Goliath

Aboard the HMS Vengance

Captain, sonar, sir, you requested we report all contacts.”

“Sonar, Captain, go ahead.”

“Sounds like another pod of killer whales, I count seven in all. Range, nine kilometers, speed five knots. They’re moving slowly along the surface, normal behavior, but I thought it best to report it, seeing how they’re headed in our direction.”

“Acknowledged.” The British skipper exhales his annoyance a bit too loud, then scratches the short gray hairs of his beard in a feeble attempt to hide his frustration. Two days at sea, and the only thing he has to report is whale sightings. Bottlenose and orca, fin and humpback, bowhead and right whales. Who do the Americans think I am—bloody Jacques Cousteau?

Aboard the Colossus

Commander Lockart and his XO stare at the large overhead screen linked to the sub’s fiber-optic photonics mast and sonar consoles.

Seven yellow dots appear along the surface of the sea, moving in the direction of the HMS Vengeance.

General Jackson joins him. “What is it, Commander?”

“Biologics. The computer identifies them as orca, seven in all, but I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Conn, sonar. Tonal contact, bearing one-four-zero, range, seven thousand yards and closing very fast. It’s the Goliath, commander, and she means business.”

Lockhart turns to the Bear. “Better get your team ready, General.”

Jackson nods, hurrying out of the control center.

Aboard the HMS Vengeance

“Battle stations! Lieutenant Miller, load Spearfish into tubes one and two and make ready in all respects.”

“Aye, sir. WEPS, conn, load Spearfish into tubes one and two and make ready in all respects.”

Whitehouse turns to his XO. “That bloody terrorist will attempt to use his unmanned submersibles to knock out our screw and incapacitate the ship. Under no circumstance do we allow that to happen, is that understood?”

“Aye, sir.”

The captain heads forward to fire control alley, where six technicians stationed before a series of amber- colored plasma screens are feverishly attempting to track and target the approaching vessel. Whitehouse feels a rush of adrenaline coursing through his body. The Spearfish torpedo is a 660-pound monster of a weapon, with a range of thirteen miles and a top speed of sixty knots.

For a brief moment, he envisions the headlines in tomorrow’s London Times: BRITISH COMMANDER DESTROYS KILLER SUB.

“WEPS, where’s my firing solution?”

The fire control officer turns to his CO, a look of desperation on his face. “The contact descended beneath the thermocline. We lost her, sir.”

As the Goliath disappears into the colder, deeper waters of the Atlantic, seven steel sharklike dorsal fins cut a uniform path across the choppy surface. Small jet propulsor units drive the mechanical fish through the sea, while sensor arrays mounted in their blunt hammerhead-shaped bows process incoming transmissions from the mother ship.

Passing two hundred feet over the British sub, the sharks suddenly disperse, swooping in on Vengeance from seven different angles—a choreographed, underwater ballet.

Aboard the Colossus

“Make a hole—” General Jackson pushes past crewmen and enters his cabin, the lump growing in his throat, his internal voice screaming in his ears. He curses the Navy, curses himself; most of all he curses the influence his career has had on his only child. It’s not too late. You can still act, you can still order her to stay on board. Screw the Pentagon, this is your daughter. You don’t have to let this happen . . .

“Rocky?”

Rochelle Jackson-Hatcher emerges from the bathroom, dressed in the black lightweight exterior battle skeleton worn by Army Ranger infiltration teams.

“Rocky, I … change of plans. I’ve thought about it, and it’s best only Gunnar and David go.”

“What?” Rocky tucks the serrated commando knife into her boot. “We talked about this in Keyport. No one knows more about Goliath than I do. I’m going.”

“Gunnar can handle it.”

“I’m going, General, end of discussion.”

“And I said Gunnar can handle this.” Bear growls, heading for the door.

“Hold it!” Rocky jumps in front of him, blocking his way. “You can’t do this. This isn’t your decision. Secretary Ayers is calling the shots on this mission, not you.”

“I gave you a direct order, Commander. I’ll clear this with Mr. Ayers when and if—”

“An order?” Rocky removes the knife from her boot, holding it up for him to see. “My mission is to recapture my submarine and personally shove this knife into Covah’s fucking heart. Just because you’re wearing a general’s uniform doesn’t mean you can start playing Father Knows Best.”

Jackson stares at his daughter. What have I done? What kind of father have I been? Always pushing … never satisfied. I’ve created G.I. Jane—

He grips her by the shoulders. “Rocky, listen to me, you’re not a commando, you’re not trained for this.”

“Wrong. I helped design this machine, I can stop it.” She returns the blade to its sheath. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Bear. You’ve sent other parents’ children into combat situations, knowing they might never return. Now it’s my turn.”

He swallows the lump in his throat. “You’re right. I have. And it always sickens me.”

She sees the sadness in his eyes and softens. “Look, I’ll be okay.” She gives him a quick hug. “Hey, our first real father-daughter moment in twenty years.”

“Yeah.” Bear pinches away tears. “Come on.”

Aboard the HMS Vengeance

An explosion rocks the ship as the remains of the Vanguard-class submarine’s screw is ripped apart by a small torpedo launched by one of Goliath’s stalking minisubs.

Commander Whitehouse feels as helpless as a suffocating child trying to punch its way out of a paper bag. His ship’s screw has been destroyed with an almost-surgical precision. Two of his crew are dead, a dozen more injured. His engine room is flooding, causing Vengeance to lose her neutral buoyancy. The sub is slipping farther into the depths like a waterlogged whale, while an uncountable number of the enemy’s unmanned submersibles race around his vessel doing God-knows-what.

“One hundred forty meters. One fifty—”

“Sonar, conn, goddam it, son, where the hell is the Colossus?”

“Conn, sonar, I’m sorry, sir, still no sign of her.”

“One hundred and sixty meters—”

“Emergency blow. Put us on the roof.”

“Aye, sir, emergency blow.” High-pressure air screams into the forward ballast tanks, slowing their descent. Vengeance hovers at an awkward forty-degree angle, then begins rising.

Five hundred yards off the Vengeance’s starboard beam, a pair of sinister eyes, luminescent red, stare unblinking into the darkness as if the mechanical devilfish were observing its minions.