Goliath

Kaigbo leans forward, his jaundiced eyes staring at Gunnar, the sweat pouring down his face. “You’re a soldier, trained to kill. I do not say you like to kill, only that you have been trained to do the deed when called upon. I think most humans despise violence, but I also know there are a minority of others who thrive upon it. I am not talking now of religious zealots, whose warped interpretation of the Koran gives them license to murder. I am speaking now of paramilitary warriors to whom killing has become a livelihood. Civil wars and revolutions are driven by these men. They do not play by the soldier’s rules. They could care less about society’s laws of restraint. Most grew up on the streets, poor and uneducated. For them, warfare and crime yield spoils and a sense of dignity society could never offer. They have no stake in peace. If peace is reached, they move on to fight another battle, leaving behind entire generations of children too violent to absorb back into society.”

“Human life means nothing to these sadists,” Sujan adds. “They tortured and killed a third of my people. They wiped out a half million of Rwanda’s Tutsis, and enjoyed every minute of it.”

“The killing intoxicates them,” Abdul agrees. “Seen it with me own eyes.”

Gunnar nods. “The only way to deal with these assholes is to hunt them down with superior numbers, something my government refuses to do. Instead, they send a handful of soldiers like me to win a few points with foreign governments, who, in most cases, are just as violent as the rebels. It’s a no-win situation.”

“But you’re haunted by your own actions,” Sujan says. “You’re consumed with guilt over having killed those children.”

Rocky notices Gunnar’s hands are trembling.

“Look, I know what you’re trying to do, but I can’t … I just can’t let it go. I should have fired in the air … chased them off—”

Rocky touches his forearm. “You responded the way the Army trained you to respond. You have to stop blaming yourself.”

“She is correct,” Kaigbo says. “I lost my entire family to those butchers. They mutilated me and stole my children. They left me with an anger no man should feel. Still, if it was my boy you had killed, I would not be angry with you. Do you understand what I am saying? You see, I know in my heart you are not a murderer. You are a victim … like my children, like all of us. Perhaps you will never forgive yourself, but as a father, I forgive you.”

Gunnar swallows hard.

Kaigbo whispers. “But there is new blood on all of our hands, and much more will follow. Now I charge you with helping us prevent any more of this senseless violence. It is time to stop being a victim. It is time to take action.”

Gunnar looks up. Nods.

Abdul stands and turns on the shower as high as it will go. Sujan moves closer, a pair of wire cutters concealed beneath his towel.

Gunnar bends forward, allowing the Tibetan access to his collar. “Sever the connections running out from the remote,” he whispers, “but keep the collars intact.” He holds his breath, bracing for Sorceress’s response.

Abdul soaks his head beneath the cool water, moaning aloud, concealing the two metallic snips from the microphone.

Sujan hurries to Rocky, cutting her collar’s wires in the same fashion.

“Can you help us take the ship?” Sujan whispers.

“It’s possible,” Rocky says. “But we’d need to gain access to the computer vault. What happened to the platter charge attached to the prototype?”

Sujan shrugs. “It’s possible Simon had Sorceress store it in the starboard weapons bay. The Chinese loaded crates of explosives in there before we stole the ship.”

“The computer will never allow you access,” Kaigbo warns.

“No,” Gunnar whispers, “but maybe David will.”

Aboard the Boeing 747-400 YAL-IA 38,000 feet over Zaire

General Jackson is seated in the copilot’s chair, watching the fuel line retract into the belly of the S-3B Viking flying just ahead of the Boeing 747 jumbo jet.

“How’re you holding up, Captain?”

Air Force pilot Christopher Hoskins turns to the general. “Between you and me, I’d rather be dirt-biking, sir. Don’t mind the flying, but sleeping on that bunk is killing my back.”

“Mine, too. What’s our ETA to Goliath’s last launch site?”

“Six hours. No other updates from the Scranton?”

“None.”