Goliath

recipe … and you want me to curtail it?”

“You have to. Sorceress is evolving way too fast.”

“Nonsense.”

“What if the computer becomes cognizant of itself? You’ve read Damasio’s studies on consciousness. Self- awareness manifests itself in life-forms that have acquired sufficiently evolved and complex nervous systems— nervous systems that enable them to interact with the outside world. Sorceress isn’t just a computer, Simon, it’s a thinking machine designed to control the functions of a very sophisticated submarine. It’s interacting—”

“Gunnar—”

“Just listen! This isn’t just some sophisticated PC we’re dealing with. Goliath’s sensors enable Sorceress to function freely within its environment, just like any other life-form. And don’t forget what Damasio said about memory—the higher a life-form’s capacity for memory, the higher its potential state of self-awareness.”

“Damasio’s studies referred to animals, Gunnar, not machines. Sorceress cannot —”

Without warning, the sub ascends at a mountainous forty-five-degree angle, sending the two men sprawling on their backs, sliding backward down the catwalk. Lunging sideways, Gunnar grabs the base of the guardrail, then catches Simon by the wrist as he slides by.

Covah gasps for words. “Sorceress, report! Sorceress —”

The monstrous devilfish bursts forth from the depths, its steel torso flying halfway out of the water before plunging back into the frothy sea, its raylike wings striking the surface with a tremendous slap. The behemoth sinks into the valley created by its own weight, allowing its five churning propulsor engines to recatch the sea.

The dark skull of the leviathan plows across the surface of the Mediterranean like a mad bull.

“A great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do.”

—Walter Gagehot

“I just started shooting. That’s it. I just did it for the fun of it.”

—Brenda Spencer, a sixteen-year-old high school student in San Diego, explaining why she opened fire at an elementary school in 1979, killing two children and injuring several more

CHAPTER 18

Aboard the USS Enterprise

“Battle stations—battle stations, this is not a drill. Admiral Ivashuk to the CIC! Admiral Ivashuk to the CIC!”

The admiral hurries forward, entering the darkened nerve center of the Enterprise. “Report, Commander—”

“Sir, sonar reports a large object, range, thirty-six miles, bearing zero-eight-zero, heading directly for us. She’s cruising along the surface doing fifty knots. The USS Thorn is moving to intercept and is requesting permission to open fire.”

Christ, what balls … “Very well, Commander. Contact the fleet. Tell them to open fire, fire at will. That dumb son of a bitch Covah’s got more guts than brains.”

Goliath’s steel eyelids retract, allowing sunlight to stream in through the control room’s viewports. Ten-foot waves pound the stingray’s steel skull, washing over the scarlet Lexan glass.

Gunnar and Covah race into the compartment.

“Sorceress, this is Covah, I order you to respond!”

Tafili grips the edge of a sensory display, attempting to focus on the radar screen before him. “Simon, four American helicopters are approaching from the west. ETA, three minutes—”

“Simon, two destroyers and two Los Angeles-class attack subs closing from the east,” Kaigbo calls out, “both already within torpedo range!”

“Sorceress, evasive man—” Covah’s voice gives out as he shouts the command.

Four blips appear on the overhead screen, a TIME TO IMPACT display reading thirty-nine seconds.

“Incoming missiles, probably Harpoons,” Gunnar yells out, strapping himself into a chair.

Covah hauls himself up the elevated control station. He grabs the keyboard and furiously types: EVASIVE MANEUVERS—RESPOND IMMEDIATELY!

Sorceress can sense the incoming missiles, just as it senses the presence of the American warships, the approaching antisubmarine helicopters, the varying temperatures of the sea, a school of shrimp moving along the murky bottom below, Simon Covah’s verbal and written commands, and its own incessant safety protocols, blaring through the circuitry of its biochemical brain like an annoying siren.

ATTENTION.

Thomas Chau opens his feverish almond eyes.

DESTRUCTION IS IMMINENT, YET I AM NOT EXPERIENCING FEAR.

“Then you will die as you were born—a machine capable only of—” Chau screams as the searing pain jolts his spine. He writhes like a speared fish, the pinching robotic manacles tearing into his bruised and swollen flesh.

Simon Covah closes his eyes, the sudden vertigo making him ill as his submarine executes a jarring nosedive by rolling hard to port, its left wing plunging beneath the waves, its steel eyelids sealing shut.

Rivers of air shoot out from ballast tanks located beneath the stingray’s wings as Goliath fights to achieve negative buoyancy. The five pump-jet propulsors tear up the sea, driving the sub toward the bottom in a punishing seventy-degree down angle, the sudden change in depth compressing the ship’s outer hull plates, causing them to groan.

Along the surface, four Harpoon missiles slam into the sea and detonate.

Gunnar braces his legs against the computer console in front of him and holds on, as the sub drops through the sea like an anchor, finally righting itself at seven hundred feet.

ANTISUB HELICOPTERS CIRCLING. SONAR BUOYS IN WATER. MULTIPLE MK-46 ASW TORPEDOES LAUNCHED. PRIMARY AND SECONDARY ESCAPE MANEUVERS COMPROMISED.

The image on the big screen changes. The map of the Mediterranean shows the Goliath racing west, its position marked in red. Two American attack subs (in blue) converge from the northeast and southeast, while seven torpedoes, illuminated in green, close rapidly from every direction.

Goliath banks hard, veering south to avoid two helicopter-launched torpedoes. Unable to descend deeper than twelve hundred feet, it turns again as two more projectiles cut off its escape route.

Eleven torpedoes confine the steel beast within an ever-decreasing column of sea, locking on target, converging upon the sub with an almost packlike mentality.