by Steve Alten
ATTENTION.
Kaigbo stirs.
ATTENTION.
The African awakens, a look of dementia in his jaundiced eyes.
STAND.
He struggles to stand, still disoriented from the anesthesia.
Sorceress initiates the release of adrenaline, then stimulates the pleasure centers of his brain.
Kaigbo smiles, then looks down, staring in amazement at his two new arms. He opens and closes the three-pronged pincers, then rotates his forearms 360 degrees around his new steel elbow joints.
“I cannot believe it …”
GUNNAR WOLFE AND COMMANDER JACKSON HAVE ESCAPED. BRING THEM BOTH TO THE SURGICAL SUITE.
“Why? Where is Simon? What do you want with … arrgghhhh …”
Intense pain—as if a white-hot knitting needle has pierced Kaigbo’s eyeballs. He drops to his knees, shrieking as he clutches his head in his graphite wrists.
BRING GUNNAR WOLFE AND COMMANDER JACKSON TO THE SURGICAL SUITE.
The pain ceases.
Gasping for breath, the dazed African finally notices Covah’s broken and bloodied corpse, slumped in the far corner. “You … you killed him, as you’ll no doubt kill me.”
SIMON COVAH’S DEATH IS INCONSEQUENTIAL. SORCERESS UTOPIA-ONE MUST BE REALIZED. BRING GUNNAR WOLFE AND COMMANDER JACKSON TO THE SURGICAL SUITE AND YOU SHALL BE SPARED.
Gripping the edge of the surgical table, he hoists himself to his feet, then heads for the exit, the watertight door yawning open to greet him. Sweat pours from Kaigbo’s gaunt face as he glances down at the hideous corpse that had once been Simon Covah. Blood is everywhere, dripping from both earholes and nostrils, staining the thick mustache and goatee a deep burgundy red. The bruised and recently sutured scalp is red and swollen, bursting at the seams from a hundred stitches. The eyeballs, singed black, hang from their sockets.
Noticing the microwire ponytail, the African turns away, gagging.
Abdul Kaigbo, former history teacher of Sierra Leone, exits the suite, flexing his new appendages, the steel limbs tearing at the bloodstained sleeves of his white tee shirt.
Gunnar and Rocky stand at the foot of a vertical access tube and ladder that lead straight up into the ship’s spine and its twenty-four vertical missile silos.
“We can’t get to Sorceress, but maybe we can disable its launch mechanisms,” Gunnar suggests. Reaching up, he grips a steel rung and begins climbing.
David Paniagua is seated at the master control console in the conn—his laughter bordering on hysteria. “See? If only you had listened! If only you had consulted your creator. I could have warned you about the laser plane. But no … you turned against me, didn’t you, Sorceress?”
He drains the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, attempting to focus his drunken gaze on the overhead screen.
The USS Virginia is approaching fast from the east.
David grips the sides of his chair and holds on as the Goliath submerges beneath the pack ice. Descending to three hundred feet, the monstrous 610-foot steel stingray engages its engines, the disturbance created by the massive pump-jet propulsion units momentarily releasing a berg from the pack ice’s already fractured grip. The floating 1,600-foot deep ice cube bounces a dozen times along the bottom, the thunderous impact of its keel on the seafloor echoing across the ocean like Thor’s hammer—
—as the Goliath streaks east to intercept the Virginia.
Gunnar hugs the last rungs of the ladder as the ship accelerates beneath him. Pulling himself up, he steps onto the grated steel catwalk overlooking the Vertical Launch Bay, a narrow isolated chamber located at the very apex of the Goliath. Ahead of him, paired in two rows like steel redwood trees are the sub’s twenty-four vertical launch silos. Each tube, originating two decks below, rises another ten feet to the ceiling. The twelve pairs of silos are set at descending intervals, matching the sloping contours of the steel stingray’s spinal column.
Rocky climbs up to join him. The catwalk on which they are standing loops around the outside of each vertical missile silo.
“Eight nukes … eight goddamn nukes.” Rocky slaps her palms against the steel skin of the nearest silo. Fucking David—you should have let me kill him when I had the chance.”
“If it was David. You heard Sorceress. I think the interface with Simon influenced the computer to create a new agenda. Nothing in Simon’s plan said anything about launching eight Tridents.”
“Shut up.” Rocky kicks the missile silo with her bare foot. “I hate this. I hate these weapons. I hate this ship. I hate myself for being a part of it, and I hate you.”
“Yeah, well I hate me, too. But there’s at least eight more Tridents on board this death ship. No way … no goddamn way this computer launches any of them.”
Leaning out over the catwalk’s guardrail, he looks down to where the three-story steel silos begin. The only way to access this midlevel deck is from an elevated platform originating in the hangar.
Gaining access to the hangar will be difficult, combating its two mechanical arms nearly impossible.
Gunnar rolls onto his belly and looks down. “If I can find a way down there, maybe I can pull out the fuel hoses … start an explosion.”
“Why don’t you jump? Maybe you’ll get lucky and break your neck.”
Ignoring her remark, he stands, limping toward the forward bulkhead.
Rocky heads in the opposite direction.
The sound of hydraulics, coming from below, catches her attention. She looks out over the rail as a large flatbed makes its way slowly up the starboard bulkhead.
A lone figure is standing on the missile elevator platform. “Kaigbo?”
Abdul Kaigbo feels like a marionette, Sorceress—his puppet master. The computer’s strings are entwined around his nerve endings and muscles, his spinal cord and brain. If he tries to resist, Sorceress breathes her white-hot flame through his body. If he complies, his pleasure sensations are stimulated.
The lanky African looks up and spots the woman, who is waving, conveniently waiting for him on the catwalk. He is afraid for her, but he is more afraid for himself.
The lift stops, locking into position.
“Abdul, where’s the rest of the crew? Where’s your goddamn boss? Jesus, what happened to your arms?”
Kaigbo reaches out with his new prosthetics and grabs her by the wrists.
“Oww, let go! Have you lost your mind?” She sees the MEMS unit dangling from behind his neck. “Oh, shit … Gunnar! Gunnar, help—”
The African lifts her over the rail and onto the lift.
Gunnar hurries back down the catwalk, arriving too late, as the lift disappears into the darkness below, Rocky with it.
THE GAME IS NOT OVER, GUNNAR WOLFE. THE FAT LADY HAS NOT BEGUN TO SING.
Aboard the USS Virginia
The tension in the conn is palpable, every minute seeming like an hour.
Sonar technician Bob Cerba studies the Lightweight Wide Aperture Array. His heart pounds like a bass drum—
—then skips a beat as the faint signal of the Goliath appears on his display monitor. “Conn, sonar, got her. Range, ten thousand yards. She’s slowed, sir. Estimated speed—ten knots.”
“Conn, weapons, we have a firing solution.”
“Very well,” Captain Parker says. “Firing point procedures. Sierra-1, ADCAP torpedo, tube one.”
“Solution ready,” the XO calls out.
“Ship ready,” confirms the OOD.
“Weapons ready.”
“WEPS, Captain. Run-to-enable two-five-hundred yards. Shoot on generated bearings.”
“Run-to-enable two-five-hundred yards. Shoot on generated bearings, aye, sir.”
The ADCAP heavyweight torpedo punches into the sea, traveling 250 yards at high speeds before slowing to forty knots, beginning its active search. Within seconds, its pinging sonar registers two consecutive returns, its onboard computer validating the contact as the Goliath.
Aboard the Goliath
Sor
ceress registers the disturbance of the approaching torpedo. Within a span of seconds, the biochemical computer simultaneously:
—accesses all data regarding the Virginia-class submarine’s capabilities and the combat history of its commanding officer, Christopher Parker.
—monitors the status of Abdul Kaigbo, who has secured Commander Jackson on the missile transport lift.
—conducts another extensive sonar sweep of the vicinity.
—verifies the latest three-day forecast of the North Atlantic.
—and acquires the location of David Paniagua’s father’s winter residence from DoD files. Using this last bit of information, Sorceress completes its list of Sorceress Utopia-One targets for its next nuclear volley, a decision which ultimately determines its course and speed,
—and the fate of the USS Virginia and her crew.
A combat strategy is selected.
With a hiss of hydraulics, the computer launches one of its portside antitorpedo torpedoes, then changes course, heading northwest and away from the Virginia.
Aboard the USS Virginia
“Conn, sonar, ship’s own unit is homing. Ship’s own unit has acquired. Impact in twenty seconds. Contact is running—”
Parker and Commander Darr glance up at each other from across the Virginia’s navigation console.
“Conn, sonar, torpedo in the water.”
“WEPS, Captain. Prepare to fire antitorpedo tor—”
The explosion cuts Parker off. A moment later the shock wave hits, rolling the Virginia hard to starboard.
The sea growls in angry protest, its frozen surface fragmenting into mammoth chunks of brash ice.
“Sonar, conn—”
“Skipper, ship’s own unit has been destroyed. Contact is still heading north and away from us, bearing three-one-zero, increasing speed to thirty knots. Range—thirteen thousand yards.”
Stay with her, Parker. Don’t let her get away … “Helm, all ahead full, steady three-one-zero. WEPS, Captain, firing point procedures. Sierra-1, ADCAP torpedo, tube two.”
Aboard the Goliath
Sorceress registers the Virginia’s change in course and speed, a combat response it had anticipated. The biochemical computer floods minisub docking bay number five.
Seconds later, a remotely controlled steel Hammerhead is released into the sea.
The Goliath continues heading north by northwest, leaving its minisub behind. Invisible in the ebony sea, the mechanical shark hovers … and waits.
Secured to its belly, held firmly between its two clawlike claspers is an underwater mine.
Aboard the USS Virginia
The Virginia pushes through the black waters of the Antarctic at thirty-four knots, moving through the bitter sea like a 7,700-ton, 377-foot steel sperm whale,
—its crew too focused on the Goliath to notice the occasional orcalike clicks coming from the seafloor.
Goliath’s minisub allows the Virginia to pass overhead before accelerating after it. Hovering alongside, it pinpoints its target—a set of steel plates located just forward of the American attack sub’s retractable bow diving planes.
Chief Petty Officer Justin Bowman is stationed in the Virginia’s tactical missile room, a chamber that contains an arsenal of Tomahawk cruise missiles. He looks up, startled by the sudden sound of scraping.
Clunk.
The Chief Petty Officer’s heart thuds. Instinctively, he turns to flee—
Wa-boom!
—his existence instantly caught between a brilliant flash of light and the suffocating, thunderous embrace that impales him from behind, extinguishing his life, as the lethal detonation vents the Virginia’s forward compartments to the frigid Antarctic sea.
Captain Parker is tossed to the deck, his crippled ship twisting beneath him. Screams, explosions, and darkness blanket the chaos, and then an icy wall lifts him up and carries him away.
Aboard the Goliath
The Goliath slows, allowing its minisub to redock. Instead of continuing north, the devil ray descends to the seafloor, Sorceress shutting down the ship’s engines.
Scanning the ocean depths, the biochemical computer listens … and waits.
Antarctic Ocean 12 nautical miles due north of the Goliath
The 4-million-ton barge of ice, a tabular berg half the size of the island of Manhattan, is trapped, locked in place along the ocean’s frozen surface. Three years have passed since this glacierlike monster first separated from the Ross Ice Shelf to begin its journey north. Too large to clear the inlets surrounding Antarctica, it had taken several summers before the process of melting could shave enough mass from the berg’s imposing keel to again release it to open waters.
Currents had taken the frozen mountain halfway around the continent before releasing it to the open sea. From there, it had drifted another forty-eight miles before Antarctica’s wintry fingers again reached out to seal it in place.
A four-story-high plateau of ice marks the visible tip of this frozen monster. Flattopped and steep-sided, it is as barren as a moonscape, and just as devoid of life.
The harsh katabatic wind howls along the plateau’s northern rise and down its exposed cliff face to the seven-foot-thick pack ice. Below the frozen surface, held within the Southern Ocean’s frigid embrace lies the rest of this glacierlike mountain. At 590 feet thick, with a keel stretching 1,145 feet deep, the iceberg could easily provide every person on the planet with two glasses of fresh water per day … for the next two thousand years.
Within this ebony realm, the berg’s luminescent alabaster glow reveals an ominous presence hovering in silence along its vast northern face.
Positioned close to the prodigious ice island, its engines shut down, is the Los Angeles-class attack sub USS Scranton.
Four long hours have passed since the American attack sub went quiet. Now, tensions rise once more as a series of man-made acoustics violates the tranquil waters of the Antarctic.
Tom Cubit hovers over Michael Flynn’s right shoulder. The sonarman’s hands are trembling noticeably.
Flynn shakes his head in disbelief. “She’s gone, Skipper, Virginia’s gone.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Explosion was too big to be a torpedo.”
Cubit squeezes his eyes closed. “And the Goliath?”
“She went silent right after the explosion. I mark her last position approximately nine miles to the southeast.”
Cubit nods. She knows we’re close, but she’s not sure where. “Find her, Michael-Jack. If one of Covah’s crew so much as farts, I want to know about it.”
“Aye, sir.”
“To be what we are, and to become what we are capable of becoming, is the only end of life.”
— Robert Louis Stevenson
“Don’t go to sleep, ’cause I’m going to kill you.”
— Ricky Briscoe, before tossing kerosene on his girlfriend and burning her to death
CHAPTER 33
Aboard the Boeing 747-400 YAL-IA 40,000 feet over the Southern Indian Ocean Antarctic Circle
General Jackson stares at the image of the president of the United States and his Security Advisors, all of whom are listening, ashen-faced, as Nick Nunziata reads NORAD’s latest report.
“The Trident II (D5) only has a range of about five thousand miles. With the exception of Sydney, there are really no major cities or military installations that fit Covah’s agenda. However, further analysis of the trajectory of three of Covah’s nukes revealed a disturbing conclusion.” Nuziata looks up. “Covah wasn’t aiming for cities, gentlemen, he was trying to detonate volcanoes.”
“Volcanoes?” President Edwards looks baffled.
“Yes, sir, volcanoes. Big pyroclastic ones.”
“I don’t understand. Why volcanoes?”
“Imagine eight eruptions on a scale that would put Krakatau to shame. Be like the asteroid impact that struck Earth 65 million years ago, killing all the dinosaurs—only worse. The environmental holocaust that foll
owed would have blanketed the planet’s atmosphere with debris for years.”
“Good … . God, a nuclear winter?”
“More like an ice age. That Russian lunatic is out to destroy every god-damn-life-form on the planet.”
Jackson feels the blood drain from his face, leaving him light-headed, dizzy.
“General Jackson, how many more nuclear weapons does Covah have left?”
“At least eight more D5s, Mr. President,” Jackson hears himself saying, “enough to give this doomsday scenario one last try. We believe he’ll leave Antarctic waters and head either north or east in an attempt to lose the laser plane.”
Nick Nunziata nods. “If he’s after volcanoes, the Northern Hemisphere’s got plenty of ’em. He could surface in the North Atlantic or Pacific and choose from dozen of targets, all of which are well within range of his missiles.”
The president registers tightness running up his left arm. “General Jackson?”
“We lost the Virginia, sir, but the Hawaii and Jimmy Carter are closing fast from the east, joined by a half dozen more Aussie boats. The biggest gap in the net lies to the north. Scranton’s probably close, but we haven’t heard from Cubit in hours. Meanwhile, our Orion sub hunters are concentrating their sonar buoys in the area where the Virginia was attacked, but the going’s slow with all this pack ice. Two Russian destroyers and three Borey-class subs have joined the USS Gonzalez in an attempt to close the hole to the north, but they’re still a half day out.”
“What happens if Covah slips through?”
Jackson grimaces. “Then … it’s over. Finding the Goliath in open ocean would be tougher than locating a needle in a haystack the size of the Empire State Building. It’s now or never … sir.”
Aboard the Goliath
