Goliath

Thomas Chau shakes his head in disbelief. “Very impressive.”

David nods in agreement.

The camera angle suddenly changes, offering a bow-to-stern view of the Goliath’s undercarriage. Suspended beneath the curvature of the steel stingray’s belly are dozens of dead crewmen, their buoyant egress suits pinning them headfirst against the sub like human stalagtites.

Chau turns away in disgust. “How can you bear to look? They were your men.

David continues watching the screen, mesmerized. “Actually, I’ve always found death to be quite fascinating, the more gruesome, the better. My maternal grandfather owned seven funeral homes. After school, I used to sneak into the embalming room and watch as he prepared the bodies.” David glances at Chau. “Did you know the viscera of the dead are removed and immersed in embalming fluid before being replaced in the body?”

“You’re a sick man.”

David grins. “Sick and brilliant. Isn’t that right, Sorceress?”

SICK : TO BE ILL. REPORT TO THE MEDICAL SUITE IMMEDIATELY.

“It’s just an expression. A term of sarcasm.”

SARCASM: IRONY. INQUIRY: Is HUMAN DEATH IRONIC?

David smiles. “It’s like talking to an inquisitive child.”

“Enough of this nonsense,” Covah chastises. “Sorceress, how soon until the Colossus’s nuclear weapons are transported aboard the Goliath?”

SEVENTEEN MINUTES, TWENTY-SEVEN SECONDS.

“Upon completion, ascend to antenna depth and transmit Covah message Alpha-One on all predesignated frequencies. Then plot a course for the Mediterranean Sea.”

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Taur Araujo sorts through a pile of clothing, then tosses an outfit at his prisoner.

Gunnar steps into the legs of the jumpsuit, slips his arms in the sleeves, then zips it over his naked body. The Chinese naval uniform is a good three sizes too small, the pant cuffs reaching clear up to his calves.

“You’d make a lousy tailor.”

Taur ignores him.

The other man, a dark, lanky African, hands him a worn pair of sneakers. “These are mine, size thirteen. You don’t like them, then you go barefoot like your girlfriend.”

Gunnar sees the African has no hands. Two antiquated metal prosthetics are attached midforearm. “Where’s the girl?”

“Shut up.” Taur Araujo motions for Gunnar to walk down the corridor.

The internal living space of the Goliath attack sub is comprised of a 610-foot central compartment that divides the ship’s two enormous wings. Served by its central computer, the vessel’s internal layout reflects the needs of a skeleton crew.

The Goliath’s hangar bay divides the main section of the submarine in half. Located directly above the hangar, assessable via an open freight elevator attached to the starboard bulkhead, is an upper- central compartment dedicated to the ship’s twenty-four vertical missile silos. Aft of the central compartments is the engine room, the ship’s five nuclear reactors, and pump-jet propulsion plants, contained within an enormous football field-size chamber.

The space forward of the hangar bay is divided into three main decks and a smaller fourth—the stingray’s head—which comprises the ship’s control room/attack center. Lower deck forward houses the battery compartment, ship’s storage, and forward sensory array, while upper deck forward contains the crew’s quarters, lab, and galley, as well as a small spiral stairwell leading up to the conn. The remaining level, central deck forward, is the most vital part of the ship, housing the components of the Goliath’s computer brain. The entire space is sealed off by a two-ton, three-foot-thick steel vault door, inaccessible to all but Simon Covah.

The remaining bulk of the submarine—the ship’s enormous wings—houses a labyrinth of ballast and trim tanks, as well as a sophisticated maneuvering system that enables the Goliath to soar through the water like a ray. Within the forward sections of each wing, accessible by way of a steel catwalk, are two weapons bays. Within each of these robotically operated chambers are three torpedo tubes, racks of torpedoes, and an armory.

Gunnar follows the African up a steel ladder mounted within a vertical access tube. Pausing at middle deck forward, he regards the imposing vault door guarding Sorceress.

The Guerrilla leader at his back prods him from behind with his gun, directing him to the next deck.

Gunnar follows the African up to upper deck forward. The corridor is twice the width and height of the Colossus passage, more luxury hotel than submarine. Crew’s quarters are laid out dormitory-style, with communal bathrooms set between every third stateroom.

Heading forward, they pass a watertight door marked SURGICAL SUITE, then a small galley. The aroma of baked goods caused Gunnar’s stomach to growl.

The African signals him to stop. “Sorceress, unlock stateroom twenty-two.”

The click of a steel bolt snapping back, the door swinging open as if by an invisible hand. The East Timorian prods him from behind.

Gunnar enters, the door closing behind him, the locking mechanism sealing him in.

There are two bunk beds in the stateroom, mounted to the bulkhead. A small desk and chair sit in one quarter, a sink in another. A lone figure is lying on the bed.

Rocky’s jumpsuit is two sizes too large, rolled up at the sleeves and pant cuffs, revealing her bare feet.

“You okay?”

She sits up. “Get out of here! Go join your pal, Simon!”

He ignores her, lying down on the other bed.

“I hate you, Gunnar. Do you know how much I hate you—”

He closes his eyes. “I hate me, too.”

In the far corner of the ceiling, mounted to the bulkhead by two reinforced steel brackets, is a scarlet eyeball-shaped sensor. A three-quarter-inch cable runs from the back of the eyeball, directly into the wall.

Rocky drags a chair over and stands on it so that she is only inches away from the scarlet eyeball. “Hey, Sorceress, can you hear me? You tell that asshole Covah that I want my own room. Do you hear me?” She reaches out to seize the device.

Gunnar opens his eyes. “Rocky, no—”

A sizzling, invisible electrostatic sledgehammer wallops her across the skull, tossing her backward into oblivion.

Atlantic Ocean

General Jackson groans as two sailors in a life raft pluck him from the sea. Ten minutes later, he is helped aboard a Navy cutter. The Bear drops to his knees on deck, protecting his broken wrists. The hooded suit is removed, replaced by a wool blanket. Two sailors help him to his feet, leading him out of a driving rain and into the cutter’s bridge.

Vice Admiral Arthur M. Krawitz, Commander of the Navy’s Submarine Force in the Atlantic (COMSUBLANT) hands him a cup of coffee. “You okay?”

“Broke both wrists. Nearly drowned. And I’m one of the lucky ones.”

“Let’s get you to sick bay.”

“Not yet.” He struggles to support the styrofoam cup as he sips the bitter brew. “My daughter?”

“No sign of her, but we heard from Covah. Goliath transmitted a message via satellite uplink about an hour ago. There’s a chopper on its way to take you to Washington. Let’s get those broken bones set while you have a spare moment. I’d say the shit’s about to hit the fan.”