Goliath

A lifetime has passed since Gunnar was in Division Keyport, the Navy’s Undersea Warfare Center for research and development, testing and evaluation, and engineering support for its nuclear submarines, autonomous underwater systems, and undersea-warfare weapons programs. As chief design engineer of Goliath’s weapons and Hammerhead minisubs, Gunnar had overseen a team of fifty civil service and enlisted engineers, technicians, and scientists, and another dozen defense contractors. During his two-year stint his department had won the prestigious VADM Harold G. Bowen Award for Inventions of Most Value to the Navy, and was a finalist two years running in the Secretary of Defense Design Excellence Award.

Gunnar rubs his eyes. The last time he was in Keyport, the FBI had paraded him before his peers in handcuffs.

Hooah.

He glances up at Rocky, who is seated shotgun. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. He contemplates explaining his motives for wanting to eradicate Goliath’s design, but knows she wouldn’t listen. Rocky’s just like I was, a dutiful soldier, patriotic to a fault. She’s too wrapped up by the flag to see the forest for the trees …

Gunnar spots the naval base in the distance. The chopper sets down minutes later.

Two MPs approach and open the door, beckoning him out. He climbs down, following Rocky into the building, his two new friends escorting him inside.

Captain Andrew Smith is waiting at the security station by the main entrance. The base commander steps forward, tight jet-black curls protruding from beneath his cap. “Wolfe, you must have balls the size of grapefruits to set foot back at NUWC.” Smith looks at Rocky as he follows them inside. “Am I right, Commander? Are your ex-fiancé’s balls the size of grapefruits?”

“I hear yours are the size of raisins.” Rocky pushes past Smith and presses the button for the elevator.

Gunnar grins at his former base commander. “Six years and you still haven’t gotten laid, huh, Smitty? Bet that shit’s backed up pretty good by now—”

“Fuck you, traitor.” Smith turns to his MPs. “If he even looks like he’s doing something suspicious, shoot him in the knees.”

Gunnar, Rocky, and the two guards step inside the elevator and take it up to the third floor, where they are greeted by more security personnel. The MPs allow them to pass, but Gunnar can feel their venom.

Rocky leads him to the familiar double steel security doors. “Your team’s inside. Try not to steal anything before our next meeting.”

Gunnar grits his teeth, watching her walk away. So beautiful. So full of rage. She wants Covah the way Ahab wanted Moby-Dick. He takes a deep breath and enters the lab.

A dozen members of Goliath’s design team look up from their computer terminals, the expression on most faces a mix of curiosity and disgust.

Justin Fisch steps forward, wearing his usual tie-dyed tee shirt beneath his lab coat. He offers a closed fist. “Hey, G-Man.”

“Hey, Fisch.” The knuckles of Gunnar’s fist meet those of the computer expert, their old greeting.

“Heard about Simon. Bet you want to tear him apart, huh?”

“Covah always had an agenda,” whispers Karen Jensen, the naval engineer who had designed the minisub’s sensor array. The thirty-five-year-old brunette with the pierced tongue and eyebrow gives Gunnar a quick hug. “Personally, I never trusted him.”

She takes him by the wrist, leading him to his old office. “Take a look, boss. Fisch and I fixed it up, just the way you left it.”

Gunnar opens the door, catching a whiff of carpet shampoo. The big metal desk in the corner has been cleaned off, the file cabinets, ransacked long ago by the FBI, now back in place. The solid brass table lamp with the gold Penn State emblem against the navy shade has been reassembled, situated in its proper place on the left side of the desk. The computer has been replaced with a newer model, its screen saver flashing “welcome back.”

He steps inside, his heart pounding. Opposite his work space is the old beige, vinyl sofa. Rehung on the wall above the sofa are rows of framed photographs. Gunnar, age twenty-five, bare-chested on a beach, posing with his Ranger buddies. His Special Ops graduation photo, in which he is accepting congratulations from Colonel Jackson. Assorted shots from his days at Penn State, Fort Benning, NUWC …

He notices that the pictures have been carefully rearranged to compensate for the ones no longer there, the ones of him and Rocky. The black-and-white of him and Simon, standing on either side of President George W. Bush in the Oval Office, is also gone.

Gunnar exhales. He raises the venetian blinds, staring out at Puget Sound. This is no longer his office. This is no longer his life …