Goliath

The jeep stops at a steel barracks just adjacent to the northern gate. As Gunnar climbs out, a bottle is hurled over the fence, the Molotov cocktail bursting into flames as it strikes the tarmac.

Captain Botchin hustles them inside.

The interior barracks is bland military gray, the walls decorated with corkboard. Base announcements and a calendar of upcoming events dangle from tacks. Folding chairs have been set up around a billiards table.

“There’s fresh tea on the burner if you want some. Sorry about the accommodations. Would have brought you to my office, but a few of the rowdies stormed the south gate last night and set fire to it. We’re abandoning Faslane the moment you people make weigh.” Botchin’s heavy British accent betrays his London origins.

Rocky pours herself a cup of tea. Gunnar grabs a folding chair and positions it by the window. Parting the venetian blinds, he watches as a large flatbed truck outside the gate approaches the front entrance, causing the crowd to part. Stadium-size speakers mounted in back crackle to life.

“What’s our timetable?” General Jackson asks.

“The Vengeance will make weigh in less than an hour. As per your orders, a SEAL minisub has been mounted on her deck. Once Vengeance reaches the rendezvous point, the SEAL sub will transport the four of you over to the Colossus. Paul Whitehouse is Vengeance’s commanding officer. His orders are to head for the Strait of Gibralter. The Vengeance has sixteen nuclear missiles on board. Hopefully Covah will take the bait.”

Gunnar watches from the window as protestors position a microphone stand on the flatbed. A cameraman poised on the roof of a nearby BBC van films a well-dressed man now making his way through the crowd. “Captain, who are these people? Greenpeace?”

Botchin takes a deep breath, as if it pains him to respond. “Worse. They call themselves Ploughshares, taking their name from the biblical prophecy, ‘to beat swords into ploughshares.’”

“Ploughshares? Never heard of them,” General Jackson says.

“They were founded in the early 1980s in the States as sort of an underground peace movement. Gained momentum in Britain when a bunch of women caused extensive damage to one of the Hawk jets we were exporting to Indonesia. The women claimed their violence was justified by law, since they believed they were actually preventing an act of genocide. Jury actually acquitted them. Since then, thousands have joined their movement, politicians among them, all calling for global nuclear disarmament, as if that’s ever going to happen.”

“How long have they been storming the gates?” the general asks.

“Since your president announced the Ronald Reagan was transporting nuclear weapons. Believe it or not, some members of Ploughshares actually consider this Covah fella a hero.”

Rocky’s cup slips from her hand, splattering tea and shattered china across the linoleum floor. “Covah murdered eight thousand men and women. How the hell does that make him a hero?”

“Didn’t say it was my view. Most Brits, myself included, agree this whole fiasco was America’s fault.” Botchin nods toward Gunnar. “If your security’d been better, the Chinese would never have got hold of Goliath’s schematics.”

Gunnar feels the familiar burn in his stomach. He stands and exits the barracks, slamming the door behind him.

Rocky watches him go.

The compound is a frenzy of activity, police in riot gear rushing toward the front gate, base personnel loading computers, files, and cardboard boxes onto transport vehicles. Outside the northern gate is a crush of bodies, the crowd pushing, chanting, climbing like a swarm of ants. The scent of sulfur and tear gas wafts through the winter air.

Gunnar takes cover, kneeling behind the front tire of the jeep. He closes his eyes and inhales slowly through his nostrils, filling his lungs from the bottom up until his stomach is distended and his chest cavity can hold no more. He exhales through his mouth, smooth and steady, his pulse slowing, the internal rage leaving his body until only an acrid taste remains.

A squawk of speaker feedback comes from the flatbed. The frenzy at the front gate settles, the crowd quieting as one of the activist leaders takes the microphone. “All right, all right, quiet down. There’s a man here who wants to speak to us, a man who needs to be heard. Michael, come up here—”

A smattering of applause. The tall politician adjusts the height of the microphone stand. “My God, there are so many of you out here. For those who don’t know me, my name is Michael Jamieson and I’m a Labour Party leader in Scotland’s Parliament—”

A chorus of boos rises across the expanse.