Goliath

As the Goliath disappears into the colder, deeper waters of the Atlantic, seven steel sharklike dorsal fins cut a uniform path across the choppy surface. Small jet propulsor units drive the mechanical fish through the sea, while sensor arrays mounted in their blunt hammerhead-shaped bows process incoming transmissions from the mother ship.

Passing two hundred feet over the British sub, the sharks suddenly disperse, swooping in on Vengeance from seven different angles—a choreographed, underwater ballet.

Aboard the Colossus

“Make a hole—” General Jackson pushes past crewmen and enters his cabin, the lump growing in his throat, his internal voice screaming in his ears. He curses the Navy, curses himself; most of all he curses the influence his career has had on his only child. It’s not too late. You can still act, you can still order her to stay on board. Screw the Pentagon, this is your daughter. You don’t have to let this happen . . .

“Rocky?”

Rochelle Jackson-Hatcher emerges from the bathroom, dressed in the black lightweight exterior battle skeleton worn by Army Ranger infiltration teams.

“Rocky, I … change of plans. I’ve thought about it, and it’s best only Gunnar and David go.”

“What?” Rocky tucks the serrated commando knife into her boot. “We talked about this in Keyport. No one knows more about Goliath than I do. I’m going.”

“Gunnar can handle it.”

“I’m going, General, end of discussion.”

“And I said Gunnar can handle this.” Bear growls, heading for the door.

“Hold it!” Rocky jumps in front of him, blocking his way. “You can’t do this. This isn’t your decision. Secretary Ayers is calling the shots on this mission, not you.”

“I gave you a direct order, Commander. I’ll clear this with Mr. Ayers when and if—”

“An order?” Rocky removes the knife from her boot, holding it up for him to see. “My mission is to recapture my submarine and personally shove this knife into Covah’s fucking heart. Just because you’re wearing a general’s uniform doesn’t mean you can start playing Father Knows Best.”

Jackson stares at his daughter. What have I done? What kind of father have I been? Always pushing … never satisfied. I’ve created G.I. Jane—

He grips her by the shoulders. “Rocky, listen to me, you’re not a commando, you’re not trained for this.”

“Wrong. I helped design this machine, I can stop it.” She returns the blade to its sheath. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Bear. You’ve sent other parents’ children into combat situations, knowing they might never return. Now it’s my turn.”

He swallows the lump in his throat. “You’re right. I have. And it always sickens me.”

She sees the sadness in his eyes and softens. “Look, I’ll be okay.” She gives him a quick hug. “Hey, our first real father-daughter moment in twenty years.”

“Yeah.” Bear pinches away tears. “Come on.”

Aboard the HMS Vengeance

An explosion rocks the ship as the remains of the Vanguard-class submarine’s screw is ripped apart by a small torpedo launched by one of Goliath’s stalking minisubs.

Commander Whitehouse feels as helpless as a suffocating child trying to punch its way out of a paper bag. His ship’s screw has been destroyed with an almost-surgical precision. Two of his crew are dead, a dozen more injured. His engine room is flooding, causing Vengeance to lose her neutral buoyancy. The sub is slipping farther into the depths like a waterlogged whale, while an uncountable number of the enemy’s unmanned submersibles race around his vessel doing God-knows-what.

“One hundred forty meters. One fifty—”

“Sonar, conn, goddam it, son, where the hell is the Colossus?”

“Conn, sonar, I’m sorry, sir, still no sign of her.”

“One hundred and sixty meters—”

“Emergency blow. Put us on the roof.”

“Aye, sir, emergency blow.” High-pressure air screams into the forward ballast tanks, slowing their descent. Vengeance hovers at an awkward forty-degree angle, then begins rising.

Five hundred yards off the Vengeance’s starboard beam, a pair of sinister eyes, luminescent red, stare unblinking into the darkness as if the mechanical devilfish were observing its minions. Sorceress is doing more than watching; it is instructing, calculating, manipulating the playing field and its combatants.

And then, in the distance, the computer’s sensors detect another presence, infinitely larger, racing toward the Goliath from the north.

Aboard the Colossus

“She’s detected us, Skipper. Abandoning the Vengeance, changing course to two-seven-zero, increasing speed to forty knots.”

“Helm, come to course two-seven-zero, increase speed to flank. Hangar, conn, is the prototype ready to launch?”