Goliath

Rocky drags a chair over and stands on it so that she is only inches away from the scarlet eyeball. “Hey, Sorceress, can you hear me? You tell that asshole Covah that I want my own room. Do you hear me?” She reaches out to seize the device.

Gunnar opens his eyes. “Rocky, no—”

A sizzling, invisible electrostatic sledgehammer wallops her across the skull, tossing her backward into oblivion.

Atlantic Ocean

General Jackson groans as two sailors in a life raft pluck him from the sea. Ten minutes later, he is helped aboard a Navy cutter. The Bear drops to his knees on deck, protecting his broken wrists. The hooded suit is removed, replaced by a wool blanket. Two sailors help him to his feet, leading him out of a driving rain and into the cutter’s bridge.

Vice Admiral Arthur M. Krawitz, Commander of the Navy’s Submarine Force in the Atlantic (COMSUBLANT) hands him a cup of coffee. “You okay?”

“Broke both wrists. Nearly drowned. And I’m one of the lucky ones.”

“Let’s get you to sick bay.”

“Not yet.” He struggles to support the styrofoam cup as he sips the bitter brew. “My daughter?”

“No sign of her, but we heard from Covah. Goliath transmitted a message via satellite uplink about an hour ago. There’s a chopper on its way to take you to Washington. Let’s get those broken bones set while you have a spare moment. I’d say the shit’s about to hit the fan.”

“A man suffers little from unfulfilled wishes if he has trained his imagination to think of the past as hateful.”

—Friedrich Nietzsche, German philosopher

“I would kill a Turk, but I wouldn’t torture them.”

—Anonymous Serbian priest expressing his disapproval of the torture of Muslims

“That was a good hunt. There were a lot of rabbits here.”

—Anonymous Serbian soldier, while looking over a field piled with the bodies of Muslims

“We are a race of savages and have no pity.”

—Adolf Hitler

CHAPTER 13

Aboard Goliath

Rocky lies facedown on the bunk, her swollen, singed right hand wrapped in a wet towel. Gunnar is seated on the floor beside her. He brushes aside the straw-colored blond hair, matted with perspiration, and massages her neck.

“Don’t touch me.”

A heavy click, and the stateroom door swings open. The African and Asian enter the cabin, followed by a third man, a white-haired Albanian in his late fifties. All three carry assault rifles. “On your knees, the two of you.”

“She’s hurt.”

The older man, a physician, examines her burn. “I’ll get some salve for this—”

“Tafili, later.” The Asian removes two plastic dog collars from a satchel. “Simon’s requested your presence as our dinner guests. We prefer not to carry weapons. These devices should keep you on your best behavior.”

Thomas Chau slips the collar around Rocky’s throat, locking it in place so that its two quarter-inch metal prongs press against the back of her neck, fitting snugly against the base of her cervical vertebrae. A small black receiver rests along one side of her throat.

“Rigged these myself,” the Albanian physician boasts. “The Russians used similar collars to train our attack dogs. Quite simple really. The remote is linked to the sub’s computer.”

Chau fastens the remaining collar around Gunnar’s neck. “Let’s have a quick test. Sorceress, a level-two charge.”

A brilliant explosion of pain—sudden and devastating—sizzles through every nerve ending in Gunnar’s body. He collapses to the deck, writhing on the floor like an epileptic having a violent seizure, the purple lights blinding his eyes.

The electrical charge subsides. Gunnar rolls over, spitting up a frothy, acrid saliva. He senses Rocky next to him, the woman gagging as well.

The Albanian physician bends over them. “That was a level-two charge. Please don’t do anything rash, a level-ten charge would fry you like bacon.”

“Simon’s rules are simple,” Chau states. “The two of you are guests, under constant surveillance. Overstep your boundaries and the computer will dole out the appropriate response. Now come with us.”

The three men exit.

Gunnar slips his hand beneath his waistband, groaning in agony as he palpates a small spot below his right hip. The tender point just beneath the skin is scorching hot.

Rocky helps him to his feet. Arm in arm, they follow the three men down the corridor to a small galley. The rest of the crew is already inside, seated around a large rectangular table secured to the deck. Plastic utensils litter the white Formica top. The scent of fresh-baked pizza drifts out from open double doors leading back into the kitchen.