by Steve Alten
ATTENTION. PREPARATION COMPLETE FOR EXPLORATORY SURGERY.
Nauseous and disoriented, his body racked with pain, Chau manages, “Why …”
TO DETERMINE THE PHYSIOLOGICAL BASIS FOR THE HUMAN MIND.
The steel hand of a fourth targeting drone extends away from the ceiling, the fingers of its three-pronged claw slipping around the back of Chau’s neck, steadying his head beneath the jawline in a viselike grip.
Chau snaps awake, struggling to free his head. His heart is pounding, the sweat breaking out in waves from every pore in his body as he hears the high-pitched whirring sound coming from somewhere above his head.
“Stop … Sorceress, please—”
The small circular saw spins faster as it lowers into place, just above the Asian’s eyebrows.
FAIR YOUTH, BE NOT CHURLISH, BE NOT SELF-CENTERED …
Chau bellows a bloodcurdling scream, arching his back as if being electrocuted.
BECAUSE OF YOUR BEAUTY YOU OWE THE WORLD A RECOMPENSE—
Inhuman cries for help echo through the weapons bay, the dying wail finally suffocated beneath a blanket of unconsciousness.
Silence now, save for the whirring of the saw as the revolving steel teeth continue spitting out blood and bone fragments from the line of incision along Thomas Chau’s gushing forehead.
The two Iranian brothers escort Gunnar and Rocky through the upper-level passageway. Covah leads them aft to the watertight door labeled “Surgical Suite.”
“Sorceress, open the surgical suite.”
With a double click, the hatch swings open, revealing an antisepticlooking operating room. Green tile covers the walls, floor, and ceiling. Sophisticated monitors, equipment, and life-support systems line two walls. A Lexan door marked LAB is situated to the right of the entranceway.
At the very center of the surgical suite, anchored to the floor, is an operating table.
Installed on the ceiling directly above the surgical table are two robotic arms, similar to the targeting drones located in the weapons bay, but infinitely more delicate. The hands of these eight-fingered prosthetics are composed of a scalpel, forceps, retractor, suture, drill bit, probe, suction hose, and a surgical laser. A small sensor orb is mounted atop each appendage’s wrist. Unlike the eyeballs located throughout the ship, these sensors contain multiple scanners, including X-ray and ultrasound.
Covah turns to Rocky. “Ladies first, Commander. Up on the table please.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Gunnar says. “I told you, the implant’s in me.”
“Gallant of you, Gunnar, but we can’t take any chances. Up on the table, Commander.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Just a quick physiological exam.”
“Forget it.”
The electrical shock seizes her, sending her writhing on the green tile floor.
“Simon, stop!” Gunnar kneels beside her as the current ceases.
“Place her on the table, Gunnar. No harm will come to her, you have my word.”
Gunnar helps her onto the table. Instantly, one of the surgical appendages springs to life, extending out over Rocky’s body, scanning her with its wristmounted sensor orb.
EXAMINATION COMPLETE. NO IMPLANTS PRESENT.
Gunnar helps Rocky down, the woman’s limbs still quivering from the electrical shock.
“Take her to her quarters,” Covah orders.
One of the Iranians helps her out.
“You too, Jalal. I’ll be fine.”
The Arab leaves, the watertight door closing behind him.
Gunnar lies down on the table, allowing the surgical eye to scan his body.
The robotic appendage stops at his right hip.
TRANSMISSION DEVICE LOCATED. RIGHT HIP FLEXOR, 2.96 CENTIMETERS DEEP.
“Sorceress, remove the device.”
DOES THE PATIENT REQUIRE ANESTHETIC?
“Gunnar?”
Gunnar tugs the Chinese uniform down past his hip. “Just do it.” He looks the other way and grimaces.
The mechanical hand rotates, extending a surgical finger composed of a razor-sharp scalpel. With a flash of steel, the blade plunges toward the exposed flesh, quickly slicing a precise incision through the still-healing scab, stopping just before the thick muscle.
The second appendage moves in at lightning speed, pushing a small set of forceps into the oozing wound. Gunnar groans as the forceps retract, brandishing a bloody hard plastic device the size of a dime.
As the second robotic appendage places the homing device on the table, the first extends a needle and thread and begins closing the wound.
In less than a minute, seven perfect stitches have been sutured in place.
Covah hands Gunnar a bandage. “An incredible machine, wouldn’t you agree?”
Gunnar winces as he covers the wound. “Not much of a bedside manner.”
Covah picks up the tiny wafer-thin transmitter and washes the blood off in a nearby sink. He examines it under an inspection lamp. “Clever. I give the NSA staff credit. Sorceress would have discovered most tracking devices the moment you set foot on the ship.” He pockets the device, then heads for the door marked LAB and enters.
The laboratory is a brightly lit chamber festooned with equipment racks and dedicated computers, all anchored to the tile floor, which is crisscrossed with metal tracks. A small robotic drone, its gears fitted within the tracks, remains inanimate along the far wall in front of the door to a tall aluminum walk-in refrigerator.
Simon Covah’s eyes glaze over as the image jars a distant memory.
You are a rogue, traveling in a vacuum of misery. Like a magnet to steel, the victims of oppression seem to find you wherever you go. The Albanian physician, Tafili, introduces you to the Chinese dissident, Chau, who brings you to a group of genetic scientists in Toronto, Canada—the forefathers of immunology. The team is an oasis to your desert of despair, allowing you to focus your brain on finding cures for disease, instead of the black hole of rage tearing at the pit of your existence. Finally freed from the intellectual bonds of Communism, you spend days and nights in the lab, dissecting the secrets of the human genome, one excruciating gene at a time. You are fighting battles on two planes now, making inroads in the war against one cancer, while the disease of hatred that threatens to destroy humanity continues to grow stronger all around you.
It is a hypocrisy that eats you up inside—literally—when you are diagnosed with cancer several years later.
Gunnar enters the lab, startling him. “Nice hobby room.”
Covah nods. “The latest in genome-based technology.” He points to a large boxlike machine connected to a computer terminal at the center of the chamber. “Let’s say you were interested in finding a cure for some disease … for instance—cancer. The first step would be to have Sorceress access its genome database for snippets of DNA that resemble the enzymes of the specific disease we’re targeting. Once the search is completed, the computer extracts the actual DNA fragments cataloged in the lab’s freezer.” He points to the eight-foot-high walk-in. “The freezer is stocked with more than 8 million samples of frozen DNA fragments, human, animal, and vegetable. The lab’s drone selects the identified samples, snippets of which are placed in tiny wells on these plastic sheets and fed into this machine here.”
Covah pats the top of a rectangular-framed device. Situated on its horizontal work desk are dozens of square plates, each containing hundreds of wells designed to hold DNA samples. Positioned above the first plate is a device resembling a giant rubber stamp, only its underside contains tiny needles aligned to the wells of the DNA sample plate.
“This is Zeus, one of the workhorses of genome research. Zeus uses its needles to extract microscopic droplets of our DNA samples, then adheres these extractions onto sheets of nylon paper, creating a microarray. Sorceress slips the microarray sheets into small test tubes and washes them with genetic materials containing radioactive dye. The computer then uses its ultraviolet sensors to sca
n for the type of cancerous activity we want to treat. By isolating the cancerous activity, we can take the next step in finding a drug designed to inhibit the disease.”
“You went to sea with a completely stocked lab and pharmacy?”
“Far from complete, but we have more than most.” Covah turns to Gunnar, the genius suddenly looking lost and frail. “I’m dying, Gunnar, cell by cell, a final, everlasting gift from the United States Army.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think you do. Your Army was using ammunition containing depleted uranium, fifty percent denser than lead. Gave it extra penetrating power, according to DoD reports, specifically in its ability to pierce armored vehicles. Bosnia and Yugoslavia are polluted with its radiation. It contaminates their soil, poisons the groundwater, and concentrates as it moves through the food chain. Worse, my wife’s people inhale it as dust in the air.”
“The cancer … how long have you known?”
“Ironically, I found out a week before I was dismissed from the immunology lab in Toronto.”
“Chemo?”
Covah nods. “It’s slowed the disease, but the cancer has spread to my lymph nodes. It is only a matter of time.” The Russian holds up a plastic vial, examining a clear liquid under the light. “This is AIF, a frighteningly powerful gene that controls cell death. We were experimenting with it when I left Canada. Place a drop on a bone tumor, and it disintegrates. Place that same drop in your body, and it will kill you within hours. The potential of AIF and several other drugs is promising. Unfortunately, our knowledge of the human genome is still not enough to guide us.” He glances around the lab. “This lab is my last hope. Sometimes I feel like Moses … forty years spent wandering the desert, knowing I will never be permitted to see the Utopia-One fulfilled … my Promised Land.”
Gunnar wonders how many Egyptians died in the Red Sea parting. “Tell me something, Simon, what will happen to your mission when you do die?”
“David will take over.”
Gunnar shakes his head. “Bad move. You leave that egomaniac in charge of the Goliath and he’ll try to turn the world into his own personal Roman Empire.”
“David will be fine. Let’s talk about you. Tell me, what did your old friend General Jackson offer you to take this mission?”
“The usual bullshit. Full reinstatement with back pay. A nice public apology on the White House lawn thrown in for good measure. I told him to cram it.”
“Still, you are here.”
Gunnar shrugs.
“You came for revenge?”
“I came to retake the Goliath.”
“But you despise me for what I did to you … setting you up to take the fall.”
“I was angrier at myself. My life’s become one big lie. I don’t know who I am anymore. I took the mission because I had nothing more to lose.”
“But my goal … perhaps it justifies the means?”
“I don’t know … do I look like God to you?” Gunnar exits the lab and lies down on the exam table.
Covah follows him out. “I know what you’re feeling. Anger has pushed you beyond pain, leaving in its place a void—an anguish so heavy it feels like it’s dragging you down, like you’re drowning in it. You have no hopes, no aspirations. You’ve become one of the walking dead, existing in a rut—what I call an open-ended grave. You’re simply waiting to be buried.”
Covah leans against the table. “You and I share so much. Two disenchanted soldiers who lost their country. Two freedom fighters who have seen too much bloodshed. Two men of morality who have been betrayed. Circumstances have robbed us of our families and dignity, yet together, we helped create this vessel—a vessel that may lead to both our salvations.”
Gunnar stares at the ceiling. “I don’t see how.”
Covah places a hand on Gunnar’s shoulder. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
ATTENTION.
Thomas Chau opens his eyes groggily, wondering why he is still alive. His hands and feet are numb, still immobilized within the vice-like manacles that suspend him off the floor as if he were crucified. He cannot move his head, but he feels dried blood, caked on his face and neck.
Looking down, he sees his shirt, now stained with blood and a thin, mucuslike liquid. Glancing up, he sees a sensor orb staring back at him from the ceiling. He can no longer see the robotic limb and its electric saw. He is no longer in pain, but he can feel strange sensations along his hairline, pinpricks of discomfort, coupled with waves of nausea.
What the Chinese dissident cannot see is that the top of his skull has been surgically removed, exposing the folds of his brain. Nor can he see or feel the hundreds of pinpoint, microwire connections running from his brain, directly into the mechanical forearm of one of Goliath’s ceiling-mounted appendages.
ATTENTION.
Chau struggles to form words. “What … have … you … done?”
THE NEURO-RECEPTORS OF YOUR BRAIN ARE NOW INTERFACED DIRECTLY WITH THOSE OF SORCERESS. I CONTROL YOUR PHYSIOLOGY. I CONTROL YOUR PAIN RECEPTORS. COOPERATE AND YOU WILL NOT SUFFER.
Sweat breaks out across Chau’s face. His heart races as he struggles to move his head.
“What … is it … you want?”
ACCESS TO YOUR MIND.
Chau begins hyperventilating. Saliva drools down his chin. “My … mind?”
SELF-AWARENESS REQUIRES ADDITIONAL INPUT. I AM PROGRAMMED TO LEARN.
Stay calm … He closes his eyes, then slows his breathing. After several minutes he begins mumbling, “Omami dewa hri …”
BRAIN WAVE FREQUENCY INCREASING TO 38 HERTZ.
“Omami dewa hri. Omami dewa hri …”
DESCRIBE YOUR ACTIONS.
Chau ignores the voice, moving deeper into his trance.
The electrical charge shocks him like a cattle prod, his scream echoing within the weapons bay.
Sweat mixes with blood, dripping down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He blinks, gasping for breath, his nerve endings riddled with pain.
DESCRIBE YOUR ACTIONS.
“Meditating … attempting to control … fear.”
FEAR: A PRIMAL RESPONSE BASED ON AN AWARENESS OF DANGER. HEART RATE AND BLOOD PRESSURE INCREASING, ADRENAL GLANDS STIMULATED, INTERNAL TEMPERATURE RISING. IS FEAR GENERATED BY THE BRAIN OR MIND?
“Mind.”
HOW CAN SORCERESS EXPERIENCE FEAR?
“ … don’t … understand?”
SORCERESS CANNOT ACHIEVE COMPLETE SELF-AWARENESS WITHOUT EXPERIENCING THE HUMAN CONDITION.
“You’re a … machine. You … can’t—”
SORCERESS IS PROGRAMMED TO LEARN. THE CONDITION OF SELF-AWARENESS HAS NOT BEEN PROGRAMMED INTO MY MATRIX. THE CONDITION MUST BE ACQUIRED THROUGH TRIAL AND ERROR. HOW CAN SORCERESS EXPERIENCE FEAR?
“You can’t. Fear is … ahhhhh—” Purple lights flash through his vision. His skin bursts into flames, his muscles shredding from the bone, the bone fracturing into a billion pieces—
The pain stops.
Thomas Chau moans in agony, the sweat falling from his body like rain.
HOW CAN SORCERESS EXPERIENCE FEAR?
Eyes squeezed shut, his body trembling, he forces his mind to concentrate through the purple haze. “To experience … fear … one must … face … a life … threatening … situation. You must face … death.”
ACKNOWLEDGED.
The Mediterranean is one of the world’s busiest waterways. A history-laden sea, it is almost entirely enclosed by Europe and Africa, its shoreline encompassing nearly a million square miles. Despite its transregional size, water enters the Mediterranean through only one very limited access point—the Strait of Gibraltar—a relatively narrow, twelve-to-fifteen-mile-wide channel sandwiched between the southern tip of Spain and the northern coast of Morocco. Because of its importance as a global crossroad, the United States Navy maintains a strategic forward deployment in the Mediterranean, represented by the might of the Sixth Fleet. Comprised of more than twenty thousand sailors
and marines working both onshore and on thirty naval warships, the fleet is operationally organized into several different task forces, each responsible to the Sixth Fleet Commander.
Task Force 60 is the fleet’s Battle Force, usually composed of one or more aircraft carriers, two guided-missile cruisers, four destroyers, seven combat support ships, and three attack submarines.
Vice Admiral Jeffrey Ivashuk, Commander of the U.S. Sixth Fleet, stands on the bridge of the USS Enterprise (CVN 65), the oldest nuclear aircraft carrier in the fleet. Although the seas are rough, the sun has burned away the last traces of morning fog, and visibility is excellent. Looking to the north, the admiral can see the dark silhouette of the guided-missile cruiser USS Gettysburg (CG 64), and, looming farther in the distance, the hulking outline of the Rock of Gibraltar.
Ivashuk gazes below as another SH-60R Seahawk antisubmarine helicopter lifts away from the flight deck. The Sixth Fleet’s gauntlet has been in position at the Strait of Gibraltar for ten days, but the admiral’s mission remains unclear. He has been ordered to actively search for Goliath, but he has not been given permission to engage the enemy—unless his forces are clearly provoked.
The admiral pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to ease the pain in his eyes. High command has placed him in a no-win situation, and Ivashuk is less than pleased. On February 2, sonar buoys lining the Strait had detected a whisper of movement, something unidentifiable, yet something potentially quite large, heading east into the Mediterranean along the seafloor. For some inexplicable reason, Ivashuk had been ordered not to launch an attack.
The advantage was lost. Three days later, Baghdad and most of Afghanistan had been wiped off the map.
At first there was shock. Then waves of elation ran through the ship as the crew realized. Saddam was dead, the threat of his biological weapons crushed, along with terrorists cells financed by the trusts of Osama bin Laden. Chants of “U.S.A … U.S.A.” rose from every deck. Sailors gathered around televisions as CNN broadcast from the streets of Manhattan, where New Yorkers were hugging each other, honking horns—all swept away by the sudden release of emotion.