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?
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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?”
“Conn, hangar, the prototype’s ready, but we’re still waiting for Jackson and Paniagua.”
David is seated in front of a computer terminal linked directly to the ship’s central computer, watching as a million bytes of information finish downloading from his CD.
A knock. One of the ship’s chief engineers enters his stateroom. “Sir, they’re waiting for you in the hangar.”
“Yes, yes, one minute. You did want me to fix the glitches in the system’s mainframe, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“But nothing. No one touches this console while the information’s downloading, is that clear?”
“Aye, sir.”
David grabs his satchel and heads out, the chief securing the door behind them.
Gunnar releases the locks on the skid as Rocky and her father hurry into the hangar. Without giving Gunnar so much as a glance, she places the toes of her boots in the footholds of the vessel’s sleek flank and climbs up to the open hatch, lowering herself inside.
The general turns to the Chief Petty Officer standing by at the locking chamber’s main console. “Give us a moment.”
The chief moves out of earshot.
Gunnar clicks his heels together, standing at attention. General Jackson looks him over, then whispers in his ear. “How’s your hip?”
“Still sore, sir.”
“But the wound has healed sufficiently?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then this is it. Whatever you may have done in the past, whatever is haunting you, this is your chance for redemption. Show no mercy. Kill Covah and his crew and return the
Goliath
to where she belongs.”
“Understood, sir.”
“God be with you.”
“Or stay out of my way.”
Bear grabs his arm, squeezing the bullet-resistant material of the carapacelike suit. “Son … watch over her. For me.”
Gunnar nods, then scales the sub and lowers himself inside.
Rocky watches him stow the OICW gun beneath the seat, then check the M-4 carbine hanging from his shoulder holster. “So? Where the hell’s David?”
“Don’t know. Wasn’t my turn to watch him.”
As if on cue, David drops feetfirst into the tight cockpit. “Sorry, boys and girls, duty called.” He reaches up and seals the dorsal fin hatch above his head, then squeezes into the copilot’s seat, squishing Rocky into the middle in the process.
The Chief Petty Officer activates a switch on his main control console. Instantly, the platform on which the Hammerhead minisub and its skid rests begins descending into a rectangular-shaped lockout chamber located beneath the decking. As the vessel drops belowdecks, a hatch closes from above, sealing it inside.
The chief turns two levers, flooding the garage-size berth beneath their feet.
Gunnar places the prototype’s control helmet on his head and activates the optical display, then adjusts the small eyepiece over his right eye so he can see. Functioning similar to that of an Apache chopper pilot’s helmet, the headgear is linked directly to the minisub’s external sensors located in the Hammerhead’s snout. An image appears in Gunnar’s right eye—the interior of the dry dock, now filling with water.
The three passengers feel the sea lift the neutrally buoyant craft away from its skid. Moments later, the outer hatch of the docking chamber opens, exposing them to the Atlantic.
Gunnar throttles up the minisub’s pump-jet propulsor and accelerates out of the
Colossus
.
“Wolfe, can you hear me?”
Gunnar flips the toggle switch on the ship-to-ship. “Go ahead, Commander.”
“Come to course two-seven-zero. The
Goliath
has detected us. She’s abandoned the
Vengeance
and is running at forty knots. We’ll give chase, but this is your race.”
“Understood.”
Viewing the underwater world with his right eye, the control console with his left, Gunnar presses down on the foot pedals and sends the steel Hammerhead racing after the
Goliath
.
David retrieves a CD from his satchel and places it into a hard drive he has rigged to the prototype’s control console. “You need to get us within—”
“I know, I know, two hundred yards. This thing better work.”
“It’ll work. just drive the boat.”
Gunnar rockets the prototype past the enormous starboard wing of the
Colossus
, the faster minisub racing ahead of the 610-foot behemoth doing sixty knots.
Sonar pinpoints the
Goliath
, three thousand yards ahead.
Two thousand yards—the minisub closing fast.
Fifteen hundred yards—the minisub passing through a stream of bubbles.
Seven hundred yards—and now Gunnar can make out a dark mass looming ahead. “I can see her … damn, she’s big.”
Three hundred yards. “I’m approaching her starboard wing.”
“Stay beneath her, or she’ll sideswipe us like a fly.”
Gunnar adjusts his course, dropping beneath the steel leviathan.
Two hundred yards. “Now, David, now!”
David activates the acoustical beacon, the high-pitched sonic clicks reverberating like dolphin-speak throughout the sea.
One hundred fifty yards—the minisub tossing within the behemoth ray’s turbulence.
“David—”
“Give it a chance.”
One hundred yards. Gunnar weaves in and out of pockets of current, struggling to keep his vessel steady.
Then, without warning, the five monstrous propulsion units simply shut down and the
Goliath
slows to a crawl.