Goliath

It is said that Saddam Hussein never sleeps in the same location two nights in a row, a security measure that was interrupted on February 4, when the Iraqi leader proclaimed from the balcony of his Republican Presidential Palace that he would defy the criminal demands of the United States—the “great Satan” hiding behind the mask of the so-called Declaration of Humanity. Despite the dangers, Saddam would “remain indefinitely within his Baghdad dwelling.”

Six hours later, the Iraqi dictator arrived under cover of darkness at Basra Palace, a small Ottoman-period merchant house located less than fifty miles from the Kuwaiti border—three hundred miles southeast of downtown Baghdad. There he would remain hidden and out of the public’s eye until the nuclear attack took place.

From there he would strike back at the West.

Concealed on the grounds of the Basra compound are four mobile missile launchers. The warheads atop each middle-range ICBM can disperse enough VX nerve gas to wipe out the populations of Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Riyadh, and Kuwait City—Saddam’s four targets of retribution.

Safe inside the subterranean bunker directly beneath Basra Palace, Saddam huddles now with several family members and top officials, watching the live CNN report on television. He stares impassively at the image of his people scrambling for cover on the streets of Baghdad. He registers the familiar burning waves of acid in the pit of his ulcer-ridden stomach as the picture goes fuzzy and his capital city is leveled.

Saddam looks over at the two sons he has been grooming to take over for him when he is gone. Odai, the older of the two, has a reputation as a womanizer with a violent temper. Qusai is more low-key and has been in charge of the elite Republican Guard as well as the Special Security Organization that protects his father.

Saddam signals Qusai to his side. “Wait ten minutes for the seismic shock waves to pass. Then launch all missiles.”

Without warning, a sonic explosion rocks the bunker, the second Tomahawk missile smashing through the roof of the merchant house. Saddam’s screams are cut off as the scorching white light of the nuclear fireball vaporizes his body almost as fast as the nerve impulses race fear to his doomed brain.

Saddam, his family, his officials, the palace, the missiles, the canisters of sarin and mustard gas, the drums of VX nerve gas, and the remains of Iraq’s horrific arsenal are reduced to their harmless elements and swept up in a radioactive mushroom cloud of poison and death.

Simon Covah sits at his elevated control station, following the trajectory of the last two Tomahawks as they race toward the Russian shelter at Yamantou Mountain in the Urals. “Sorceress, descend to six hundred feet, then take us to launch site two.”

ACKNOWLEDGED.

David Paniagua watches his colleague, envy in his eyes. Why does he get to command? GOLIATH was my project. Without me, none of this would even be possible …

Gunnar leans against one of the scarlet viewports, staring out at the bluegreen brine, his heart pounding furiously in his chest. Sixty feet above his head, azure waves dance along a tranquil surface as if mocking him. What have I done … what have I allowed to happen? How much killing is justifiable in a war against oppression? Who establishes the rules of morality? And why do I feel such … elation?

ATTENTION. ELECTRONIC SUPPORT MEASURES HAVE DETECTED AN OUTGOING EHF TRANSMISSION.

Gunnar’s heart skips a beat.

“A transmission?” Covah looks up from his main control console. “Where’s the signal originating from?”

TRANSMISSION IS ORIGINATING FROM WITHIN THE GOLIATH.

David interjects. “Sorceress, isolate the exact location of the outgoing signal.”

CONTROL ROOM.

Gunnar closes his eyes, his mind racing. “It’s coming from me.”

Rocky shoots him a strange look as the crew circles them.

Covah climbs down from his elevated perch. “David, escort the two of them to the surgical suite.”

“You escort them, I’ve got work to do.” David heads for the spiral steps, the tension in the room palpable.

Goliath’s remaining two tactical missiles approach Kazakstan barely under Mach 1, as they swoop over the waters of the Caspian Sea. Too low to track and intercept, they continue north, the Tomahawk’s onboard Digital Scene Matching Area Correlators verifying the Ural mountain landscape as they home in on their target.