Goliath

“Sorceress, report.” Simon Covah speaks English, the common language of his multinational crew. The dialect is heavily Russian, his voice—an elegant rasp that frequently catches on the dry scar tissue in his throat—another lasting gift from his Serbian torturers.

In sharp contrast, the computerized voice reverberating throughout the conn is distinctly female—smooth and soothing—the inflection patterned after that of Covah’s late wife, Anna.

FOUR ANTISUBMARINE HELICOPTERS APPROACHING FROM THE NORTHEAST. TIME TO INTERCEPT AT PRESENT COURSE AND SPEED IS THREE MINUTES, TWENTY-TWO SECONDS. EVASIVE MANEUVERS WILL BEGIN IN TWO MINUTES, FORTY-FIVE SECONDS UNLESS OVERRIDE IS ENGAGED.

A digital clock appears in the upper right corner of the screen, counting down the helicopters’ time to arrival.

Covah looks below at his engineer. “Mr. Chau, what have—” The words catch. Covah reaches to his belt, detaches the water bottle, lifts it to his lips, and swallows, the wetness allowing him to regain his voice. “What have we been able to salvage from the carrier fleet?”

“Perhaps you should ask her.”

Covah detects the heavy sarcasm. “You have a problem, Mr. Chau?”

“The crew and I feel obsolete. Your sub planned and initiated the entire attack on the American fleet before consulting us—before we even knew they were in striking distance.”

“Goliath is not just a submarine. It is a vehicle with a brain, a thinking machine encased in a steel hull. Sorceress does not require our permission to function.”

“Precisely what concerns us. Your computer brain seems to be functioning more independently since we left Bo Hai Gulf.”

“Sorceress is programmed to evolve, Mr. Chau. It seems more efficient because it is becoming more efficient, a trait I wish all of us shared. Now answer my question.”

“The submarine tender Emory S. Land yielded twenty-three Mk-48 ADCAP torpedoes, six Harpoon missiles, five Tomahawk Block III TLAM missiles, and two Tomahawk Block IV deep strike missiles. The Hammerheads have transported all these weapons to the hangar bay.”

“What about the nuclear warheads?”

“The sub was only able to salvage one Trident II (D5) from the Ronald Reagan’s wreckage.”

“Only one? Mr. Stracjek indicated there would be at least ten nuclear missiles on board.”

“Most of the casings cracked when the ship sank. Even so, we could have easily extracted another three had your machine spent less time salvaging so many of the American torpedoes from the supply ship.”

Covah’s steel right cheekbone constricts his smile to a twitching, crooked half grin. “Mr. Chau, Sorceress prioritized the salvage operation based on our long-term objectives. The computer chose to arm itself, knowing we’ll most likely see more combat before we complete our objective. Has Mr. Araujo finished downloading the CVBG’s satellite information?”

“So he says, but you know I don’t trust him. He brings little to our crusade.”

“I disagree. We’ll need Mr. Araujo’s knowledge of his nation’s terrain soon enough. Now, was there something else you wished to discuss?”

“Sorceress identified Stracjek’s body among the dead. He’d been shot.”

Covah exhales painfully. “Then he died for a noble cause.” The Russian closes his eyes to think. The pale face is calm, statuesque, except for the rapid movement of his eyeballs, which twitch to and fro beneath the closed lids.

Chau watches, feeling uncomfortable in the bizarre-looking man’s presence.

The female voice causes him to jump.

ATTENTION. NEXT UTOPIA-ONE TARGET HAS BEEN ACQUIRED. COURSE PLOTTED. WHITE SEA, NORTHWEST RUSSIAN REPUBLIC.

Simon Covah remains upright and motionless in his chair, barely breathing, as his ship races north through the Atlantic, scattering everything in its path.

Naval Undersea Warfare Center Keyport, Washington

Gunnar Wolfe stares out the window of the helicopter, looking down upon Puget Sound. The sight of the Bainbridge Island Ferry brings a rush of adrenaline—and memories of a different existence.