Goliath

by Steve Alten

  Rocky pauses, wondering if she’s getting too technical.

  “Go on,” the president urges, “we’re with you. You say this bacterium is coated with silicon?”

  “Yes, sir. The bacteria represent what had been the missing link between traditional silicon hardware and the new bioware. With Simon Covah’s help, Dr. Goode successfully developed genetically altered clones of an original bacterium, each species capable of performing distinct computational tasks. These programmable critters, as she called them, evolved independently, allowing them to search a solution space for answers, performing evolutionary algorithms at unprecedented speeds. What’s more, they interface perfectly with silicon components. Silicon chips incorporate a binary code of zeros and ones. DNA code is digital, utilizing four symbols: A, T, C, and G, which correspond to the four nucleic acids which make up DNA.”

  Rocky stops, realizing from their looks that she has gone too “high-tech” on her superiors.

  “Commander, in a nutshell, what can Sorceress do?”

  “The question is what can’t she do. The system’s DNA strands enable its biochemical brain to process and store far more information—approximately ten to the tenth power greater—than even the most massive electronic supercomputer made.”

  “Incredible …”

  “Sorceress is a prototype, sir. The system was to represent the birth of a new generation of computers, designed to reproduce, evolve, and improve itself every moment it was running.”

  “Evolve?” The president looks concerned. “Evolve in what way?”

  “Dr. Goode designed Sorceress to be self-repairing, its components engineered to self-improve in accuracy and efficiency with each new generation of bacteria processed. The bacteria themselves were engineered as facultative anaerobes, which thrive in a variety of environments and can efficiently metabolize nutrients, which are constantly generated by Sorceress’s internal recycling system.”

  More confused looks.

  “In essence, sir, Sorceress was programmed with a simple prime directive: to learn.”

  “Not sure I like the sound of that,” the president says. “Sir, without Dr. Goode involved, I seriously doubt Simon Covah could have completed the computer’s engineering.”

  Nunziata does not look convinced. “Where is Dr. Goode? How do we know she isn’t involved in any of this?”

  The Bear glances down at the Secretary of State. “Dr. Goode is apolitical and averse to any sort of violence. I can assure you, she had nothing to do with Covah’s espionage.”

  “She designed Sorceress, General,” the president retorts. “She should be at this briefing.”

  “Mr. President, Elizabeth Goode vehemently opposed placing Sorceress aboard the Goliath, or any weapons platform, for that matter.”

  Secretary Nunziata stands, circling the conference table like a predator. “Director Pertic says this Covah character hijacked the sub with a crew of seven. How many men does it actually take to operate Goliath?”

  “Seven would be sufficient,” Rocky answers.

  “Potentially none,” Gunnar states.

  “None?” The secretary looks shocked. “A sub this large—without a crew? Is that true, Commander?”

  Rocky shoots Gunnar a hard look. “No, sir. Not without Sorceress.”

  “Assume the worst, Commander. What if this computer brain is on board the Goliath?”

  “Then, theoretically, yes, the sub could become self-sufficient. Every compartment aboard the Goliath contains visual, acoustic, and voice-activated sensor arrays, allowing Sorceress to monitor every station twenty-four hours a day. The engine room, reactor room, weapons, control room, life-support systems—all were designed to be controlled by the central computer.”

  “What about chores involving physical manipulation, say the loading of a torpedo?”

  “Goliath’s weapons bays and loading compartments have been equipped with the latest robotic arms. All watertight doors and hatches possess pneumatic pistons that can be opened or sealed by Sorceress within seconds.”

  “And how does Sorceress receive its orders?”

  “The captain relays commands through a master control station located on the conn, although I wouldn’t be surprised if Covah’s developed a voice-activated system by now. Again, Mr. President, the chances of Covah having Sorceress on board are remote, at best.”

  “What about weapons? What’s this thing armed with?”

  “Our version of the Goliath contained two weapons bays, one located in each forward compartment of the sub’s wings. Each bay contains three torpedo tubes. Twelve pairs of vertical launch silos are housed within her spine, along with twenty-four surface-to-air missile tubes and two 20-mm guns, which protrude behind the stingray’s head like horns.

  “Based on the attack on the Jacksonville and Hampton,” General Jackson interrupts, “we know she’s heavily armed with Chinese 533-mm torpedoes, which don’t have the range of our own Mk-48s.”

  “Yes,” Rocky says, “but Goliath’s sensor array can program its weapons to act as antitorpedo torpedoes, which means she’s capable of intercepting another sub’s incoming projectiles before they can strike.”

  “I want to know more about her launch capabilities,” the president interrupts.

  “Yes, sir. The ship’s missile silos were designed to launch our newest Tomahawk cruise missile, but the system can easily be adapted to accommodate other SLAMs.”

  “Tell us about these remote minisubs, Commander,” General Ben-Meir says.

  Rocky changes the image. A sleek submersible appears before them, its shape matching that of a hammerhead shark, except for its smooth hydrodynamic curves and tail fin, which houses a small pump-jet propulsor.

  “The Goliath’s minisubs were designed by Gunnar Wolfe,” says Rocky. “Why don’t we let him explain them.”

  Nunziata turns to Gunnar. “Go on, Captain.”

  Gunnar stares at the original drawings he had sketched years earlier. A lifetime ago …

  “For the record, these subs were intended to be piloted by Navy SEALS and used during covert—”

  “Just tell us how the damn things work,” Nunziata snaps.

  Gunnar stares at the image revolving in midair. “The Hammerhead minisub is a ROSAV, or Remotely Operated Submersible Attack Vehicle, based on the same concept used by our Unmanned Aerial Vehicles. As you can see, the vehicle resembles the contours of a hammerhead shark—”

  “Why?” the president interrupts.

  “Maneuverability and reconnaissance. The hammerhead shark allows for the best hydrodynamic performance while offering an acceptable and intimidating camouflage. Sensors in the dorsal fin enable Goliath’s computer to scan enemy shorelines without appearing suspicious.”

  “How many of these Hammerheads does Covah have?” Pertic asks.

  “The Goliath’s hangar deck was designed to support twelve minisubs, all of which were housed in docking stations along the underside of the mother ship’s belly. Each minisub is remotely linked to Sorceress.”

  “Again, you’re assuming the computer’s been activated,” Austin Tapscott chimes in.

  “Sorceress was Simon’s baby,” Gunnar says. “In my opinion, he couldn’t have hunted down the carrier fleet without it.”

  “So says you,” Rocky interrupts.

  Gunnar ignores her. “Within each shark’s bow is a small, high-pressure launch tube capable of firing a minitorpedo.”

  “Powerful enough to take out a carrier?” asks the president.

  “No,” Gunnar answers. “They were designed to disable another submarine’s screw. My guess is Covah used platter mines to sink the fleet.” He points to the three-dimensional design. “See here? Concealed beneath the Hammerhead’s belly are a pair of three-pronged mechanical claws—claspers—capable of transporting and attaching underwater mines to the keels of enemy ships.”

  Secretary Ayers turns to Rocky. “Do you concur, Commander? Is this what destroyed our fleet?”

  “It
makes sense, sir. Ship-to-ship radio contact underwater is nearly impossible. Goliath communicates to its minisubs by a form of acoustics similar to echolocation. The underwater transmission resembles the sounds emitted by orcas. I heard that clicking sound just before the attack on the CVBG, but … it was too late.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” President Edwards says. “General Ben-Meir, what are we doing to stop this thing?”

  “Sir,” Ben-Meir clears his throat, “at this point we can’t even find it, let alone stop it.”

  The president’s gaunt face flushes red. “Is that what you recommend I tell the American people, General? That we can’t find the goddamn thing, let alone stop it?”

  General Jackson raises an index finger, gaining the president’s attention. “May I suggest, sir, that we announce nothing, at least not yet.”

  “Thousands of sailors are dead, General. How do we justify our silence?”

  “Covah had little difficulty tracking down our CVBG. In my opinion, he must have other operatives working within the Armed Forces. We need to flush them out before we set any plan in motion. We need to keep this operation on a need-to-know basis.”

  “Agreed,” Secretary Ayers says. “Naval Ops has a dozen search-and-rescue vessels heading into the battle zone, including the USS Parche, which can use its remote cameras to analyze the wreckage. We need to maintain silence about this incident, at least until we’ve gathered sufficient information to formulate a plan of action.”

  “And how do we protect our search-and-rescue boats?” Nunziata asks.

  “Our P-3 Orion sub hunters have orders to scour the sea with sonar buoys to protect the ships within the target zone. We’ll need to alert our submarine commanders, but I concur with General Jackson. Let’s keep a tight lid on this thing until we can at least assess the damage, inside and out.”

  The Bear looks his daughter squarely in the eye. “In the meantime, Commander Jackson will begin assembling her old design team.”

  “My old team?”

  “That’s right. I’ve already alerted officials at NUWC to make arrangements to reopen the Keyport facility. Your people conceived this monster, Commander. Now you’re going to figure out a way to stop it.”

  “As human beings, we are endowed with freedom of choice, and we cannot shuffle off our responsibilities upon the shoulders of God or Nature. We must shoulder it ourselves.”

  —Arnold J. Toynbee

  “I am prepared to die. After my death, I wish an autopsy on me to be performed to see if there is any mental disorder.”

  —Charles Whitman, mass murderer who shot forty-six people from a bell tower at the University of Texas

  “I am completely normal. Even while I was carrying out the task of extermination I lived a normal life.”

  —Rudolf Hess, Nazi commandant of Auschwitz concentration camp

  “I consider myself a normal, average girl.”

  —Penny Bjorkland, an eighteen-year-old who murdered a gardener just to see if she could do it

  CHAPTER 5

  Identity: Stage Two:

  I can do more than survive;

  I can compete and fulfill more of my needs.

  —Deepak Chopra

  Atlantic Ocean

  206 nautical miles due west of the Strait of Gibraltar

  The titanium-alloy-and-steel beast circles slowly, hovering like a hungry predator above the mountain of twisted metal that had once been the USS Ronald Reagan. The contour of the massive stealth sub is nearly identical to that of Dasyatis americana—the southern stingray. The control room, representing the animal’s head, rises a full two stories above the tip of the flat, triangular bow before tapering back to the elevated titanium-spiked spine, concealing its twenty-four vertical-launch missile silos. The outer hull is black, layered with thousands of acoustic tiles, designed to absorb sound. Concealed within the sheathed, flat curvature of the keel are five immense assemblies, each resembling a lamp shade turned sideways. These are Goliath’s pump-jet propulsors—quiet-running engines that channel the sea rather than churn it like a propeller, enabling the hydrodynamic vessel to achieve tactical speeds and jetlike maneuvers never before realizable by a submarine.

  Within the bow of the beast is a full suite of sensors, including optical, thermal, and acoustical arrays, housed on either side of the stingray’s spur. Trailing the leviathan in the shape of a ray’s tail, is a sophisticated towed sonar array that is sensitive enough to detect the sounds of shrimp feeding more than five miles away. Each of these sensors, part of Goliath’s central nervous system, is linked to Sorceress, the components of the biochemical brain occupying a double-hulled, self-contained vault, located within the entire middle deck–forward compartment. This sensitive area remains sealed off from the rest of the ship behind a three-foot-thick steel vault door.

  At the current depth, the only structures visible along the ebony hull are two bloodred panels of reinforced, crystalline-enhanced Lexan glass situated like bat’s eyes in the stingray’s raised head. These fifteen-foot-wide, six-foot-high teardrop viewports possess titanium alloy lids that can be quickly sealed to protect the eighteen-inch-thick, pressure-proof glass at a moment’s notice.

  Simon Bela Covah stands before one of the scarlet viewports in the Goliath’s control room, gazing into the abyss as his mind wanders the chambers of his own tortured soul. Listen closely and you can hear the whirring of his brain, the gray matter perpetually pounding away in his skull.

  Your father was a seafaring man, born in Onega, a port city close to the naval base in Severodvinsk. Your mother worked in a sweatshop sewing buttons on uniforms eight hours a day while caring for your four brothers and sister. You are the youngest of the Covah clan, the runt of the litter, living in a Russian village so remote it is often left off maps. There are no boys your age in the barn-size schoolhouse, but your mother enrolls you anyway, because you learned to read a newspaper when you were only two. You are an oddity even without your flaming red hair, and your only friends are numbers. Most of your teachers predict you will be a great mathematician … if you survive childhood.

  The contrast between Covah’s intellectual and physical beauty is startling. Thick rust-colored hairs from his mustache and goatee yield to a patchwork of smooth pinkish flesh just above his mouth. The skin graft rises up to join the triangular metal plate that had been surgically attached to replace the mangled remains of what had been Covah’s right cheekbone.

  The thumb and two remaining digits of Covah’s mangled right hand absentmindedly work their way across the right side of his reconstructed face. Simon Covah has no right ear, just a crater of scar tissue that meshes with the rest of his hairless scalp. He is not bald. His head is always kept freshly shaved, a last trace of vanity to prevent the remains of his cinnamon hair from sprouting in unwanted clumps.

  The recently increased dosages of chemotherapy have all but eliminated Covah’s need to shave, the poisonous pills reducing the Russian refugee to a mere shadow of his former self.

  Thomas Chau approaches. The Chinese engineer clears his throat to get Covah’s attention. “Simon, your computer indicates antisubmarine helicopters are approaching.”

  Located dead center, and forward of the conn, is the elevated platform of Central Command, a semicircular configuration of computers originally designed to link Goliath’s brain to its human shipmates. Although the sub is now capable of receiving verbal commands, Covah still prefers the comforts of the Central Command’s perch. Without saying a word, he ascends the five steps and takes his place at the half-moon-shaped console.

  High on the forward wall, positioned just below the arched ceiling, is a giant viewing screen linked to Goliath’s sensor array and electro-optics suite. Bordering either side of the screen are sensor orbs—grapefruit-sized “eyeballs” that glow scarlet red when active. Each sensor orb contains internal optical scanners and a microphone and speaker assembly. Located in every department, these eyeballs allow Goliath’s computer brain to visually an
d acoustically monitor and access nearly every square foot of the sub.

  “Sorceress, report.” Simon Covah speaks English, the common language of his multinational crew. The dialect is heavily Russian, his voice—an elegant rasp that frequently catches on the dry scar tissue in his throat—another lasting gift from his Serbian torturers.

  In sharp contrast, the computerized voice reverberating throughout the conn is distinctly female—smooth and soothing—the inflection patterned after that of Covah’s late wife, Anna.

  FOUR ANTISUBMARINE HELICOPTERS APPROACHING FROM THE NORTHEAST. TIME TO INTERCEPT AT PRESENT COURSE AND SPEED IS THREE MINUTES, TWENTY-TWO SECONDS. EVASIVE MANEUVERS WILL BEGIN IN TWO MINUTES, FORTY-FIVE SECONDS UNLESS OVERRIDE IS ENGAGED.

  A digital clock appears in the upper right corner of the screen, counting down the helicopters’ time to arrival.

  Covah looks below at his engineer. “Mr. Chau, what have—” The words catch. Covah reaches to his belt, detaches the water bottle, lifts it to his lips, and swallows, the wetness allowing him to regain his voice. “What have we been able to salvage from the carrier fleet?”

  “Perhaps you should ask her.”

  Covah detects the heavy sarcasm. “You have a problem, Mr. Chau?”

  “The crew and I feel obsolete. Your sub planned and initiated the entire attack on the American fleet before consulting us—before we even knew they were in striking distance.”

  “Goliath is not just a submarine. It is a vehicle with a brain, a thinking machine encased in a steel hull. Sorceress does not require our permission to function.”

  “Precisely what concerns us. Your computer brain seems to be functioning more independently since we left Bo Hai Gulf.”