by Steve Alten
Gunnar shares her sentiments. “Your captain’s got some set of balls, pulling a stunt like that.”
“Best in the business,” David brags, missing the point.
The sounds of heavy pumps from the draining compartment echo around them. Moments later, a metallic rap along the outer hull signals the all clear sign.
Gunnar opens the rear hatch, stepping out into the light.
Standing at rigid attention, waiting to greet them, is the ship’s CO, an African American in his early thirties carrying the physique of a track star. Next to him is a smaller man with sand-colored hair, the sub’s executive officer.
David steps forward to make the introductions. “General Jackson, this is Commander Anthony Lockhart, captain of the Colossus, and his XO, Christopher Terry.
The African American flashes a confident smile. “Welcome aboard the Colossus, sir. I trust you had a safe trip.”
“An interesting way to greet us, Commander. You should have warned us before swallowing us like that.”
Lockhart loses the smile. “She’s a quiet ship, sir. I don’t expect your pilot heard us coming. Thought it might be safer if we extracted you from the sea instead of alerting you and, potentially, the Goliath.”
“Agreed. This is Commander Jackson-Hatcher, and Captain Gunnar Wolfe.”
Lockhart shakes Rocky’s hand, then eyes Gunnar. “You played for Penn State, right?”
“About ten years ago. Wait a sec … Lockhart? Jackson State QB?”
Lockhart nods. “Quarterbacked two years before I blew out my knee. But you—the NFL had you slated to go in the third round.”
“Second.” Gunnar smiles. “But duty called.”
“I do know the feeling.” Lockhart turns to the general. “We’re shadowing the Vengeance, giving her six miles of sea to play with. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to detect the Goliath until she makes a move on the British sub, but then, she won’t know we’re in the area either. Captain Wolfe, Commander Terry will escort you to your minisub, I’m sure you’ll want to check her out.”
Gunnar nods.
“David, my computer people have been requesting your presence ever since we made weigh.”
“Is there a problem?”
Lockhart offers a tight grin. “Let’s just say we’ve experienced a few technical challenges.”
“That’s to be expected,” David says. “The Colossus shakedown cruise wasn’t even scheduled until April.”
“I’m sure any help you can render would be greatly appreciated.”
David grabs his satchel and hurries forward.
Lockhart looks to the general. “I’m needed in the conn. If you and Commander Jackson would like to join me?”
Rocky and her father follow him out.
“This way, Captain.” Commander Terry leads Gunnar around the minisub to the other end of the hangar.
Gunnar looks around, the chamber’s surroundings strangely familiar. He has seen all this before—in a virtual reality tour of the Goliath.
The hangar bay is a gymnasium-size compartment located at the very center of the sub. Dominating the room, mounted to the rubber-coated decking, are two imposing T-Rex-sized steel appendages. Gunnar is familiar with the design of these mechanical limbs. With advanced pistons for muscles, miles of hose, wiring, and cable for blood vessels, nanoreceptors for nerves, and hydraulic cranks serving as shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints, the cranelike arms are capable of the most intricate three-dimensional movements while lifting objects as large and as heavy as an ICBM.
Without Sorceress on board, it takes a trained robotics operator to manipulate each of Colossus’s monstrous appendages.
Set upon the deck in pairs are a dozen twenty-foot-high-by-eight-foot-wide hatches, which Gunnar knows are lockout berths containing Colossus Hammerhead minisubs. Each of the piloted craft are identical to the prototype he designed a lifetime ago.
Reading his mind, Commander Terry says, “The berths are empty. None of Colossus’s Hammerheads were ready. Your prototype is over here.”
Mounted on a skid atop berth 9’s raised platform is the Hammerhead.
Gunnar runs his palm along its smooth aluminum surface. Designed to be piloted by a Navy SEAL, the prototype is slightly larger than the computer-controlled versions. The midwing stabilizers, shaped like pectoral fins, are wider, the tail assembly, containing the single-engine, pump-jet propulsor unit, a bit longer.
Still, this is his sub, his design. His heart pounds with excitement at the thought of piloting her again.
Commander Terry kneels, pointing beneath the Hammerhead’s undercarriage to where a manhole cover-size device is held within the grasp of two robotic claspers. “Special Ops designed the mine to your specifications. The release mechanism for the claw is located on the right side of the cockpit floor.”
“Yes, Commander, I know. I designed it.”
The XO does little to hide his contempt. Climbing up on the sub, he reaches for the dorsal fin hatch, yanking it counterclockwise with both hands.
The hatch rotates open, revealing the two-seat cockpit inside. Commander Terry reaches inside and removes a machine gun-like rifle designed with two barrels and two magazines, one below the trigger, the other built into the butt of the weapon.
“The general ordered this for you. I’m not familiar with the gun,” Terry says, holding it out.
Gunnar takes the weapon from him. “We call it the OICW, an Objective Individual Combat Weapon. It’s arguably the most lethal gun ever developed. The rifle features two types of ammunition controlled by a single trigger. This larger top barrel fires a new 20-mm high-explosive air-bursting round. Six rounds are loaded into the rear magazine.”
“You trying to pop an eardrum?”
“The OICW’s barrels were designed to absorb sound. It’s quieter and lighter than an M-16 and more powerful than a grenade launcher. Army Rangers have been using them in the field for years.”
A distant memory slips past his mind’s eye. He quickly shakes it loose, refocusing on the gun.
“This smaller bottom barrel uses the standard 5.56-mm NATO bullet, which is loaded into this thirty-round magazine.” Gunnar points to the clip beneath the trigger. “The fire control system activator is located here. Right now it’s set to bullets. Push this switch, and it changes to HE bursts. But the real beauty of this weapon is its computerized firing system, which is built into the gun’s sight. A laser range finder measures distance to the target and communicates the information to a computer chip located within the fuse of each of the 20-mm rounds. Allows you to adjust detonation time.”
Commander Terry takes the weapon from him, reinspecting it. “So … why’d you do it?”
Gunnar swallows the bile rising in his throat.
Terry doesn’t wait for a reply. “You were a decorated war hero. People looked up to you. You had it made, a great job, a beautiful lady. What the hell were you thinking?”
Gunnar stares at the prototype, his patience waning. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me. Make me understand how a dedicated decorated soldier turns his back on his country. I remember the day you went to prison … it was like a slap in the face to every man in the service.”
Gunnar looks up, locking onto the XO’s brown eyes. “Ever kill anyone, Commander? Ever look into someone’s eyes while they bled all over you? Ever feel a life actually leave your victim’s body as you held them in your arms?”
“No, I … well, no I haven’t. But it still doesn’t give you the right—”
“How many Trident nukes on board this death machine? Twenty-four?”
The XO nods.
“If you were given the orders to launch, you’d put that key you wear around your neck into its keyhole and turn it without questioning the president’s orders, wouldn’t you? Because that’s what you’re trained to do … react. Think about it, the Navy trains you not to think, because if you did, if you took the time to examine each and every policy and political issue, then you might jus
t question the sanity of those orders and its repercussions on humanity.”
“If launching a nuke meant protecting our national interests, then, yes, I’d launch,” Terry says. “Every officer wrestles with that question, it’s part of wearing the uniform. It’s the responsibility we bear to our country.”
“And what of your responsibility to the rest of humanity? There’s a fine line between right and wrong, freedom and oppression, the best of intentions and the insanity of genocide. Think about that the next time you kiss your wife and kids good night.”
Gunnar turns, heading for the forward passageway.
Rocky follows Commander Lockhart and her father through the tight corridors of the ship, amazed at the differences in the internal layouts of the Colossus and Goliath. Without Sorceress on board, the additional manpower necessary to run the Colossus taxes every square inch of space. Crew’s quarters occupy the entire middle deck forward, an area on the Goliath dedicated solely to Sorceress. Crew recreation areas have been eliminated to accommodate a larger galley. Corridors are halved to access additional toilets and showers, staff rooms, eating areas, and storage bins. The Colossus is a cramped, overcrowded, expensive submersible city—exactly the kind of ship the Navy was attempting to move away from when the Goliath had been designed.
They follow Lockhart up a small spiral stairwell and enter the conn. The design has been drastically altered to contain two control decks crammed with computer consoles. Sixty technicians are focused at their stations, each man hard at work, attempting to replicate what Sorceress can do in the blink of a human eye.
Rocky shakes her head in disbelief. So inefficient …
Aboard the HMS Vengance
Captain, sonar, sir, you requested we report all contacts.”
“Sonar, Captain, go ahead.”
“Sounds like another pod of killer whales, I count seven in all. Range, nine kilometers, speed five knots. They’re moving slowly along the surface, normal behavior, but I thought it best to report it, seeing how they’re headed in our direction.”
“Acknowledged.” The British skipper exhales his annoyance a bit too loud, then scratches the short gray hairs of his beard in a feeble attempt to hide his frustration. Two days at sea, and the only thing he has to report is whale sightings. Bottlenose and orca, fin and humpback, bowhead and right whales. Who do the Americans think I am—bloody Jacques Cousteau?
Aboard the Colossus
Commander Lockart and his XO stare at the large overhead screen linked to the sub’s fiber-optic photonics mast and sonar consoles.
Seven yellow dots appear along the surface of the sea, moving in the direction of the HMS Vengeance.
General Jackson joins him. “What is it, Commander?”
“Biologics. The computer identifies them as orca, seven in all, but I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“Conn, sonar. Tonal contact, bearing one-four-zero, range, seven thousand yards and closing very fast. It’s the Goliath, commander, and she means business.”
Lockhart turns to the Bear. “Better get your team ready, General.”
Jackson nods, hurrying out of the control center.
Aboard the HMS Vengeance
“Battle stations! Lieutenant Miller, load Spearfish into tubes one and two and make ready in all respects.”
“Aye, sir. WEPS, conn, load Spearfish into tubes one and two and make ready in all respects.”
Whitehouse turns to his XO. “That bloody terrorist will attempt to use his unmanned submersibles to knock out our screw and incapacitate the ship. Under no circumstance do we allow that to happen, is that understood?”
“Aye, sir.”
The captain heads forward to fire control alley, where six technicians stationed before a series of amber-colored plasma screens are feverishly attempting to track and target the approaching vessel. Whitehouse feels a rush of adrenaline coursing through his body. The Spearfish torpedo is a 660-pound monster of a weapon, with a range of thirteen miles and a top speed of sixty knots.
For a brief moment, he envisions the headlines in tomorrow’s London Times: BRITISH COMMANDER DESTROYS KILLER SUB.
“WEPS, where’s my firing solution?”
The fire control officer turns to his CO, a look of desperation on his face. “The contact descended beneath the thermocline. We lost her, sir.”
As the Goliath disappears into the colder, deeper waters of the Atlantic, seven steel sharklike dorsal fins cut a uniform path across the choppy surface. Small jet propulsor units drive the mechanical fish through the sea, while sensor arrays mounted in their blunt hammerhead-shaped bows process incoming transmissions from the mother ship.
Passing two hundred feet over the British sub, the sharks suddenly disperse, swooping in on Vengeance from seven different angles—a choreographed, underwater ballet.
Aboard the Colossus
“Make a hole—” General Jackson pushes past crewmen and enters his cabin, the lump growing in his throat, his internal voice screaming in his ears. He curses the Navy, curses himself; most of all he curses the influence his career has had on his only child. It’s not too late. You can still act, you can still order her to stay on board. Screw the Pentagon, this is your daughter. You don’t have to let this happen . . .
“Rocky?”
Rochelle Jackson-Hatcher emerges from the bathroom, dressed in the black lightweight exterior battle skeleton worn by Army Ranger infiltration teams.
“Rocky, I … change of plans. I’ve thought about it, and it’s best only Gunnar and David go.”
“What?” Rocky tucks the serrated commando knife into her boot. “We talked about this in Keyport. No one knows more about Goliath than I do. I’m going.”
“Gunnar can handle it.”
“I’m going, General, end of discussion.”
“And I said Gunnar can handle this.” Bear growls, heading for the door.
“Hold it!” Rocky jumps in front of him, blocking his way. “You can’t do this. This isn’t your decision. Secretary Ayers is calling the shots on this mission, not you.”
“I gave you a direct order, Commander. I’ll clear this with Mr. Ayers when and if—”
“An order?” Rocky removes the knife from her boot, holding it up for him to see. “My mission is to recapture my submarine and personally shove this knife into Covah’s fucking heart. Just because you’re wearing a general’s uniform doesn’t mean you can start playing Father Knows Best.”
Jackson stares at his daughter. What have I done? What kind of father have I been? Always pushing … never satisfied. I’ve created G.I. Jane—
He grips her by the shoulders. “Rocky, listen to me, you’re not a commando, you’re not trained for this.”
“Wrong. I helped design this machine, I can stop it.” She returns the blade to its sheath. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Bear. You’ve sent other parents’ children into combat situations, knowing they might never return. Now it’s my turn.”
He swallows the lump in his throat. “You’re right. I have. And it always sickens me.”
She sees the sadness in his eyes and softens. “Look, I’ll be okay.” She gives him a quick hug. “Hey, our first real father-daughter moment in twenty years.”
“Yeah.” Bear pinches away tears. “Come on.”
Aboard the HMS Vengeance
An explosion rocks the ship as the remains of the Vanguard-class submarine’s screw is ripped apart by a small torpedo launched by one of Goliath’s stalking minisubs.
Commander Whitehouse feels as helpless as a suffocating child trying to punch its way out of a paper bag. His ship’s screw has been destroyed with an almost-surgical precision. Two of his crew are dead, a dozen more injured. His engine room is flooding, causing Vengeance to lose her neutral buoyancy. The sub is slipping farther into the depths like a waterlogged whale, while an uncountable number of the enemy’s unmanned submersibles race around his vessel doing God-knows-what.
“One hundred forty meters. One fifty—”
“Sonar, conn, goddam it, son, where the hell is the Colossus?”
“Conn, sonar, I’m sorry, sir, still no sign of her.”
“One hundred and sixty meters—”
“Emergency blow. Put us on the roof.”
“Aye, sir, emergency blow.” High-pressure air screams into the forward ballast tanks, slowing their descent. Vengeance hovers at an awkward forty-degree angle, then begins rising.
Five hundred yards off the Vengeance’s starboard beam, a pair of sinister eyes, luminescent red, stare unblinking into the darkness as if the mechanical devilfish were observing its minions. Sorceress is doing more than watching; it is instructing, calculating, manipulating the playing field and its combatants.
And then, in the distance, the computer’s sensors detect another presence, infinitely larger, racing toward the Goliath from the north.
Aboard the Colossus
“She’s detected us, Skipper. Abandoning the Vengeance, changing course to two-seven-zero, increasing speed to forty knots.”
“Helm, come to course two-seven-zero, increase speed to flank. Hangar, conn, is the prototype ready to launch?”
“Conn, hangar, the prototype’s ready, but we’re still waiting for Jackson and Paniagua.”
David is seated in front of a computer terminal linked directly to the ship’s central computer, watching as a million bytes of information finish downloading from his CD.
A knock. One of the ship’s chief engineers enters his stateroom. “Sir, they’re waiting for you in the hangar.”
“Yes, yes, one minute. You did want me to fix the glitches in the system’s mainframe, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“But nothing. No one touches this console while the information’s downloading, is that clear?”
“Aye, sir.”
David grabs his satchel and heads out, the chief securing the door behind them.
Gunnar releases the locks on the skid as Rocky and her father hurry into the hangar. Without giving Gunnar so much as a glance, she places the toes of her boots in the footholds of the vessel’s sleek flank and climbs up to the open hatch, lowering herself inside.
