He drains the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, attempting to focus his drunken gaze on the overhead screen.
The USS Virginia is approaching fast from the east.
David grips the sides of his chair and holds on as the Goliath submerges beneath the pack ice. Descending to three hundred feet, the monstrous 610-foot steel stingray engages its engines, the disturbance created by the massive pump-jet propulsion units momentarily releasing a berg from the pack ice’s already fractured grip. The floating 1,600-foot deep ice cube bounces a dozen times along the bottom, the thunderous impact of its keel on the seafloor echoing across the ocean like Thor’s hammer—
—as the Goliath streaks east to intercept the Virginia.
Gunnar hugs the last rungs of the ladder as the ship accelerates beneath him. Pulling himself up, he steps onto the grated steel catwalk overlooking the Vertical Launch Bay, a narrow isolated chamber located at the very apex of the Goliath. Ahead of him, paired in two rows like steel redwood trees are the sub’s twenty-four vertical launch silos. Each tube, originating two decks below, rises another ten feet to the ceiling. The twelve pairs of silos are set at descending intervals, matching the sloping contours of the steel stingray’s spinal column.
Rocky climbs up to join him. The catwalk on which they are standing loops around the outside of each vertical missile silo.
“Eight nukes … eight goddamn nukes.” Rocky slaps her palms against the steel skin of the nearest silo. Fucking David—you should have let me kill him when I had the chance.”
“If it was David. You heard Sorceress. I think the interface with Simon influenced the computer to create a new agenda. Nothing in Simon’s plan said anything about launching eight Tridents.”
“Shut up.” Rocky kicks the missile silo with her bare foot. “I hate this. I hate these weapons. I hate this ship. I hate myself for being a part of it, and I hate you.”
“Yeah, well I hate me, too. But there’s at least eight more Tridents on board this death ship. No way … no goddamn way this computer launches any of them.”
Leaning out over the catwalk’s guardrail, he looks down to where the three-story steel silos begin. The only way to access this midlevel deck is from an elevated platform originating in the hangar.
Gaining access to the hangar will be difficult, combating its two mechanical arms nearly impossible.
Gunnar rolls onto his belly and looks down. “If I can find a way down there, maybe I can pull out the fuel hoses … start an explosion.”
“Why don’t you jump? Maybe you’ll get lucky and break your neck.”
Ignoring her remark, he stands, limping toward the forward bulkhead.
Rocky heads in the opposite direction.
The sound of hydraulics, coming from below, catches her attention. She looks out over the rail as a large flatbed makes its way slowly up the starboard bulkhead.
A lone figure is standing on the missile elevator platform. “Kaigbo?”
Abdul Kaigbo feels like a marionette, Sorceress—his puppet master. The computer’s strings are entwined around his nerve endings and muscles, his spinal cord and brain. If he tries to resist, Sorceress breathes her white-hot flame through his body. If he complies, his pleasure sensations are stimulated.
The lanky African looks up and spots the woman, who is waving, conveniently waiting for him on the catwalk. He is afraid for her, but he is more afraid for himself.
The lift stops, locking into position.
“Abdul, where’s the rest of the crew? Where’s your goddamn boss? Jesus, what happened to your arms?”
Kaigbo reaches out with his new prosthetics and grabs her by the wrists.
“Oww, let go! Have you lost your mind?” She sees the MEMS unit dangling from behind his neck. “Oh, shit … Gunnar! Gunnar, help—”
The African lifts her over the rail and onto the lift.
Gunnar hurries back down the catwalk, arriving too late, as the lift disappears into the darkness below, Rocky with it.
THE GAME IS NOT OVER, GUNNAR WOLFE. THE FAT LADY HAS NOT BEGUN TO SING.
Aboard the USS Virginia
The tension in the conn is palpable, every minute seeming like an hour.
Sonar technician Bob Cerba studies the Lightweight Wide Aperture Array. His heart pounds like a bass drum—
—then skips a beat as the faint signal of the Goliath appears on his display monitor. “Conn, sonar, got her. Range, ten thousand yards. She’s slowed, sir. Estimated speed—ten knots.”
“Conn, weapons, we have a firing solution.”
“Very well,” Captain Parker says. “Firing point procedures. Sierra-1, ADCAP torpedo, tube one.”
“Solution ready,” the XO calls out.
“Ship ready,” confirms the OOD.
“Weapons ready.”
“WEPS, Captain. Run-to-enable two-five-hundred yards. Shoot on generated bearings.”
“Run-to-enable two-five-hundred yards. Shoot on generated bearings, aye, sir.”
The ADCAP heavyweight torpedo punches into the sea, traveling 250 yards at high speeds before slowing to forty knots, beginning its active search. Within seconds, its pinging sonar registers two consecutive returns, its onboard computer validating the contact as the Goliath.
Aboard the Goliath
Sorceress registers the disturbance of the approaching torpedo. Within a span of seconds, the biochemical computer simultaneously:
—accesses all data regarding the Virginia-class submarine’s capabilities and the combat history of its commanding officer, Christopher Parker.
—monitors the status of Abdul Kaigbo, who has secured Commander Jackson on the missile transport lift.
—conducts another extensive sonar sweep of the vicinity.
—verifies the latest three-day forecast of the North Atlantic.
—and acquires the location of David Paniagua’s father’s winter residence from DoD files. Using this last bit of information, Sorceress completes its list of Sorceress Utopia-One targets for its next nuclear volley, a decision which ultimately determines its course and speed,
—and the fate of the USS Virginia and her crew.
A combat strategy is selected.
With a hiss of hydraulics, the computer launches one of its portside antitorpedo torpedoes, then changes course, heading northwest and away from the Virginia.
Aboard the USS Virginia
“Conn, sonar, ship’s own unit is homing. Ship’s own unit has acquired. Impact in twenty seconds. Contact is running—”
Parker and Commander Darr glance up at each other from across the Virginia’s navigation console.
“Conn, sonar, torpedo in the water.”
“WEPS, Captain. Prepare to fire antitorpedo tor—”
The explosion cuts Parker off. A moment later the shock wave hits, rolling the Virginia hard to starboard.
The sea growls in angry protest, its frozen surface fragmenting into mammoth chunks of brash ice.
“Sonar, conn—”
“Skipper, ship’s own unit has been destroyed. Contact is still heading north and away from us, bearing three-one-zero, increasing speed to thirty knots. Range—thirteen thousand yards.”