Goliath

“If you were given the orders to launch, you’d put that key you wear around your neck into its keyhole and turn it without questioning the president’s orders, wouldn’t you? Because that’s what you’re trained to do … react. Think about it, the Navy trains you not to think, because if you did, if you took the time to examine each and every policy and political issue, then you might just question the sanity of those orders and its repercussions on humanity.”

“If launching a nuke meant protecting our national interests, then, yes, I’d launch,” Terry says. “Every officer wrestles with that question, it’s part of wearing the uniform. It’s the responsibility we bear to our country.”

“And what of your responsibility to the rest of humanity? There’s a fine line between right and wrong, freedom and oppression, the best of intentions and the insanity of genocide. Think about that the next time you kiss your wife and kids good night.”

Gunnar turns, heading for the forward passageway.

Rocky follows Commander Lockhart and her father through the tight corridors of the ship, amazed at the differences in the internal layouts of the Colossus and Goliath. Without Sorceress on board, the additional manpower necessary to run the Colossus taxes every square inch of space. Crew’s quarters occupy the entire middle deck forward, an area on the Goliath dedicated solely to Sorceress. Crew recreation areas have been eliminated to accommodate a larger galley. Corridors are halved to access additional toilets and showers, staff rooms, eating areas, and storage bins. The Colossus is a cramped, overcrowded, expensive submersible city—exactly the kind of ship the Navy was attempting to move away from when the Goliath had been designed.

They follow Lockhart up a small spiral stairwell and enter the conn. The design has been drastically altered to contain two control decks crammed with computer consoles. Sixty technicians are focused at their stations, each man hard at work, attempting to replicate what Sorceress can do in the blink of a human eye.

Rocky shakes her head in disbelief. So inefficient …

Aboard the HMS Vengance

Captain, sonar, sir, you requested we report all contacts.”

“Sonar, Captain, go ahead.”

“Sounds like another pod of killer whales, I count seven in all. Range, nine kilometers, speed five knots. They’re moving slowly along the surface, normal behavior, but I thought it best to report it, seeing how they’re headed in our direction.”

“Acknowledged.” The British skipper exhales his annoyance a bit too loud, then scratches the short gray hairs of his beard in a feeble attempt to hide his frustration. Two days at sea, and the only thing he has to report is whale sightings. Bottlenose and orca, fin and humpback, bowhead and right whales. Who do the Americans think I am—bloody Jacques Cousteau?

Aboard the Colossus

Commander Lockart and his XO stare at the large overhead screen linked to the sub’s fiber-optic photonics mast and sonar consoles.

Seven yellow dots appear along the surface of the sea, moving in the direction of the HMS Vengeance.

General Jackson joins him. “What is it, Commander?”

“Biologics. The computer identifies them as orca, seven in all, but I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Conn, sonar. Tonal contact, bearing one-four-zero, range, seven thousand yards and closing very fast. It’s the Goliath, commander, and she means business.”

Lockhart turns to the Bear. “Better get your team ready, General.”

Jackson nods, hurrying out of the control center.

Aboard the HMS Vengeance

“Battle stations! Lieutenant Miller, load Spearfish into tubes one and two and make ready in all respects.”

“Aye, sir. WEPS, conn, load Spearfish into tubes one and two and make ready in all respects.”

Whitehouse turns to his XO. “That bloody terrorist will attempt to use his unmanned submersibles to knock out our screw and incapacitate the ship. Under no circumstance do we allow that to happen, is that understood?”

“Aye, sir.”

The captain heads forward to fire control alley, where six technicians stationed before a series of amber-colored plasma screens are feverishly attempting to track and target the approaching vessel. Whitehouse feels a rush of adrenaline coursing through his body. The Spearfish torpedo is a 660-pound monster of a weapon, with a range of thirteen miles and a top speed of sixty knots.

For a brief moment, he envisions the headlines in tomorrow’s London Times: BRITISH COMMANDER DESTROYS KILLER SUB.

“WEPS, where’s my firing solution?”

The fire control officer turns to his CO, a look of desperation on his face. “The contact descended beneath the thermocline. We lost her, sir.”