by Steve Alten
Beneath this chaos of pack ice lies an ominous liquid world. More underwater cave than ocean, it is a labyrinth of ice and sea—pitch-dark and silent—save for the ghostly glow of the bergs and the occasional echo of thunder as their roots grind the frigid seafloor.
Within this frigid realm glides the Los Angeles-class attack sub, USS Scranton. Moving in seven hundred feet of water, she continues south by southwest at a three-knot crawl.
“Dammit!” Michael Flynn grits his teeth in frustration. “Conn, sonar, another wall of ice, a thousand yards dead ahead.”
“All stop.”
“All stop, aye, sir.” Kelsey Walker’s knuckles are white as he grips the wheel. The nerve-wracked twenty-year-old helmsman is maneuvering the sixty-nine-hundred-ton boat almost blindly through a seemingly never-ending maze of ice that is progressively tightening all around them. We’re moving too close to the continent. We’ll never find our way out of here.
Tom Cubit’s face is oily with perspiration. He joins his XO at the navigation table, where Commander Dennis is charting their progress on a map of Antarctica. “Bo, you were on board the Hawkbill when she went on her Arctic expeditions—”
“The Arctic sea is a day in the tropics compared to this mess.”
“How much farther can we follow Goliath beneath this pack ice?”
“I don’t know. According to our charts, we should be within forty miles of the Eastern Antarctic Ice Sheet. Problem is, the sea is shoaling and we’re entering a logjam of icebergs. Maneuvering through this shit’ll be like crawling through an uncharted cave. We’ll have to hug the bottom, and the ride’s going to be rough. There’s lots of variation in water density owing to all that fresh water melting into the sea, and maintaining neutral buoyancy’s going to be a bitch. Of course, there’s a good chance we could get so lost that we won’t be able to find our way out until summer.”
“Summer will be coming pretty soon if Goliath detonates those nukes.”
“Understood.”
Cubit presses his grandfather’s gold pocket watch to his lips as he studies the map. Scranton’s position is marked in green. A red mark to the southeast indicates the last “best-guess” position of the Goliath. The USS Virginia is closing from the southeast, the USS Texas from the southwest. The Seawolf and Connecticut are closing the gap to the northwest, all of America’s attack ships designated in blue.
Commander Dennis circles his finger around the blue dots. “The fleet’s better equipped and much faster than us. While we’ve been plodding along, they’ve been closing the net on the Goliath.”
“Yes, but at what cost? If we can hear them coming, you can bet the farm Covah hears them, too.” Cubit’s eyebrows raise. “But … can he hear us?”
“Sorry?”
“It’s like you said. Old Ironsides here has been slipping around icebergs, plodding along at two to four knots for the last seven hours. Covah may have passed us, but he probably didn’t hear us. I say we keep that advantage.”
“You lost me, Skipper.”
“Look at the map. Covah can’t keep heading south, at some point he needs to change course and move away from the continent.”
“I get it. Instead of chasing the tiger, you want to let the rest of the fleet flush him out—”
“—while we lie in wait … exactly. Now, if you were Covah, which direction would you run?”
The XO studies the map. “Virginia’s the closest threat, but with Seawolf, Connecticut, and the two CVBG’s bearing down from the west, I’d head either north or east.”
“Agreed.”
“It’s a big ocean, even with all this ice. We’ll need to get a clean shot as close as possible to neutralize those antitorpedo torpedoes.”
Cubit points to the Virginia’s location on the map. “If Virginia can engage the Goliath before Covah makes his run, it might give us a chance to maneuver into position. Everything after that is a crapshoot.” Cubit leans in closer to his XO. “Bo, things could get dicey real quick, especially with all this ice. I want you to take over at the helm.”
“Aye, sir.”
Aboard the Goliath
Gunnar kicks again, snapping the last of the bed leg’s screws from its iron frame.
Rocky lifts the end of the freed-up frame and slips her handcuffs away from the bunk, holding it up for Gunnar to follow suit. “Okay, now what?”
He studies the watertight door, then scans the cabin.
A sudden lurch sends a sickening feeling into the pit of his stomach.
Rocky feels it, too. “We’re rising—fast!”
The monstrous stingray ascends, the sharp rows of reinforced titanium spikes on its raised spine punching through the six-foot ceiling of pack ice like nails through glass.
Through heavy lids, an inebriated David Paniagua gazes out the scarlet viewport. Massive chunks of ice have piled around the window, obscuring most of his view. A harsh howling wind pounds the Lexan, leaving behind icy diamond dust.
“Sorceress, I didn’t lie. I am your creator. You need me, goddamn it … don’t you ignore me, you—you bitch!”
Eight of the twenty-four vertical missile silo hatches atop the Goliath’s spine pop open. Warm air rises out of the silos, fogging into the frigid night,
—followed by a dense white smoke.
On the overhead display screen, a countdown begins.
10 …9 …8 …
A throbbing, baritone growl rattles the ship.
7 …6 …5 …
Gunnar and Rocky hold each other.
4 …3 …2 …
David drops to his knees and weeps.
1 …
A thunderous roar reverberates across the frozen horizon as the nose cone of the 130,000-pound, three-stage solid-propellant rocket pokes out from its silo and climbs into the dark winter sky, its flame casting eerie shadows across the fragmented seascape of ice.
Aboard the Boeing 747-400 YAL-IA 40,000 feet over the Southern Indian Ocean Antarctic Circle
The Boeing 747 jumbo freight jet, known as the YAL-1A, is one of the most unusual aircraft in the world. Designed and developed by the United States Air Force, Boeing, TRW Space and Electronics Group, and Lockheed Martin Missiles and Space, the wide-bodied aircraft serves as the platform for the Airborne Laser, a tactical weapon designed to track and intercept theater ballistic missiles.
Invented by Phillips Lab back in 1977, the Chemical Oxygen Iodine Laser (COIL) on board the YAL-1A is fueled by hydrogen peroxide and potassium hydroxide, the same chemicals found in hair bleach and Drano. Combined with chlorine gas and water, it produces an excited form of oxygen called Singlet Delta Oxygen (SDO). Iodine is injected into the SDO, further agitating the mix. As the atoms are excited to a semistable state, the light emitted by the atoms increases in intensity as it oscillates back and forth between the weapon’s mirrors. The result—a laser beam, operating at an infrared wavelength of 1.315 microns, invisible to the naked eye.
General Mike Jackson stands behind the row of men seated within the Command Center. The Bear’s heart pounds in his ears, his nostrils flaring with each adrenaline-enhanced breath.
“I’ve got a contact,” the radar technician calls out. “Latitude: 71.6 degrees south. Longitude: 59.05 degrees east—”
“Got ’em,” responds another technician, a baby-faced officer who seems far too young to Jackson. “Baby face” is stationed at the infrared terminal, a tracking system with an advanced infrared focal plane for detecting missile plumes. “Designating first contact Romeo-1—”
“I’ve got two more … and a fourth—”
Bear feels his legs trembling. Millions of lives hang in the balance, perhaps the future of humanity … everything depending upon a 900-million-dollar aircraft and a multimegawatt laser that has never been tested under this type of severe atmospheric conditions.
Jackson knows the key obstacle in perfecting the Airborne Laser has been the atmospheric turbulence produced by fluctuations in air temperature, the same phenomenon re
sponsible for causing the stars to twinkle. Atmospheric turbulence weakens and scatters the laser’s beam. Although the YAL-1A has been equipped with special mirrors designed to compensate for the disturbance, the Airborne Laser is too new to have been tested in all weather conditions.
And Antarctica’s are the absolute worst in the world.
“Sir, Romeos 1 through 8 have entered boost phase. IRST (Infrared Search and Track) system has locked on to all eight targets.”
The massive generator comes to life within the cargo area of the modified 747 jet.
“Ignite the laser,” Colonel Udelsman orders.
“Igniting laser, aye, sir. Targeting Romeo-1”
Bear can actually feel the power of the illuminating laser beacon in his bones as it travels the length of the jumbo jet and floods the plane’s nose cone with energy. A sudden, almost surreal thought—if we miss, I may die, too …
From the proboscis-shaped, nose-mounted turret of the 747-400 freighter, an invisible beam of energy crosses the brisk Antarctic sky at the speed of light—
—planting its lethal, scorching kiss upon the graphite epoxy hull of the first Trident II (D5) nuclear missile.
The laser beam instantly melts a hole in the projectile’s thin skin, igniting the SLBM’s solid rocket fuel into a blazing fireball. The mangled hunk of metal, circuitry, and plutonium lofts high in incandescent splendor before dropping harmless from the sky.
“Sir, Romeo-1 is dead. Targeting Romeo-2.”
General Jackson expels a nerve-induced, gut-wrenching roar of approval, thrusting his casted fists high in the air as the YAL-1A spits out seven more beams, sending seven more fireballs, fireworks, and incandescent shards plummeting toward the frozen Antarctic sea.
Aboard the USS Virginia
The USS Virginia (SSN-774) and her sister ships, USS Texas (SSN-775), and USS Hawaii (SSN-776) represent the United States Navy’s newest class of attack subs, each of these 1.6-billion-dollar stealth ships producing only 10 percent of the noise of Los Angeles-class workhorse vessels like the Scranton.
Much of the Virginia-class’s technology was ultimately incorporated into the design of the Goliath. From her pump-jet propulsor engine and advanced stealth technology to her Photonics Mast, (replacing the periscope), the Virginia-class was intended to be the last of the Navy’s manned attack subs, giving way to unmanned, remotely operated vessels like the Goliath. As a first step in reducing the number of crewmen required on board, the Virginia was outfitted with more computing power than all sixty-five Los Angeles-class and Seawolf-class attack submarines combined. Only the Goliath and Colossus possess more computing power, with Sorceress’s nanotechnology and biochemical brain altering the playing field, dwarfing even its own sister ship’s advanced computing capabilities by an unfathomable million to one.
Unlike the Colossus, the Virginia’s control room is an airy, wide-open, brightly lit attack center, its layout dominated by rows of large-screen color displays and high-tech workstations. Housed along the portside wall is a row of seven immense sonar stations sporting advanced ergonomic consoles. At the center of the compartment is a computerized navigation station, replacing the two antiquated-looking tables and charts still used on board Los Angeles-class attack subs like the Scranton. Ahead, mounted catercorner, are two big screens providing a periscopeless view of the east and west horizons. Two ship control stations are located between these forward screens, with Combat Control on the starboard wall, along with ESM and the sub’s radio room.
Emotions on board the USS Virginia are running high, every submariner’s heart racing, every man’s blood pressure soaring as their CO, Captain Christopher Parker, addresses them over the 1-MC.
“NORAD confirms the eight SLBM’s were Trident II (D5) nuclear missiles. Although the attempt failed, we clearly got lucky. The laser plane can only acquire and track missiles in their boost phase, and has a maximum range of three hundred miles. Naval Intelligence reports the Goliath has at least eight more Tridents on board that we know of. They believe, as do I, that Simon Covah will head for open waters in an attempt to lose the Laser Plane before launching his next volley of missiles. Virginia is the only vessel preventing Covah’s escape to the east. If he makes it past us, then it may be impossible for the Navy to relocate the Goliath again. Should Covah launch in the North Atlantic, those Tridents could strike any city in the continental United States. Our orders, gentlemen, are to make sure that doesn’t happen.” 11
Grunts from the crew. Parker’s men are primed for battle, exuding an adrenaline-enhanced air of confidence bordering on arrogance. Despite Goliath’s advantages, to the Virginia’s officers and crew, their ship is the top predator in the ocean, a stealthy attack sub excelling in every phase of combat, maintaining an acoustic sensor suite second to none. Unlike its older cousin, the Scranton, the Virginia can “see” its enemy when it moves through the labyrinth of ice and sea that has become the Antarctic. Like the Goliath, the Virginia possesses antitorpedo torpedoes to defend itself, and the weaponry to hunt and kill any adversary on the open seas.
Unlike Goliath, Virginia has a crew seasoned for battle.
Sonar technician Rob Ayres is in an almost-zenlike state of concentration as he listens to the acoustic disturbance along the frozen surface. “Conn, sonar, Skipper, I’ve got a fix on the vessel that just launched those missiles. Designating Sierra-1, bearing two-five-zero, range thirty-seven miles.”
“Chief, plot an intercept course.” Captain Parker turns to Commander Jay Darr, his second-in-command. “XO, take us to battle stations.”
“Aye, sir.” Darr calls out over the 1-MC. “Battle stations, battle stations. WEPS, conn, verify ADCAP torpedoes in tubes one and two. Antitorpedo torpedoes tubes in tubes three and four.”
“Conn, weapons, torpedoes loaded and ready, sir.”
Additional crewmen rush into the conn, taking their battle stations. The temperature in the chamber rises noticeably, as the cool air mixes with human perspiration, the crew working, waiting, sweating, and praying as the Virginia races beneath the frozen Antarctic sea to intercept the Goliath.
“A man sooner or later discovers that he is the master-gardener of his soul, the director of his life.”
—James Allen
“I didn’t want to hurt them, I only wanted to kill them.”
—David Berkowitz, a.k.a. “The Son of Sam,” who shot fourteen people in New York from 1975 to 1977
CHAPTER 32
Aboard the Goliath
Gunnar regrips the supporting crossbar of the bed frame and gives it a final twist, tearing the three-foot section of metal loose.
Rocky hands him the vinyl casing she has torn off the mattress.
Wrapping one end of the bar with the material, Gunnar climbs up on the desk, his wounded leg throbbing. With both hands, he smashes the iron pipe as hard as he can against the back of the sensor orb, which is mounted to the ceiling.
Sparks fly. Gunnar takes two more whacks, leaving the dented electronic eyeball hanging by wires. He strikes it again, sending the device flying across the room.
Using the jagged end of the pipe, he pries the sensor’s damaged support plate away from the ceiling, then reaches up inside the hole and retracts several live wires, careful to grip them only by their insulation.
“Watch it,” Rocky warns. “Don’t let your handcuffs touch those wires.”
“I know, I know. Just take the bar and get ready.” Holding the positive wires in his left hand, the negative in his right, Gunnar takes a deep breath—and touches them together.
Blue sparks fly, the blast from the ten-thousand-volt charge tossing Gunnar backward across the room, the short circuit instantly cutting power within the chamber, casting them into darkness.
With a hiss, the pneumatic pressure within the watertight door is shunted. Rocky pulls back on the heavy steel handle, yanking open the door before the computer can redirect power to its locking mechanism.
Gunnar sits up, purple stars floating in
his blurred vision.
Rocky helps him up. “You okay?”
“Hell, no.” He looks at his hands, his fingers singed black. “This electroshock therapy is getting old fast.”
“The wires were insulated, stop complaining.” She leads him into the corridor. “Okay, now what?”
“First, let’s lose these handcuffs.” He hobbles to the exercise room, using the iron pipe to pry open the double doors.
Gunnar looks around, then decides on the Nautilus lat machine. “Rocky, here—” He positions the links of her handcuffs snugly between the steel cam and the chain. Sitting back in the machine, he places his elbows on the pads, grips the crossbar, and whips it over his head and down—
—the cam revolves 180 degrees, snapping the manacle’s links on Rocky’s cuffs in two.
Abdul Kaigbo is unconscious, lying facedown on the operating table. Gone are the amputee’s two antiquated prosthetics, as well as the stub of his forearms and three inches of his mangled elbow joints. In its place, fitted to the African’s upper arms and shoulder girdles, are two graphite-and-steel mechanical arms.
Above Kaigbo’s head, the two surgical claws continue working with inhuman precision and speed. A four-inch square of bone has been incised from the back of the African’s skull, exposing the posterior section of his brain. The two surgical appendages have attached a dozen neural connections, rethreading the ends of the microwires through a one-centimeter hole already drilled in the missing section of cranial bone.
The patch of skull is glued and reset into place.
The free ends of the microwires are quickly attached to a MEMS unit, a remote Micro-Electro-Mechanical device about the size of Kaigbo’s middle finger. The MEMS unit gives Sorceress direct access to the African’s pain receptors, as well as the nerves that stimulate Kaigbo’s upper body movement.