Goliath

by Steve Alten

  Three months later it was made official: Rochelle Jackson had become the most powerful woman in this man’s armed forces.

  Less than a year later, her father, now a general in the United States Special Operations Command (USSOCOM), would introduce her to his finest recruit, U.S. Army Captain Gunnar Wolfe, a detachment commander in the elite U.S. Army Rangers. It was in this dark-haired, gray-eyed commando that Rocky Jackson would finally meet her match. Gunnar, an engineering major from Penn State, had been given leave from the field to complete his work on an original design for a remotely operated minisub. Believing the vessel’s design was compatible with his daughter’s program, the Bear had arranged for Gunnar’s transfer to NUWC.

  For the first two months, they had fought like cats and dogs, Navy engineer versus Army commando—Rocky always hell-bent on keeping the new recruit under her thumb, Gunnar refusing to bend under his beautiful OIC’s fiery will. Project deadlines pushed them closer together, the long days eventually softening the blows, allowing their mutual attraction toward one another to take root. The lab quickly became the forum for late-night dinners, their romance becoming more physical with each encounter. Competition took a backseat to passion, their lovemaking becoming a game of one-upmanship, more lust than love.

  Somewhere along the journey, something much deeper blossomed.

  Gunnar Wolfe had bridled the Bear’s bucking bronco, an ego-driven woman whose beauty and passion matched her strength and competitive desires. A spring wedding was announced, plans hastily accelerated after Rocky discovered she was six weeks pregnant. The happy couple even found their dream house—a four thousand five hundred-square-foot waterfront home a few miles west of Seattle.

  It was shortly after their engagement that her fiance began acting strangely, as if he was harboring some dark secret. Their free time together lessened as Rocky’s trips to the Pentagon increased, Gunnar spending many a lonely night in his lab.

  And then, two weeks before their wedding date, Gunnar committed an unforgivable act of treason that broke her heart and changed both their lives forever.

  Arriving home from an extended stay in D.C., Rocky learned a computer virus had been downloaded into the terminals housing all of her project’s top-secret schematics. Years of work and countless man-hours had been eradicated in an instant. Worse, David Paniagua, the boy-genius in charge of the project’s nanotechnology (and Gunnar’s best man) reported that $2 billion worth of biochemical nanocomputer circuitry was missing, along with a five-year harvest’s worth of bioengineered silicon-coated bacteria.

  The Department of Defense was devastated by the setback. An internal investigation, following on the heels of the acts of espionage discovered at Los Alamos, forced the Navy to shut down the entire project until the spy or spies could be identified and apprehended.

  The culprit had broken into the artificial intelligence lab sometime around midnight. Security records revealed only one person had been in the Warfare Center’s A-I division at the time—Gunnar Wolfe.

  Within days, the Naval Investigative Service (NIS) found evidence of an offshore bank account in Gunnar’s father’s name. Recent deposits from another offshore bank were traced to Hong Kong, the account totaling just over $1.2 million. Although he denied any knowledge of the money or the stolen computer parts, a lie detector test clearly indicated the former war hero was hiding something from his superiors.

  Gunnar was arrested in his lab by NIS agents two days before their wedding day. Because there was no evidence indicating Gunnar had “sold” the schematics to another government, prosecutors were forced to reduce the charges of espionage to destruction of government resources. On June 22, a month after they were to have been married, a court-martial jury of staff rank naval officers found Gunnar Wolfe guilty, the judge (an admiral) sentencing him to ten years in Leavenworth.

  Six weeks later, the Republicans lost the White House, in no small part due to the Goliath debacle. Within months, the new president would officially cancel the project altogether.

  Rocky was devastated. Her life’s work, her career goals, her future with the one man to whom she had pledged her love—everything was gone. Worse yet, Gunnar’s selfish, inexplicable act had disgraced her forever in the eyes of her peers. Rocky Jackson, a woman who practically draped herself in the American flag, had allowed herself to fall for a man who had stabbed his own country in the back.

  The pain was all-consuming, as if her heart had been torn from her chest, her mind from her skull. She felt used. She felt dirty. Weeks later, she would lose the baby.

  It was the final straw, too much even for her own superstrength ego to handle.

  Three months after Gunnar began serving time, the Bear found his daughter lying unconscious on the bathroom floor, having overdosed on muscle relaxants and barbiturates. It was the first time in her life she had ever cried out for help. It had nearly been her last.

  Months of private counseling eventually replaced Rocky’s emptiness with a simmering rage that could explode at any time. Medication made her ill, and a family vacation in Europe only made things worse. The Bear knew his daughter’s collapsed mental state had to be rebuilt, brick by patriotic brick. That required discipline, something the service could provide. While Bear had made sure the military had no knowledge of his daughter’s drug overdose, he also knew a return to the Warfare Center was out.

  “What about active duty?” her mother suggested, prodding her stubborn husband.

  Pulling a few strings, the Bear set his wife’s plan into motion. Six months later, Rocky began her first assignment aboard the Aegis guided-missile cruiser, Princeton, working as a sonar officer.

  The change of pace was exactly what the girl needed to solidify her toehold on sanity. Life aboard an American warship was challenging, and challenges brought out the best in Rochelle Megan Jackson. Her ego demanded that no man would ever outwork her, outknow her, or outaccomplish her. Within a month, she felt like her old self again. By the end of her first tour, her CO recognized her as one of the most reliable officers on his boat.

  Three years and a promotion later, Commander Jackson earned herself a tour of duty aboard the USS Ronald Reagan, the newest carrier in the fleet.

  It was there that the former NUWC director met Captain James Hatcher, a man twenty-five years her senior. Hatch’s first wife had died only a year before from a long siege by breast cancer, his sorrow making him a kindred spirit of sorts. What began as a friendship gradually nurtured itself into a physical relationship before either of them cared to notice. Worried that his career could be jeopardized by the potential “sex scandal,” Hatcher asked Rocky to marry him.

  She surprised even herself by saying yes.

  Friends gossiped that Rocky was merely seeking out a father figure, and perhaps they were right. Hatch was far from the man of her dreams, but she saw in him a good person, a stable companion, one who would not betray her fragile capacity for trust. He was also an officer on the rise, something not to be taken lightly. Rocky yearned to get back into the spotlight of her former high status, and Captain James Hatcher, the skipper of the flagship of the American Navy, could help lead the way. Despite vigorous protests from her father, the two married.

  During that same week, Leavenworth experienced a prison uprising that left two men dead and the warden held hostage. As correctional emergency response teams rushed onto the scene, a lone convict—a former U.S. Army Ranger—had intervened to save the warden’s life.

  After a crescendo of media-manufactured publicity, Gunnar’s heroic act led to an early presidential commutation. Having served five years and seven months, the former Ranger captain and NUWC traitor walked out of military prison a free man—and promptly disappeared from public scrutiny.

  After honeymooning in Key West, Captain Hatcher and his new bride boarded the Ronald Reagan, the carrier’s fleet bound for the Mediterranean. Though Navy rules prevented Rocky and Hatch from “officially” bunking together, she nevertheless enjoyed their time t
ogether at sea. Reveling at having access to the Navy’s most advanced gadgetry, she quickly mastered all the ship’s sensor arrays. Her equipment scanned a volume of airspace out to several hundred miles around the battle group, while equally able to pinpoint and identify any underwater object approaching the armada for more than twenty miles from her ship.

  And while she admitted to herself that she wasn’t exactly “in love” with Hatch, she did love and respect him, and after all, wasn’t that just as important?

  For the first time since she could remember, Rocky Jackson actually felt happy.

  The blips on the sonar screen become hazy. Rocky rubs the fatigue from her eyes, then massages the knots in her shoulders. Two more hours, then dinner and a shower. Maybe Hatch’ll even let me stay in his cabin tonight.

  For a long moment she stares at her reflection in the orange monitor, thinking about what her life could have been. The thought tweaks a distant memory.

  Gunnar had never liked the carrier’s Aegis defense shield. Though virtually impregnable to attack on the open ocean, the multilayered, multiship system possessed one basic flaw—its active radar and sonar also revealed its presence to the enemy.

  Rocky shakes her head, annoyed at herself for wasting time thinking about the man who had nearly destroyed her. Adjusting her headphones, she refocuses her attention on the sonar monitor,

  —a valuable premonition dying stillborn.

  Captain Hatcher finds the congressman on Vulture’s Row, an open-air balcony overlooking the flight deck, positioned high up on the carrier’s island infrastructure. The two watch intently as a Joint Strike Fighter is secured to one of the catapults. The electromechanical slingshot, the first of its kind to replace the venerable steam method, is capable of tossing a pickup truck a half mile out to sea.

  With a high-pitched roar, the JSF leaps across the suddenly small flight deck, accelerating from zero to 150 miles per hour in less than two seconds. The required 3.5 gees is ramped up in a calibrated 75 milliseconds by the sophisticated new catapult design, pushing its crew back into their seats with a force of over three-and-a-half times their own body weight.

  The skipper waits briefly for the roar to die down. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Lawson.” Hatcher is not really sorry, nor does he sound it.

  The Democrat from Florida turns to face him. “I don’t need a baby-sitter, Captain, any more than you need a civilian looking over your shoulder. Keep in mind I’m only here because the Appropriations Committee and GAO still haven’t come to any definitive conclusions regarding funding for the new Stealth carrier.”

  “The CVX’s design speaks for itself. The advances in deck management alone make the new carrier worth funding.”

  “Your opinion. Personally, I’m still not convinced it’s worth all the money.”

  Hatcher’s face turns red. “Take a good look down there, Congressman. You’re looking at the most dangerous piece of real estate in the world. Maybe you ought to climb into a jumpsuit and spend some time on our flight deck before you cast your vote.”

  “This has never been a question about safety, Captain, it’s a question of whether the ungodly costs associated with keeping these armadas at sea is still worth it. Twenty billion to build a single carrier group, another 12 billion a year just to keep all our CVBGs operational.”

  “Maintaining a forward presence isn’t cheap.”

  “Yes, but is it still our best strategy? As research into new high-tech systems accelerates, delaying purchases even a few more years may yield a full generation of advantages. Why waste money on systems that may become obsolete before we even put them into service? There’s a growing consensus among my colleagues on Capitol Hill that the carrier groups have become antiquated. Face it, Captain, Aegis may protect your ship in open waters, but at close range, these new Chinese Silkworms and Russian supersonic missiles become too fast and too maneuverable to intercept. The evil empire’s gone, Hatcher. Our new enemies lurk in tight, coastal hot spots like the Strait of Hormuz. What good is a brand-new 6-billion-dollar aircraft carrier if we’re afraid to use it?”

  Hatcher removes his cap, wiping the sweat from his receding hairline. “Tell you what, Congressman—if you and your colleagues on Capitol Hill know a better way of kicking some third world dictator’s ass halfway across the globe, then I suggest you fund it—otherwise, give us what we need to do our goddamn jobs.”

  Atlantic Ocean: 197 nautical miles due west of the Strait of Gibraltar 850 feet below the surface

  16:48 hours

  The beast slows, the luminescent glow from its bloodred eyes violating the otherwise ebony depths. A disturbance stirs the bottom silt as a dozen life-forms emerge, as if birthed, from the creature’s dark underbelly. Moving ahead, they hover in formation, their own red eyes blazing green in the abyss as they await instructions from their parent.

  The devilfish settles gently on the ocean floor, displacing half an acre of sand and debris.

  A bioelectrical impulse is transmitted.

  The monster’s brood races ahead to attack the approaching fleet.

  Rocky Jackson jumps at the sudden flurry of whistles and clicks. She adjusts her headphones and stares at the SQR-19’s sonar monitor.

  “What do you hear?” the XO, Commander Strejcek, asks.

  “Ambient sounds, sir, but they weren’t there a second ago.”

  Strejcek picks up a headset and listens. “Hmm, biologics. Sound like orca.” Strejcek points to the blips on the sonar monitor. Twelve dots disperse, spreading out in formation across the screen. “They’re hunting. Watch—the pod will surround the school of fish, then blast them with echolocation, stunning them and driving them to the surface. Saw it on the Discovery Channel last month. Extraordinary creatures.”

  Strejcek walks away, obviously satisfied with his own conclusion.

  Fish? I don’t hear any fish? Rocky presses the headphones tighter to her ears, then maxes out the volume. The clicks reverberate in greater clarity.

  A quick glance at her sensors—the Jacksonville is moving to periscope depth. Rocky engages the spread spectrum stealth communicator and its conformal phased-array antenna and sends out a tightly beamed encrypted message. She waits, hoping the sub’s antenna has come out of the water.

  JACKSONVILLE—PLEASE CONFIRM IDENTIFICATION OF OBJECTS.

  The small objects disperse, the first five closing rapidly on the keels of the CVBG’s forward vessels. Rocky waits, nibbling on her unpolished fingernails, alarm gathering viscerally within her.

  A message appears. BIOLOGICS. CLASSIFICATION: ORCA.

  She stares at her console as four of the “Orcas” move directly beneath the Ronald Reagan’s keel. The creatures slow, as if drawn to the carrier’s propellers.

  Then she hears it—very faint—masked beneath the noise coming from the fleet’s screws.

  The sound of small hydropropulsion engines …

  “Commander, something’s not right—” She turns.

  Strejcek is gone.

  The explosions toss her from her chair, slamming her facefirst into the console.

  Aboard the USS Jacksonville

  The sonar technician turns to his supervisor, the twenty-year-old ensign’s face pale. “Multiple explosions, sir. Sounds like heavy damage. Jesus, the carrier’s taking on water—”

  The Jacksonville’s sonar supervisor grabs the 1-MC, his heart pounding in his chest. “Conn, sonar—multiple torpedoes in the water! Bearing one-zero-five, range eight thousand yards. Torpedoes are Chinese, SET-53s. Sir, two of the torpedoes have acquired the Hampton.”

  “Battle stations! Officer of the Deck, come to course one-seven-zero.” Commander Kevin O’Rourke’s skin tingles, as if he is about to step off a precipice. He turns to his diving officer as a dozen more men rush to take positions in the control room. “Dive, make your depth six hundred feet. WEPS, get me a firing solution—”

  The weapons supervisor sounds stunned. “Trying, sir, but nothing’s coming up on the BSY-1—
”

  “Conn, sonar, I’m picking up a flurry of cavitation … it’s coming from the seafloor, two thousand yards dead ahead. Sir, something massive just rose off the bottom—”

  “Right full rudder, all ahead flank—”

  “Conn, sonar, two torpedoes in the water! Bearing, one-seven-zero, coming straight at us—”

  “Change course, come to two-seven-zero, thirty degrees down on the fairwater planes.”

  Helmsman Mike Schultz is seventeen and fresh out of high school, a junior sailor piloting a sixty-nine-hundred-ton, nuclear-powered attack sub. Schultz wipes the sweat from his palms, then pushes down on the steering wheel before him, maneuvering the Jacksonville’s fairwater planes, which protrude like small wings from the submarine’s sail.

  “Launch countermeasures, both launchers.”

  The chief repeats the captain’s orders.

  “Conn, sonar, one of the torpedoes fell for the countermeasures, the other two fish have acquired and are homing. Bearing two-one-zero, best range twelve hundred yards—”

  “Launch the NAE. Reload both launchers with ADC’s. Helm, right full rudder—”

  “Conn—sonar, torpedoes still with us … six hundred yards … impact in sixty seconds.”

  The perceived temperature within the suddenly claustrophobic steel chamber is rising.

  Petty Officer Third Class Leonard Cope stares at his console, fighting to breathe, sweat dripping on his monitor. “Conn, sonar, torpedo impact in thirty seconds—”

  “Rig ship for impact—”

  “Conn, sonar, I’ve got a bearing, very faint—”

  “Identify—”

  “No known registry on the computer database, but goddamn this thing’s big.”

  “Firing point procedures—Sierra-1, ADCAP torpedo. Make tubes one and two ready in all respects.”

  “Aye, sir. Tubes one and two ready in all respects.”