Goliath

sunshine. Waiting on the tarmac before him is the YAL 747-400F, a strange-looking cargo jet whose nose has been reconfigured into a blunt, proboscis-shaped turret.

A strapping Air Force colonel makes his way down a set of steps to greet him. “Morning, General, I’m Colonel Udelsman.”

Jackson returns the salute. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes, sir. Supplies are on board, our tankers are standing by, and we’re still receiving clear signals from Joe- Pa.”

“How long before we reach him?”

“At his present location, seventeen hours, twenty minutes.”

“Very well, Colonel. Let’s get this whale off the ground.”

5 November

Aboard Goliath Mediterranean Sea

The enormous devilfish lies on the bottom of the Levantine Basin in one thousand feet of water, seventeen miles southeast of the island of Cyprus. A strong easterly current continues to bury the submarine’s wings in sand, the creature’s head, like that of a real stingray, the only section still visible along the seafloor.

Covah and his crew are gathered in the control room, watching a live CNN report being telecast on one-half of Goliath’s giant viewing screen. On the other half of the split monitor is a real-time sonar surveillance map detailing a section of the Mediterranean, from the isle of Crete east to the shoreline of Lebanon and Israel.

A dozen warships are depicted in electric blue, ready to become threats.

For the umpteenth time in the last twenty-four hours, the broadcast flashes images of the two bulldozed United States pure-fusion facilities in Livermore, California, and Los Alamos, New Mexico, and the recently destroyed complex in Bordeaux, France. Thousands of demonstrators outside the fences continue to picket, despite reassurances from President Edwards that all pure-fusion research has been officially banned.

The image returns to downtown Baghdad. Remote CNN cameras, mounted from balconies, as per Saddam’s orders, reveal views of the Presidential Palace, located on the northern bank of the Tigris River. Tens of thousands of Iraqis have gathered to show support for their leader. Heavily armed members of Saddam’s elite Republican Guard, stationed along the perimeter, mean to keep them there.

“Look at them,” Covah says. “Saddam’s using the Iraqi people as human shields while he makes a grandiose statement of martyrdom.”

“The rest of the population has already fled to the mountains in southern Turkey,” Jala Chalabi says.

His younger brother, Masud, nods. “You would think at least one of Saddam’s generals would have put a bullet in his head by now.”

“No one can get close enough to do the deed,” Jalal says. “Saddam murders anyone who even looks at him the wrong way.”

“Saddam’s not in the Republican palace,” Masud mutters. “I know exactly where the murdering coward is.”

Simon Covah moves to the viewport, mesmerized by the tranquillity of the deep. He stares at his reflection and wonders why fate has pushed him down this dark path of destruction, and if he’ll ever see the light.

You are thirty-seven and the world is a different place. The Soviet Union is gone, and with it, your naval career. You have a family now, Anna and your two beautiful daughters, but your homeland has been turned into a cesspool of nuclear waste. The Americans recognize your talents, and the freedoms of the West are too intoxicating to ignore. Plans are made to travel to the States. And then the nightmare begins.

Milosevic orders all Albanians to be forcibly removed from Serbian territory, and your family is harbored in the path of genocide. You rush back to your in-laws’ village, only to discover hell. Militants capture you. Milosevic’s goons—teens, disguised as soldiers, sadists—masquerading as human beings. They break your bones, but they cannot reach your soul. Frustrated, they march your wife and daughters inside as spectators, determined to break your spirit. The sight of your loved ones tears at your heart, bringing your cries, exactly what your torturers were yearning for. It is time to die. The smell of your own urine mixes with the gasoline as your face ignites like a tinderbox and you race outside, so pumped with anger and adrenaline that even your captors bullets cannot put you down.

For months you languish on death’s precipice, pain and anger your only companions. Defying your physicians, you survive, your physical appearance barely an afterthought as you track down the species that devoured your family. It is your first night on the dark path. It will not be your last.

Covah looks up as David, Sujan Trevedi and the tall African lead Gunnar and Rocky into the control room.

Covah greets them. “You’re just in time. Where is Mr. Chau?”

“Who knows?” David says. “Probably passed out drunk in the engine room. Simon, you and I need to discuss a few things—”

“Not now.”

Rocky approaches. She smiles, then spits in Covah’s face. “That’s from Anna and your two daughters, for what you’re about to do.”

David stifles a laugh.

Covah’s expression darkens. His eyes become maniacal, like those of a serial killer. “How dare you … compare this event … with the barbarism my family had to endure! How dare you defile the memory of my beloved by even breathing her name!”

Rocky greets his stare with her own. “As you’ve said—murder is murder.”

“Some killing is justifiable.”

“In whose eyes? God’s … or yours?”

“So spoken from the woman who helped create this very vessel of mass destruction.”

“Wielding a big stick doesn’t mean you have to use it.”

“And if you are afraid to use it, then it has no value. Tell me, Commander, if you had the opportunity to kill Adolf Hitler back in ’41, would you have done it?”

“That’s beside the point—”

“It is precisely the point. Answer the question!”

“Yes, but—”

“And his Nazi regime … if one missile could have taken them all out and prevented the deaths of millions?”

Rocky bites her lower lip. “I don’t know. Yes, I suppose—”

“Then put aside your ego and open your eyes. What I do today, I do for the oppressed. I do not take it lightly, nor do I shirk from the duties I have been spared to perform. But unlike the mongrels who butchered my family, I am not merciless. We announced our intentions days ago. The Iraqi people have been given ample time to leave the targeted area. At some point, it becomes the responsibility of the flock to stop lying down, serving themselves as lunch for the outnumbered wolves.” Covah turns away, wiping her spittle from his face. “Sorceress, bring us to launch depth.”

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Rocky’s heart leaps into her throat as the ship rises from the seafloor, spewing tons of sand and debris from its back.

Gunnar notices the Tibetan exile has left the control room.

“Gunnar, my friend, have you—” Covah’s words die in a rasp. He sips again from the water bottle. “Have you ever wondered why UNSCOM never uncovered Saddam’s biological weapons? It is because they allowed the rat to guard his own cheese. Saddam has nine palaces. Buried within each compound are extensive bunkers containing lethal stockpiles of biological and chemical weapons.”

“Then target the bunkers,” Rocky blurts out. “Why destroy—”

“Silence!” Jalal Chalabi turns to face her. “Do not involve yourself in issues you could never hope to understand.”

GOLIATH NOW AT LAUNCH DEPTH. RAISING RADAR ANTENNAE. SEARCHING VICINITY …