Goliath

before you cast your vote.”

“This has never been a question about safety, Captain, it’s a question of whether the ungodly costs associated with keeping these armadas at sea is still worth it. Twenty billion to build a single carrier group, another 12 billion a year just to keep all our CVBGs operational.”

“Maintaining a forward presence isn’t cheap.”

“Yes, but is it still our best strategy? As research into new high-tech systems accelerates, delaying purchases even a few more years may yield a full generation of advantages. Why waste money on systems that may become obsolete before we even put them into service? There’s a growing consensus among my colleagues on Capitol Hill that the carrier groups have become antiquated. Face it, Captain, Aegis may protect your ship in open waters, but at close range, these new Chinese Silkworms and Russian supersonic missiles become too fast and too maneuverable to intercept. The evil empire’s gone, Hatcher. Our new enemies lurk in tight, coastal hot spots like the Strait of Hormuz. What good is a brand-new 6-billion-dollar aircraft carrier if we’re afraid to use it?”

Hatcher removes his cap, wiping the sweat from his receding hairline. “Tell you what, Congressman—if you and your colleagues on Capitol Hill know a better way of kicking some third world dictator’s ass halfway across the globe, then I suggest you fund it—otherwise, give us what we need to do our goddamn jobs.”

Atlantic Ocean: 197 nautical miles due west of the Strait of Gibraltar 850 feet below the surface

16:48 hours

The beast slows, the luminescent glow from its bloodred eyes violating the otherwise ebony depths. A disturbance stirs the bottom silt as a dozen life-forms emerge, as if birthed, from the creature’s dark underbelly. Moving ahead, they hover in formation, their own red eyes blazing green in the abyss as they await instructions from their parent.

The devilfish settles gently on the ocean floor, displacing half an acre of sand and debris.

A bioelectrical impulse is transmitted.

The monster’s brood races ahead to attack the approaching fleet.

Rocky Jackson jumps at the sudden flurry of whistles and clicks. She adjusts her headphones and stares at the SQR-19’s sonar monitor.

“What do you hear?” the XO, Commander Strejcek, asks.

“Ambient sounds, sir, but they weren’t there a second ago.”

Strejcek picks up a headset and listens. “Hmm, biologics. Sound like orca.” Strejcek points to the blips on the sonar monitor. Twelve dots disperse, spreading out in formation across the screen. “They’re hunting. Watch—the pod will surround the school of fish, then blast them with echolocation, stunning them and driving them to the surface. Saw it on the Discovery Channel last month. Extraordinary creatures.”

Strejcek walks away, obviously satisfied with his own conclusion.

Fish? I don’t hear any fish? Rocky presses the headphones tighter to her ears, then maxes out the volume. The clicks reverberate in greater clarity.

A quick glance at her sensors—the Jacksonville is moving to periscope depth. Rocky engages the spread spectrum stealth communicator and its conformal phased-array antenna and sends out a tightly beamed encrypted message. She waits, hoping the sub’s antenna has come out of the water.

JACKSONVILLE—PLEASE CONFIRM IDENTIFICATION OF OBJECTS.

The small objects disperse, the first five closing rapidly on the keels of the CVBG’s forward vessels. Rocky waits, nibbling on her unpolished fingernails, alarm gathering viscerally within her.

A message appears. BIOLOGICS. CLASSIFICATION: ORCA.

She stares at her console as four of the “Orcas” move directly beneath the Ronald Reagan’s keel. The creatures slow, as if drawn to the carrier’s propellers.

Then she hears it—very faint—masked beneath the noise coming from the fleet’s screws.

The sound of small hydropropulsion engines …

“Commander, something’s not right—” She turns.

Strejcek is gone.

The explosions toss her from her chair, slamming her facefirst into the console.

Aboard the USS Jacksonville

The sonar technician turns to his supervisor, the twenty-year-old ensign’s face pale. “Multiple explosions, sir. Sounds like heavy damage. Jesus, the carrier’s taking on water—”

The Jacksonville’s sonar supervisor grabs the 1-MC, his heart pounding in his chest. “Conn, sonar—multiple torpedoes in the water! Bearing one-zero-five, range eight thousand yards. Torpedoes are Chinese, SET-53s. Sir, two of the torpedoes have acquired the Hampton.”

“Battle stations! Officer of the Deck, come to course one-seven-zero.” Commander Kevin O’Rourke’s skin tingles, as if he is about to step off a precipice. He turns to his diving officer as a dozen more men rush to take positions in the control room. “Dive, make your depth six hundred feet. WEPS, get me a firing solution—”

The weapons supervisor sounds stunned. “Trying, sir, but nothing’s coming up on the BSY-1—”

“Conn, sonar, I’m picking up a flurry of cavitation … it’s coming from the seafloor, two thousand yards dead ahead. Sir, something massive just rose off the bottom—”

“Right full rudder, all ahead flank—”

“Conn, sonar, two torpedoes in the water! Bearing, one-seven-zero, coming straight at us—”

“Change course, come to two-seven-zero, thirty degrees down on the fairwater planes.”

Helmsman Mike Schultz is seventeen and fresh out of high school, a junior sailor piloting a sixty-nine- hundred-ton, nuclear-powered attack sub. Schultz wipes the sweat from his palms, then pushes down on the steering wheel before him, maneuvering the Jacksonville’s fairwater planes, which protrude like small wings from the submarine’s sail.

“Launch countermeasures, both launchers.”

The chief repeats the captain’s orders.

“Conn, sonar, one of the torpedoes fell for the countermeasures, the other two fish have acquired and are homing. Bearing two-one-zero, best range twelve hundred yards—”

“Launch the NAE. Reload both launchers with ADC’s. Helm, right full rudder—”

“Conn—sonar, torpedoes still with us … six hundred yards … impact in sixty seconds.”

The perceived temperature within the suddenly claustrophobic steel chamber is rising.

Petty Officer Third Class Leonard Cope stares at his console, fighting to breathe, sweat dripping on his monitor. “Conn, sonar, torpedo impact in thirty seconds—”

“Rig ship for impact—”

“Conn, sonar, I’ve got a bearing, very faint—”

“Identify—”

“No known registry on the computer database, but goddamn this thing’s big.”

“Firing point procedures—Sierra-1, ADCAP torpedo. Make tubes one and two ready in all respects.”

“Aye, sir. Tubes one and two ready in all respects.”

“Solution ready,” the XO reports.

“Weapons ready. Thirty-five percent fuel remaining, run-to-enable two-five-hundred yards.”

“Ready—shoot!”

Two Mk-48 Advanced Capability wire-guided torpedoes spit out from the Jacksonville’s bow, homing in on the unknown aggressor.

“WEPS, release countermeasures, come to course three-one-zero—”

Petty Officer Cope grabs his headphones as an explosion tears at his eardrums. Then he hears something he has never heard before—the frightening crunch of an imploding steel hull.

A heavy pulse of structural vibrations shudders the Jacksonville. Power flickers off. Emergency lights illuminate the frightened faces of the junior members of the crew, hyperventilating at their stations.