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Authors: Steve Alten

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BOOK: Goliath
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The Typhoon has surfaced, a dying vessel listing to port, its crew scrambling across the deck in life jackets, tossing inflatable rafts into the sea.
Captain Romanov squints against the morning light as he climbs up into the bridge. Turning to starboard, he sees the two Mk-48 ADCAP torpedoes streaking just below the surface toward his boat.
“Incoming torpedoes! Rafts to port! Everyone into the water—now!”
The Russian sailors glance up at their captain, then jump overboard into the freezing ocean.
Yuri Romanov straddles the sail guard—then stops. Beyond the torpedoes, accelerating toward his boat is a dark forty-foot wake. Two demonic scarlet eyes blaze back at him from within the approaching swell.
“
Kapitan
, come on!” Ivan Kron reaches up from the deck and grabs Romanov by the ankle, dragging him over the sail’s ice-breaking cover and down the steel ladder.
The two torpedoes slam into the Typhoon’s exposed flank, piercing the superstructure’s five titanium inner layers before exploding.
The hull splits in half, the violent upheaval launching Captain Romanov and his XO into the water. Within seconds, the Arctic sea surges into the ruptured compartments, tearing the behemoth Russian sub apart, dragging its flooding, fractured hull into the icy depths.
“Conn, sonar, two direct hits. Men in the water. I can hear the keel cracking … the Typhoon’s going down fast.”
Cubit squeezes his fists.
She’s too fast for our torpedoes. Let her move closer
…
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 is slowing. Sierra-2 is circling through the debris field along the surface, range two thousand yards. Coming back this way. Fifteen hundred yards … one thousand … she’s turning away—”
“WEPS, fire tube four.”
“Conn, weapons, torpedo away.”
The Mk-48 ADCAP torpedo spits out of the Scranton’s bow, racing toward the mammoth mechanical stingray circling along the surface.
“Conn, sonar, own ship’s unit has acquired Sierra-2, impact in thirty seconds. Sierra-2 is running … Sierra-2 is going deep. Own ship’s unit is homing …”
“Prepare to cut wires—”
“Sierra-2 is changing course, coming about—”
“WEPS, belay that order! Helm, right full rudder, all ahead flank—”
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 is coming about, heading straight for us!”
“WEPS, detonate own ship’s unit!”
The thunderous explosion of the
Scranton’s
torpedo echoes through the sub, the concussion wave striking a moment later, rolling the American attack sub hard to starboard. Power flickers off, emergency lights on. Water sprays from a burst pipe. Men rush to close valves, assessing damage even as they stabilize their stations, their training and duty to the ship barely restraining the primordial instinct to panic. The claustrophobia and fear tighten around each submariner’s throat like a vise.
Cubit grabs the 1-MC. “Sonar, report—”
“Conn, sonar, she tried to double back on us but you nailed her first. A miss, but the explosion must have damaged her. She’s slowed to fifteen knots, bearing one-two-zero, range three thousand yards. Sounds like we bent one of her pump jets, it’s creating a lot of cavitation.”
“XO, damage report?”
“All stations reporting. Flooding under control. Minor damage only.”
“Let’s finish this business before she runs. Helm, all ahead two-thirds, left full rudder, steady one-two-zero. WEPS, make the weapons in tubes one and two ready in all respects.”
“Aye, sir, making tubes one and two ready in all respects—”
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 is increasing speed. Twenty knots, twenty-five—”
“WEPS, match sonar bearings and shoot tubes one and two.”
“Aye, sir, firing one and two.”
Cubit squeezes the padded arms of his chair.
Come on, baby, catch her, nail her right in the ass
. In his mind’s eye he imagines
Goliath’s
untrained crew panicking as they struggle to reload two antitorpedo torpedoes.
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2 has launched two torpedoes, bearing one-three-zero, heading straight for own ship’s units one and two.”
More antitorpedo torpedoes
… Cubit swears under his breath.
Goddamn American ingenuity
… “WEPS, what’s the status on tubes three and four?”
“Three ready, four still reloading.”
“Make tube three ready in all respects—”
“Conn, sonar,” Flynn’s voice has risen noticeably, “Sierra-2’s torpedoes have bypassed three and four, both torpedoes heading straight for us!”
“Torpedo evasion—torpedo evasion!” The emergency command causes the helm to go to flank speed, the diving officer to race the ship to evasion depth, and weapons to launch countermeasures.
The
Scranton
rolls, Cubit holding on as his ship nose-dives toward the seafloor, the two Mk-48 ADCAPS descending quickly in pursuit, the CO’s face flushed purplish red with anger.
Goddamn motherfucker sookered me in
…
“Conn, sonar, both torpedoes active, six hundred yards and closing.”
The crew holds on, their limbs shaking, their prayers, silent and whispered, reaching out to heaven as their ship descends toward hell.
“Eight hundred feet—” The Chief of the Watch stares at the depth gauge and holds on, the sweat pouring from his cherub pink face.
“Torpedoes, four hundred yards and closing—”
“Helm, prepare to launch noisemakers, prepare for emergency blow.”
“Conn, sonar, impact in twenty seconds—”
“Launch noisemakers now! Emergency blow, left full rudder, steady to course two-seven-zero, thirty-degree up angle on the—”
Commander Dennis yells, “Rig ship for explosion!”
The two torpedoes race past the Mark 2 torpedo decoys and detonate, the explosions rolling the
Scranton
as she turns, pushing her keel out from under her, the impact wave shaking her interior like a pickup truck bolting over a curb.
Darkness blankets the control room, pressurized air hissing into the space.
The reverberations cease. The battery picks up loads, emergency lights bathing the internal compartments in red. The crew’s racing pulses slow.
“This is the captain …” the voice calm, restoring faith. “All stations report.”
“Conn, maneuvering, we’ve got a leak in the primary coolant system. Scramming the reactor. We’re restricted to battery power until we can rise to periscope depth and start the emergency diesel.”
“How bad is the leak?”
“Appears to be contained to the discharge station in engine room forward, sir.”
“Sonar, conn, report.”
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-2’s torpedoes were vectored off by our countermeasures. No other contacts to report.”
“Where’s Sierra-2? What happened to our own torpedoes?”
A long pause. “I’m sorry, Captain, she outran them. Sierra-2’s gone.”
“I don’t know what your destiny will be, but one thing I know; the only ones among you who will be really happy are those who will have sought and found how to serve.”
—Dr. Albert Schweitzer
 
 
“I was proud to be Nixon’s son-of-a-bitch.”
—H. R. Haldeman, President Nixon’s chief of staff, who participated in the Watergate scandal
 
 
“From our first meeting I swore to follow you anywhere—even unto death. I live only for your love.”
—Eva Braun, Adolf Hitler’s mistress
Keyport, Washington
Gunnar feeds his dollar bill into the slot, presses E-6, and watches the chocolate bar drop into the bin.
“Breakfast of champions, eh G-man?”
He turns, recognizing the voice.
David Paniagua is a bit stockier than he remembers, and clean-shaven, with the ponytail of his brown hair pulled through the back of his Tampa Bay Buccaneers cap. An old pair of jeans is visible beneath his white lab coat.
Smiling, David rears back and punches Gunnar hard on the shoulder. “That’s for disappearing on me after I went out of my way to pick you up at Leavenworth. I spent four months looking for you, you bastard.”
“I was in rehab.”
“Yeah, man, I know. You doing okay now? Still going to meetings?”
“Twice a week. How ’bout you? How’s the Navy been treating you?”
“Surprisingly good. I spent the first six months after Keyport working for Cybersword, our new Cyber Commando Force.”
“Patrolling the world’s digital lines of communication, huh? You must’ve been bored to tears.”
“Granted, it wasn’t the kind of challenge I was looking for, but it’s the first true interdepartmental organization in the DoD, and we don’t pussyfoot around. Cybersword takes an offensive approach to Internet attacks. I’ve unleashed some pretty nasty viruses on our enemies, believe you me.”
“Yeah? Have one in mind for
Sorceress
?”
“A doozy. Covah will never know what hit him. Come on, walk me to the briefing.”
They head down the corridor.
“So, what have you been doing lately?” Gunnar probes.
David smiles coyly. “You’ll know soon enough. First, talk to me about Covah. I seem to remember you guys being pretty tight.”
“So I thought.”
“What’s he like?”
“Don’t you know? He worked in your department.”
“We barely spoke. The guy spent most of his days in the bacteria chamber. I know he was brilliant, but his looks kind of freaked me out. But you guys ate lunch together almost every day.”
“Simon claimed we were kindred souls, by-products of violence. He used to engage me in these endless discussions regarding the root of man’s evil. You know, what factors created the Hitlers and Milosevics of the world? Why do seemingly stable kids suddenly go on killing sprees? Simon was consumed with the whole nature-versus-nurture debate. He wanted to know how one human being could butcher another without showing the slightest sign of remorse. Simon was both a student and a victim of human nature. He hurt terribly inside. Most people don’t know that he was just as well versed in neurophysiology and psychology as computers. Like I said, the guy was a genius. Dr. Goode recruited him after he was kicked out of the Cangen.”
“No kidding? The Canadians kicked Covah out?”
“Don’t tell me you never heard the story?” Gunnar smiles. “Cangen’s security guards caught Simon attempting to jack into one of their mainframes.”
David’s eyes widen. “Come on, you telling me crazy Simon Covah was a cyberpunk? I mean, I know the guy looked like a cyborg, but wiring his brain into a computer? Geez—”
“Actually, it’s not so far-fetched. Masuo Aizawa started working on growing neurons into neural net computers more than fifteen years ago. Cochlear implants for the hearing impaired, prosthetic-limb control using implanted neural interfaces—those concepts have been around for years. And don’t forget virtual reality. The auditory and optic nerves are the most data-rich pathways for inputting information to the brain.”
“Get real, G-man. EEG-based systems have no possibility of inputting information.”
“Simon didn’t use an EEG, he used a printed circuit microelectrode. Simon said the PCM had three elements essential to an interface: tissue terminals, a circuit board reading from the terminals, and an input/output interpreter, in this case, a computer. Simon used a cochlear implant to forge a connection between the PCM and his brain, but the interface didn’t work.”
“Of course it didn’t work. The complexity of the human brain is the problem—that, and the difficulty of actually implanting a neural device. A successful human-to-machine interface requires two things; invasive surgery for implanting electrodes directly into the brain and a computer powerful enough to dissect the human brain’s complexities. It’ll happen one day, but not by using a Cochlear implant.”
They pause at the security checkpoint and show their identification badges to the guards.
 
David Henry Paniagua Jr. was born into wealth. His father, David Paniagua Sr. was president and CEO of American Microsystems Corporation (AMC), a computer company specializing in bioware, owned by the Mabus Tech Industries, a privately held corporation run by a host of former Reagan and Bush officials. Since its inception in 1991, MTI had been awarded over $19 billion dollars in Defense Department contracts, designing and building everything from 7.62-mm machine guns to guidance systems for Trident II(D5) nuclear missiles.
David Jr.’s career was forged during his childhood years. Weaned on computer combat games, he was doing his own programming by age ten. Two years later, he was working with an AMC team designing virtual-reality simulators to help train Apache chopper pilots.
Although he had no home life to speak of (his father being on his fourth marriage), working for Daddy’s company certainly had its rewards. By age sixteen, young David had a six-figure bank account, a new Dodge Viper, and had already accepted a scholarship to CalTech.
The only thing young David lacked in his life was respect, the kind of respect that comes from wielding true power. “Junior” learned early on that he would always remain in his famous father’s shadow, his own hard-earned accomplishments passed off as nepotism, his fellow workers always treating him like the CEO’s son. It was something that infuriated the computer whiz kid, but he swallowed his pride, biding his time.
Upon graduation, David’s father placed him in charge of a new molecular nanotechnology division at AMC, one that would work (in an unofficial capacity) with DARPA (the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency), the central research and development agency for the Department of Defense (DoD). To his delight, David learned he would be working under Dr. Elizabeth Goode, the “mother” of nanotechnology. It was the break he had been hoping for.
The future promises of molecular nanotechnology (MNT) were alluring. With MNT, scientists could precisely manipulate and control matter at the atomic level. Potential benefits came from the precision of atom-by-atom construction.
Using MNT, metallic structures could be manufactured devoid of micro imperfections, dramatically increasing strength. Microscopic machines (microbots) could be programmed to replicate, producing larger structures or achieving a desired group effect. Bacterium-sized nanobots could harvest a wealth of benefits, enabling physicians to perform precise interventions at the cellular level. Nanomedical devices could be designed to diagnose and cure viral infections, destroy cancerous tumors, repair limbs and organs, reverse neural damage, and eventually alter God’s own reference manual—the human genome.
DARPA’s interest, of course, was focused on building stronger, faster, and more powerful weapons systems. Nanotechnology opened doors to creating complex computers billions of times faster than today’s most advanced machines. America’s Armed Forces, still at the top of the class, could not afford to be left behind.
Unbeknownst to Dr. Goode, her foundation was primarily funded by DARPA, its research money channeled indirectly through bogus trusts and smaller companies like AMC. As brilliant as she was, the goddess of the new biochemical highway still had to answer to her board of directors and their agenda. When Goode announced her completion of schematics for
Sorceress,
the world’s first biochemical nanocomputer, the United States government, as trustees, demanded access.
Dr. Goode accepted her fate, proceeding under the false premise that Sorceress was being targeted for NASA’s Mars project. She envisioned a new rover, built to explore the Red Planet’s surface, operated by her self-evolving biochemical computer. Programmed to learn and grow, the computer would provide invaluable insight, leading to the eventual terraforming of Mars.
The DoD had other plans.
The escalating turmoil in the Middle East and OPEC’s unending oil-price increases were jeopardizing the already-sluggish American economy. Iran had the bomb, and their newly formed alliance with Iraq threatened further instability and a dangerous hegemony in the region. Saddam was buying Russianmade weapons as if the former Soviet Union were having a yard sale. If war was imminent, then the United States needed a new kind of firepower—one that didn’t rely on negotiating with foreign powers to refuel its fleets in dangerous port cities or fly over restricted airspace. One that was invulnerable to attack when approaching hostile coastlines and the enemy’s newest guided missiles.
In other words, America required a vessel that could enter the Strait of Hormuz and operate within the Gulf of Oman without being detected.
The solution: the
Goliath,
a weapons platform as stealthy as it was lethal, operated by a computer system void of emotion.
When Dr. Goode learned of the government’s plans, she immediately resigned.
Her replacement: David Henry Paniagua, Jr.
 
“Yes, Mr. President, I understand.” Thomas Gray Ayers hangs up, massaging his eyes.
Gunnar, Rocky, David Paniagua, and General Jackson are seated around the small conference table, waiting for the Secretary of the Navy to compose himself.
“The attack on the Russian Typhoon forces the president to come forward about the destruction of our carrier group. There’ll be a news conference at 2 P.M. Eastern, at which time the public will learn about the
Goliath
. The president wants to be able to say NUWC is working on a solution to end this crisis.” Ayers’s gaze focuses directly on David. “Seems you were right about Covah stealing nukes. What about the rest of your plan? Will
Colossus
be ready?”
“
Colossus
?” Rocky’s heart pounds, her blood boiling in anger. She turns to her father. “You built the
Goliath-II
without me?”
The Bear shoots her a look of warning. “Not now, Commander.”
“It’s not the same ship,” David says. “Without
Sorceress
, we had to reconfigure the interior spaces to accommodate a crew of three hundred officers and men. While she’s not automated, she’s still fast and stealthy, and she’s better armed than the
Goliath
.”
Rocky bites her lip.
“You still have to find her to engage her,” Gunnar states.
“We don’t have to find her,” the general states, “she’ll find us. We know Covah’s arming himself with nukes. The president has recalled all vessels carrying nuclear warheads, and the U.N. Secretary-General is requesting all other nuclear powers to do the same. Only the HMS
Vengeance
will put to sea with SLBMs, a situation we can blame on recent public protests at Faslane Naval Base. Covah will go after the British sub, and we’ll be trailing him in the
Colossus.”
Gunnar shakes his head. “I don’t care how heavily
Colossus
is armed. If
Sorceress
is on board the
Goliath
, then your sub has no chance in combat against her.”
“I agree,” Rocky says.
David grins. “That’s the beauty of the plan. We’re not going to attack the
Goliath
, we’re going to commandeer her. I’ve created a virus that can be downloaded using the acoustical array on board Gunnar’s minisub prototype. All Gunnar has to do is pilot the Hammerhead to within two-hundred yards of the
Goliath
and I’ll do the rest. The virus will allow me to temporarily shut down the
Goliath’s
engines and flood the hangar bay, giving our minisub
enough time to board the ship. The flooded chamber will also isolate us from Covah and his men. Once inside, we’ll drain the hangar and download this into the nearest terminal.” David holds up a CD. “This override program will give us total control of the ship. We’ll dock her at the nearest U.S. port, and Covah will never know what hit him.”
“And what if your virus fails to take control of the
Goliath
,” asks Secretary Ayers.
“An underwater mine would do the job,” Gunnar says, turning to the Bear. “I can rig a plutonium 239 implosion mine. Pack it with about five pounds of plutonium, surrounded by twenty-five pounds of C-4 and a conventional detonator.” He looks at Secretary Ayers. “In essence, we’re talking about a backpack nuke—big blast, lots of heat and radiation, but everything confined, so there won’t be too much environmental damage. The surface of the mine is magnetic. Once we attach the mine to the
Goliath’s
hull and pull away, the internal fuses become active. That’ll gives us about five minutes to hightail it outta there.”
“A nice idea, but totally unnecessary,” David says. “The virus will work.”
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