Goliath

The Bear exhales deeply, then eyeballs the British officer. “Commander, Gunnar Wolfe served his country under my command for the better part of a decade. Special Ops missions placed his life in jeopardy no less than a dozen times. His Ranger extraction team saved the lives of thirty men in Somalia, at which time he was wounded in battle. To this day, I firmly believe that he was and is innocent of all charges, and his presence on this mission is critical to its success.” Jackson stares hard into the man’s eyes. “As such, I highly suggest that you and your men allow Captain Wolfe to carry out his assignment without prejudice. Is that clear, Commander?”

“Perfectly clear … sir.”

Gunnar is waiting in sick bay, watching the ship’s medical officer stow plastic bottles of pharmaceuticals into cabinets.

General Jackson enters. “You ready?”

“I suppose.” Gunnar stands, then drops his trousers to his knees and climbs on the table. “Does Rocky or David know about this?”

“No, and let’s keep it that way.” Jackson hands the medical officer a wafer-thin dime-shaped piece of hard plastic. “Insert it in the quad, just below the hip.”

The medical officer swabs the spot with alcohol, then makes a small incision with his scalpel. Several minutes and five stitches later, the homing device is set into position.

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.