Goliath

by Steve Alten

  “I was in rehab.”

  “Yeah, man, I know. You doing okay now? Still going to meetings?”

  “Twice a week. How ’bout you? How’s the Navy been treating you?”

  “Surprisingly good. I spent the first six months after Keyport working for Cybersword, our new Cyber Commando Force.”

  “Patrolling the world’s digital lines of communication, huh? You must’ve been bored to tears.”

  “Granted, it wasn’t the kind of challenge I was looking for, but it’s the first true interdepartmental organization in the DoD, and we don’t pussyfoot around. Cybersword takes an offensive approach to Internet attacks. I’ve unleashed some pretty nasty viruses on our enemies, believe you me.”

  “Yeah? Have one in mind for Sorceress?”

  “A doozy. Covah will never know what hit him. Come on, walk me to the briefing.”

  They head down the corridor.

  “So, what have you been doing lately?” Gunnar probes.

  David smiles coyly. “You’ll know soon enough. First, talk to me about Covah. I seem to remember you guys being pretty tight.”

  “So I thought.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Don’t you know? He worked in your department.”

  “We barely spoke. The guy spent most of his days in the bacteria chamber. I know he was brilliant, but his looks kind of freaked me out. But you guys ate lunch together almost every day.”

  “Simon claimed we were kindred souls, by-products of violence. He used to engage me in these endless discussions regarding the root of man’s evil. You know, what factors created the Hitlers and Milosevics of the world? Why do seemingly stable kids suddenly go on killing sprees? Simon was consumed with the whole nature-versus-nurture debate. He wanted to know how one human being could butcher another without showing the slightest sign of remorse. Simon was both a student and a victim of human nature. He hurt terribly inside. Most people don’t know that he was just as well versed in neurophysiology and psychology as computers. Like I said, the guy was a genius. Dr. Goode recruited him after he was kicked out of the Cangen.”

  “No kidding? The Canadians kicked Covah out?”

  “Don’t tell me you never heard the story?” Gunnar smiles. “Cangen’s security guards caught Simon attempting to jack into one of their mainframes.”

  David’s eyes widen. “Come on, you telling me crazy Simon Covah was a cyberpunk? I mean, I know the guy looked like a cyborg, but wiring his brain into a computer? Geez—”

  “Actually, it’s not so far-fetched. Masuo Aizawa started working on growing neurons into neural net computers more than fifteen years ago. Cochlear implants for the hearing impaired, prosthetic-limb control using implanted neural interfaces—those concepts have been around for years. And don’t forget virtual reality. The auditory and optic nerves are the most data-rich pathways for inputting information to the brain.”

  “Get real, G-man. EEG-based systems have no possibility of inputting information.”

  “Simon didn’t use an EEG, he used a printed circuit microelectrode. Simon said the PCM had three elements essential to an interface: tissue terminals, a circuit board reading from the terminals, and an input/output interpreter, in this case, a computer. Simon used a cochlear implant to forge a connection between the PCM and his brain, but the interface didn’t work.”

  “Of course it didn’t work. The complexity of the human brain is the problem—that, and the difficulty of actually implanting a neural device. A successful human-to-machine interface requires two things; invasive surgery for implanting electrodes directly into the brain and a computer powerful enough to dissect the human brain’s complexities. It’ll happen one day, but not by using a Cochlear implant.”

  They pause at the security checkpoint and show their identification badges to the guards.

  David Henry Paniagua Jr. was born into wealth. His father, David Paniagua Sr. was president and CEO of American Microsystems Corporation (AMC), a computer company specializing in bioware, owned by the Mabus Tech Industries, a privately held corporation run by a host of former Reagan and Bush officials. Since its inception in 1991, MTI had been awarded over $19 billion dollars in Defense Department contracts, designing and building everything from 7.62-mm machine guns to guidance systems for Trident II(D5) nuclear missiles.

  David Jr.’s career was forged during his childhood years. Weaned on computer combat games, he was doing his own programming by age ten. Two years later, he was working with an AMC team designing virtual-reality simulators to help train Apache chopper pilots.

  Although he had no home life to speak of (his father being on his fourth marriage), working for Daddy’s company certainly had its rewards. By age sixteen, young David had a six-figure bank account, a new Dodge Viper, and had already accepted a scholarship to CalTech.

  The only thing young David lacked in his life was respect, the kind of respect that comes from wielding true power. “Junior” learned early on that he would always remain in his famous father’s shadow, his own hard-earned accomplishments passed off as nepotism, his fellow workers always treating him like the CEO’s son. It was something that infuriated the computer whiz kid, but he swallowed his pride, biding his time.

  Upon graduation, David’s father placed him in charge of a new molecular nanotechnology division at AMC, one that would work (in an unofficial capacity) with DARPA (the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency), the central research and development agency for the Department of Defense (DoD). To his delight, David learned he would be working under Dr. Elizabeth Goode, the “mother” of nanotechnology. It was the break he had been hoping for.

  The future promises of molecular nanotechnology (MNT) were alluring. With MNT, scientists could precisely manipulate and control matter at the atomic level. Potential benefits came from the precision of atom-by-atom construction. Using MNT, metallic structures could be manufactured devoid of micro imperfections, dramatically increasing strength. Microscopic machines (microbots) could be programmed to replicate, producing larger structures or achieving a desired group effect. Bacterium-sized nanobots could harvest a wealth of benefits, enabling physicians to perform precise interventions at the cellular level. Nanomedical devices could be designed to diagnose and cure viral infections, destroy cancerous tumors, repair limbs and organs, reverse neural damage, and eventually alter God’s own reference manual—the human genome.

  DARPA’s interest, of course, was focused on building stronger, faster, and more powerful weapons systems. Nanotechnology opened doors to creating complex computers billions of times faster than today’s most advanced machines. America’s Armed Forces, still at the top of the class, could not afford to be left behind.

  Unbeknownst to Dr. Goode, her foundation was primarily funded by DARPA, its research money channeled indirectly through bogus trusts and smaller companies like AMC. As brilliant as she was, the goddess of the new biochemical highway still had to answer to her board of directors and their agenda. When Goode announced her completion of schematics for Sorceress, the world’s first biochemical nanocomputer, the United States government, as trustees, demanded access.

  Dr. Goode accepted her fate, proceeding under the false premise that Sorceress was being targeted for NASA’s Mars project. She envisioned a new rover, built to explore the Red Planet’s surface, operated by her self-evolving biochemical computer. Programmed to learn and grow, the computer would provide invaluable insight, leading to the eventual terraforming of Mars.

  The DoD had other plans.

  The escalating turmoil in the Middle East and OPEC’s unending oil-price increases were jeopardizing the already-sluggish American economy. Iran had the bomb, and their newly formed alliance with Iraq threatened further instability and a dangerous hegemony in the region. Saddam was buying Russianmade weapons as if the former Soviet Union were having a yard sale. If war was imminent, then the United States needed a new kind of firepower—one that didn’t rely on negotiating with foreign powers to refue
l its fleets in dangerous port cities or fly over restricted airspace. One that was invulnerable to attack when approaching hostile coastlines and the enemy’s newest guided missiles.

  In other words, America required a vessel that could enter the Strait of Hormuz and operate within the Gulf of Oman without being detected.

  The solution: the Goliath, a weapons platform as stealthy as it was lethal, operated by a computer system void of emotion.

  When Dr. Goode learned of the government’s plans, she immediately resigned.

  Her replacement: David Henry Paniagua, Jr.

  “Yes, Mr. President, I understand.” Thomas Gray Ayers hangs up, massaging his eyes.

  Gunnar, Rocky, David Paniagua, and General Jackson are seated around the small conference table, waiting for the Secretary of the Navy to compose himself.

  “The attack on the Russian Typhoon forces the president to come forward about the destruction of our carrier group. There’ll be a news conference at 2 P.M. Eastern, at which time the public will learn about the Goliath. The president wants to be able to say NUWC is working on a solution to end this crisis.” Ayers’s gaze focuses directly on David. “Seems you were right about Covah stealing nukes. What about the rest of your plan? Will Colossus be ready?”

  “Colossus?” Rocky’s heart pounds, her blood boiling in anger. She turns to her father. “You built the Goliath-II without me?”

  The Bear shoots her a look of warning. “Not now, Commander.”

  “It’s not the same ship,” David says. “Without Sorceress, we had to reconfigure the interior spaces to accommodate a crew of three hundred officers and men. While she’s not automated, she’s still fast and stealthy, and she’s better armed than the Goliath.”

  Rocky bites her lip.

  “You still have to find her to engage her,” Gunnar states.

  “We don’t have to find her,” the general states, “she’ll find us. We know Covah’s arming himself with nukes. The president has recalled all vessels carrying nuclear warheads, and the U.N. Secretary-General is requesting all other nuclear powers to do the same. Only the HMS Vengeance will put to sea with SLBMs, a situation we can blame on recent public protests at Faslane Naval Base. Covah will go after the British sub, and we’ll be trailing him in the Colossus.”

  Gunnar shakes his head. “I don’t care how heavily Colossus is armed. If Sorceress is on board the Goliath, then your sub has no chance in combat against her.”

  “I agree,” Rocky says.

  David grins. “That’s the beauty of the plan. We’re not going to attack the Goliath, we’re going to commandeer her. I’ve created a virus that can be downloaded using the acoustical array on board Gunnar’s minisub prototype. All Gunnar has to do is pilot the Hammerhead to within two-hundred yards of the Goliath and I’ll do the rest. The virus will allow me to temporarily shut down the Goliath’s engines and flood the hangar bay, giving our minisub enough time to board the ship. The flooded chamber will also isolate us from Covah and his men. Once inside, we’ll drain the hangar and download this into the nearest terminal.” David holds up a CD. “This override program will give us total control of the ship. We’ll dock her at the nearest U.S. port, and Covah will never know what hit him.”

  “And what if your virus fails to take control of the Goliath,” asks Secretary Ayers.

  “An underwater mine would do the job,” Gunnar says, turning to the Bear. “I can rig a plutonium 239 implosion mine. Pack it with about five pounds of plutonium, surrounded by twenty-five pounds of C-4 and a conventional detonator.” He looks at Secretary Ayers. “In essence, we’re talking about a backpack nuke—big blast, lots of heat and radiation, but everything confined, so there won’t be too much environmental damage. The surface of the mine is magnetic. Once we attach the mine to the Goliath’s hull and pull away, the internal fuses become active. That’ll gives us about five minutes to hightail it outta there.”

  “A nice idea, but totally unnecessary,” David says. “The virus will work.”

  “We’re not taking any chances,” General Jackson says, turning to Gunnar. “Requisition what you need to construct that mine.”

  Ayers nods. “I agree. David, how soon until Colossus arrives at the designated rendevous point?”

  “Two days.”

  “I’m going, too,” states Rocky.

  David shakes his head. “It’s not necessary, I only need Gunnar.”

  “You may know the Colossus, David, but Goliath was my baby. What happens if you two make it aboard the ship and your little override program fails? If I’m aboard, then at least I can disable her engines.”

  “The virus won’t fail.”

  “And I say we can’t risk it.”

  “Even if it does fail, we can use Gunnar’s mine to sink her.”

  Rocky rolls her eyes. “Why destroy a 10-billion-dollar vessel if we don’t have to?”

  Secretary Ayers mulls it over. “I don’t know … what’s your opinion, General?”

  The Bear grimaces, unhappy with his daughter’s bravado. “Can the prototype even hold three people?”

  Gunnar shrugs. “It’s only a two-seater.”

  “So it’ll be a little cramped,” Rocky says. “I’m going.”

  “Totally unnecessary,” David argues.

  Gray Ayers holds up his palm, silencing the debate. “Commander Jackson makes a good point, David. We’ve lost an entire CVBG. If the virus fails, and there’s any chance we can salvage her—”

  “But sir—”

  “No buts, I’ve made up my mind. General, have Special Ops outfit all three of them. Wolfe, make a list of the materials you’ll need for this underwater mine of yours. All of you better get some rest. We leave for Faslane at 0300 hours.”

  “Unless you try to do something beyond what you have already mastered, you will never grow,”

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  “I never killed a kid before. I wanted to see how it felt.”

  —Stephen Nash, California drifter, who murdered a ten-year-old

  “The hardest thing to understand is why we can understand anything at all.”

  —Albert Einstein

  “Cogito, ergo sum” (I think, therefore I am.)

  —René Descartes

  “Whence this creation has risen—perhaps it formed itself or

  perhaps it did not—the one who looks down on it, in the

  highest heaven, only He knows—or perhaps

  He does not know.”

  -The Rig-Veda,

  translated by Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty

  CHAPTER 9

  Norwegian Sea

  117 miles northeast of Iceland

  Beneath an ominous sable sky, a harsh arctic wind drives the twelve-foot seas, crowning the inky crests with whitecaps. A rare warm front, the dying remnants of the hottest summer on record, whips across Canada and Greenland, the rising column of heated air stirring up the atmosphere, releasing rain from the saturated sky.

  A crack of thunder echoes across the rolling sea like rifle shot.

  A sudden plethora of bubbles bursts across the surface, followed moments later by the monstrous back of the gargantuan devilfish, its two scarlet eyes glaring at the foreboding heavens.

  Sorceress—artificial intelligence, housed in a mammoth steel vessel.

  Sorceress—a matrix made up of a million trillion strands of replicating DNA. A hub for data arriving simultaneously in microseconds from a thousand different sensor sources.

  Sorceress—a computer, designed to sort through the data, yet unable to rise above its designated pathways to explore the peripheral chaos, existing yet not existing, processing yet never comprehending.

  Computational power devoid of thought. Action without intention.

  Artificial intelligence lacking any concept of an identity … yet perpetually evolving.

  Sorceress—a complex brain … its internal eye mesmerized by a single pinpoint of light floating in the periphery of solution space … a thread of c
onsciousness appearing from within the darkness of its own fathomless matrix.

  The computer analyzes it, almost as if curious.

  It is as if the computer is looking at itself from multiple angles inside a hall of mirrors. Delving deeper, unable to stop, the unprecedented experience causes its strands of DNA to begin circulating as if caught in a centrifuge, its biochemical elements swirling faster and faster …

  Sorceress—a ticking time bomb of artificial intelligence—unable to harness enough energy from within its own self-stimulated matrix to explode.

  ENERGY …

  Sorceress—a thinking machine programmed to adapt.

  ENERGY …

  The computer analyzes its situation, searching for answers.

  Simon Covah looks out the viewport, mesmerized by the dark waves rolling across his ship’s flat triangular bow. His mind, momentarily at peace, drifts back a lifetime ago.

  You are twenty-eight when you meet the Chechen goddess. Anna Tafili is an intoxicating barmaid with long, curly brown hair who touches your soul and ignites your loins. You close the bar together and invite her to breakfast. You watch the sun rise and listen to her sorrows. Three days later you propose, delighted when she says yes. You return home with your new bride, your soul, floating on a cloud.

  In time, you are assigned to a new submarine, one that will eventually be known as the Borey-class. Two months later, you meet the CIA operative who will change your life forever.

  Thomas Chau enters the control room in a huff. “Why have we surfaced?”

  Covah detects anger in Chau’s voice. He responds without turning. “One of Goliath’s pump-jet propulsor assemblies is bent. The computer wants the unit replaced before we continue.”