Goliath (19 page)

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Authors: Steve Alten

BOOK: Goliath
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I am an island …
Two days following surgery, Gunnar opened his eyes, his head still in an anesthetic fog. The guard with the swastika tattoo—the one who had smuggled in the gun—winked at him, then left.
He was alone and vulnerable, his wrists strapped to the bed rails. Tense minutes passed. And then the outer doors of the infirmary opened and the two cons entered, each brandishing a razor. Gunnar’s cries for help were muffled by his pillow as the razor blades opened his veins. Desperate, he kicked his legs free of the sheets, then flipped backward, lashing out blindly until his heel connected with one man’s jaw. Rolling over, he caught his second assailant’s head in a leg lock, slamming the man’s skull repeatedly against the iron bed rail until he felt it crack open like a coconut.
His two would-be assassins dead, his body gushing blood, Gunnar once again used his Special Ops training, this time slowing his pulse in the hope that his nurse would arrive before he bled to death.
 
Gunnar sits up. He pulls the blanket tighter across his shoulders and leans back against the exterior of the cool steel cylinder, the memories of his years in prison causing his skin to tingle. He stares at his forearms and the scars left by the razor blades.
What am I doing here?
Breathing becomes rapid and shallow as he begins to hyperventilate.
Stay calm and breathe
. Closing his eyes, he meditates, his pulse slowing as he imagines the serenity of the mountains surrounding Happy Valley. The setting sun turns the horizon lavender; his lungs inhale the brisk autumn breeze like a long-lost friend.
Saving the warden’s life had been a blessing. Fate, long his enemy, had finally lent a hand. Two weeks after the riot, he had limped out of the gates of hell, a free man, a survivor.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire …
“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
Identity: Stage Three:
I am peaceful inside. My inner world is beginning to
satisfy me more than outward things.
—Deepak Chopra
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.
“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 …

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