Goliath

by Steve Alten

  Michael Flynn is nearing the end of his work shift when he locates the object.

  “Conn, sonar—Skipper, I’ve got a tonal contact, bearing three-zero-five. Range, twenty-eight miles.”

  “Sonar, conn, is it the Typhoon?”

  “Stand by, sir.” Flynn focuses on his screen as he listens intently to the sounds reverberating in his headphones. “Conn, sonar, I’m confirming twin, seven-blade, fixed-pitch screws. Sonar intelligence cross-references the tonals to a Typhoon-class submarine, number TK-20. Blade rate indicates her speed holding steady at six knots.”

  “Nice work, Michael-Jack. Designate sonar contact Sierra-1.” Cubit hangs up the 1-MC. “Helm, plot an intercept course. Officer of the Deck, slow to four knots and bring us to periscope depth.”

  “Aye, sir, slowing to four knots, coming up to periscope depth. Steady at sixty feet.”

  “Very well. Chief of the Watch, raise number one BRA-34.”

  First Class Petty Officer Robert Wilkens raises the sub’s multipurpose communications antennas while Lieutenant Commander Mitch Friedenthal mans the Type-18 periscope, taking a quick scan of the horizon. The Type-18 is equipped with both GPS (Global Positioning Satellite) and radar intercept capability. While Friedenthal looks around, technicians in the Electronic Support Measures (ESM) room use the periscope’s radar signals to search the skies.

  “No close contacts.”

  “Radio, Captain, contact COMSUBLANT (Commander—Submarine Force Atlantic) and send the message that we’ve located the Typhoon.”

  “Aye, sir.” A pause, then the radioman’s voice returns. “Captain, we’re receiving an incoming transmission on the VLF.”

  Cubit and his XO make eye contact. “Very well. Commander Dennis, you’re with me. Mr. Friedenthal, you have the conn.”

  “Aye, sir,” the OOD repeats, “I have the conn.”

  Twenty-three-year-old Communications Officer Drew Laird is a strapping young man with broad shoulders and a baby face to go with his mop of sandy blond hair. There is a look of trepidation in his blue eyes as he hands his CO the folded transmission.

  “Easy, Laird, take a breath, you’re turning blue.”

  “Aye, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Cubit opens the encoded message and reads it. “Christ.” The captain stares at the paper for a long moment, then rubs the sweat from his face. “XO, take the ship to one-five-zero feet, make your course three-zero-five, ahead one-third. Then give me a few minutes and meet me in my stateroom.”

  Ten minutes later, Tom Cubit sits alone in his cabin, rereading the transmission from Naval Intelligence for the fourth time. A knock, and Commander Dennis enters. “Sir?”

  “Sit.” He hands his XO the sheet of paper.

  “Jesus—this thing wiped out the entire CVBG?” Bo Dennis’s hands are shaking. “I feel like somebody just punched me in the gut.”

  “Me too.” Cubit hands him a bottled water. “I’ve been sitting here, thinking. I bet I’ve served with at least a dozen men who were aboard the Jacksonville . Altogether, I probably went to OCS with a hundred of the officers who died aboard those ships.”

  “Tom, this attack sub, the Goliath, do you know anything about it?”

  “Just what’s in the message. Never heard of a biochemical computer before.”

  “I have. My wife works for Hewlett-Packard. They started playing with the technology back in the late 1990s. If it works like it’s supposed to, this sub’s gonna be damn hard to track.”

  “Tracking the Goliath is not part of our orders. We’re to shadow the Typhoon, taking all precautions. Have the OOD take us into a sprint-and-drift mode. Alert all sonar technicians to be cognizant of any biologics closing within ten thousand yards of the ship. Have Flynnie access the BSY-1 library. I want him to listen to sonar recordings of Seawolf’s pump-jet propulsor. If we don’t have any, tell him to try the U.K.’s Trafalgar-class, they were the first to use that type of system. Then have the department heads meet me in the wardroom in fifteen minutes.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  There are several different ways a submarine commander can disseminate information aboard his ship. Some COs prefer to broadcast the news over the 1-MC, the sub’s intercom, while others choose to keep their crew in the dark, allowing the information to leak out slowly through word of mouth. Tom Cubit realized the news regarding the sinking of the carrier battle group could devastate the morale of his men, but he also needed them to remain in a high state of alert if they were to have any chance of surviving a confrontation with the Goliath. After briefing his officers, he allowed them ten minutes to speak to their men before addressing the entire crew over the ship’s intercom.

  “This is the captain. By now, you’ve heard about the attack and sinking of the Ronald Reagan and her carrier group. All of us lost good friends, and the devastation of this unprovoked attack is surely taking a heavy toll on each one of us. While our nation can afford time out to grieve and attempt to recover from the initial shock of this attack, we must be ready now. Everyone aboard this vessel has a responsibility to each member of the crew and to this ship, and your ability to focus can mean the difference between life and death.

  “Our mission is not to join in the hunt for the Goliath, but to locate and shadow the Typhoon TK-20, which we believe to be heading into the Persian Gulf. As you know, relations between the United States and Russia are a bit tense right now, the sale of the Typhoon to the Iranians no doubt adding salt to the wound. If the Goliath is still lurking somewhere in our vicinity, then she may cross our path, forcing a confrontation. Gentlemen, your officers and I have the utmost confidence that each one of you will stay focused and perform your duties as professionals. While the vessel that sank the fleet may be faster than Old Ironsides and more difficult to detect, remember that we have the more experienced crew. Experience makes the hunter, gentlemen, not the gun. Rig for silent running. Captain out.”

  Cubit hangs up the 1-MC. “Sonar, conn, how close are we to the Typhoon?”

  “Conn, sonar, four miles. Contact has changed course to two-one-zero, now heading southwest, increasing speed to ten knots.”

  “Officer of the Deck, make your depth five hundred feet. Bring us to within three miles of the Typhoon’s baffles, then match speed and course.”

  “Aye, Skipper, making my depth five hundred feet, coming to course two-one-zero. I am closing to within three miles of the contact, then matching speed and course.”

  Norwegian Sea

  406 nautical miles southwest of Bear Island

  The dark, reinforced-steel hull of the Typhoon, nearly two football fields in length, pushes silently through the frigid waters of the North Atlantic as it heads south toward Iceland.

  Captain Romanov straps himself into his command chair. Although his ship’s passive sonar reports no tonal bearings, experience tells him that an American submarine, probably a Los Angeles-class attack sub, is hovering somewhere in the vicinity. “Helm, hard right rudder, reverse engines.”

  “Aye, Kapitan, hard right rudder, reversing engines.”

  The Typhoon’s bow swings sharply to starboard, the great ship cavitating as its propellers fight to keep their hold on the sea.

  Aboard the USS Scranton

  “Conn, sonar, contact is coming about, changing course to three-three-zero, reducing speed to five knots.”

  “Helm, all stop.”

  “All stop, aye, sir.”

  Long minutes pass as the Scranton hovers silently in five hundred feet of water, waiting for its Russian quarry to resume her course.

  “Conn, sonar. Sir, I’m registering ambient sounds, approaching from the northeast. Range, twenty-two-thousand yards, closing at six knots.”

  Coming up behind us. Cubit’s pulse quickens. “Helm, all stop. Sonar, what is the classification of the contacts?”

  The sonar supervisor’s voice answers over the intercom. “Sir, initial classification is biologics. Believe they may be humpbacks.”

  Cubit closes his ey
es. The attack on the Jacksonville and Hampton had been preceded by cetacean acoustics. At this time of year, the North Atlantic was teeming with migrating whales, all heading south for the winter to breed. “Sonar, Captain, I want to know if those whales accelerate toward our boat.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Ease up, Cubit, don’t go paranoid. It’s a big ocean out there, filled with thousands of whales. Don’t do anything to spook the Typhoon … or your crew.

  “Conn, sonar, the Typhoon has resumed its course—two-one-zero, increasing speed to fifteen knots.”

  Not yet, give him some distance … “Steady, gentlemen.”

  “Eighteen knots—”

  “Very well. Helm, all ahead one-third—”

  “Aye, sir. All ahead one-third.”

  “Conn, sonar, I’m getting another set of ambient sounds. Very faint.”

  “Belay that order, helm. All stop.”

  “All stop, aye, sir.”

  “Sonar, Captain, what do you hear?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It’s gone now.”

  Cubit pushes past his officer of the deck and heads forward, joining his sonar supervisor, who is leaning over Michael Flynn’s luminescent green console. “Talk to me, Michael-Jack. What did you hear?”

  “I don’t know, Skipper, it was sort of a whooshing noise. Like sand blowing away from the bottom.”

  “Sand?”

  “Yes, sir. Lots of sand. Like something massive just lifted off the seafloor.”

  “Hell is full of good meanings and best wishes.”

  —George Herbert

  “Hell is other people.”

  —Jean-Paul Sartre

  CHAPTER 7

  Kingston Inn

  Kingston, Washington

  The hotel room is musty, its drab olive green carpet reeking of the decrepit odors of mildew. Gunnar lies spread-eagled on the king-size bed. He stares at the television screen, the football game growing hazy as his eyes begin glazing over from exhaustion.

  The knock startles him awake. He pulls back the drab, mothball-scented curtains, takes a peek outside, then quickly unchains the door.

  The woman enters. “Shut the door. We don’t have much time.”

  Gunnar obeys, his head still in a jet-lag fog. “Jesus, what are you doing here? I thought—”

  “Don’t think, sit and listen.” She checks the bathroom, verifying they are alone.

  Gunnar smooths the entanglement of bedclothes, then sits on the edge of the mattress, watching as she leans back against the dresser to face him, her arms folded in displeasure across her wiry frame.

  Dr. Elizabeth Goode has the pale complexion and demeanor of someone who spends the majority of each workday’s eighteen waking hours in a windowless laboratory. The shoulder-length hair is still brown, though graying around the part. The gaunt face—librarian pretty—is still devoid of makeup. Dark circles shadow the hazel eyes—eyes that take in everything. “You look like hell, G-man.”

  “Been there.”

  “No, you’ve been to purgatory. Hell is what’s going to break out unless you stop Simon.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “Because this is all your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “That’s right. If you had followed my instructions and downloaded the virus when I told you to, then you’d be watching television with Rocky and your 2.5 kids right now, instead of listening to some old lab rat babble in this dumpy motel room.”

  “Well, guess I screwed up. Next time, do it yourself.”

  “There won’t be a next time, but there will be another Goliath.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Dr. Goode shoots him a chastising look. “Don’t be so naive. You really think the DoD was going to walk away from this project, just because of a mere 2-billion-dollar setback? Goliath’s sister ship, the Colossus, has been under construction since your second year in prison.”

  “Jesus …” Gunnar feels light-headed.

  “She was built in total secrecy; even Congress doesn’t know about it. Vice President Maller covertly diverted funds from the Energy Department for years. The entire base is run by the NSA like a military prison. And there’s no almost crossover in personnel from the GOLIATH Project.”

  “Almost?”

  “Not me, I flatly refused. It was never my decision to put Sorceress on board the Goliath, and I wasn’t about to let that happen again. Colossus is being outfitted with the Virginia-class computers. The ship won’t be autonomous, but it’s still the second-most dangerous thing in the sea.”

  “What are you asking me to do?”

  “Take Jackson’s offer. Rejoin his team.”

  “Forget it. I don’t even know why Jackson needs me?”

  “It wasn’t Jackson who requested you. It was David Paniagua.”

  “David?” Mention of Dr. Goode’s former assistant stirs distant memories.

  “David’s in charge of the COLOSSUS Project.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “David was appointed when I refused. He has a plan, one that can get you and an infiltration team aboard the Goliath. You can retake the ship before Simon does any more damage.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then the holocaust that follows will be on your head.”

  She starts for the door, then turns. “Gunnar, I’m sorry for everything that’s happened, but you have to finish this business. Be careful.”

  “Yeah … thanks.”

  She offers a consoling look, then leaves.

  Gunnar watches from the window as she crosses the street and climbs inside a waiting car.

  Elizabeth Goode leans back against the gray leather seat as the Lincoln swerves into traffic.

  “So?”

  “He’ll do it.” She looks away, swallowing the lump rising in her throat.

  General Jackson nods, satisfied. “Thank you, Dr. Goode. And now, you and your sons are free to leave the country.”

  Norwegian Sea

  Aboard the USS Scranton

  Tom Cubit leans forward, staring at the BSY-1 low-frequency passive and active search-and-attack sonar. “Where is she, Flynnie?”

  “If I’m right, sir, she’s directly behind the Typhoon.”

  “You think the Typhoon knows she’s in her baffles?”

  “I doubt it, Skipper. She’s quiet, just a whisper.” He points to the pattern of green snow running vertically along his screen. “Every few seconds I get a whiff of a ghost signature, nothing solid. Those damn propulsors are smooth as silk.”

  “How big is this thing?”

  “Hard to tell without going active. If I’m right, she’s big, as wide as the Typhoon is long, only real flat, like she has wings. She’s smooth and curved in all the right places. It’s like trying to find a Stealth bomber. Sonar can’t seem to gain a foothold on her.”

  “Does she know we’re here?”

  “No, sir, I don’t think so.”

  “Let’s keep it that way. XO, take us to battle stations, rig ship for ultraquiet running. Sonar, how far ahead of us is the Typhoon?”

  “Range, twenty thousand yards. She’s staying on course two-one-zero, moving away from us at a steady fifteen knots. The second sonar contact is trailing about three thousand yards in her baffles, matching course and speed. Flynnie’s right, the Typhoon doesn’t seem to know the contact’s there.”

  “Designate second sonar contact Sierra-2. XO, get me a firing solution.”

  “Aye, sir, already working on it.”

  “Conn, Captain, come ahead one-third, stay on course two-one-zero. Michael-Jack, think you can track Sierra-2?”

  “Now that I know what to listen for, yes, but only over a very short range. I can’t really hear her, I’m just sort of focusing in on the dead spot she’s leaving in the water.”

  “Do whatever it takes, just don’t lose her.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Cubit heads back to the control room. “XO, w
here’s my firing solution?” “Sorry, sir, FCS is unable to maintain a solid fix. The contact keeps maneuvering, and sonar only has a weak trace. Sierra-2’s just too flat in the water.”

  “Then let’s change the angle. Sonar, conn, estimate Sierra-2’s depth.”

  “Best guess—five hundred feet, Captain.”

  “Chief, make your depth eight hundred feet, ten-degree down angle. Let’s see if we can sneak a peek under her skirt.”

  “Aye, Captain, making my depth eight hundred feet, ten-degree down angle.”

  The helmsman pushes down on the wheel. “Six hundred feet. Seven hundred—”

  “Captain, the BSY-1 has acquired a good tracking solution on Sierra-2.”

  “WEPS, Captain, match generated bearings. Flood tubes one and two. I want full safeties on. If we get a clear shot, we’ll take it.”

  Commander Dennis leans toward Cubit, and whispers, “We accidentally hit that Typhoon, and we could start World War III.”

  “Conn, sonar, I’m getting two more tonals, both originating from Sierra-2.”

  “Torpedoes?”

  “Negative, sir, they’re larger, moving out ahead of Sierra-2, heading for the Typhoon. Sir, I’m registering ambient sounds, like orca.”

  If they wanted to sink her, they’d have done it by now. What the hell are they doing? “Sonar, conn, designate new bearings Sierra-3 and Sierra-4. WEPS, conn, open outer doors for torpedo tubes one and two.”

  Aboard the Goliath

  A volumetric map of the vicinity appears on the large overhead control room monitor. Simon Covah stares at the display, the wave of adrenaline teasing a distant memory.

  You’re eight years old when your father returns from a six-month mission and declares he’s enrolled you in a boarding school in Moscow. You’re terrified inside, but you put on a brave face, because one less mouth to feed at home would make it easier on your poor mother. At the school, you become the object of ridicule, a slovenly carrottop too frail to compete on the playing field. So you turn inward, mastering your studies, becoming the youngest graduate in the history of the school. You do not feel your parents’ pride, your only motivation—to escape the school and its physics professor, a man whose sexual perversions will stain your psyche for the rest of your days.