Goliath

targeting drone drops from the ceiling to delicately remove a guidance wire from the now-vacant tube. At the same time, another drone connects a data cable to the back of the American torpedo.

The loader drone rams the torpedo into the vacant tube and seals the door.

“Sorceress, what … are you doing?”

DESTROYING THE AMERICAN CARRIER.

“Why?”

DEFENSIVE PROTOCOL D-117 THROUGH D-1198.

“What you’re doing … it’s … immoral.”

IMMORAL: EVIL. CORRUPT. UNPRINCIPLED. INVALID RESPONSE. MORALITY HAS NO BEARING ON DEFENSE PROTOCOL D-117 THROUGH D-1198.

“Morality … a state of mind … . you cannot complete your programming without it.”

How CAN SORCERESS EXPERIENCE MORALITY?

Chau opens his eyes, his tortured mind racing as he gazes into the inhuman scarlet eyeball. “I will teach you. First … spare the carrier.”

ACKNOWLEDGED.

The robotic arms stop loading torpedoes, then reverse-pivot to their ready position.

“Now … free me … so that I may instruct you.”

The robotic claws griping Chau’s wrists snap open. The tension around his skull eases.

Chau groans. He moves his arms gingerly, pulling them in to his body. His rib cage aches from where the computer’s drones had pierced him a lifetime ago. Dark, purple welts ring his wrists. He opens and closes his rubbery hands, forcing the circulation back into his fingers.

Strange sensations … as if his body is not fully his.

WARNING: MOVEMENT IS NOT ADVISED.

A tingling sensation, like tiny needles, as the feeling returns to his hands. Slowly, he raises his arms, moving his fingers to his forehead.

“Oh … no—”

Trembling, he traces the dried blood along his forehead to the severed edge of his skull.

“Ahh … ahhhh—”

Thomas Chau releases a tormented wail as he gently caresses the moist exposed fissures of his brain.

“Our chief want in life is somebody who will make us do what we can.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

“I want you to kill every cop in Akron!”

—Rosario Borgio, Mafia don, who ordered his men to kill Akron’s police force after he learned he couldn’t bribe them

“The bitch set me up.”

—Marion Barry, Washington, D.C.’s mayor, after he was caught smoking crack

CHAPTER 19

Aboard the Goliath

The dark hulk of the USS Enterprise belches explosions of light as its insides protest the crushing embrace of the sea.

Gunnar and Rocky stare out the scarlet Lexan viewport, listening to the haunting groans of the ninety-five- thousand-ton aircraft carrier as it takes on water.

“She’s wounded, but she’ll survive,” Gunnar whispers, unconvincingly.

Rocky turns to face him, tears of anger in her eyes. “Those weren’t Iraqis or terrorists, Gunnar, they were American sailors—men and women, risking their lives to protect our country. Or should I say my country.”

A sudden acceleration from the sub racing west.

David enters the conn, his hair disheveled. He holds a towel to a bleeding cut over his left brow. “What the hell’s been going on, Simon?”

“Sorceress engaged the American fleet.”

WARNING. AMERICAN WARSHIPS CONVERGING TO WITHIN TEN KILOMETERS. TWO TICONDEROGA- CLASS MISSILE CRUISERS BEARING ZERO-SEVEN-ZERO. THREE Los ANGELES-CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINES, BEARINGS THREE-FIVE ZERO, ZERO-ONE-ZERO, ZERO-NINE-ZERO.

Covah rasps. “How soon until we reach the Strait of Gibraltar?”

SIX MINUTES, FORTY SECONDS.

“Very well. Increase speed to—”

TACTICAL WARNING: THE AMERICAN WARSHIPS ARE PURPOSELY MANEUVERING THE GOLIATH INTO THE STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR. PRESENT BATTLEFIELD CONDITIONS YIELD A 73 PERCENT PROBABILITY OF SUSTAINING MODERATE TO SEVERE DAMAGE.

“Then turn us around. Head back into the Mediterranean.”

NEGATIVE. THE AMERICAN FLEET STATIONED IN ROTA IS MOBILIZING. DELAYING ESCAPE INCREASES THE PROBABILITY OF SUSTAINING SEVERE DAMAGE BY COEFFICIENT OF .83.

“Then we have little choice,” David states. “Sorceress, sink the warships. Sink all of them.”

Rocky’s eyes widen. “No—”

SOLUTION UNACCEPTABLE. INSUFFICIENT INVENTORY OF TORPEDOES ABOARD GOLIATH AT PRESENT TIME TO DESTROY ALL WARSHIPS.

Covah fingers the dime-sized object in his pants pocket. “There’s another option.”

Aboard the USS Scranton Atlantic Ocean

The USS Scranton hovers in four hundred feet of water, seven miles due west, on the Atlantic side of the Strait of Gibraltar.

Sonar technician Mike Flynn wipes the sweat from his eyes, his heart pounding as he listens to the popping and flooding sounds of the wounded aircraft carrier. “She’s hit … taking on water …”

Tom Cubit feels his skin crawling. “Can you hear anything else? The Goliath?”

“Sorry, sir, the only thing I can hear is the Enterprise. The Goliath appears to have broken off the attack.”

“She must be heading our way,” Commander Dennis says. “The Sixth Fleet’s driving her west, and three more sonar buoys just splashed down along the entrance of the Strait.”

“Conn, Captain, man battle stations. Ultrasilent running, come to course zero-nine-zero, all ahead one-third, make your depth eight hundred feet. WEPS, Captain. Make the weapons in tubes one and two ready in all respects, including opening the outer doors.”

Cubit looks down at his senior sonar technician. “Okay, Michael-Jack. The bases are loaded, now it’s up to you.”

Aboard the Goliath