Goliath

“Genius is the ability to reduce the complicated to the simple.”

-C. W. Ceram

“I could kill everyone without blinking an eye.”

—Charles Manson, mass murderer and cult leader

“The city of necks, waiting for me to chop them.”

—Gaius Caesar Caligula, Roman emperor

“In the 1960s and 1970s, there were many student movements and turmoil in the United States. Did they have any recourse but to mobilize police and troops, arrest people, and shed blood?”

—Deng Xiaoping, Chinese leader, justifying the Tiananmen Square massacre in 1989

“When Nixon was president and leader of the free world, he found that firmness paid.”

—Richard Nixon, U.S. president, at a private dinner party with

Chinese officials shortly after the massacre at Tiananmen Square.

Nixon, who often referred to himself in the third person.

was president when the National Guard fired on and killed student

protestors at Kent State University

CHAPTER 25

Identity: Stage Six:

I am at the center of an immense scheme of

Power and intelligence that emanates from God.

—Deepak Chopra

Aboard the Goliath

Gunnar, Rocky, and the crew of the Goliath stare at the control room’s giant overhead screen in disbelief.

Rocky points to the communication console. “Sorceress is using Goliath’s satellite feed to hack into the broadcast.”

Gunnar remains focused on the screen, staring at the microwires protruding from Covah’s brain. Crazy son of a bitch … . he finally did it … he interfaced with a computer. But why David’s voice? What’s his part in all this?

Rocky’s fingernails dig into the flesh on Gunnar’s arm as she feels the submarine lurch beneath her feet. She steals a quick glance out the scarlet viewport. “We’re rising!”

Gunnar tears himself away from the CNN broadcast as the decking begins reverberating. “Something’s happening. I think the ship’s preparing to launch—”

The baritone rumble cuts him off, building to a deafening, thunderous roar as a Trident II (D5) nuclear missile comes to life within its vertical launch silo—

—punching up through the surface of the Indian Ocean …

—rocketing into the air.

Tiananmen Square

President Li Peng, the Communist Party officials, one hundred thousand uniformed troops, and the rest of the world breathlessly watch and listen as the American’s voice is translated into Mandarin.

ALL CHINESE PERSONNEL WILL LEAVE TIBET IMMEDIATELY. ALL POLITICAL PRISONERS WILL BE FREED. THE WILL OF HUMANITY HAS SPOKEN.

A digital clock reading 00:04:03 appears on screen beneath the image of the unconscious, deformed man’s face. The clock is lapsing backward.

Screams of panic, the chaos igniting within the square like a flash fire. Soldiers break rank and attempt to flee, only to find themselves boxed in by rows of tanks. Jammed in formation, the moving armored vehicles smash into each other, creating a gridlock of steel. Several tanks finally break free and cut across the square, rolling over dozens of soldiers in the process.

The crowd packing the outskirts of the square scatters, the crazed citizens of the People’s Republic trampling over one another as they attempt to outrun death.

00:00:59

President Li Peng stares at the surreal scene playing out before him. In the bleachers to his right, party officials are yelling and pushing each other toward the clogged exit ways. Several fights break out, blows exchanged, one enraged politico clawing at the faces of his rivals.

00:00:12 …

LOOK TO THE HEAVENS. CAN YOU HEAR IT?

A hush falls over the panicked crowd as the omnipotent voice echoes across the square.

IT IS THE WRATH OF GOD.

00:00:01 …

A flash of blinding white-hot light—

The 100-million-degree nuclear fireball expands outward at supersonic speeds, vaporizing every person and object within Tiananmen Square in the blink of an eye. A second later, an even greater burst of light illuminates Beijing as the shock wave detaches from the cooling fireball, fleeing it, creating a sharp, severe increase in air pressure that flattens and incinerates the Chinese capital before sucking back in upon itself, over the now-blackened landscape.

Aboard Goliath

Stunned looks, the big screen now blank.

Sujan Trevedi drops to his knees, fighting to catch a breath.

Gunnar looks up at the scarlet sensor orb, his voice weak. “Sorceress, what have you done?”

David’s face appears on screen. “Not Sorceress, just me. The Chinese had no intention of complying with the terms of the Declaration of Humanity.”

Sujan looks up at the blank overhead screen, his limbs trembling. “Beijing was not one of our targets.”

“Come on, Sujan, don’t waste crocodile tears on these bastards. I assure you, the future leaders of China’s democracy were not in attendance.”

“That is beside the point! You murdered innocent people.”

“I took out China’s Communist regime, paving the way for freedom. Jesus, Sujan, what’s with you? Think back to everything you told me, about how these assholes tortured you, how they murdered your sister and beat you into pulp—”

“David, Tibetans do not believe in your ‘eye for an eye’ philosophy.”

“Maybe not, but I promise you, China will be evacuating your homeland posthaste. As for the rest of you, you’d better decide if you’re really committed to this mission, because if you’re not, Simon and I don’t need you.”

Covah moans in the background.

“Gotta run.”

The image disappears.

Sujan grabs his head, struggling to grasp what has happened. “This is wrong. This is not why I joined the movement. This is not justice, this is murder.”

MURDER.

They look up at the glowing sensor orb, startled.

MURDER: TO WRONGLY TAKE LIFE. MURDER IS A HUMAN CONDITION. HATE. MALICE. ANIMOSITY. ANGER. FEAR. HUMILIATION. DECEIT. THE HUMAN CONDITION IS INFECTED. THE HUMANE GENOME MUST MUTATE. UTOPIA-ONE MUST BE REEVALUATED.

Reevaluated? Gunnar stares at the scarlet eyeball, his thoughts suffocating. “Sorceress, what are you doing to Simon?”

No response.

“Sorceress, respond. What are you doing with Simon Covah?”

The scarlet orb glows, its silence—deafening.

Aboard the USS Scranton

“Conn, radio. NORAD has pinpointed the launch site of that SLBM. Northern Indian Ocean, course, zero-three-zero, range, two hundred and sixty-three miles.”

“Very well. Officer of the Deck, plot an intercept course. All ahead full.”

“Aye, sir. Coming to course zero-three-zero, all ahead full.”

Aboard the Goliath

Rocky follows Gunnar into the crew’s workout room. “You’re not working out?”

“Just wanted a quick steam. Why don’t you join me?” Passing the rows of machines, they head for the bathroom. Avoiding the temptation to look up at the scarlet eyeball, they quickly strip, wrap themselves in towels, and enter the steam room.

Sujan Trevedi and the African, Kaigbo, are already inside, their bodies glistening with perspiration. Both steamers have been running for several minutes, the humidity fogging up the glass doors—preventing the camera lens mounted in the bathroom outside the steam bath from seeing in.

Gunnar sits opposite the lanky African, who has removed his prosthetic arms prior to entering the bath. Through the mist, he can make out the two bulbous stubs of flesh at the ends of Kaigbo’s elbows.

Sujan presses a finger to his lips, then points to a small microphone fastened to the ceiling tile. “I asked Abdul to join us. I believe he can offer a different perspective on the things you experienced in Africa.”

Kaigbo leans forward, his jaundiced eyes staring at Gunnar, the sweat pouring down his face. “You’re a soldier, trained to kill. I do not say you like to kill, only that you have been trained to do the deed when called upon. I think most humans despise violence, but I also know there are a minority of others who thrive upon it. I am not talking now of religious zealots, whose warped interpretation of the Koran gives them license to murder. I am speaking now of paramilitary warriors to whom killing has become a livelihood. Civil wars and revolutions are driven by these men. They do not play by the soldier’s rules. They could care less about society’s laws of restraint. Most grew up on the streets, poor and uneducated. For them, warfare and crime yield spoils and a sense of dignity society could never offer. They have no stake in peace. If peace is reached, they move on to fight another battle, leaving behind entire generations of children too violent to absorb back into society.”

“Human life means nothing to these sadists,” Sujan adds. “They tortured and killed a third of my people. They wiped out a half million of Rwanda’s Tutsis, and enjoyed every minute of it.”

“The killing intoxicates them,” Abdul agrees. “Seen it with me own eyes.”

Gunnar nods. “The only way to deal with these assholes is to hunt them down with superior numbers, something my government refuses to do. Instead, they send a handful of soldiers like me to win a few points with foreign governments, who, in most cases, are just as violent as the rebels. It’s a no-win situation.”

“But you’re haunted by your own actions,” Sujan says. “You’re consumed with guilt over having killed those children.”

Rocky notices Gunnar’s hands are trembling.

“Look, I know what you’re trying to do, but I can’t … I just can’t let it go. I should have fired in the air … chased them off—”

Rocky touches his forearm. “You responded the way the Army trained you to respond. You have to stop blaming yourself.”

“She is correct,” Kaigbo says. “I lost my entire family to those butchers. They mutilated me and stole my children. They left me with an anger no man should feel. Still, if it was my boy you had killed, I would not be angry with you. Do you understand what I am saying? You see, I know in my heart you are not a murderer. You are a victim … like my children, like all of us. Perhaps you will never forgive yourself, but as a father, I forgive you.”

Gunnar swallows hard.

Kaigbo whispers. “But there is new blood on all of our hands, and much more will follow. Now I charge you with helping us prevent any more of this senseless violence. It is time to stop being a victim. It is time to take action.”

Gunnar looks up. Nods.

Abdul stands and turns on the shower as high as it will go. Sujan moves closer, a pair of wire cutters concealed beneath his towel.

Gunnar bends forward, allowing the Tibetan access to his collar. “Sever the connections running out from the remote,” he whispers, “but keep the collars intact.” He holds his breath, bracing for Sorceress’s response.

Abdul soaks his head beneath the cool water, moaning aloud, concealing the two metallic snips from the microphone.

Sujan hurries to Rocky, cutting her collar’s wires in the same fashion.

“Can you help us take the ship?” Sujan whispers.

“It’s possible,” Rocky says. “But we’d need to gain access to the computer vault. What happened to the platter charge attached to the prototype?”

Sujan shrugs. “It’s possible Simon had Sorceress store it in the starboard weapons bay. The Chinese loaded crates of explosives in there before we stole the ship.”

“The computer will never allow you access,” Kaigbo warns.

“No,” Gunnar whispers, “but maybe David will.”

Aboard the Boeing 747-400 YAL-IA 38,000 feet over Zaire

General Jackson is seated in the copilot’s chair, watching the fuel line retract into the belly of the S-3B Viking flying just ahead of the Boeing 747 jumbo jet.

“How’re you holding up, Captain?”

Air Force pilot Christopher Hoskins turns to the general. “Between you and me, I’d rather be dirt-biking, sir. Don’t mind the flying, but sleeping on that bunk is killing my back.”

“Mine, too. What’s our ETA to Goliath’s last launch site?”

“Six hours. No other updates from the Scranton?”

“None.”

Captain Udelsman enters the cockpit and hands the general a folded fax. Jackson’s hands tremble as he reads the daily briefing. Preliminary death toll estimates from Beijing have surpassed 2.6 million. Among the confirmed deceased are the Chinese president and nearly every high-ranking Communist official in the government. Three million civilians residing just outside the blast zone are suffering from extensive burns and radiation poisoning, the victims dying at a rate of several hundred an hour. Medical teams and supplies are en route from all over the world, but the situation is beyond critical. Burn centers are overwhelmed, the population mindless with panic, fleeing by the tens of millions.

On the second page is a report from Amnesty International verifying that all Chinese military personnel and civilians have fled Lhasa, Tibet’s capital. Seven thousand prisoners have been liberated, their Chinese oppressors leaving behind sickening evidence of sixty years of brutality and torture.

The last ten pages describe a primordial fear that has gripped the world. Economies have crawled to a standstill, businesses closed, schools shut down. Banks have closed, forcing citizens to turn to looting. The National Guard has taken over hot spots, a dusk-to-dawn curfew instituted. Major cities are being abandoned. Washington, D.C., has been shut down, the president and his cabinet moved to the underground complex known as Mount Weather.

The nuclear genie has run amok. Humanity has crossed a dangerous threshold, and nothing will ever be the same.

Jackson feels his skin break out in a cold sweat. He leaves the cockpit and returns to his seat in the control room. Adjusts the column of air above his head. Loosens his tie.

A sensation of nausea lurches in the pit of his stomach. Rushing from his seat, Jackson bursts into an unoccupied lavatory and loses his breakfast in the toilet.

Aboard the Goliath

The watertight door swings open. David exits the surgical suite, nearly stumbling over Gunnar. The former Army Ranger is passed out in the corridor, an empty bottle of vodka lying near his hand.

“Useless drunk.” David steps over the body.

Gunnar leaps to his feet, whipping his arm around David’s windpipe.

WARNING: ELECTRONIC COLLAR IS NOT FUNCTIONING.

“Evening, David.” Gunnar presses the prongs of the stainless-steel fork to David’s trachea.

“Gunnar, don’t … please—”

“Let’s go for a walk.” Gunnar heads forward, leading him to the end of the corridor where a sealed watertight door separates the main compartment from the starboard wing. “Okay, David, tell your mistress to open up.”

“Gunnar, wait—”

“Open the door, or I’ll tear open your throat.”

“Sorceress, open the door.”

The lock unbolts, the hydraulic pistons firing, swinging the steel door open.

Gunnar escorts David down a steel catwalk positioned high above a myriad of pipes, valves, and computer circuits.

Fifty yards, and the walkway intersects with a dark, narrow passage on their left. Gunnar pushes David ahead of him into the alcove, and to the sealed watertight door of the starboard weapons bay.

“Open it.”

“Gunnar—”

“Do it now!”

“Sorceress, open the starboard weapons bay.”

A hiss of hydraulics and the heavy steel door swings open.

An ungodly stench blasts Gunnar in the face, as if he has stuck his head down a sewer. He pushes David into the dimly lit compartment. “Smells like something died in here. Oh … shit—”

Mounted on a vertical torpedo storage rack, his outstretched wrists and crossed ankles bound to the mechanical steel arms by microwire cable, is the rotting, crucified corpse of Thomas Chau. The dead Asian’s skin has turned a rancid, olive-green. Blood has pooled in the lower extremities, swelling the legs to twice their normal girth. A light shining on the skull-less head illuminates grotesque details of the exposed, wormlike folds of the festering brain.

“Gunnar, I didn’t do this, I swear.”

“What about those wires? What the hell is your computer doing?”

“Sorceress is programmed to learn. It was seeking … knowledge. I need to reset its parameters.”

“It needs to be shut down. Whose idea was it for Simon to interface with the computer?”

“Mine … both of ours. It was the only way to cure his cancer.”

A sudden movement to Gunnar’s right. He wheels about in a defensive posture.

An enormous loader drone releases a large object, which collapses to the decking.

Gunnar moves closer, dragging David by his hair.

Lying facedown on the floor is another body, mutilated, totally bled dry. Both hands are gone, severed at the wrists. The dead man’s upper torso is exposed, a hideous anatomical gap extending from his head clear down his back. The base of the skull and portions of the cervical vertebrae have been excised.

Attached to the brain and spinal cord is a delicate web of microwires that run out of the wound and into the distal end of one of the targeting drone’s robotic wrists.

“Taur Araujo, I presume. Looks like Sorceress did a little exploratory on him, too.”

“Let him go!”

Gunnar and David turn to see the older Albanian, Tafili, standing in the entrance. The physician cups one hand over his nose from the stench, the other points a gun at Gunnar’s chest. “I said, let him go.”

Gunnar swings David around, using him as a shield—

—momentarily lowering the fork from David’s throat.

The steel appendage swings down from the ceiling and blindsides him, the impact igniting a silver flare in his head.

The spinning ceiling fuses into blackness. Gunnar collapses to the deck.

David kicks the fork away in disgust. “What the hell happened to his collar?”

Tafili enters the compartment. “David, what is all this? You said Araujo killed Thomas. You said their bodies—”

“Lower the gun, and I’ll explain everything.”

“No. Explain first.”

A flash of steel above the Albanian’s head catches his eye.

Tafili looks up—too late—as the targeting drone extends its screwdrivershaped finger down through the old man’s heart, punching clear through to the other side.