The Typhoon’s bow swings sharply to starboard, the great ship cavitating as its propellers fight to keep their hold on the sea.
Aboard the USS Scranton
“Conn, sonar, contact is coming about, changing course to three-three-zero, reducing speed to five knots.”
“Helm, all stop.”
“All stop, aye, sir.”
Long minutes pass as the Scranton hovers silently in five hundred feet of water, waiting for its Russian quarry to resume her course.
“Conn, sonar. Sir, I’m registering ambient sounds, approaching from the northeast. Range, twenty-two-thousand yards, closing at six knots.”
Coming up behind us. Cubit’s pulse quickens. “Helm, all stop. Sonar, what is the classification of the contacts?”
The sonar supervisor’s voice answers over the intercom. “Sir, initial classification is biologics. Believe they may be humpbacks.”
Cubit closes his eyes. The attack on the Jacksonville and Hampton had been preceded by cetacean acoustics. At this time of year, the North Atlantic was teeming with migrating whales, all heading south for the winter to breed. “Sonar, Captain, I want to know if those whales accelerate toward our boat.”
“Aye, sir.”
Ease up, Cubit, don’t go paranoid. It’s a big ocean out there, filled with thousands of whales. Don’t do anything to spook the Typhoon … or your crew.
“Conn, sonar, the Typhoon has resumed its course—two-one-zero, increasing speed to fifteen knots.”
Not yet, give him some distance … “Steady, gentlemen.”
“Eighteen knots—”
“Very well. Helm, all ahead one-third—”
“Aye, sir. All ahead one-third.”
“Conn, sonar, I’m getting another set of ambient sounds. Very faint.”
“Belay that order, helm. All stop.”
“All stop, aye, sir.”
“Sonar, Captain, what do you hear?”
“I don’t know, sir. It’s gone now.”
Cubit pushes past his officer of the deck and heads forward, joining his sonar supervisor, who is leaning over Michael Flynn’s luminescent green console. “Talk to me, Michael-Jack. What did you hear?”
“I don’t know, Skipper, it was sort of a whooshing noise. Like sand blowing away from the bottom.”
“Sand?”
“Yes, sir. Lots of sand. Like something massive just lifted off the seafloor.”
“Hell is full of good meanings and best wishes.”
—George Herbert
“Hell is other people.”
—Jean-Paul Sartre
CHAPTER 7
Kingston Inn
Kingston, Washington
The hotel room is musty, its drab olive green carpet reeking of the decrepit odors of mildew. Gunnar lies spread-eagled on the king-size bed. He stares at the television screen, the football game growing hazy as his eyes begin glazing over from exhaustion.
The knock startles him awake. He pulls back the drab, mothball-scented curtains, takes a peek outside, then quickly unchains the door.
The woman enters. “Shut the door. We don’t have much time.”
Gunnar obeys, his head still in a jet-lag fog. “Jesus, what are you doing here? I thought—”
“Don’t think, sit and listen.” She checks the bathroom, verifying they are alone.
Gunnar smooths the entanglement of bedclothes, then sits on the edge of the mattress, watching as she leans back against the dresser to face him, her arms folded in displeasure across her wiry frame.
Dr. Elizabeth Goode has the pale complexion and demeanor of someone who spends the majority of each workday’s eighteen waking hours in a windowless laboratory. The shoulder-length hair is still brown, though graying around the part. The gaunt face—librarian pretty—is still devoid of makeup. Dark circles shadow the hazel eyes—eyes that take in everything. “You look like hell, G-man.”
“Been there.”
“No, you’ve been to purgatory. Hell is what’s going to break out unless you stop Simon.”
“And why should I do that?”
“Because this is all your fault.”
“My fault?”
“That’s right. If you had followed my instructions and downloaded the virus when I told you to, then you’d be watching television with Rocky and your 2.5 kids right now, instead of listening to some old lab rat babble in this dumpy motel room.”
“Well, guess I screwed up. Next time, do it yourself.”
“There won’t be a next time, but there will be another Goliath.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dr. Goode shoots him a chastising look. “Don’t be so naive. You really think the DoD was going to walk away from this project, just because of a mere 2-billion-dollar setback? Goliath’s sister ship, the Colossus, has been under construction since your second year in prison.”
“Jesus …” Gunnar feels light-headed.
“She was built in total secrecy; even Congress doesn’t know about it. Vice President Maller covertly diverted funds from the Energy Department for years. The entire base is run by the NSA like a military prison. And there’s no almost crossover in personnel from the GOLIATH Project.”
“Almost?”
“Not me, I flatly refused. It was never my decision to put Sorceress on board the Goliath, and I wasn’t about to let that happen again. Colossus is being outfitted with the Virginia-class computers. The ship won’t be autonomous, but it’s still the second-most dangerous thing in the sea.”
“What are you asking me to do?”
“Take Jackson’s offer. Rejoin his team.”
“Forget it. I don’t even know why Jackson needs me?”
“It wasn’t Jackson who requested you. It was David Paniagua.”
“David?” Mention of Dr. Goode’s former assistant stirs distant memories.
“David’s in charge of the COLOSSUS Project.”
“I thought you said—”
“David was appointed when I refused. He has a plan, one that can get you and an infiltration team aboard the Goliath. You can retake the ship before Simon does any more damage.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then the holocaust that follows will be on your head.”
She starts for the door, then turns. “Gunnar, I’m sorry for everything that’s happened, but you have to finish this business. Be careful.”
“Yeah … thanks.”
She offers a consoling look, then leaves.
Gunnar watches from the window as she crosses the street and climbs inside a waiting car.
Elizabeth Goode leans back against the gray leather seat as the Lincoln swerves into traffic.
“So?”
“He’ll do it.” She looks away, swallowing the lump rising in her throat.
General Jackson nods, satisfied. “Thank you, Dr. Goode. And now, you and your sons are free to leave the country.”
Norwegian Sea
Aboard the USS Scranton
Tom Cubit leans forward, staring at the BSY-1 low-frequency passive and active search-and-attack sonar. “Where is she, Flynnie?”
“If I’m right, sir, she’s directly behind the Typhoon.”
“You think the Typhoon knows she’s in her baffles?”