Goliath

today to tell you that change is in the air. Now, one man—one man aboard one powerful vessel commands the world’s attention. Now, one man on a mission of salvation sends the world’s combined nuclear naval forces cowering back to their ports—”

David shakes his head. “This guy’s waving Covah’s flag.”

“Now, my friends, it is up to us to rally around this man’s actions. Now we must demand change. Now we must demand nothing less than total global nuclear disarmament!”

A roar erupts as the crowd swells forward. Men leap onto the fence, their suddenly revealed bolt cutters and hacksaws tearing into the steel links. The outnumbered riot police toss canisters of tear gas, then back away as the fencing collapses under the combined weight of the masses.

Gunnar and David hurry back inside the barracks. “We need to go—now!”

They hurry back to the jeep. Captain Botchin guns the engine, veering away from the crowd, as flaming bottles fly and the recreational barracks becomes an inferno.

The gray bulk of the HMS Vengeance appears in the distance. Piggy-backed to its deck is a small minisub. Several sailors continue securing it in place while dozens of others scurry across the deck, preparing to make weigh.

The crowd at the southern gate pushes its way onto the naval base, torching everything along its path.

The jeep screeches to a halt, nearly tossing Gunnar facefirst over the windshield. Botchin hurries them aboard the nuclear sub as sailors on deck hastily toss mooring lines over the side.

The Vanguard’s engines hum to life, its propeller churning sludge along the bottom as it pushes the vessel away from the dock. The mob races toward them from the pier. Bear pulls his daughter to the deck as Molotov cocktails smash and ignite against the moving steel hull.

Air horns sound as the Coast Guard cutters move in. Within seconds the late afternoon is violated by hundreds of rounds of machine-gun fire. The thunderous warning scatters the protesters, forcing them to take cover as two of the cutters and a tugboat escort Vengeance into deeper water.

Gunnar watches from the bow as the rabble return to line the pier, several protesters firing pistols into the air. Captain Botchin wishes the general luck as he departs aboard one of the Coast Guard vessels.

A half mile out to sea the sub’s crew grows silent. Faslane Naval Base smokes in the distance. A few smug smiles crease the submariners’ faces as they observe several dozen protesters being forced to leap into the sea— the flames, set by their own hands, engulfing the pier beneath their feet.

Norwegian Sea

Aboard the USS Scranton

Captain Tom Cubit slumps in his command chair, the hypnotic sounds of machinery pushing him deeper toward unconsciousness, his eyelids growing heavy from lack of sleep. After several minutes his eyes close, his head leaning back …

Cubit’s neck snaps back against the too-short headrest, jolting him awake. He wipes sweat beads from his forehead, then slips off his chair and staggers toward the galley to grab another cup of coffee. Halfway there, he changes his mind, turns back, and heads forward to the sonar room.

Sonar technician Michael Flynn is anything but refreshed from the seventy minutes of sleep he barely grabbed last night, on the floor by his station. Only his full bladder keeps him from falling back into dreamland. He looks up as the captain approaches.

“Anything?”

“Sorry, Skipper. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack the size of New Jersey.”

“When was your last break?”

“Twelve hundred hours, but I’m fine—”

“You’re relieved. Ensign Wismer, take over at sonar.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Skipper, really—”

“Hot-bunk it, Michael-Jack. That’s an order.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Conn, radio, incoming message on the VLF.”

“Radio, Captain, on my way.”

Communications Officer Drew Laird hands his CO the folded message. Cubit rubs his eyes, trying to get them to focus as Commander Dennis joins him.

“New orders from COMSUBLANT?”

Cubit nods. “We’re being ordered to abandon our search and head to Spain, to the naval base in Rota.”

“A Med run?”

“Yeah.” Cubit hands the message to his second-in-command.

Dennis scans the orders. “They want us to join up with the Sixth Fleet’s Task Force 69. They must think the Goliath is heading for the Mediterranean.”

“We’ll never find that sub in the Med,” Cubit states. “Sonar conditions are terrible, warm water impinging on cold, salt water with fresh.”

“Naval Intelligence obviously thinks this Covah character may launch a nuke at Yugoslavia.”

Cubit thinks for a moment, then pulls his XO aside. “Plot a course to the Mediterranean, but don’t take us in. Before joining up with the fleet, I want to camp out a bit in the Strait of Gibraltar and give Flynnie another shot at finding that sub. The Strait’s pretty narrow. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Aboard the HMS Vengeance

Commander Paul Whitehouse is a no-nonsense veteran of the Royal Navy’s submarine force. In seventeen years, he has never questioned authority—until now.

The British officer leads his four guests into his ready room, mentally preparing his verbal assault. Stay composed, Whitehouse. The Yankee general’s ego won’t take kindly to questioning his judgment.

“Well then, hope you enjoyed that little send-off. Captain Botchin will issue a statement later today announcing how the nuclear demonstration forced the Royal Navy to assign Vengeance to the Mediterranean. That should play well with what you’re intending to do.”

“Agreed.” General Jackson removes his cap, running his fingers through his short-cropped, auburn Afro. “The SEAL sub is ready to go?”

“Aye, sir, as per your orders.”

“Good. Now, if it’s all right with you, Commander, my team needs to get some rest.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got you and your daughter in the XO’s stateroom across the passageway. Mr. Paniagua can bunk with my XO. As for Mr. Wolfe, I’m afraid the only open bunk we could find is in the torpedo room.” Whitehouse offers a false smile. “Sorry, best we could do.”

Gunnar looks at the Bear, but says nothing.

“General, before you go, if I could have a word with you in private?”

Jackson nods to Gunnar. “Wait for me in sick bay.”

Whitehouse closes the door after him. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Go on.”

“With all due respect, General, I don’t like this assignment, don’t like it one bit. Using the Vengeance as bait recklessly endangers my ship and my crew.”

“Duly noted, Commander. Is that all?”

Whitehouse’s face flushes red. “No, sir. I take it as a personal insult that Mr. Wolfe has been brought aboard my vessel. As far as the officers and crew of the Royal Navy are concerned, this man is a traitor to every sailor in the Western fleet, and should have been hanged for treason six years ago.”

The Bear exhales deeply, then eyeballs the British officer. “Commander, Gunnar Wolfe served his country under my command for the better part of a decade. Special Ops missions placed his life in jeopardy no less than a dozen times. His Ranger extraction team saved the lives of thirty men in Somalia, at which time he was wounded in battle. To this day, I firmly believe that he was and is innocent of all charges, and his presence on this mission is critical to its success.” Jackson stares hard into the man’s eyes. “As such, I highly