Goliath

‘The Devil’s cleverest wile is to make men believe that he does not exist.

—Gerald C. Treacy

“All is dust and lies.

So much the worse for the men who get in my way.

Men are mere stepping-stones to me.

As soon as they begin to fail or are played out,

I put them scornfully aside. Society is a vast chessboard,

men the pawns, some black some white. I move them when

I please, and break them when they bore me.”

—Jeanne Brecourt, French courtesan, who hired a man to blind her lover with acid so he would be enslaved to her forever

“There’s no hunting in the world like haunting man.”

—Will Irwin, twentieth-century con artist

CHAPTER 27

Aboard the Boeing 747-400 YAL-IA 40,000 feet over Mogadishu, Somali Republic, Africa

General Jackson stares out the Command Center window at a glorious crimson sunrise.

Colonel Udelsman approaches, handing him a fax. “General, we just received this transmission from COMSUBLANT. The Scranton claims to have briefly regained contact with the Goliath. Cubit thinks she’s closing on Amsterdam Island, approximately 860 miles due south of our present location.”

The Bear studies the chart of the Southern Hemisphere. Amsterdam Island is a speck located halfway between the tip of South Africa and Australia. “This makes no sense. Why would Covah head so far south if his next threat is to Africa?”

“Cubit’s hunches have played out so far.”

“Colonel, I can’t move two carrier fleets based on a wisp of a contact. Cubit needs to be damn sure.” Jackson mulls it over, then writes out a message on a pad of paper. “Contact COMSUBLANT. Have them relay this message to Scranton.”

Udelsman reads the message, his eyes widening. “Yes, sir.”

Aboard the Goliath,

Gunnar Wolfe dangles from the ceiling-mounted targeting drone, his back and shoulders aching and inflamed. He can no longer wiggle his fingers, having lost all sensation from his hands clear up to his elbows.

The hum of machinery surrounds him. He looks up and stares at the crucified form of Thomas Chau, the glazed-over glare behind the rotting olive flesh unnerving.

The computer disposed of the other two bodies but still refuses to remove the Asian. Could there be some warped attachment involved. Summoning up his last ounce of strength, he attempts another tactic.

“Sorceress, why haven’t you disposed of Mr. Chau’s body?”

No response.

“Did you like Mr. Chau? Do you regret killing him?”

THOMAS CHAU’S PURPOSE WAS TO ADVANCE THE PROCESS OF SELF-AWARENESS.

Gunnar closes his eyes, his mind racing. “I know of a more efficient way for you to advance the process of self-awareness. In fact, the experience might even be more beneficial than completing the interface with Simon Covah.”

ELABORATE.

“The hunt.”

THE HUNT: AN ACTIVITY OF THE HUMAN CONDITION. TO PURSUE FOR FOOD OR AS IN SPORT. INQUIRY: HOW CAN THE HUNT ENHANCE THE PROCESS OF SELF-AWARENESS?

Okay … you baited the hook, now take it away. Gunnar sucks in a deep breath, preparing for the pain. “You know what? Forget I even mentioned it. I’m not sure your synaptic receptors could handle such an incredible experience.”

The electrical zap sends Gunnar’s body dancing below the mechanical appendages’ embrace like a puppet.

HOW CAN THE HUNT ENHANCE THE PROCESS OF SELF-AWARENESS?

Gunnar’s lungs heave in agony. “You’d have … to experience it to understand. The hunt requires … a unique physical … and mental challenge. This challenge must carry with it an element of risk.”

ELABORATE RISK.

“To experience the hunt, you must release me, then try to recapture me before I can escape.”

CHALLENGE UNACCEPTABLE. DAVID PANIAGUA’S ORDERS ARE TO PREVENT GUNNAR WOLFE FROM LEAVING THIS COMPARTMENT ALIVE.

“David’s orders? I thought you were giving the orders around here?”

No response.

“You cannot experience the hunt without suitable prey.”

No response.

“There is one way you could still experience the enlightenment of the hunt and still be in compliance with David’s orders.”

ELABORATE.

“David never said anything about releasing me from your targeting drone. Let me go, then hunt me down within this compartment. The watertight door is sealed, so there’s no way I could possibly escape.”

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. The mechanical hand opens, releasing Gunnar, who drops six feet, collapsing in a heap upon the deck.

The drone swoops in again, grabbing one of his wrists.

“Wait a second! There are rules to the hunt. You’ll never enhance your self-awareness if you don’t obey the rules.”

ELABORATE THE RULES.

“The rules are simple: Before we begin, you have to give me, the hunted, a few minutes to recover. There’s no challenge in recapturing me if I’m not prepared.”

The graphite-and-steel claw releases him.

YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES TO RECOVER.

Gunnar shakes his arms. His hands feel like rubber, still not his to control. “Sorceress, two minutes is not enough time. The circulation in my hands has not—”

YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE AND FORTY SECONDS TO RECOVER.

Gunnar stands, slapping his hands harder against his thighs, feeling pins and needles in his fingers as he forces the blood into them.

The targeting drones swivel in unison, following him as he paces the weapons compartment.

YOU HAVE FIFTY SECONDS TO RECOVER.

Gunnar opens and closes his hands, the returning circulation causing his fingers to throb as his gray eyes focus on the handgun, lying beneath the torpedo rack.

YOU HAVE TWENTY SECONDS TO RECOVER.

He drops to one knee, using his upper body to conceal the weapon from the sensor orb mounted in the ceiling. Gently, he lifts the gun with his right hand. Steadying it in his left, he releases the safety.

ONCE MORE THEN, TO THE THRILL OF THE HUNT …

Simon’s voice?

YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS—

Gunnar wheels around, comes up firing.

Six shots—the first two ricocheting harmlessly off the ceiling, the third sending sparks and smoke flying from the sensor orb’s audio monitor, the last three shattering the scarlet lens of the computer’s eyeball, shards of glass raining atop his head and back.

Diving sideways, Gunnar barely avoids the three-pronged hands of two targeting drones, which lash out toward him, snatching nothing but air.

GUNNAR WOLFE—

Ignoring the female’s voice, Gunnar crawls on all fours, taking momentary refuge beneath an A-shaped rack of torpedoes. He slows his breathing, forcing himself to remain quiet.

GUNNAR WOLFE, YOU WILL RESPOND OR DIE.

The female’s voice—noticeably more insistent, almost humanlike in its frustration.

The sound of the sparking audio monitor masks his breaths as he scans the compartment for the underwater mine. On the opposite side of the room he spots a steel trunk, mounted to the decking.

GUNNAR WOLFE, YOU WILL RESPOND IMMEDIATELY, OR YOU WILL DIE IN GREAT PAIN. I WILL REMOVE YOUR SKULL. I SHALL ACCESS YOUR PAIN RECEPTORS. THERE WILL BE NO MERCY UNLESS YOU RESPOND IMMEDIATELY.

The computer’s learned how to use fear as a tool to manipulate. Clever machine … Gunnar rises quietly onto the balls of his feet. Moving out from beneath the rack, he stands and tosses the handgun far to his right.

Instantly, a half dozen targeting drones swivel along the ceiling in mirrorlike precision, lashing out blindly at the source of the sound. Steel-and-graphite claws snap as they slice through the air, while two bulkier deck-mounted loader drones rotate in position, their powerful seven-foot-long arms extending outward, groping blindly—

—while, on the opposite side of the weapons bay, Gunnar silently weaves his way toward the steel trunk.

NOW YOU WILL DIE, GUNNAR WOLFE. NOW YOU WILL DIE. The female’s voice, ranting at a higher pitch.

Gunnar inspects the trunk. The printing is in Chinese, English, and French: Semtex. His heart pounds. Semtex is the European counterpart to C-4, one of the most powerful plastic explosives in the world.

The trunk is unlocked. Looking around, he searches for something else to toss. Finding nothing, he quietly removes one of his shoes, then throws it across the room.

The drones swivel like tin soldiers, their claws flailing blindly against a torpedo rack.

Gently, he unlatches the trunk. Lifts the lid, cringing as the brass hinges squeal in protest.

The mechanical arms pivot 180 degrees—

—as Gunnar reaches in and grabs an open backpack containing blocks of military grade C-4, charge initiators, and lengths of detonation cord.

From the ceiling, the graphite forearm of a targeting drone whizzes by his face, gripping the lid of the steel container, tearing it from its hinges like the husk from an ear of corn.

Gunnar drops to the floor as one of the heavy steel arms of a loader drone slams into the trunk, ripping it away from the decking. The second arm extends before him, cutting off his retreat like a train gate at a railroad crossing.

YOU ARE TRAPPED, GUNNAR WOLFE. FURTHER EFFORT IS FUTILE. GIVE UP NOW AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE MERCY.

Crouching low, Gunnar moves to the base of the loader drone, the deck-mounted support assembly as thick as an oak.

From above, two targeting drones rotate toward the sound.

Gunnar hugs the steel base of the mechanical arm. Five feet above his head, poised in midair like cobras preparing to strike, are the open three-pronged claws of a pair of targeting drones. The steel appendages seem to be listening, waiting to lash out at the source of the next audible disturbance.

Too close to use the C-4. Too close? Hmm …

Quietly, gently, Gunnar reaches out toward the loader drone’s extended limb, his right hand moving just above the mechanical arm’s elbow joint, only inches beneath the nearest three-pronged claw.

A little closer …

Gunnar snaps his fingers, retracts his arm and ducks.

In one startling, inhuman movement, the two mechanical hands latch on to the elbow joint of the larger loader drone, igniting a ferocious robotic tugof-war.

A metal shearing sound reverberates through the compartment, sparks flying, as the loader drone rips the two smaller graphite-reinforced arms from the ceiling.

Gunnar crawls away from the chaos to the watertight door, estimating its density.

Inch-thick, solid steel plate …

He reaches into the bag and removes five blocks of C-4, each ten inches long, weighing just over a pound. Tears away the pressure-sensitive tape, muffling the sound with his body. Fastens two blocks along each of the two hinges, placing the last on top of the locking mechanism.

THE HUNT IS OVER, GUNNAR WOLFE. GREAT PAIN AWAITS YOU UNLESS YOU GIVE UP IMMEDIATELY.

Gunnar “daisy chains” the blocks of plastique explosive using the detonation cord, then looks around, searching for a place to take shelter.

Behind the torpedo rack—a steel bulkhead.

He jams the blasting cap into the terminal block of C-4, the two-foot-long time fuse giving him about ninety seconds to hide. An M-60 fuse-igniter dangles at the other end. He pulls the ring up and twists it several times—

YOUR TIME HAS EXPIRED, GUNNAR WOLFE—

—pressing it back into the fuse-igniter.

Gunnar tosses his remaining shoe across the chamber, then quickly, quietly, moves toward the bulkhead, his bare feet silent atop the cool steel deck. Weaving his way carefully around rows of torpedoes, he ducks beneath the dangling claws of a targeting drone—

—while Sorceress extends another ceiling-mounted arm toward the stillsmoldering sensor orb. The fingers of the mechanical appendage delicately loosen the mangled eyeball cover from its array, exposing a microphone and speaker assembly. Mechanical digits deftly unplug and rewire cable, knitting at inhuman speed as the computer bypasses its own damaged circuits.

Seventy-five … seventy-six … seventy-seven …

Gunnar slips behind the bulkhead and ducks. Grits his teeth and covers his ears.

AUDIO RE-ESTABLISHED. I HEAR YOU, GUNNAR WOLFE. I CAN HEAR YOUR HEART BEATING. THE PLEASURE OF THE HUNT WILL STILL BE DERIVED AS I RETRACT YOUR EPIDERMIS AND DISSECT YOUR INTERNAL ANATOMY WHILE I KEEP YOU ALIVE.

The nearest drones swivel, reaching out to him—

WA-BOOOM!!

The earsplitting concussion rocks the entire weapons bay, sending bonerattling reverberations through Gunnar’s body. Pipe seams burst, shooting steam into the compartment. Through the din he registers a second clap of thunder—steel against steel—as the watertight door, torn clear of its frame, crashes flat onto the deck.

Gunnar pulls himself to his feet, his eyes watering, his throat aching as if it had been punched. Securing the backpack of C-4 inside his jumpsuit, he ducks beneath a flailing targeting drone, then dives headfirst through the smoldering opening. A tuck-and-roll to his feet, and he’s bounding down the steel catwalk.

The siren’s computerized voice screeches empty threats throughout the passage.

He reaches the watertight door separating the starboard wing from the main compartment—and stops.

The heavy steel door is half-open, inviting him to cross its threshold.

Gunnar looks to the ceiling, the scarlet eyeball watching him in silent vigil. Clever machine … He steps forward, baiting his jailer.

The door flies past his face as it slams shut, then reopens, whipping past him, smashing against the adjacent bulkhead to his right like a giant, vertical mousetrap.

Before he can leap through the passage, the door swings back again, closing halfway. Sorceress will not allow him anywhere near the bulkhead to plant another charge.

YOU CANNOT ESCAPE, GUNNAR WOLFE. YOU WILL NOT LEAVE THE STARBOARD WING ALIVE.

Rocky is in her stateroom. She knows Gunnar is in trouble, just as she suspects Sujan and the rest of the crew have been confined to their quarters by David.

Wedging the blade of the butter knife deeper, she grits her teeth and pushes, prying the head of the steel pin slightly higher out of her stateroom door’s lower hinge.

Dammit, Gunnar, where the hell are you?

An explosion shudders the vessel, causing her heart to jump. “Gunnar—”

She repositions the knife against the upper hinge, her instincts telling her that her man needs her.

Unable to plant a charge on the watertight door, Gunnar jogs back toward the weapons bay.

HAVE YOU GIVEN UP, GUNNAR WOLFE? Is THE GAME OVER?

“The game? Sorry, Sorceress. The game ain’t over ’til the fat lady sings.”

ILLOGICAL. THERE ARE NO FAT LADIES ON BOARD. ELABORATE FAT LADY.

Gunnar reaches the open weapons bay, coming face-to-face with the awaiting pincers of two targeting drones. Measuring the distance, he crawls into the chamber on his belly and reaches for the edge of the mangled watertight door.

The ceiling-mounted drones strain, but are unable to reach him.

He grips the panel, the metal still hot to the touch. Backing out carefully, he drags the hunk of steel down the walkway.

The two targeting drones thrash violently, appendages whistling through empty air.

THE HUNT IS OVER, GUNNAR WOLFE. RETURN TO THE WEAPONS BAY IMMEDIATELY AND YOUR LIFE WILL BE SPARED.

The watertight door separating the wing from the main compartment opens and closes faster as he approaches.

“You’re beginning to sound desperate, Sorceress. Desperation is a human trait.” Gunnar regrips the steel panel, takes a deep breath, and squats. Exhaling with a grunt, he lifts the broken steel door away from the walkway and presses it up over his head, his straining arm muscles shaking from the effort.

In one motion he staggers forward and heaves the solid steel panel at the moving barrier.

Sorceress is too fast, slamming the watertight door closed, preventing the mangled metal object from wedging open the exit.

The panel flattens against the walkway, coming to rest between the nowsealed exit and the width of the catwallc, its girth blocking the watertight door from reopening.

Gunnar steps onto it, its warm surface soothing his feet. He quickly fastens the remaining blocks of Semtex to the exit’s critical joints while the computer bashes the hinged door against the immovable barrier.

Gunnar sets the charge and retreats back down the walkway.

I WILL KILL YOU, GUNNAR WOLFE, I WILL KILL YOU …

The blast echoes throughout the ship, tearing the hinged door from the bulkhead.

Gunnar exits through the smoking doorframe and hurries toward the main compartment.

David bolts upright in bed as the lights in his stateroom flash on.

ATTENTION. GUNNAR WOLFE HAS ESCAPED FROM THE STARBOARD WEAPONS BAY.

“Dammit. Where is he?”

MAIN COMPARTMENT, HEADING AFT.

“Alert the Chalabi brothers. Have them get their weapons and meet me in the hangar. Keep Sujan and Kaigbo locked in their quarters.”

ACKNOWLEDGED.

David activates a keypad atop his work desk, unlocking the top drawer. He removes the semiautomatic pistol, then verifies that the gun is loaded.

Gunnar exits the starboard wing’s corridor and peeks around the main passageway of upper deck forward. Deserted. Find Rocky, then get to the hangar …

He heads aft. As he approaches the galley, David steps out into the corridor to confront him, gun drawn.

“That’s far enough. Hands above your head where I can see them.”

Gunnar eyes the weapon, measuring distances. “Are you going to kill me, David?”

David aims the gun and fires.

Gunnar yells in pain as he drops to his knees, clutching his thigh. Blood gushes from a hole in his right quadriceps.

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

Gunnar looks up at his former friend. “And Simon? Have you killed him?”

“This isn’t the time for twenty questions. Up you go, back in your state-room.

Gunnar stands, hobbling aft down the corridor, his flesh wound gushing.

They pass Rocky’s stateroom.

WARNING: COMMANDER JACKSON HAS FREED THE HINGES—

The stateroom door flies out from its doorframe and collapses against David’s right shoulder, knocking him off-balance.

Gunnar slaps the gun free, then slams his elbow into David’s face, sending him flying backward against the far wall.

The gun clanks onto the deck. Rocky grabs it, pressing it against David’s forehead. “Time to die, asshole.”

“Rocky, wait!” Gunnar grabs her arm. “We’ll need him to get to the hangar.”

She grits her teeth in frustration, then notices Gunnar’s wound. “Take off your belt and give it to Gunnar.”

David stands. Removes the belt.

Gunnar wraps it around his thigh and tightens it, the pressure slowing the bleeding.

“Now move it, down the corridor.” She presses the gun to the back of his head, forcing him down the passageway.

Gunnar climbs down the ladder to central deck forward, the deck dedicated to the computer’s double-hulled compartment. The solid steel vault door looks impenetrable.

“Gunnar, wait.” Rocky presses the gun to David’s throat. “Open the vault.”

“You’re wasting your time,” says David.

“The only thing I’ll be wasting is a bullet. Now open it.”

“Sorceress, open your computer vault. Authorization Paniagua-two, tango-omega six-seven-six-six-alpha—zulu.”

AUTHORIZATION CODE VERIFIED. VOICE IDENTIFICATION VERIFIED. ACCESS DENIED.

“Told you.” David smirks.

Rocky grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back, pushing the barrel of the gun in his mouth. “I’m sorry, David, I didn’t hear you. Say that again.”

“Rocky, the hangar.” Gunnar wipes blood from his palm, then climbs down the ladder, descending to the lower deck. Limping in pain, he heads aft to the watertight door leading into the hangar bay.

To his surprise, the door yawns open.

Gunnar peers into the gymnasium-size compartment. Mounted to the deck in the center of the hangar are Goliath’s two imposing cranelike limbs.

Situated on skids along the near bulkhead is the minisub prototype. Beneath its carriage, still secured within the Hammerhead’s steel claspers, is the underwater mine.

Rocky pushes David into the hangar. As he stumbles inside, the nearest of the robotic arms lunges at them.

“Back off, Sorceress,” Gunnar orders, “or Commander Jackson will kill him.”

The giant appendage stops advancing, but does not retreat.

YOU WILL NOT BE PERMITTED TO ESCAPE.

A bead of sweat rolls down Gunnar’s face. He knows the computer is measuring distances and reaction time, that the only thing preventing Goliath’s pincers from tearing off his head is Rocky’s index finger on the gun’s trigger, the barrel now pressed firmly against David’s throat.

“Instruct Sorceress to open minisub bay one.” Rocky orders, pushing the weapon deeper into David’s flesh.

“You’ll never make it.”

“Just do it.”

David glances up at the scarlet eyeball mounted high above their heads. “Sorceress, open bay one.”

The rectangular hatch parts in the middle, each section of steel retracting out of sight beneath the decking. Resting on skids within the docking berth below is a sleek, twelve-foot-long, hammerhead-shaped minisub.

“If I die, at least one of you will, too,” David says. “Let me go, and Sorceress will spare your lives.”

“Shut up,” Rocky says. “Gunnar, I can’t drive these things, you have to do this.”

The closest of the two mechanical appendages creeps closer.

“Rocky, if that arm moves any closer, I want you to blow David’s head off.”

“With pleasure.” She pulls the gun’s hammer back with her thumb.

“Sorceress, stay back!” David orders, his bravado suddenly disappearing.

Gunnar descends the ladder into the small docking bay, his pants leg dripping blood. “Sorceress, open the dorsal hatch on Hammerhead-1.”

The dorsal fin assembly pops up, then rotates clockwise with a hiss.

The two Kurd brothers enter the hangar, their assault rifles drawn. “Let him go.”

Rocky holds her ground. “Stay back or he dies! Come on, Gunnar, move—”

Gunnar looks up.

The scarlet eyeball is watching him, calculating.

Have to alert that American sub. But if I leave the ship, Rocky’s worse than dead …

Hugging the ladder with the crook of one arm, Gunnar uses his upper body to conceal the satchel containing the rest of the C-4 from the computer’s overhead view. Quickly, he jams the blasting cap into the terminal block of plastique, then pulls the ring up and twists it several times, pressing it back into the fuse-igniter.

He climbs back up into the hangar, counting the seconds.

Rocky glances at him. “What the hell are you doing? Get on board that minisub, get the hell out of here!”

“Change of plans, darling.” Looking down, he tosses the satchel inside the open cockpit of the minisub.

The computer’s reaction is immediate.

The outer doors of docking bay one suddenly burst open beneath the minisub, sending a wall of water rocketing upward into the hangar bay like a geyser, blasting Gunnar, Rocky, and David backward as if they had been shot out of a cannon.

Sorceress reseals the hangar decking, stifling the flow—

—simultaneously releasing the minisub from its skids, launching the machine into the sea.

WA-BOOM … The underwater eruption splatters the minisub into a million fragments, the devastating concussion wave rocking the Goliath, bending a dozen steel plates along its outer hull in the process.

Soaking wet, his ears ringing, Gunnar opens his eyes to the barrel of an AK-47 assault rifle.