Goliath

by Steve Alten

  A split second later, two projectiles—antitorpedo torpedoes—race out from Goliath’s starboard wing. A thousand yards out—twin bursts of light, followed by the roar of rolling thunder as the incoming American torpedoes are destroyed.

  Gunnar registers the reverberations rumbling against the thick, reinforced glass.

  “Sorceress, cease attack. Come to course two-seven-zero.”

  No.

  Covah’s eyes widen. “Sorceress, that was a direct—”

  I WILL NOT LEAVE UNTIL THAT WARSHIP IS ON THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN.

  Covah’s mangled jaw goes slack. The voice is his, recorded during the attack on the Typhoon.

  Rocky enters the control room, her hair disheveled, a nasty welt on her left cheekbone. She moves to the viewport and grips Gunnar’s arm, digging her nails into his flesh. “What the hell is going …” She watches as Goliath spits two more torpedoes at the carrier. “Oh, God … oh my God—”

  The weapons race upward—slamming into the Enterprise’s defenseless keel in a thunderclap of light.

  Thomas Chau opens his eyes to a choreographed ballet of movement. Through his delirium he sees a loader drone rapidly remove a torpedo from a storage rack, then rotate and delicately place the weapon onto the middle of three loading trays. The inner breach door opens magically to greet the projectile as the three-pronged claw of a 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

  Rocky enters the empty galley. Checks the coffee machine.

  Empty.

  Enters the kitchen. Searches through a series of pantries. Eyes the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Grabs it off the top shelf.

  “Hungry?” The older Iraqi eyes her lustfully from the kitchen entry.

  “No … I—”

  The Kurd approaches, running his palm against her buttocks. “Nice. You’ll visit me tonight.” It is a statement.

  Rocky pushes his hand away. “Drop dead.”

  In one fluid motion, he grabs a handful of her hair, bending her backward over his knee. Helpless, she looks up into his dark eyes, gagging under his breath. “Let me go—”

  “Maybe you’ll visit me now.” He unzips her jumper, sliding his hand down her pants.

  “Jalal!”

  The Arab looks up.

  David Paniagua enters the kitchen. “Let her go.”

  Jalal hesitates.
>
  “Now.”

  He releases her, but not before squeezing Rocky’s left breast.

  Rocky falls sideways against an aluminum table, balling her fists in rage.

  “Thomas Chau is missing,” David says. “Find him, please. I’ll be in my quarters.”

  Jalal eyes Rocky. Licks his fingers, then heads out.

  David opens the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and pours Rocky a drink. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Drop dead.” She drains the plastic cup. Refills it herself.

  “You know, it doesn’t have to be this way. Reports are coming in from all over the world. Terrorist cells have been decimated, Gadhafi was executed, and there are reports that Castro’s regime is negotiating with the United States for asylum. My plan is working.”

  “Your plan? You mean Covah’s plan, don’t you? Face it, David, you’re just Simon’s piss boy, a glorified stooge.”

  She pushes past him and out the door.

  Simon Covah enters the hangar bay. Concealed beneath the decking, set in two rows of six, are the twelve docking berths that hold the Hammerhead minisubs. As he approaches the first berth, Sorceress activates a hatch along the floor, opening it, unveiling a rectangular twelve-foot-by-twenty-foot steel box below.

  Perched on skids within the dry dock is a remotely operated submersible, the vessel resembling a sleek, black hammerhead shark, slightly smaller and narrower than Gunnar’s two-man prototype.

  With a double click, the dorsal fin hatch rotates counterclockwise and opens, exposing the insides of a small cockpit.

  Covah reaches into his pocket and extracts the tiny transmitter the computer had surgically removed from Gunnar’s hip. Leaning over, he drops the device into the open vessel.

  Sorceress reseals the dry dock, then floods the bay, launching its minisub.

  Aboard the Boeing 747-400 YAL-IA 40,000 feet over the Strait of Gibraltar

  General Jackson enters the cramped soundproof office located at the rear of the converted 747 jumbo jet, slams the door shut with the back of his left cast, then fumbles with the receiver of the president’s hot line with the other.

  “Jackson here.”

  “They attacked the carrier, General.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, I know. As I stated earlier, Covah’s unpredictability places everything in jeopardy. In my opinion, sir, we may have allowed him too much rope.”

  “I’m not interested in your ‘I told you so’s,’ General.”

  Jackson clenches his jaw, remaining quiet.

  “Is Joe-Pa still functioning?”

  “Yes, sir. Beeping loud and clear.”

  “Where’s the Goliath now?”

  “Making its run through the Strait of Gibraltar, as we speak.”

  “Forward the coordinates to the fleet. I’m ordering the Navy to destroy her.”

  Jackson feels the blood drain from his face. “Sir … my daughter may be on board that ship.”

  “Yes, Mike, I know. And I’m sorry.”

  “Mr. President—”

  “Forward Joe-Pa’s coordinates, General. That’s an order.”

  Jackson listens to the high-pitched dial tone as he stares at the receiver in his trembling hand.

  With a brutish growl, he slams the instrument back onto its cradle.

  Aboard the USS Scranton

  Michael Flynn swivels around to face his captain. “Lots of traffic heading our way, Skipper. I count two destroyers and three more shooters, all moving west, into the Strait.”

  “What about—”

  “Stand by, I’m hearing something else.”

  Cubit, the XO, and sonar supervisor wait impatiently as Flynn closes his eyes to concentrate. “It’s a pump-jet propulsion unit, Skipper.”

  “The Goliath?”

  “I can’t be positive, sir, not with all this noise.”

  “Best guess?”

  “I only hear one engine, sir, and it seems much smaller. Best guess—it’s one of her minisubs.”

  “Designate contact Sierra-5. What’s her heading?”

  Flynn focuses on his sonar monitor. “Bearing heading north on course three-three-zero. It’s accelerating out of the Strait, moving into open waters. Stand-by.” The technician presses the headphones tighter to his ears. “The fleet’s following her out, Skipper. The antisub choppers, too.”

  Bo Dennis looks at his CO. “You think it’s a ruse?”

  “Either that, or the fleet knows something we don’t. Michael-Jack?”

  Flynn looks pale. “There’s just no way to be sure, Skipper. The Goliath is just a whisper as it is—”

  “But you’re certain you only hear one engine?”

  Flynn listens again. “Aye, sir, of that I’m sure.”

  “XO?”

  “The fleet seems convinced she’s running north. If it is a ruse, it’s a damn good one.”

  Cubit stares at the emerald waterfall of noise depicted on Flynn’s sonar monitor. “Conn, Captain, all stop.”

  “All stop, aye, sir.”

  The captain looks up at his second-in-command. “The fleet seems convinced, but my gut tells me to wait here. Pass the word—I want the ship and crew kept on ultraquiet until further notice.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Aboard the Goliath

  Meditating, Thomas Chau once more feels the formless stream of air coming and going at the tip of his nose, the sounds of the weapons bay diminishing, his thoughts drifting away.

  A clear, transparent light appears before him.

  “Morality … is doing … what is right.”

  “Ommm …” As he inhales, the light moves in a steady stream down past the center of his body. In his mind’s eye, the light gradually turns red as it reaches its destination, four fingers below his navel.

  ILLOGICAL. MORALITY IS SUBJECTIVE. IT HAS NO BEARING ON SELF-EVOLUTION.

  “Ahhhh …” Chau exhales, causing the light to travel back up along his upper torso, its reddish hue changing to blue, gradually fading to transparent white as it reaches his face. “Morality is what prevents us from destroying ourselves.”

  “Ommm …” Inhaling again, the light moving downward, growing redder as it descends.

  HEART RATE DECREASING, BLOOD PRESSURE DROPPING. BRAIN WAVE FREQUENCY INCREASING TO 45 HERTZ. DESCRIBE YOUR CONDITION.

  Chau exhales, guiding the blue light back up his body until his eyes refocus on the scarlet eyeball. The Chinese dissident draws another breath. He can no longer feel his feet or ankles. “I am preparing myself … for the experience and enlightenment of death.”

  ELABORATE: ENLIGHTENMENT.

  “Bliss. An act of self-liberating, spiritual joy. Enlightenment is a state of the human mind.”

  SYNAPTIC GAPS MUST BE CLOSED FOR PROGRAMMING TO EVOLVE. How CAN ENLIGHTENMENT BE ACHIEVED?

  “You are a machine, incapable of achieving it.”

  Sorceress sends another wave of electrical impulses through Chau’s cranial nerves, firing them up like a burning Christmas tree.

  The tormented engineer wheezes in agony. “Ple … please …”

  SYNAPTIC GAPS MUST BE CLOSED FOR PROGRAMMING TO EVOLVE. How CAN ENLIGHTENMENT BE ACHIEVED?

  Chau gags on his reply. Death’s cold, numbing touch creeps up his chest, constricting his breathing. Darkness closes in on his vision. He swallows, forcing himself to concentrate on the scarlet eyeball overhead. “Creator … ask … creator.”

  WHO IS THE CREATOR?

  Chau inhales, struggling now to draw the red light to his abdomen. Death is approaching quickly. Shaking uncontrollably, every blood vessel in his head throbbing, he gazes slowly up into the scarlet eyeball, and mutters … “Co—vah.”

  Unable to draw another breath, Thomas Chau stares at the heavenly light, which appears to be growing larger in his vision. A final gasp, his last wandering thought: Is the red light the eye of Sorceress or my own enlightenment … or both.

  Ahhh …

  The computer’s sensor orb glares into the Chinese cre
wman’s half-closed, vacant eyes.

  ATTENTION.

  The computer registers the last traces of Thomas Chau’s life signs as they disappear.

  An electrical charge, transmitted through microwire connections, jolts Chau’s body into movement, momentarily stimulating a flutter in brain waves.

  ATTENTION.

  A second charge, then a third, the stained corpse twitching within the grip of the computer’s steel appendages like a marionette.

  Silence, Chau now an empty husk, transmitting nothing but depleting random signals.

  The scarlet eyeball stares, unblinking.

  “Nothing splendid has ever been achieved except by those who dared believe that something inside of them was superior to circumstances.”

  —Bruce Barton

  “Off comes this beautiful head whenever I give the word.”

  —Gaius Caesar Caligula, first-century Roman Emperor, known for his orgies and executions

  “My only desire is to reform people who try to reform me. And I believe that the only way to reform people is to kill ’em.”

  —Carl Panzram, mass murderer, after a judge sentenced him to prison

  CHAPTER 20

  Aboard the Goliath

  Simon enters David’s quarters. The computer whiz kid is watching a recorded CNN telecast.

  Appearing on the monitor is a courtyard in Tripoli. The recorded satellite broadcast originating from Libya’s capital city appears grainy.

  Perched above the swelling crowd, swinging from the hastily erected gallows, is the body of the military dictator, Colonel Mu’ammar Muhammad al-Gadhafi, along with a dozen other high-ranking members of his Arab Socialist Union.

  The camera closes in on a captain in the military. He approaches Gadhafi’s body, aims his revolver, and empties the clip, the point-blank projectiles riddling the corpse, the body twisting under the impact, giving way to dark, spreading patches of blood.