Rocky drags a chair over and stands on it so that she is only inches away from the scarlet eyeball. “Hey, Sorceress, can you hear me? You tell that asshole Covah that I want my own room. Do you hear me?” She reaches out to seize the device.
Gunnar opens his eyes. “Rocky, no—”
A sizzling, invisible electrostatic sledgehammer wallops her across the skull, tossing her backward into oblivion.
Atlantic Ocean
General Jackson groans as two sailors in a life raft pluck him from the sea. Ten minutes later, he is helped aboard a Navy cutter. The Bear drops to his knees on deck, protecting his broken wrists. The hooded suit is removed, replaced by a wool blanket. Two sailors help him to his feet, leading him out of a driving rain and into the cutter’s bridge.
Vice Admiral Arthur M. Krawitz, Commander of the Navy’s Submarine Force in the Atlantic (COMSUBLANT) hands him a cup of coffee. “You okay?”
“Broke both wrists. Nearly drowned. And I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“Let’s get you to sick bay.”
“Not yet.” He struggles to support the styrofoam cup as he sips the bitter brew. “My daughter?”
“No sign of her, but we heard from Covah. Goliath transmitted a message via satellite uplink about an hour ago. There’s a chopper on its way to take you to Washington. Let’s get those broken bones set while you have a spare moment. I’d say the shit’s about to hit the fan.”
“A man suffers little from unfulfilled wishes if he has trained his imagination to think of the past as hateful.”
—Friedrich Nietzsche, German philosopher
“I would kill a Turk, but I wouldn’t torture them.”
—Anonymous Serbian priest expressing his disapproval of the torture of Muslims
“That was a good hunt. There were a lot of rabbits here.”
—Anonymous Serbian soldier, while looking over a field piled with the bodies of Muslims
“We are a race of savages and have no pity.”
—Adolf Hitler
CHAPTER 13
Aboard Goliath
Rocky lies facedown on the bunk, her swollen, singed right hand wrapped in a wet towel. Gunnar is seated on the floor beside her. He brushes aside the straw-colored blond hair, matted with perspiration, and massages her neck.
“Don’t touch me.”
A heavy click, and the stateroom door swings open. The African and Asian enter the cabin, followed by a third man, a white-haired Albanian in his late fifties. All three carry assault rifles. “On your knees, the two of you.”
“She’s hurt.”
The older man, a physician, examines her burn. “I’ll get some salve for this—”
“Tafili, later.” The Asian removes two plastic dog collars from a satchel. “Simon’s requested your presence as our dinner guests. We prefer not to carry weapons. These devices should keep you on your best behavior.”
Thomas Chau slips the collar around Rocky’s throat, locking it in place so that its two quarter-inch metal prongs press against the back of her neck, fitting snugly against the base of her cervical vertebrae. A small black receiver rests along one side of her throat.
“Rigged these myself,” the Albanian physician boasts. “The Russians used similar collars to train our attack dogs. Quite simple really. The remote is linked to the sub’s computer.”
Chau fastens the remaining collar around Gunnar’s neck. “Let’s have a quick test. Sorceress, a level-two charge.”
A brilliant explosion of pain—sudden and devastating—sizzles through every nerve ending in Gunnar’s body. He collapses to the deck, writhing on the floor like an epileptic having a violent seizure, the purple lights blinding his eyes.
The electrical charge subsides. Gunnar rolls over, spitting up a frothy, acrid saliva. He senses Rocky next to him, the woman gagging as well.
The Albanian physician bends over them. “That was a level-two charge. Please don’t do anything rash, a level-ten charge would fry you like bacon.”
“Simon’s rules are simple,” Chau states. “The two of you are guests, under constant surveillance. Overstep your boundaries and the computer will dole out the appropriate response. Now come with us.”
The three men exit.
Gunnar slips his hand beneath his waistband, groaning in agony as he palpates a small spot below his right hip. The tender point just beneath the skin is scorching hot.
Rocky helps him to his feet. Arm in arm, they follow the three men down the corridor to a small galley. The rest of the crew is already inside, seated around a large rectangular table secured to the deck. Plastic utensils litter the white Formica top. The scent of fresh-baked pizza drifts out from open double doors leading back into the kitchen.
Covah stands to greet Rocky, motioning her to an empty setting on his left. “Please, Commander, come and sit down.”
Rocky steps forward, smiles, then kicks outward, the top of her bare foot rushing toward Covah’s groin.
The electrical charge grips her in midstrike, flipping her body out from under her and hard onto the linoleum floor.
“Like a bull in a china shop,” says David, shaking his head.
Rocky rolls onto her knees, her chest heaving in convulsions.
Gunnar kneels beside her. “Not like this—”
“Leave me alone.”
Covah returns to his seat. “As you can see, the collar’s probes detect even the slightest neuromuscular activity, and I shouldn’t need to remind you how fast Sorceress can react.”
Ignoring her protests, Gunnar helps Rocky to her feet, leading her to one of the empty place settings. “Sit down and save your energy.”
She wipes saliva from her chin. “Go screw yourself.”
Two Arabs enter from the kitchen, carrying pizzas on large aluminum trays. The crew digs in as if famished.
Covah breaks off a small piece of dough and sauce, placing it gingerly in his deformed mouth, the mangled flesh around his jaw and right eye contorting as he chews. “Go ahead, Gunnar, help yourself. If I remember correctly, pizza was your favorite.”
Gunnar’s stomach growls a reply. He takes a slice, earning more of Rocky’s wrath.
Covah feeds himself another morsel, then removes a vial from his pocket, fishing out several pills. One at a time, he places the tablets in his mouth and swallows.
Gunnar watches him, saying nothing.
“I can’t … I can’t do this.” Rocky bites down on her quivering lower lip. “You murdered my husband, you murdered the sailors aboard the Ronald Reagan,” She looks at Covah, her hazel eyes swimming. “I swear to God, before this is over—” She stops, wary of Sorceress.
The crew pauses from eating, waiting for Covah’s response.
“You swear to God? What makes you think God is listening? What is he, an absentee God? A God amused by the suffering of His children?” Simon Covah’s mouth twitches in midswallow. He coughs, gags, then reaches out with his good hand, lifting the wine to his lips, dripping some down his rust-colored goatee as he drains the glass. The pale blue lashless eyes never leave the woman’s. “As for murder, isn’t it you who are calling the kettle black?”
“What are you talking about?”
“David tells me it was you who ended the life of Mr. Strejcek.”