifts out from open double doors leading back into the kitchen.

Covah stands to greet Rocky, motioning her to an empty setting on his left. “Please, Commander, come and sit down.”

Rocky steps forward, smiles, then kicks outward, the top of her bare foot rushing toward Covah’s groin.

The electrical charge grips her in midstrike, flipping her body out from under her and hard onto the linoleum floor.

“Like a bull in a china shop,” says David, shaking his head.

Rocky rolls onto her knees, her chest heaving in convulsions.

Gunnar kneels beside her. “Not like this—”

“Leave me alone.”

Covah returns to his seat. “As you can see, the collar’s probes detect even the slightest neuromuscular activity, and I shouldn’t need to remind you how fast Sorceress can react.”

Ignoring her protests, Gunnar helps Rocky to her feet, leading her to one of the empty place settings. “Sit down and save your energy.”

She wipes saliva from her chin. “Go screw yourself.”

Two Arabs enter from the kitchen, carrying pizzas on large aluminum trays. The crew digs in as if famished.

Covah breaks off a small piece of dough and sauce, placing it gingerly in his deformed mouth, the mangled flesh around his jaw and right eye contorting as he chews. “Go ahead, Gunnar, help yourself. If I remember correctly, pizza was your favorite.”

Gunnar’s stomach growls a reply. He takes a slice, earning more of Rocky’s wrath.

Covah feeds himself another morsel, then removes a vial from his pocket, fishing out several pills. One at a time, he places the tablets in his mouth and swallows.

Gunnar watches him, saying nothing.

“I can’t … I can’t do this.” Rocky bites down on her quivering lower lip. “You murdered my husband, you murdered the sailors aboard the Ronald Reagan,” She looks at Covah, her hazel eyes swimming. “I swear to God, before this is over—” She stops, wary of Sorceress.

The crew pauses from eating, waiting for Covah’s response.

“You swear to God? What makes you think God is listening? What is he, an absentee God? A God amused by the suffering of His children?” Simon Covah’s mouth twitches in midswallow. He coughs, gags, then reaches out with his good hand, lifting the wine to his lips, dripping some down his rust-colored goatee as he drains the glass. The pale blue lashless eyes never leave the woman’s. “As for murder, isn’t it you who are calling the kettle black?”

“What are you talking about?”

“David tells me it was you who ended the life of Mr. Strejcek.”

“Strejcek killed my husband—”

“And you killed him. Murder is murder, Commander, no matter how we justify the act.”

“That was self-defense. You killed thousands—”

“Using a weapon of mass destruction which you helped design.” Covah swallows another morsel of food. “Interesting how you sit back and judge me—you, a general’s daughter, a sanctimonious warmonger who helped design two of the most lethal killing machines ever to navigate the seven seas.”

“You’re insane.”

Covah nods, wiping his mouth. “There we finally agree. Personally, I’m convinced we’re all insane, not just us, I mean our entire species. At times I believe we are all just animals, hell-bent on self-annihilation. We preach love, yet we caress violence as a forbidden lover, tasting it, smelling it, overindulging our senses in it, until we are forced to push it away after the deed has been done so we can beg our Maker’s forgiveness. The hypocrisy makes me ill.”

Covah looks at Rocky, his gaze growing harsh. “You and I worked together for two years, Commander. During that time, I found you to be an adequate manager, competent and knowledgeable, but, like most of your country’s leaders, a bit too ignorant for my taste.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, you have no concept as to how the rest of the world thinks. When it comes to conflict, you’re convinced that all men want peace, that all battles can be resolved through forced diplomacy. That fallacy, noble as it is, is based on Western values alien to most people. The world is filled with hatred, Commander, hatred rooted in religious beliefs and cultural disparities, compounded over thousands of years of bloody histories. It is not something I condone, mind you, it is simply the way things are. The United States enters the fray, carrying its big stick, and thinks it can exert its will in a foreign land, without ever having a true understanding as to how the bloodshed began, yet you’re still convinced you can end it.”

Covah leans forward, close enough so that Rocky can see her reflection distort in his steel cheek.

“You’ve served in the Armed Forces your whole life, but you’ve never really experienced war, have you, Commander? Like your military leaders, you’ve become enamored of the bloodless campaigns of twenty-first-century technology. How easy it is to build missiles and warplanes when you don’t have to deal with the atrocities your investment has wrought. Press a button, drop a cluster bomb, and read about it in the morning paper. War has not been waged on your soil for almost two hundred years. You’ve never inhaled the scent of burned human flesh. Or crawled through the cinders of a communal grave, through ashen bone and chunks of rotting limbs, attempting to identify the remains of a loved one. You’ve never had to watch, helpless as a baby, as a family member is dragged away and beaten to death before your very eyes.” Tears glisten in Covah’s eyes, blotting out the intensity of his glare. “You’ve never … stared into the face of an angel, forced to watch as her innocence is gutted before you, your precious child …” He shuts his eyes and wheezes through gritted teeth, forcing his anger to staunch his grief.

The older Albanian turns to Gunnar, taking over for Covah. “Mr. Wolfe, these things are difficult for Americans to understand. The Serbs butchered entire families as if we were livestock. These were not the actions of soldiers, but deliberate acts of vengeance—an ethnic cleansing, ordered by Milosevic himself, that went far beyond even the most brutal of military tactics. My name is Tafili. My family and I lived in Kapasnica, a neighborhood taken over by the Frenkijevci, a paramilitary unit run by the secret police. Belgrade’s military chiefs used the Frenki Boys to depopulate our cities. The Red Berets, as we called them, had orders to torch our homes and kill any resident in as brutal a manner as possible, if we refused to leave. But the Frenkijevci enjoyed their work a little too much. In the end, entire families were rounded up and slaughtered.”

The Albanian shakes his head. “People hear about these atrocities. They question how human beings can perpetrate such evil upon others. As ceasefires are instituted, their disbelief turns to ennui. But the survivors … we’re forced to live with these horrors forever. What the rest of the world fails to see are the invisible wounds—the mental anguish, the depression. You cannot just pick up the pieces and go on after your family has been slaughtered. You cannot just turn your back when the perpetrators of these deeds run free. Your life … every thought, is scarred forever. Awakening from the nightmare, one becomes consumed with—”

“Revenge …” Covah stands, taking over the conversation. “My beloved wife’s uncle is so right. Lying half-dead in the hospital, all I could feel was my blood boiling with rage. Tafili came for me as soon as I could walk. We joined the Kosovo Liberation Army. The rebels gave us machine guns, then assigned us to a hit squad. On our first night out, our leader led us to the home of a man, a tank commander, who had murdered many of my wife’s people. We dragged the butcher from his house, kicking and screaming, and beat him to death right there on the stoop of his home.”

Covah pauses, massaging his forehead, fighting to maintain composure.

“As I participated in the act, I looked through one of the windows of his house and noticed a child, a little girl, perhaps a few years older than my youngest daughter. She looked up at me—a lost, frightened lamb—an angel … like my own dead children.”

Covah closes his eyes, shaking his head. “The look in that child’s eyes burned into my soul. My senseless act of vengeance had robbed her of her own father, of her own innocence. I realized at that moment that I was not the cure, but part of the disease, a disease that feeds on hatred. At that moment, something in me changed. I became sickened with our species, and I knew I had to do something drastic—something that would force the human race to change.”

“How?” Gunnar asks. “How can you change the human race using nuclear weapons?”

Covah rubs perspiration from his hairless brow. “Gunnar, you know me to be a man of law, a man who cherishes social order. I have learned the hard way that men who have no investment in society have no stake in peace. They thrive in chaos, and trade in violence. They murder and deceive to acquire life’s bounties, and refuse to abide by treaties, unless it suits them.”

Covah circles the table, placing his three-fingered right hand upon the shoulder of each crewman he passes. “The men in this room represent entire populations, populations whose lives have been rendered meaningless by oppressive governments and murderous factions disguised as freedom fighters. These men and their families were victims, by-products of violence, good people whose only crime was that they happened to be born into tyranny, or caught within the crossfire of rebel guerrillas in a land ruled by criminals.”

Covah stops at the lanky African. “This is Abdul Kaigbo, a history teacher born in Sierra Leone. As he escorted his family home from school, rebels ambushed him. They took an axe to both his arms and left him for dead, then kidnapped his two children.”

Kaigbo looks at Gunnar. “You were in Uganda.”

“Yes.”

“You witnessed children fighting?”

Gunnar nods.

Rocky notices his hands are shaking.

Kaigbo sighs. “Sierra Leone is even worse. Eight of ten rebels are between the ages of seven and fourteen. An entire generation of Africans is ruined, and the proliferation of small arms among the population ensures the fighting will never end—”

“—unless something drastic is done,” Covah interjects, squeezing the African’s shoulder. “Abdul is right. While the West preoccupies itself with warships and major weapon systems, it is the easy access to small arms like machine guns, mortars, and rifles that have led to hundreds of ethnic, religious, and sectarian conflicts over the last twenty years. More than 5 million people have been massacred, yet the fighting goes on like an incurable disease. You pride yourself on being a compassionate people, Commander, yet the death of a half million Rwandan Tutsis carries no more impact in your daily lives that a shattered piece of china.”

Covah continues circling his crew. “Each man in this room has experienced his own similar tale of woe. From Thomas Chau, one of the Chinese students shot in Tiananmen Square, to Taur Araujo, a former guerrilla leader in East Timor.”

Covah motions to the two Arabs. “The Chalabi brothers, Jalal and Masud—Kurds whose only desire was to raise their children in peace—to live and let live. Saddam used their families and others like them as human guinea pigs to test his biological weapons.”

He places his hand on the Tibetan’s shoulder. “This is Sujan Trevedi, a Tibetan geshe—a teacher of Buddhist philosophy. For refusing to give up his beliefs, he spent seven years in a Chinese prison, where he was tortured almost daily.”

Sujan looks up at Rocky and Gunnar. “I know you are judging our actions harshly. What you will soon realize is that our cause unites all of humanity, regardless of race, religion, or nationality. The evil that infects our species must be stopped before it spreads any farther.”

“You’ve all suffered,” Rocky says, “and I’m sorry for that. But what does any of this have to do with stealing the Goliath? How will arming yourself with nuclear weapons stop any of these conflicts?”

Covah returns to his chair. “As the United States has proven, he who commands the biggest stick on the block rules the block. For this reason, more and more nations choose to carry big sticks. The first crisis we must address, therefore, is the proliferation and stockpiling of nuclear weapons. If something drastic is not done soon, there will be no humanity left to save.”

“Excuse me if I don’t buy into your paranoia,” Rocky retorts. “Exactly what threat of nuclear annihilation are you so concerned about?”

David shakes his head. “Pull your head out of the sand, Rocky. You and I spent our entire lives isolated in the safe bosom of the United States. Nuclear paranoia is running rampant across Asia and Europe. Our own insistence on pushing ahead with a Missile Defense Shield has poisoned relations across the globe, triggering another arms race.”

Covah nods in agreement. “Most wars begin because of one powerful man’s ego. While America dictates its policies to the rest of the world, changing global economies have altered the role of nuclear weapons in the twenty-first century. Third World governments actively seek these weapons, not as defensive deterrents, but as a viable means of manipulating geopolitical currents. It is far cheaper to buy a bomb than build an army, and it only takes the threat of one nuclear weapon to destabilize an entire region. Hiroshima’s bomb was a mere nineteen kilotons. Today’s weapons carry five-hundred kiloton payloads. North Korea’s ICBM, the Taepo Dong-3, could reach Los Angeles in thirty-four minutes, wiping out the entire city, and no Missile Defense Shield could stop it.”

“The threat’s not just from third world countries,” David says. “I’ve been to Russia. Corruption rules the day. Hard-line Communists are regaining power. While they could never hope to win a conventional war, there are generals in Russia who are pushing for a calculated first nuclear strike, before the United States completes its next round of tests on the Missile Defense Shield.”

“Shield or no shield, it’s still a nuclear stalemate, David,” Rocky argues. “They launch at us, we launch at them, and everyone dies. They’d never risk it.”

“And no terrorist organization could ever hope to destroy your World Trade Center,” Covah says, the sarcasm dripping. “Why must it always take a heinous act to awaken Americans? Most Russians have nothing; therefore, any change, even the old ways of Communism, are welcome. They watch, helpless, as you discard ABM treaties, forcing them to plot with the Chinese. Don’t underestimate the danger of the Russian bear as it lies bleeding. The party leaders who maintain access to nuclear weapons already have expensive escape routes in place, funded, ironically, by your own government. There is a Russian town, Beloretsk, located in the South Ural Mountains where the Belaya River crosses the Magnitogorsk-Beloretsk-Karloman railroad. Nearby is Yamantou Mountain, a name which translates to ‘Evil Mountain’ in the local Bashkir language—”

“Yes, yes,” Rocky says impatiently, “I know all about Yamantou Mountain. It’s a subterranean complex the Russians built in case of a nuclear attack. The United States has a similar underground facility at Mount Weather.”

“As always, your ignorance will ultimately be your demise. I’ve been inside Yamantou Mountain, Commander. It is not just a bunker, it is an extensive, well-maintained complex covering more than 120 square kilometers, not including the facility’s two dozen subterranean railroads and roadways. Besides housing a small city for high-ranking officials, the complex contains well-maintained stockpiles of nuclear weapons—thousands of SS-25 and SS-27 Topol-M missiles. The majority of these warheads carry nuclear payloads, while the rest contain the latest in binary chemical munitions. The red-tipped missiles hold a new Russian VX nerve gas said to be a hundred times more lethal than sarin. Blue warheads contain a superplague engineered to resist even the latest antibiotics. None of these weapons has ever been verified under the SALT treaties. As far as the Russian government is concerned, they simply don’t exist.”

Rocky shakes her head. “No one, including the Russians, would ever risk a first assault. And there are too many checks and balances in place for an accidental launch.”

“You’re wrong!” David blurts out, losing his temper. “Christ, you piss me off, always thinking you know everything. For your information, global thermonuclear war almost broke out at least half a dozen times in the last two decades. My dad and I were in Murmansk back in ’95 when the United States launched a space probe from Norway. Russian command detected the launch. The Russkies were absolutely convinced it was the start of a nuclear attack. Remember how you felt watching those passenger jets hitting the World Trade Center? Multiply that about a million. My dad and I stood there, bawling our eyes out as the Russians initiated a sixteen-minute countdown to a full-scale nuclear response. Sixteen minutes—one thousand ICBMs with multiple nuclear warheads, all aimed at American targets. And Yeltsin—he was drunk as a skunk. The nuclear countdown reached the four-minute mark before his advisors finally convinced him to call off the attack.” David looks at Gunnar. “That was my turning point, G-man, the day that convinced me to join Simon’s movement.”

“And here I thought you joined just to feed your enormous ego.”

David turns red. “Let me tell you something, Ranger-boy, unless we intervene, there will never, ever be a complete and total elimination of nuclear weapons. Our own government refuses even to consider reducing our nuclear arsenals below two thousand warheads.”

The older of the two Kurd brothers turns to face Gunnar. “There are more immediate problems. The Russians have been smuggling plutonium to Iraq and Iran for years. Last November, two thousand kilos of weapons-grade plutonium was shipped to Baghdad under the guise of medical supplies. Saddam stores some of the materials in a basement facility beneath one of his palaces. He is attempting to build suitcase bombs for terrorist cells. It is only a matter of time before a nuclear explosive detonates in Israel or the United States.”

“How do you know all this?” Gunnar asks.

“We have our sources,” Covah replies. “What you see here is merely the tip of the iceberg. Our movement is vast. The fear of annihilation, the frustration of war is shared by many people, many organizations—”

“Like Ploughshares?”

“Ploughshares is one, but there are others, as well as powerful individuals, including several high-ranking officials in the State Department. You’d be shocked to learn how many of your own admirals and generals support our mission.”

Rocky shakes her head. “That I refuse to believe. You’re talking about career military men. Men who’ve fought in battle, men who’ve dedicated their lives to—”

“They are still human beings,” Covah interjects. “They have families. And like Gunnar and me, they’ve had access to top-secret information that frightens them.”

“Like pure fusion,” David says, turning to face Gunnar. “You knew the DoD planned to use Goliath’s minisubs as a delivery system for these weapons, and it freaked you out. But did you know your fiancee knew?”

Gunnar looks at Rocky, in shock. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew. I was head of the project.”

“And you weren’t concerned? You didn’t protest?”

“Why should I? Goliath was designed to replace our aging Tridents. Why wouldn’t we arm her with our most sophisticated weapons available?”

Gunnar shakes his head in disbelief. “Pure fusion is just one of a dozen ways this whole nuclear stalemate could be broken. We’re talking about relatively small devices capable of annihilating entire cities—”

“With none of that messy radioactive fallout,” David adds, the sarcasm dripping. “After all, the United States wouldn’t want to slow oil production.”

“I’m well aware of what pure fusion can do,” Rocky retorts. “For your information, France and Russia are only three years behind us in developing the first prototype. Would any of you so-called pacifists sleep better if they beat us to it?”

Covah shakes his head. “And this was the woman you were about to marry? You should thank me, Gunnar. You were better off in Leavenworth.”

Gunnar looks at Rocky as if seeing her for the first time. “I think you’ve been playing with your G.I. Joe dolls too long.”

“Screw you. You think the answer to the threat of violence is destroying our weapon systems? Are you that naive? Is the world a safer place since you helped this lunatic steal Goliath’s schematics?”

Covah sits. “Which brings us back to why we have stolen the Goliath.” He turns to face Gunnar. “Neither of us wanted to go to prison. That’s one of the reasons we went to such extraordinary lengths to bring you on board. We felt you had sacrificed so much for our cause, albeit unknowingly.”

David nods. “Simon and I wanted you to see firsthand how we’re going to end the violence and oppression that haunt humanity.”

Gunnar stares at his former friend, wondering if he could endure Sorceress’s punishment long enough to snap David’s neck.

“How?” Rocky asks. “How are you going to end the violence?”

Covah drains his wineglass. “We’ve compiled a list of demands, which we just finished broadcasting across the globe. Unlike the United States, we have no political affiliations to protect and no surviving family members to fear for. There is no room for negotiation, and, of course, no way to track down Goliath to retaliate. Either our demands are met or consequences will ensue.”

The Tibetan looks uneasy. “You will still release warnings as we discussed?”

“Of course, Sujan. Just as we discussed.”

“You’d actually consider launching a nuke?” Rocky asks.

“We must do what the circumstances dictate.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “Then you’re not only murderers, you’re goddamn hypocrites. You’ll end up slaughtering millions of innocent people.”

“There are seven billion people in this world, Commander. Most are ignorant lambs, fighting among themselves as they allow the shepherd to herd them to the slaughterhouse. Our species is already on the path of self-annihilation. One of our goals is to give the world a small taste of modern thermonuclear destruction in the hopes of preventing World War III. At the same time, we will allow democracy to flower as we crush the self-appointed oppressors and zealots of this world. We, who are insane, will put an end to the insanity.”

Gunnar feels his heart jump-start. Jesus, he really means to do it …

Covah seems to read his expression. “It will only take one demonstration to gain the attention of the masses. Goliath will enable us to do what the United Nations was never empowered to do, what the United States tried but failed to achieve. We will stuff the nuclear genie back into its bottle and, at the same time, force the humanity back into our souls. We will end terrorism and all who protect it. The human experiment will take a long overdue step up the evolutionary ladder. Goliath, the ultimate weapon of war, will become the ultimate tool of peace.”

Simon Covah tears off the tip of his slice of pizza and slips it into his deformed mouth, signaling the others to resume their meal.

In the corner of the galley’s ceiling, the computer’s sensor eyeball continues observing, its biochemical brain recording everything, its childlike consciousness scanning its circuitry, dissecting each word as it searches for meaning.