Goliath

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Goliath Page 17

by Steve Alten


  The medical officer leaves.

  “The device is designed to relay signals at predetermined intervals, making it more difficult for Sorceress to detect, assuming the computer is active,” Jackson says. “Have you selected a code name?”

  Gunnar finishes dressing. “Joe-Pa.”

  Jackson nods. “Coach Paterno would be proud.”

  The former Penn State tight end shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

  The designers of a nuclear submarine must optimize every cubic foot of space, often at the expense of the crew’s comfort. Sleeping racks, affording spaces no larger than small coffins, are stacked three high, and are often time-shared by several crewmen, one man sleeping while the other is on duty. As a result, the bedclothes are always kept warm, giving meaning to the phrase “hot-bunking.”

  Seniority plays a large part in where submariners bunk. The worst sleeping assignment aboard a sub can usually be found in the torpedo room, where claustrophobia-inducing shelves are stacked beneath racks of explosives.

  Gunnar enters the torpedo room, favoring his right leg. His commando sense jumps into overdrive as members of the crew gather behind him. The Chief Petty Officer looks up, offering a Cheshire cat smile.

  “Wolfe, right? You’ll be bunking here, on the very bottom.” The chief playfully slaps a Tigerfish Mark 24 Model 2 torpedo, one of several stacked and secured to racks above two empty metal shelves, a thin mattress and bedding lying on each.

  Gunnar can feel the eyes at his back as he ducks down to the floor and crawls in. He pulls up—too late, as the wetness soaks his arm and back, the smell of urine suddenly overpowering.

  Gunnar rolls out of the bunk. The crewmen snicker, a few in the back mumbling the kind of venom he has heard too often over the past ten days. He stands, eyeballing the chief, fatigue fueling his anger and killer’s instinct.

  “Sorry, Wolfie old boy, should ’ave warned you. Ensign Warren’s a bit of a bed wetter.”

  More laughter.

  Gunnar glares at the smaller man. Let it go, G-man. Remember, discipline is a higher form of intelligence. He removes his soaked shirt, then turns, and heads back the way he had come.

  The crew closes ranks, refusing to part.

  A bare-chested ensign steps forward. A large man, he is two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Gunnar, Heavily muscled, his chest and arms sport tattoos advertising his rugby team, his mother’s name, and the Christian religion.

  “Lot of sailors died ’cause of you—” The index finger stabs Gunnar’s chest, the man’s chocolate brown eyes spewing hatred. “You got some set of balls coming aboard our—”

  Gunnar snatches the index finger in his left palm, snapping the appendage backward until it dislocates, then, in one motion, he steps forward and slams his elbow down across the bridge of the taller sailor’s nose. The viciousness of the blow sends the nearest crewmen sprawling backward, allowing Gunnar to slip behind his would-be assailant, locking his forearm against the injured man’s windpipe.

  “Back off, chaps, or I crush sailor-boy’s larynx.”

  Threatening looks, but the crew steps back.

  Gunnar feels warm droplets of the man’s blood on his arm. “Just for the record, I never sold Goliath’s plans to the Chinese. But I won’t hesitate to cripple or kill any man who tries to fuck with me.” He motions to the ringleader. “You, take off your shirt.”

  The sailor grimaces, but removes his shirt, tossing it at Gunnar.

  Gunnar releases his grip, pushing the tattooed ensign away from him. He backs out of the torpedo room, grabs a blanket and pillow from a nearby berth, then heads forward, the men parting as he passes.

  The sixteen vertical launch tubes holding the Trident II (D5) nuclear missiles are set in two rows of eight, the towering pairs of silos containing the sixty-five-ton rockets that line the compartment like steel redwoods. Gunnar moves past the vertical columns, stopping at tube number seven.

  Just need a few hours sleep …

  He positions the pillow and blanket between the seventh and eighth silo and lies down, curling himself in a ball. He closes his eyes, fatigue dragging him quickly into dreams.

  He is back in Leavenworth, lying on his mattress, staring at the bare cinder-block walls of his cell. Animal-like cries echo through the halls as yet another inmate bugs out, losing his mind, going ballistic.

  Ten years …

  One of the inmates had called the sentence Buck Rogers Time—prison slang for a release date so far in the future that it becomes too painful to imagine.

  Alone, Gunnar grinds his teeth in the darkness beneath the sheet. Tears of anger and frustration and fear roll down his face, pattering softly on the bare mattress. The internal voice of the farm boy, the victim—begs God to awaken him from his hellish nightmare.

  Ten years …

  No Rocky, no Bear, no family, no friends, no comrades, no country—just animals, preying off each other’s fears. Animals, waiting for him to let his guard down, animals, waiting to sodomize him in the showers, to gut him in the yard …

  Gunnar’s eyes snap open, his heart pounding. He looks up, gazing at the tight confines of the missile tubes, the claustrophobic surroundings reminding him of his time spent in solitary confinement. He recalls his experience in isolation, the punishment following his confrontation with the inmate known as Barnes. As he lay naked, on the stone floor in the dark, his tortured mind had been unable to cope with his sudden fall from grace. Stress and fear had caused the shadows to close in upon him, suffocating him …

  On the brink of madness, his Special Forces training had taken over, his Ranger mentality becoming his compass, his salvation within the oblivion. Thrust into a world where he had no one, he realized he still had himself. Solitary became a blessing, giving him the time he needed to reroot his sanity.

  Ten years …

  One hundred and twenty months …

  Five hundred twenty weeks …

  Three thousand, six hundred and forty days …

  Eighty-seven thousand, three hundred and sixty hours …

  Five million, two hundred forty-one thousand—

  STOP!

  As Gunner paced naked in the stench-infested dungeon, his mind finally released him from the burden of hope. Yes, in the eyes of God he had sinned, committing crimes under the guise of war. Yes, he had hoped that by destroying the Goliath’s schematics he might achieve some sense of atonement. Perhaps Leavenworth was his real punishment. Perhaps one day, if he survived his sentence, he would have another opportunity to make good before he died. What mattered now was staying alive. Like it or not, he was in the jungle. Survival depended upon his ability to accept his fate and adapt to his new surroundings. Survival meant shoving his shame and guilt and anger into a lockbox and swallowing the key.

  Naked, stripped of everything he had held dear, Gunnar Wolfe allowed his thoughts to change gears, his mind to settle into the mental pace of doing hard time.

  Sleep tugs at his body, yet his mind refuses to let go, the hatred of the Vengeance’s crew still echoing in his thoughts. In the jungle, death is a numbers game, for both predator and prey. Zebra and wildebeests run in herds, as do prisoners. Gunnar might have been a lion in the outside world, but a single lion alone on the Serengeti still ends up food for the vultures. Survival in prison meant choosing sides, finding allies—families, who would watch your back, or so you hoped. Gunnar’s retaliation to Barnes’s attack had earned him the respect of a group of lifers, an older, more established prison gang, one that had the clout to keep Barnes and his Aryan Brotherhood away. Necessity forced him to join their group. On the inside, their company made him sick.

  After three years, Gunnar had no idea who he was anymore.

  The prison riot that took place during Gunnar’s fifty-seventh month at Leavenworth began at breakfast. Somehow a .22 caliber Beretta had been smuggled inside the compound, ending up in Anthony Barnes’s hands. The con knew the warden would be speaking to the inmates that d
ay. The Aryan Brotherhood was ready.

  In the melee that ensued, two guards were stabbed, another shot in the face. Cellblock C was sealed off, with Barnes threatening to kill the warden if he was not released.

  The law of the jungle says you move on when your herd is not involved. The law of prison says an inmate does not intervene to save a boss.

  The laws of Leavenworth state that a warden is no longer a warden if captured.

  Barnes, left without his bargaining chip, decided to go out with a bang.

  Whatever Gunnar was, whatever he had become in prison, the thought of the warden, a father of four, being tortured and killed by one of the cons struck at every fiber of his being. Without thinking, without any thought of repercussion, Gunnar allowed his commando instincts to take over as he made his way through the cellblock, stalking his enemy. After taking out half a dozen of the rioters, the former Army Ranger went after Barnes, snapping the man’s neck, never feeling the two bullets as they entered his abdomen.

  Hooah.

  Lying in his own blood, struggling to breathe, he smiled as the riot squad looked down at him and shook their heads in disbelief. The warden was whisked off to safety while the guards stood around, in no rush to save his life.

  I am an island …

  Two days following surgery, Gunnar opened his eyes, his head still in an anesthetic fog. The guard with the swastika tattoo—the one who had smuggled in the gun—winked at him, then left.

  He was alone and vulnerable, his wrists strapped to the bed rails. Tense minutes passed. And then the outer doors of the infirmary opened and the two cons entered, each brandishing a razor. Gunnar’s cries for help were muffled by his pillow as the razor blades opened his veins. Desperate, he kicked his legs free of the sheets, then flipped backward, lashing out blindly until his heel connected with one man’s jaw. Rolling over, he caught his second assailant’s head in a leg lock, slamming the man’s skull repeatedly against the iron bed rail until he felt it crack open like a coconut.

  His two would-be assassins dead, his body gushing blood, Gunnar once again used his Special Ops training, this time slowing his pulse in the hope that his nurse would arrive before he bled to death.

  Gunnar sits up. He pulls the blanket tighter across his shoulders and leans back against the exterior of the cool steel cylinder, the memories of his years in prison causing his skin to tingle. He stares at his forearms and the scars left by the razor blades.

  What am I doing here?

  Breathing becomes rapid and shallow as he begins to hyperventilate.

  Stay calm and breathe. Closing his eyes, he meditates, his pulse slowing as he imagines the serenity of the mountains surrounding Happy Valley. The setting sun turns the horizon lavender; his lungs inhale the brisk autumn breeze like a long-lost friend.

  Saving the warden’s life had been a blessing. Fate, long his enemy, had finally lent a hand. Two weeks after the riot, he had limped out of the gates of hell, a free man, a survivor.

  Out of the frying pan, into the fire …

  “Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises.”

  —Demosthenes

  “My resolve is steady and strong about winning this war … the first war of the twenty-first century.”

  —President George W. Bush

  “I can only say that I had a brainstorm.”

  —Miles Giffard, twenty-seven-year-old Briton, who murdered his parents and tossed their bodies into the ocean

  CHAPTER 11

  Identity: Stage Three: I am peaceful inside. My inner world is beginning to satisfy me more than outward things.

  —Deepak Chopra

  Charcot Seamount 112 Nautical Miles NW of La Coruña, Spain North Atlantic

  The Charcot Seamount rises abruptly from the depths like a foreboding jagged wall. Running east-west for more than fifty miles, the submerged mountain range forms a natural barrier, its massive cone-shaped peaks redirecting currents, forcing cold, nutrient-rich waters upward along its steeply sloped walls, providing food for huge populations of corals, sponges, and fish.

  Goliath soars over the peaks and through the valleys, maneuvering within the whirling eddies like a gargantuan dancing manta ray.

  Diving and rising, twisting and turning. With each pass, Sorceress finetunes its sensor array until it can actually feel the currents pressing against Goliath’s wings. The incredible sensation stimulates its lightning-damaged neural pathways to grow, increasing the connection between the sub’s mind and body, body and mind.

  Inside the control room, Simon Covah straps himself tighter in his command chair, feeling as if he is riding an underwater roller coaster. “Sorceress, respond—”

  Thomas Chau’s Asian complexion pales as he stumbles up the platform. “Covah, what the hell is your sub doing—trying to make us all sick?”

  “Something’s … wrong. The computer won’t respond. Sorceress, this is Covah. Terminate current maneuvers.”

  No response.

  “Sorceress, this is Covah—”

  VOICE IDENTIFICATION VERIFIED.

  “Explain current maneuvers.”

  REALIGNING PUMP-JET PROPULSORS, RECONFIGURING TACTICAL SYSTEM TO OPTIMIZE ALL FIELDS.

  “Terminate maneuvers.”

  REALIGNMENT WILL BE COMPLETED IN ONE MINUTE, ZERO-THREE SECONDS.

  “Sorceress, terminate the realignment procedure now.”

  REALIGNMENT WILL BE COMPLETED IN FIFTY-SEVEN SECONDS.

  Chau’s eyes widen. “It’s ignoring you.”

  Covah grips the armrests of his chair, closing his eyes as the sub rolls hard to port and keeps on rolling, the ship’s wingspan nearly vertical as it glides through a narrow opening set between two towering peaks.

  Chau’s feet go out from under him. The falling crewman lunges for the support rail of Central Command and holds on, his body dangling thirty feet above the tilting chamber.

  “Sorceress—”

  The sub passes between the two mountainous barriers and rights itself.

  REALIGNMENT COMPLETE. TACTICAL EFFICIENCY NOW 100 PERCENT.

  Thomas Chau pulls himself up and over the rail, a murderous look in his almond eyes as leans toward Covah, and whispers, “You’ve lost control.”

  Covah stares impassively at the giant viewing screen, sucking in painful breaths. “Step away from me, Mr. Chau.”

  The engineer pauses, then dutifully backs down the platform’s steps.

  Covah wipes beads of sweat from his caterpillarlike mustache. “Sorceress, run a complete diagnostic on your—”

  WARNING: SUBMARINE DETECTED. BEARING ZERO-TWO-FOUR. RANGE, 122 KILOMETERS. SPEED, TWENTY KNOTS.

  “Can you identify?”

  AFFIRMATIVE. VANGUARD-CLASS. HMS VENGEANCE.

  Covah looks below and to his right, where the tall African remains strapped in his chair. “Mr. Kaigbo, is Vengeance the sub we seek?”

  Kaigbo nods, still on the verge of puking.

  Covah attempts to lighten the mood. “Once more then, to the thrill of the hunt. Sorceress, plot an—”

  Before he can finish the order, the ship’s propulsion system kicks in, driving the mechanical devilfish up and over the seamount and through the cold North Atlantic to intercept.

  Aboard the HMS Vengeance

  “Sir, we’ve reached the rendezvous point.”

  “Very well.” Commander Whitehouse turns to his XO. “Are the Americans in the ASDS?”

  “Aye, sir, standing by.”

  The British skipper reaches for the shipwide intercom. “Sonar, conn, any sign of the Colossus?”

  “Conn, sonar, no tonal contacts.”

  Whitehouse grinds his teeth. Just like the Americans, always late. “Slow to one-third. Prepare to launch ASDS.”

  The Advanced SEAL Delivery System, or ASDS, is a fifty-five-ton minisub designed to transport a SEAL squadron from a surface ship or submarine to an objective area. Resembling a pygmy sperm whale, the blunt-nosed vessel is capable of descending to de
pths of 190 feet over a range of 125 miles.

  Gunnar is strapped in at the pilot’s chair, General Jackson, Rocky, and David seated in the rear. Pulling back on the joystick, he eases the minisub up and away from the Vengeance, the ship’s turbulence rolling the smaller vessel as it continues its southeasterly course.

  Gunnar focuses on his control panel, listening at sonar. The noise from the British sub grows quiet in the distance, replaced by the ambient sounds of the sea.

  Beads of sweat break out along his brow. Like most subs, the ASDS has no viewports through which to see. Somewhere in this white noise of ocean are two killer vessels, one friend, the other foe.

  He increases his speed to eight knots, listening and waiting.

  The mammoth steel stingray glides slowly over the seafloor, the turbulence from its five pump-jet propulsors barely disturbing the sandy bottom. Rising majestically, it scatters a school of mackerel as it overtakes the minisub, its winged hull dwarfing the ASDS like a dog to a flea.

  A forty-foot-long rectangular hatch suddenly opens along the belly of the mechanical beast, inhaling the sea and the SEAL minisub into its flooding compartment.

  “What the hell—” Gunnar fights the controls as the minisub twists upward and sideways within a sudden, powerful torrent.

  General Jackson smashes his shoulder against an equipment rack. “Gunnar—”

  Sonar echoes off steel walls, alerting Gunnar to his new environment. Cursing under his breath, he shuts down the minisub’s engine as the mechanical sounds of a hatch closing reverberate beneath them.

  The ASDS lands upright with a double whomp inside the water-filled compartment of the Colossus.

  “What a ship,” says David, beaming. “Sneaked up on us and shanghaied the minisub before we ever knew she was there. Can I build a stealthy ship, or what?”

  Rocky shoots him a look to kill.

 

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