Goliath

detaches the water bottle, lifts it to his lips, and swallows, the wetness allowing him to regain his voice. “What have we been able to salvage from the carrier fleet?”

“Perhaps you should ask her.”

Covah detects the heavy sarcasm. “You have a problem, Mr. Chau?”

“The crew and I feel obsolete. Your sub planned and initiated the entire attack on the American fleet before consulting us—before we even knew they were in striking distance.”

“Goliath is not just a submarine. It is a vehicle with a brain, a thinking machine encased in a steel hull. Sorceress does not require our permission to function.”

“Precisely what concerns us. Your computer brain seems to be functioning more independently since we left Bo Hai Gulf.”

“Sorceress is programmed to evolve, Mr. Chau. It seems more efficient because it is becoming more efficient, a trait I wish all of us shared. Now answer my question.”

“The submarine tender Emory S. Land yielded twenty-three Mk-48 ADCAP torpedoes, six Harpoon missiles, five Tomahawk Block III TLAM missiles, and two Tomahawk Block IV deep strike missiles. The Hammerheads have transported all these weapons to the hangar bay.”

“What about the nuclear warheads?”

“The sub was only able to salvage one Trident II (D5) from the Ronald Reagan’s wreckage.”

“Only one? Mr. Stracjek indicated there would be at least ten nuclear missiles on board.”

“Most of the casings cracked when the ship sank. Even so, we could have easily extracted another three had your machine spent less time salvaging so many of the American torpedoes from the supply ship.”

Covah’s steel right cheekbone constricts his smile to a twitching, crooked half grin. “Mr. Chau, Sorceress prioritized the salvage operation based on our long-term objectives. The computer chose to arm itself, knowing we’ll most likely see more combat before we complete our objective. Has Mr. Araujo finished downloading the CVBG’s satellite information?”

“So he says, but you know I don’t trust him. He brings little to our crusade.”

“I disagree. We’ll need Mr. Araujo’s knowledge of his nation’s terrain soon enough. Now, was there something else you wished to discuss?”

“Sorceress identified Stracjek’s body among the dead. He’d been shot.”

Covah exhales painfully. “Then he died for a noble cause.” The Russian closes his eyes to think. The pale face is calm, statuesque, except for the rapid movement of his eyeballs, which twitch to and fro beneath the closed lids.

Chau watches, feeling uncomfortable in the bizarre-looking man’s presence.

The female voice causes him to jump.

ATTENTION. NEXT UTOPIA-ONE TARGET HAS BEEN ACQUIRED. COURSE PLOTTED. WHITE SEA, NORTHWEST RUSSIAN REPUBLIC.

Simon Covah remains upright and motionless in his chair, barely breathing, as his ship races north through the Atlantic, scattering everything in its path.

Naval Undersea Warfare Center Keyport, Washington

Gunnar Wolfe stares out the window of the helicopter, looking down upon Puget Sound. The sight of the Bainbridge Island Ferry brings a rush of adrenaline—and memories of a different existence.

A lifetime has passed since Gunnar was in Division Keyport, the Navy’s Undersea Warfare Center for research and development, testing and evaluation, and engineering support for its nuclear submarines, autonomous underwater systems, and undersea-warfare weapons programs. As chief design engineer of Goliath’s weapons and Hammerhead minisubs, Gunnar had overseen a team of fifty civil service and enlisted engineers, technicians, and scientists, and another dozen defense contractors. During his two- year stint his department had won the prestigious VADM Harold G. Bowen Award for Inventions of Most Value to the Navy, and was a finalist two years running in the Secretary of Defense Design Excellence Award.

Gunnar rubs his eyes. The last time he was in Keyport, the FBI had paraded him before his peers in handcuffs.

Hooah.

He glances up at Rocky, who is seated shotgun. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. He contemplates explaining his motives for wanting to eradicate Goliath’s design, but knows she wouldn’t listen. Rocky’s just like I was, a dutiful soldier, patriotic to a fault. She’s too wrapped up by the flag to see the forest for the trees …

Gunnar spots the naval base in the distance. The chopper sets down minutes later.

Two MPs approach and open the door, beckoning him out. He climbs down, following Rocky into the building, his two new friends escorting him inside.

Captain Andrew Smith is waiting at the security station by the main entrance. The base commander steps forward, tight jet-black curls protruding from beneath his cap. “Wolfe, you must have balls the size of grapefruits to set foot back at NUWC.” Smith looks at Rocky as he follows them inside. “Am I right, Commander? Are your ex- fiance’s balls the size of grapefruits?”

“I hear yours are the size of raisins.” Rocky pushes past Smith and presses the button for the elevator.

Gunnar grins at his former base commander. “Six years and you still haven’t gotten laid, huh, Smitty? Bet that shit’s backed up pretty good by now—”

“Fuck you, traitor.” Smith turns to his MPs. “If he even looks like he’s doing something suspicious, shoot him in the knees.”

Gunnar, Rocky, and the two guards step inside the elevator and take it up to the third floor, where they are greeted by more security personnel. The MPs allow them to pass, but Gunnar can feel their venom.

Rocky leads him to the familiar double steel security doors. “Your team’s inside. Try not to steal anything before our next meeting.”

Gunnar grits his teeth, watching her walk away. So beautiful. So full of rage. She wants Covah the way Ahab wanted Moby-Dick. He takes a deep breath and enters the lab.

A dozen members of Goliath’s design team look up from their computer terminals, the expression on most faces a mix of curiosity and disgust.

Justin Fisch steps forward, wearing his usual tie-dyed tee shirt beneath his lab coat. He offers a closed fist. “Hey, G-Man.”

“Hey, Fisch.” The knuckles of Gunnar’s fist meet those of the computer expert, their old greeting.

“Heard about Simon. Bet you want to tear him apart, huh?”

“Covah always had an agenda,” whispers Karen Jensen, the naval engineer who had designed the minisub’s sensor array. The thirty-five-year-old brunette with the pierced tongue and eyebrow gives Gunnar a quick hug. “Personally, I never trusted him.”

She takes him by the wrist, leading him to his old office. “Take a look, boss. Fisch and I fixed it up, just the way you left it.”

Gunnar opens the door, catching a whiff of carpet shampoo. The big metal desk in the corner has been cleaned off, the file cabinets, ransacked long ago by the FBI, now back in place. The solid brass table lamp with the gold Penn State emblem against the navy shade has been reassembled, situated in its proper place on the left side of the desk. The computer has been replaced with a newer model, its screen saver flashing “welcome back.”

He steps inside, his heart pounding. Opposite his work space is the old beige, vinyl sofa. Rehung on the wall above the sofa are rows of framed photographs. Gunnar, age twenty-five, bare-chested on a beach, posing with his Ranger buddies. His Special Ops graduation photo, in which he is accepting congratulations from Colonel Jackson. Assorted shots from his days at Penn State, Fort Benning, NUWC …

He notices that the pictures have been carefully rearranged to compensate for the ones no longer there, the ones of him and Rocky. The black-and-white of him and Simon, standing on either side of President George W. Bush in the Oval Office, is also gone.

Gunnar exhales. He raises the venetian blinds, staring out at Puget Sound. This is no longer his office. This is no longer his life …