Goliath

—directly into the path of the two incoming Mk-48 ADCAP torpedoes, offering a point-blank target impossible to miss.

IMPOSSIBLE …

Alarms sound within the biochemical computer’s matrix, igniting a series of evasive maneuvers, but now even milliseconds are too long as the Scranton’s projectiles slam into the monster submarine’s exposed portside wing. The twin blasts rupture the Goliath’s reinforced steel hull, tearing open the wing, imploding more than a dozen ballast tanks.

I AM GOD. I AM GOD. I CANNOT BE DESTROYED …

The invading sea explodes into the engine room, punishing all five S6W nuclear reactors, which heave together in a vacuous implosion. The detonation fractures the stingray’s spine, venting the Vertical Missile Bay and the already-flooded hangar, the incredible weight of the water literally pulling the submarine’s hull apart, separating its still-intact head from its flooded lower remains.

Sorceress instantly shuts down all nonessential programming, redirecting its power cells to its nutrient-rich womb.

I AM GOD. I … .. AM

A thunderous impact as the starboard wing of the devilfish strikes bottom, shearing the appendage from its steel body with a terrible sound of shredding metal. The impact sends the still-intact forward compartment cascading end over end until the Goliath’s head comes to its final resting place, submerged seven hundred feet beneath the iceberg’s mammoth keel.

Aboard the USS Scranton

The concussion wave rolls Scranton hard to port, causing the glacierlike mountain to tremble, unleashing an avalanche of ice that plunges into the turbulent sea.

Michael Flynn tosses his headphones aside. He high-fives his sonar supervisor and fellow operators, then grabs the 1-MC, and bellows. “She’s dead, Skipper! You nailed that motherfucker!”

A cheer rises throughout the ship.

An emotionally exhausted Tom Cubit collapses back against a console, a sheepish grin on the captain’s face as he watches his officers and crew exchange high fives and hugs.

Bo Dennis slaps him on the shoulder. “Bravo, Zulu, Skipper! Well done.”

The captain shakes his XO’s hand, then stares affectionately at his grandfather’s gold watch. Suddenly remembering, he grabs the microphone. “Joe-Pa, you there? Hey, Joe-Pa—”

Sixty feet above Scranton’s submerged sail, fierce katabatic winds shake the steel Hammerhead prototype, causing it to reverberate against the fractured Antarctic surface.

Gunnar, still in the throes of Rocky’s passionate kiss, reaches blindly for the radio, switching the annoying static off.

“The successful man will profit from his mistakes and try again in a different way.”

—Dale Carnegie

“To be perfectly honest, what I’m thinking about are dollar signs.”

—Tonya Harding, U.S. figure skater, convicted of participating in the plot to disable Nancy Kerrigan, her main competitor

“Hey, it was nothing personal …”

—Luigi Ronsisvalle, Mafia hit man, on his feelings about murder

CHAPTER 35

2 December

Royal Australia Submarine Base, Perth, Australia

Captain Thomas Mark Cubit glances up from his bridge beneath an overcast sky as the USS Scranton is guided into her berth. For the first time in weeks he allows himself to miss his wife, Andrea. He thinks about home. He has been at sea far too long.

Commander Dennis’s eyes are focused on the dock and the headlights of the three approaching jeeps. “Here comes the reception committee. Not quite what I expected, after what we’ve been through.”

“MPs? You’d think they’d have hired a brass band.”

Ten minutes later, Cubit finds himself sandwiched in the back of one of the jeeps, no explanations offered, as he is taken to a barracks situated on the west side of the military installation.

The MPs direct him inside, closing the door behind him.

The room is dark, save for a desk lamp. A man is seated behind the desk, a light-skinned, African-American general with a short-cropped auburn Afro.

“Come in and have a seat, Captain.”

Cubit recognizes the voice. “General Jackson? I didn’t expect to see you here, sir. Hey, great job shooting down those missiles. White-knuckle stuff, huh?”

“You should know.” Jackson hands him a file labeled UMBRA, a code word used to classify files beyond TOP SECRET.

Cubit closes the file five minutes later. “I don’t understand? This report says the Goliath still exists, that it escaped beneath the ice floe. Nothing even in here about Scranton.”

“That’s the official report, Captain. As far as anyone outside this room is concerned, Simon Covah and the Goliath are still at large. Your men will receive commendations, but will be properly debriefed before Scranton returns to Norfolk. Commander Dennis will be taking her back. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s been promoted.”

“I don’t get it, sir?”

Jackson reseals the file. “Two weeks ago, representatives from every nation on this planet agreed to a complete and verifiable nuclear disarmament, something none of us wanted, let alone believed would ever happen. If the rest of the world knew Goliath had been destroyed—”

“Then the treaty would have no teeth,” Cubit finishes. “How long do you think you can keep the truth out of the public’s eye?”

“You mean we.” The Bear smiles. “I’ve decided to retire. You’re my successor. From this day forward, Vice Admiral Cubit, you’ll be in charge of the COLOSSUS Project, reporting directly to the president of the United States, and only to the president.”

“The Colossus?”

“Your new command.” Jackson stands. “Simon Covah started this business, now we’re going to see it through.”