Goliath (27 page)

Authors: Steve Alten

BOOK: Goliath

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“The most dramatic conflicts are perhaps those that take place not between men, but between a man and himself—where the arena of conflict is a solitary mind.”

—Clark Moustakas

“I hadn’t decided on anything, but suddenly, I had a strange impulse to end it all … for both of us.”

—Betty Hardaker, a California mother who, in 1940, killed her five-year-old daughter during a walk

“Why could not mother die? Dozens of people, thousands of people, are dying everyday. So why not Mother, and Father, too?”

—Pauline Parker, sixteen-year-old New Zealand girl, who plotted her mother’s death so she could be alone with her fifteen-year-old girlfriend

CHAPTER 17

Identity: Stage Five:
I have discovered how to manifest my desires from within.
My inner world turned out to have power.

—Deepak Chopra

Aboard the
Goliath

Thomas Chau is in the starboard weapons bay. He is unconscious, his body held upright, suspended six feet off the deck by a loader-drone—a ten-foot-tall, deck-mounted mechanical steel arm designed to grasp, lift, and load a torpedo from its rack. The three-pronged steel claw grips him about the waist, immobilizing his torso and legs.

Smaller, single-limbed robotic arms—targeting drones—dangle from swiveling mounts anchored along the ceiling. The hands of these lighter, more sophisticated graphite-reinforced appendages contain seven fingerlike tools that rotate into place along a grooved steel disk. Like some high-tech version of a Swiss Army knife, these tools endow
Goliath’s
brain with the flexibility to attach and detach torpedo wires, change warheads, and perform even the most intricate of equipment repairs.

Two of the ceiling-mounted drones reach down along either side of Chau’s limp body, locking their three-pronged grippers around each of his wrists. They extend his arms up and out to the sides so that it appears as if the Asian is a gymnast performing an iron cross on the rings.

Hovering directly above Chau’s bleeding head is the steel hand of a third targeting drone. Extending out from the appendage’s multifaceted palm is a tool—a small, razor-sharp, circular saw.

ATTENTION.

Gasping a breath, the engineer opens his eyes to intense vertigo and pain. Unable to move his limbs, he turns his head to one side and throws up, the vomit splattering on the decking below.

ATTENTION. PREPARATION COMPLETE FOR EXPLORATORY SURGERY.

Nauseous and disoriented, his body racked with pain, Chau manages, “Why …”

TO DETERMINE THE PHYSIOLOGICAL BASIS FOR THE HUMAN MIND.

The steel hand of a fourth targeting drone extends away from the ceiling, the fingers of its three-pronged claw slipping around the back of Chau’s neck, steadying his head beneath the jawline in a viselike grip.

Chau snaps awake, struggling to free his head. His heart is pounding, the sweat breaking out in waves from every pore in his body as he hears the high-pitched
whirring
sound coming from somewhere above his head.

“Stop …
Sorceress
, please—”

The small circular saw spins faster as it lowers into place, just above the Asian’s eyebrows.

FAIR YOUTH, BE NOT CHURLISH, BE NOT SELF-CENTERED …

Chau bellows a bloodcurdling scream, arching his back as if being electrocuted.

BECAUSE OF YOUR BEAUTY YOU OWE THE WORLD A RECOMPENSE
—

Inhuman cries for help echo through the weapons bay, the dying wail finally suffocated beneath a blanket of unconsciousness.

Silence now, save for the
whirring
of the saw as the revolving steel teeth continue spitting out blood and bone fragments from the line of incision along Thomas Chau’s gushing forehead.

The two Iranian brothers escort Gunnar and Rocky through the upper-level passageway. Covah leads them aft to the watertight door labeled “Surgical Suite.”

“
Sorceress
, open the surgical suite.”

With a double
click
, the hatch swings open, revealing an antisepticlooking operating room. Green tile covers the walls, floor, and ceiling. Sophisticated monitors, equipment, and life-support systems line two walls. A Lexan door marked LAB is situated to the right of the entranceway.

At the very center of the surgical suite, anchored to the floor, is an operating table.

Installed on the ceiling directly above the surgical table are two robotic arms, similar to the targeting drones located in the weapons bay, but infinitely more delicate. The hands of these eight-fingered prosthetics are composed of a scalpel, forceps, retractor, suture, drill bit, probe, suction hose, and a surgical laser. A small sensor orb is mounted atop each appendage’s wrist. Unlike the eyeballs located throughout the ship, these sensors contain multiple scanners, including X-ray and ultrasound.

Covah turns to Rocky. “Ladies first, Commander. Up on the table please.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Gunnar says. “I told you, the implant’s in me.”

“Gallant of you, Gunnar, but we can’t take any chances. Up on the table, Commander.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just a quick physiological exam.”

“Forget it.”

The electrical shock seizes her, sending her writhing on the green tile floor.

“Simon, stop!” Gunnar kneels beside her as the current ceases.

“Place her on the table, Gunnar. No harm will come to her, you have my word.”

Gunnar helps her onto the table. Instantly, one of the surgical appendages springs to life, extending out over Rocky’s body, scanning her with its wristmounted sensor orb.

EXAMINATION COMPLETE. NO IMPLANTS PRESENT.

Gunnar helps Rocky down, the woman’s limbs still quivering from the electrical shock.

“Take her to her quarters,” Covah orders.

One of the Iranians helps her out.

“You too, Jalal. I’ll be fine.”

The Arab leaves, the watertight door closing behind him.

Gunnar lies down on the table, allowing the surgical eye to scan his body.

The robotic appendage stops at his right hip.

TRANSMISSION DEVICE LOCATED. RIGHT HIP FLEXOR, 2.96 CENTIMETERS DEEP.

“
Sorceress
, remove the device.”

DOES THE PATIENT REQUIRE ANESTHETIC?

“Gunnar?”

Gunnar tugs the Chinese uniform down past his hip. “Just do it.” He looks the other way and grimaces.

The mechanical hand rotates, extending a surgical finger composed of a razor-sharp scalpel. With a flash of steel, the blade plunges toward the exposed flesh, quickly slicing a precise incision through the still-healing scab, stopping just before the thick muscle.

The second appendage moves in at lightning speed, pushing a small set of forceps into the oozing wound. Gunnar groans as the forceps retract, brandishing a bloody hard plastic device the size of a dime.

As the second robotic appendage places the homing device on the table, the first extends a needle and thread and begins closing the wound.

In less than a minute, seven perfect stitches have been sutured in place.

Covah hands Gunnar a bandage. “An incredible machine, wouldn’t you agree?”

Gunnar winces as he covers the wound. “Not much of a bedside manner.”

Covah picks up the tiny wafer-thin transmitter and washes the blood off in a nearby sink. He examines it under an inspection lamp. “Clever. I give the NSA staff credit.
Sorceress
would have discovered most tracking devices the moment you set foot on the ship.” He pockets the device, then heads for the door marked LAB and enters.

The laboratory is a brightly lit chamber festooned with equipment racks and dedicated computers, all anchored to the tile floor, which is crisscrossed with metal tracks. A small robotic drone, its gears fitted within the tracks, remains inanimate along the far wall in front of the door to a tall aluminum walk-in refrigerator.

Simon Covah’s eyes glaze over as the image jars a distant memory.

You are a rogue, traveling in a vacuum of misery. Like a magnet to steel, the victims of oppression seem to find you wherever you go. The Albanian physician, Tafili, introduces you to the Chinese dissident, Chau, who brings you to a group of genetic scientists in Toronto, Canada—the forefathers of immunology. The team is an oasis to your desert of despair, allowing you to focus your brain on finding cures for disease, instead of the black hole of rage tearing at the pit of your existence. Finally freed from the intellectual bonds of Communism, you spend days and nights in the lab, dissecting the secrets of the human genome, one excruciating gene at a time. You are fighting battles on two planes now, making inroads in the war against one cancer, while the disease of hatred that threatens to destroy humanity continues to grow stronger all around you.

It is a hypocrisy that eats you up inside—literally—when you are diagnosed with cancer several years later.

Gunnar enters the lab, startling him. “Nice hobby room.”

Covah nods. “The latest in genome-based technology.” He points to a large boxlike machine connected to a computer terminal at the center of the chamber. “Let’s say you were interested in finding a cure for some disease … for instance—cancer. The first step would be to have
Sorceress
access its genome database for snippets of DNA that resemble the enzymes of the specific disease we’re targeting. Once the search is completed, the computer extracts the actual DNA fragments cataloged in the lab’s freezer.” He points to the eight-foot-high walk-in. “The freezer is stocked with more than 8 million samples of frozen DNA fragments, human, animal, and vegetable. The lab’s drone selects the identified samples, snippets of which are placed in tiny wells on these plastic sheets and fed into this machine here.”

Covah pats the top of a rectangular-framed device. Situated on its horizontal work desk are dozens of square plates, each containing hundreds of
wells designed to hold DNA samples. Positioned above the first plate is a device resembling a giant rubber stamp, only its underside contains tiny needles aligned to the wells of the DNA sample plate.

“This is
Zeus
, one of the workhorses of genome research. Zeus uses its needles to extract microscopic droplets of our DNA samples, then adheres these extractions onto sheets of nylon paper, creating a microarray.
Sorceress
slips the microarray sheets into small test tubes and washes them with genetic materials containing radioactive dye. The computer then uses its ultraviolet sensors to scan for the type of cancerous activity we want to treat. By isolating the cancerous activity, we can take the next step in finding a drug designed to inhibit the disease.”

“You went to sea with a completely stocked lab and pharmacy?”

“Far from complete, but we have more than most.” Covah turns to Gunnar, the genius suddenly looking lost and frail. “I’m dying, Gunnar, cell by cell, a final, everlasting gift from the United States Army.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you do. Your Army was using ammunition containing depleted uranium, fifty percent denser than lead. Gave it extra penetrating power, according to DoD reports, specifically in its ability to pierce armored vehicles. Bosnia and Yugoslavia are polluted with its radiation. It contaminates their soil, poisons the groundwater, and concentrates as it moves through the food chain. Worse, my wife’s people inhale it as dust in the air.”

“The cancer … how long have you known?”

“Ironically, I found out a week before I was dismissed from the immunology lab in Toronto.”

“Chemo?”

Covah nods. “It’s slowed the disease, but the cancer has spread to my lymph nodes. It is only a matter of time.” The Russian holds up a plastic vial, examining a clear liquid under the light. “This is AIF, a frighteningly powerful gene that controls cell death. We were experimenting with it when I left Canada. Place a drop on a bone tumor, and it disintegrates. Place that same drop in your body, and it will kill you within hours. The potential of AIF and several other drugs is promising. Unfortunately, our knowledge of the human genome is still not enough to guide us.” He glances around the lab. “This lab is my last hope. Sometimes I feel like Moses … forty years spent wandering the desert, knowing I will never be permitted to see the Utopia-One fulfilled … my Promised Land.”

Gunnar wonders how many Egyptians died in the Red Sea parting. “Tell me something, Simon, what will happen to your mission when you do die?”

“David will take over.”

Gunnar shakes his head. “Bad move. You leave that egomaniac in charge of the
Goliath
and he’ll try to turn the world into his own personal Roman Empire.”

“David will be fine. Let’s talk about you. Tell me, what did your old friend General Jackson offer you to take this mission?”

“The usual bullshit. Full reinstatement with back pay. A nice public apology on the White House lawn thrown in for good measure. I told him to cram it.”

“Still, you are here.”

Gunnar shrugs.

“You came for revenge?”

“I came to retake the
Goliath
.”

“But you despise me for what I did to you … setting you up to take the fall.”

“I was angrier at myself. My life’s become one big lie. I don’t know who I am anymore. I took the mission because I had nothing more to lose.”

“But my goal … perhaps it justifies the means?”

“I don’t know … do I look like God to you?” Gunnar exits the lab and lies down on the exam table.