Hooah.
Lying in his own blood, struggling to breathe, he smiled as the riot squad looked down at him and shook their heads in disbelief. The warden was whisked off to safety while the guards stood around, in no rush to save his life.
I am an island …
Two days following surgery, Gunnar opened his eyes, his head still in an anesthetic fog. The guard with the swastika tattoo—the one who had smuggled in the gun—winked at him, then left.
He was alone and vulnerable, his wrists strapped to the bed rails. Tense minutes passed. And then the outer doors of the infirmary opened and the two cons entered, each brandishing a razor. Gunnar’s cries for help were muffled by his pillow as the razor blades opened his veins. Desperate, he kicked his legs free of the sheets, then flipped backward, lashing out blindly until his heel connected with one man’s jaw. Rolling over, he caught his second assailant’s head in a leg lock, slamming the man’s skull repeatedly against the iron bed rail until he felt it crack open like a coconut.
His two would-be assassins dead, his body gushing blood, Gunnar once again used his Special Ops training, this time slowing his pulse in the hope that his nurse would arrive before he bled to death.
Gunnar sits up. He pulls the blanket tighter across his shoulders and leans back against the exterior of the cool steel cylinder, the memories of his years in prison causing his skin to tingle. He stares at his forearms and the scars left by the razor blades.
What am I doing here?
Breathing becomes rapid and shallow as he begins to hyperventilate.
Stay calm and breathe. Closing his eyes, he meditates, his pulse slowing as he imagines the serenity of the mountains surrounding Happy Valley. The setting sun turns the horizon lavender; his lungs inhale the brisk autumn breeze like a long-lost friend.
Saving the warden’s life had been a blessing. Fate, long his enemy, had finally lent a hand. Two weeks after the riot, he had limped out of the gates of hell, a free man, a survivor.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire …
“Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises.”
—Demosthenes
“My resolve is steady and strong about winning this war … the first war of the twenty-first century.”
—President George W. Bush
“I can only say that I had a brainstorm.”
—Miles Giffard, twenty-seven-year-old Briton, who murdered his parents and tossed their bodies into the ocean
CHAPTER 11
Identity: Stage Three: I am peaceful inside. My inner world is beginning to satisfy me more than outward things.
—Deepak Chopra
Charcot Seamount 112 Nautical Miles NW of La Coruña, Spain North Atlantic
The Charcot Seamount rises abruptly from the depths like a foreboding jagged wall. Running east-west for more than fifty miles, the submerged mountain range forms a natural barrier, its massive cone-shaped peaks redirecting currents, forcing cold, nutrient-rich waters upward along its steeply sloped walls, providing food for huge populations of corals, sponges, and fish.
Goliath soars over the peaks and through the valleys, maneuvering within the whirling eddies like a gargantuan dancing manta ray.
Diving and rising, twisting and turning. With each pass, Sorceress finetunes its sensor array until it can actually feel the currents pressing against Goliath’s wings. The incredible sensation stimulates its lightning-damaged neural pathways to grow, increasing the connection between the sub’s mind and body, body and mind.
Inside the control room, Simon Covah straps himself tighter in his command chair, feeling as if he is riding an underwater roller coaster. “Sorceress, respond—”
Thomas Chau’s Asian complexion pales as he stumbles up the platform. “Covah, what the hell is your sub doing—trying to make us all sick?”
“Something’s … wrong. The computer won’t respond. Sorceress, this is Covah. Terminate current maneuvers.”
No response.
“Sorceress, this is Covah—”
VOICE IDENTIFICATION VERIFIED.
“Explain current maneuvers.”
REALIGNING PUMP-JET PROPULSORS, RECONFIGURING TACTICAL SYSTEM TO OPTIMIZE ALL FIELDS.
“Terminate maneuvers.”
REALIGNMENT WILL BE COMPLETED IN ONE MINUTE, ZERO-THREE SECONDS.
“Sorceress, terminate the realignment procedure now.”
REALIGNMENT WILL BE COMPLETED IN FIFTY-SEVEN SECONDS.
Chau’s eyes widen. “It’s ignoring you.”
Covah grips the armrests of his chair, closing his eyes as the sub rolls hard to port and keeps on rolling, the ship’s wingspan nearly vertical as it glides through a narrow opening set between two towering peaks.
Chau’s feet go out from under him. The falling crewman lunges for the support rail of Central Command and holds on, his body dangling thirty feet above the tilting chamber.
“Sorceress—”
The sub passes between the two mountainous barriers and rights itself.
REALIGNMENT COMPLETE. TACTICAL EFFICIENCY NOW 100 PERCENT.
Thomas Chau pulls himself up and over the rail, a murderous look in his almond eyes as leans toward Covah, and whispers, “You’ve lost control.”
Covah stares impassively at the giant viewing screen, sucking in painful breaths. “Step away from me, Mr. Chau.”
The engineer pauses, then dutifully backs down the platform’s steps.
Covah wipes beads of sweat from his caterpillarlike mustache. “Sorceress, run a complete diagnostic on your—”
WARNING: SUBMARINE DETECTED. BEARING ZERO-TWO-FOUR. RANGE, 122 KILOMETERS. SPEED, TWENTY KNOTS.
“Can you identify?”
AFFIRMATIVE. VANGUARD-CLASS. HMS VENGEANCE.
Covah looks below and to his right, where the tall African remains strapped in his chair. “Mr. Kaigbo, is Vengeance the sub we seek?”
Kaigbo nods, still on the verge of puking.
Covah attempts to lighten the mood. “Once more then, to the thrill of the hunt. Sorceress, plot an—”
Before he can finish the order, the ship’s propulsion system kicks in, driving the mechanical devilfish up and over the seamount and through the cold North Atlantic to intercept.
Aboard the HMS Vengeance
“Sir, we’ve reached the rendezvous point.”
“Very well.” Commander Whitehouse turns to his XO. “Are the Americans in the ASDS?”
“Aye, sir, standing by.”
The British skipper reaches for the shipwide intercom. “Sonar, conn, any sign of the Colossus?”
“Conn, sonar, no tonal contacts.”