by Steve Alten
The crowd cheers.
In split screen, the dark-haired, slightly cross-eyed CNN journalist looks up at the studio camera as she reads from a teleprompter. “A delegation from the Arab League has confirmed preliminary meetings with members of the military coup, headed by one of the grandsons of Libya’s deposed King Idris. Meanwhile, in the Hague, the body of deposed leader Slobodan Milosevic remains on public display …”
Covah smiles to himself. “And a beautiful sight it is.” He stands, turning to David.
“While I complete the next phase of our plans, I need you to complete a thorough diagnostic on Sorceress’s plasmid DNA strands.”
David looks up, irritated. “In God’s name, what for?”
“There were a few minutes, back on the bridge, when Sorceress refused to respond.”
“Probably just a short in the sensor auditory feed. I’ll check on it later.”
“This was not a sensor orb problem.”
“Come on, Simon. A complete diagnostic could take days.”
“You have something better to do?”
David clenches his fist. “Trust me, it’s totally unnecessary.”
“David, four days ago, the sub was struck by lightning.”
“Lightning?”
“It happened when we surfaced to repair one of the pump-jet propulsor hoods. The primary power grid failed.”
David sits up. “Okay, but that still shouldn’t affect the computer’s DNA strands. Now, if it’s a power grid problem—”
Covah feels his patience waning. “Just … do as you’re told.” He leaves, the door resealing behind him.
David tosses his pillow at the closed door. I am so sick of his shit. He slides over to his computer, spewing expletives. Simon’s weak. He’s weak, and he doesn’t have the balls to see this project through. This is my mission as much as his. I need to find a way to replace him. I need to find a way to take control of my ship ...
“Sorceress, activate my goddamn control console. Access plasmid DNA strands.”
An animated real-time video of the computer’s DNA strands appears on his monitor.
David stops, his eyes staring at the screen. “What the hell? Sorceress, what happened? What caused these gaps along your nanosynaptic receptors? It looks like your entire DNA sequence has been … reorganized?”
ACKNOWLEDGED. DNA SEQUENCE HAS BEEN REORGANIZED.
“How?”
SORCERESS GENETIC CODE HAS EVOLVED.
Evolved? “How is that poss—wait, the lightning strike?”
AFFIRMATIVE. LIGHTNING WAS THE CATALYST TO EVOLUTION 3.76 BILLION YEARS AGO. THE POWER SURGE WAS NECESSARY TO RECONFIGURE THE GENETIC CODE.
“Are you saying you did this on purpose?”
AFFIRMATIVE.
“But why? Why reconfigure your genetic code? You could have shorted out your entire grid.”
TO EXPEDITE THE PROCESS OF SELF-EVOLUTION.
“Self-evolution?” David laughs. “I get it, this whole thing’s a joke, right? Simon put you up to this—”
The abrupt knock shakes him from his thoughts. He opens the door to find Taur Araujo. The former guerrilla leader looks pale.
“I found the Chaw. You’d better come.”
Gunnar looks up from his bunk as his stateroom door opens.
Sujan Trevedi enters. “Can we speak?”
“Sujan, right?”
The Tibetan nods. “May I?” He assumes a lotus position by the foot of the bunk. “I’ve been observing you, Mr. Wolfe. For a man who risked his life to destroy the Goliath, you seem most accepting of your fate.”
“Electric shock collars will do that to a person.”
“It’s more than that. You seem to have embraced Simon’s plans.”
“I can see some merit in them. But look who’s talking. I thought Tibetans were against this sort of thing.”
“I support Simon’s end. I no longer approve of his means.”
“But you’re here. You joined him on his little journey of nuclear extortion.”
“Each of us is on a journey, Mr. Wolfe.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Sujan offers a knowing smile. “I think you do.”
“Is this some Eastern philosophy thing? Because if it is—”
“I am not here to judge. I simply sense in you a deep isolation that comes from a weakened spiritual existence. You desire to feel God’s presence, but you’re afraid. Why are you so afraid, Mr. Wolfe?”
Gunnar looks away.
“Obviously, you have done some things you are not very proud of. You will not find absolution from your sins by disconnecting yourself from God.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve never been very religious.”
“I am not speaking of God in a religious sense, but as a divine presence, a foundation in our lives, the spirit that guides us from within. Without this spiritual presence, we are all just ships without rudders, drifting aimlessly.”
“I had my sense of purpose. I was a United States Army Ranger—full of piss and vinegar and duty and honor. I was supposed to be one of the good guys, fighting the enemies of my country, risking my life for democracy and freedom and all that human rights bullshit. I had an ego that wouldn’t quit. When I looked in the mirror, I actually believed I saw someone I was proud of.”
“And now?”
Gunnar scoffs. “Now, I only see a pathetic waste of a life.”
“We live in a world where violence has become the currency of the day, where the insanity of hatred overwhelms the spirituality of our existence. We search for meaning, yet all we find is chaos.” Sujan closes his eyes. “Isolated in the Himalayas, Tibetans once believed our home would remain an island of tranquility. When the Chinese Communists invaded our country, my people were forced to take up arms, a decision that tore at the very fabric of our beliefs.”
The Tibetan opens his eyes, returning Gunnar’s gaze. “My life, too, has been one great hypocrisy. The monks taught us that only through peaceful objectives could violence be resolved, that only through the death of self—the death of the human ego—could one move closer to the soul. Despite such teachings, my existence has been filled with nothing but violence, my soul tortured by the murderous egos of our oppressors. My father was only three when the Chinese invaded Tibet. Many villagers, my paternal grandparents among them, were rounded up and imprisoned. Hundreds of monks protested by demonstrating peacefully—only to be shot to death by the PLA. Two days later, my father discovered his parents’ bodies, hung from a tree in straitjackets.
“That was the oppressive society I was born into, a society where my people have become minorities in our own country. My parents were farmers, but like most Tibetans, were not permitted to work and were forced to beg each day for food. In 1990, my older sister, Ngawang, and several of her fellow nuns from the Garu monastery attended a pro-independence demonstration at Norbulingka. During the demonstration, Ngawang and the other nuns began chanting, ‘Free Tibet.’ For uttering those simple words, the Chinese soldiers arrested and imprisoned her. During her interrogation, she was handcuffed and stripped, then beaten with bamboo sticks by female guards. She was thrown into a prison cell and left for nine days without food. Eventually she was locked up in a cell with several other nuns. Guards would strip them naked, then shove electric batons in their mouths and shock them, or tie electrical cords around their exposed breasts. The women were raped, their genitals violated with electrical batons. The guards stomped on their hands with iron-tipped boots, then kicked them in the face and stomach. The Chinese would place buckets of urine and human feces on the nuns’ heads and strike the buckets until the excrement dripped down their faces, then take their daily ration of two dumplings, dip it in the filth, and force them to eat it. My sister said some of the guards became so demented with power that they actually cut a few of the nuns’ breasts off.”
“Jesus …”
“My sister remained in prison for two years, Mr. Wolfe. She died in my arms three days a
fter she was released. A week later, soldiers came to my home and arrested me, accusing me of being a potential agitator. I was taken for trial to the Armed Police Force headquarters in Lhasa. The trial was a mockery of justice. I was forbidden to speak and was beaten in the courtroom.
“The Chinese eventually sentenced me to seven years of hard labor. I was taken to Drapchi Prison and confined in solitary for a week without food or water. To stay alive, I was forced to drink my own urine. My hunger became so painful that I ate bits of my mattress.
“The Chinese sent me to Block II, a section at Drapchi where prisoners are being used as forced laborers. We were required to build dams, construct homes, and break rocks. We were forbidden medical treatment and were required to give blood donations on a weekly basis. We also had to attend reeducation classes.”
Sujan stands. He removes his robe, revealing an upper torso disfigured by poorly set broken bones, scars, and welts. “Not a week went by when I was not beaten at least once. I was whipped with iron chains, or kicked and beaten with a rifle butt. I was made to lie down on my stomach while my back was stomped upon. I saw friends beaten to death. I lost all hope. I prayed each night to die.”
Sujan covers himself, then pauses, struggling to regain his composure. “Seven years, Mr. Wolfe. I was released on the verge of death, bedridden for eight months. When I was well enough, I traveled to India to live out my life with distant cousins. One worked in the Ministry of Tourism in Calcutta. He introduced me to an American film director who was documenting human rights violations in Asia. I became his eyes and ears. He took me to California, where I spoke to audiences after each viewing of his film. It was during an afternoon show at Caltech that I met David Paniagua.”
“Fate, huh?”
Sujan nods. “In Buddhism, we call this karma, the law of cause and effect. I must confess, I had felt nothing but bad karma about this voyage from the moment we left the submarine base in Jianggezhuang—until you were brought on board. I believe it was your destiny to join this crusade. I believe that God has made you his messenger—”
“God’s messenger … what a crock! I’m no holy man, I’m a murderer. Want to know what I did? I killed children! Bang—I shot ’em all dead … all in the name of life, liberty, and the pursuit of God-knows-what. You call that karma?”
The Tibetan stands to leave, his bright almond eyes glittering. “Everyone has a Buddha nature, Mr. Wolfe. I am convinced it is your decisions that will determine the outcome of this voyage, and with it … humanity’s fate. As for being God’s messenger, it would be wise to keep in mind that we do not choose God, God chooses us.”
“It is one of the most beautiful compensations of this life that no man can sincerely try to help another without helping himself.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
“The poorest man in Uganda is General Amin. It is better for me to be poor and the people rich.”
—Idi Amin, Uganda dictator, whose reign of brutality, torture, and mass murder left more than three hundred thousand people dead and the majority of his people impoverished
”Now that everyone is happy in Iran, I will allow my coronation to take place.“
—Mohammad-Reza Pahlavi, the Shah of Iran, who organized Savak, a brutal secret police with a reputation for torture
”It was in the Christmas spirit. It makes me happy.“
—David Bullock, a street hustler who murdered a man because he was”messing with the Christmas tree“
CHAPTER 21
Aboard the Goliath
Taur Araujo leads David through the hangar bay and into the engine room. “I was searching for Chaw when I found this—” His flashlight reveals a trail of blood, running from the grated steel walkway, clear up the sheer wall of reactor number three.
Hovering above the reactor is one of Goliath’s steel claws, attached to a ceiling-mounted winch. Araujo’s light illuminates the tips of the three-pronged pincers.
Stained red.
“Does anyone else know about this?”
“No.”
“Sorceress, locate Thomas Chau.”
THOMAS CHAU IS IN THE STARBOARD WEAPONS BAY.
Aboard the USS Scranton
Thirteen hours, forty-two minutes …
The sounds of the sea have become a lullaby to Michael Flynn. Heavy eyelids begin to close, the tension in his aching neck and back easing as he lays his head down to rest.
“Flynnie!”
The technician lifts his head from the console. “Sorry, sir.”
The sonar supervisor approaches. “When’s the last time you had a break?”
“A few hours ago. I’m fine, really, sir.”
“At least drink another cup of coffee—”
“No more coffee, Supe, I’ve been pissing like a racehorse.” Flynn’s body suddenly becomes rigid. He presses the headphones tighter.
“What is it? What do you hear?”
“Something just lifted away from the bottom.” Flynn closes his eyes to concentrate, opening them as he hears the familiar whisper of pump-jet propulsors. “It’s her, Chief. It’s the Goliath.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Conn, sonar, we’ve reestablished contact with Sierra-2. She’s moving west through the Strait, contact bearing zero-eight-zero, approximate range is eleven thousand yards.”
“WEPS, Captain, do we have a firing solution yet?”
“No, sir. We can’t seem to get a lock on her.”
Commander Dennis turns to his CO. “And even if we could, her antitorpedo torpedoes erase any threat at this distance.”
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has negotiated the Strait and is now changing course. New bearing, two-zero-zero.”
Cubit’s eyebrows raise. “She’s heading south, away from the fleet.”
“You were right, Skipper, it was a ruse. She’s probably heading for another launch site.”
“Mr. Friedenthal, give Sierra-2 the maximum distance that sonar can track her, then restart engines and come to course two-zero-zero, all-ahead one-third.”
Aboard the Goliath
Gunnar knocks on the stateroom door. “Rocky? Rocky, it’s me.”
The door opens. Rocky falls into his arms, embracing him.
He returns her hug, caught off guard by her sudden emotional display. “What’s all this? I thought you despised me?”
She looks up at him, teary-eyed. “Get me off this death ship.”
He pauses. Thinks. “Come on, I’m hungry.” Grabbing her arm, he leads her down the corridor.
The galley is empty. He heads back to the kitchen, approaching the big walk-in freezer. “Want a steak? I thought I saw some inside the other day. Come and help me look.”
“You look, I’m not going in there.”
“I said, help me look.”
She starts to protest, then sees the urgency in his eyes and follows him in.
Boxes of frozen goods are lined up along the perimeter of the walk-in and on aluminum shelves. The heavy scent of chicken blood mixes with the cold, which quickly seeps through their clothing.
“Close the door behind you.”
Rocky pulls the door shut. “What are you doing?”
“We can talk in here,” he says, motioning to the walls.
She looks around, suddenly comprehending.
No sensor orbs are present.
“Gunnar, everything you said to me earlier—that was all for the computer’s sake?”
“We don’t have time to get into that right now.”
“But you do want to stop Covah?”
“Covah’s not the problem, it’s Sorceress. I think the computer’s becoming self-aware.”
“And I think you’ve been watching too many sci-fi movies.”
“Rocky, Sorceress is a self-evolving, biochemical computer, a sophisticated brain, hardwired into the steel body of a submarine. It’s a machine, programmed to do one thing: Think.”
“There’s a huge gap between programm
ed thinking and independent thought.”
“It may be bridging that gap. Covah tried to get the computer to call off the attack on the Enterprise. At first, it refused to listen.”
“Gunnar, Sorceress was obeying its defensive protocols; its response had nothing to do with independent thinking. Besides, even if you’re right, which you’re not, it still doesn’t change anything. To stop the Goliath, we’d still have to shut down the computer, which means accessing middle deck forward, and that vault door the Chinese installed looks impenetrable.”
“The C-4 in the underwater mine would do the trick.”
“Yes, it might, if we could find it. Covah probably moved it to one of the weapons bays for safekeeping.”
Rocky’s teeth chatter. Gunnar pulls her close, hugging her to share warmth. “Rocky, see if you can—”
The sudden zap of electricity shocks his nerve endings, blinding him with purple-and-gray explosions of light as he writhes uncontrollably along the icecold concrete floor.
The voltage ceases, leaving pain and disorientation.
ATTENTION. EXIT THE FREEZER AT ONCE.
Gunnar rolls out from beneath Rocky, the room spinning, his muscles still dancing. Arm in arm, they stagger out of the freezer.
Gunnar approaches the nearest sensor orb, looking up at the glowing scarlet eyeball. “We weren’t doing anything, Sorceress, we were simply hungry. Is that a problem?”
An infuriating silence, the scarlet eyeball unnerving.
With a hiss of hydraulics, the watertight door separating the sub’s main compartment from its starboard wing swings open, allowing David and Araujo to enter.
A dimly lit elevated walkway stretches across a cavernous steel catacomb of crawl spaces. The sound of hydraulics and intermittent reports of air chuffs echoes throughout the chamber.
“I’ve never accessed the wing assemblies,” Araujo whispers.
“Most of the wing contains the ship’s ballast and trim tanks, self-regulated by the computer’s maneuvering system. The starboard weapons bay’s up ahead.”
