Covah rasps. “How soon until we reach the Strait of Gibraltar?”
SIX MINUTES, FORTY SECONDS.
“Very well. Increase speed to—”
TACTICAL WARNING: THE AMERICAN WARSHIPS ARE PURPOSELY MANEUVERING THE GOLIATH INTO THE STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR. PRESENT BATTLEFIELD CONDITIONS YIELD A 73 PERCENT PROBABILITY OF SUSTAINING MODERATE TO SEVERE DAMAGE.
“Then turn us around. Head back into the Mediterranean.”
NEGATIVE. THE AMERICAN FLEET STATIONED IN ROTA IS MOBILIZING. DELAYING ESCAPE INCREASES THE PROBABILITY OF SUSTAINING SEVERE DAMAGE BY COEFFICIENT OF .83.
“Then we have little choice,” David states. “Sorceress, sink the warships. Sink all of them.”
Rocky’s eyes widen. “No—”
SOLUTION UNACCEPTABLE. INSUFFICIENT INVENTORY OF TORPEDOES ABOARD GOLIATH AT PRESENT TIME TO DESTROY ALL WARSHIPS.
Covah fingers the dime-sized object in his pants pocket. “There’s another option.”
Aboard the USS Scranton Atlantic Ocean
The USS Scranton hovers in four hundred feet of water, seven miles due west, on the Atlantic side of the Strait of Gibraltar.
Sonar technician Mike Flynn wipes the sweat from his eyes, his heart pounding as he listens to the popping and flooding sounds of the wounded aircraft carrier. “She’s hit … taking on water …”
Tom Cubit feels his skin crawling. “Can you hear anything else? The Goliath?”
“Sorry, sir, the only thing I can hear is the Enterprise. The Goliath appears to have broken off the attack.”
“She must be heading our way,” Commander Dennis says. “The Sixth Fleet’s driving her west, and three more sonar buoys just splashed down along the entrance of the Strait.”
“Conn, Captain, man battle stations. Ultrasilent running, come to course zero-nine-zero, all ahead one-third, make your depth eight hundred feet. WEPS, Captain. Make the weapons in tubes one and two ready in all respects, including opening the outer doors.”
Cubit looks down at his senior sonar technician. “Okay, Michael-Jack. The bases are loaded, now it’s up to you.”
Aboard the Goliath
Rocky enters the empty galley. Checks the coffee machine.
Empty.
Enters the kitchen. Searches through a series of pantries. Eyes the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Grabs it off the top shelf.
“Hungry?” The older Iraqi eyes her lustfully from the kitchen entry.
“No … I—”
The Kurd approaches, running his palm against her buttocks. “Nice. You’ll visit me tonight.” It is a statement.
Rocky pushes his hand away. “Drop dead.”
In one fluid motion, he grabs a handful of her hair, bending her backward over his knee. Helpless, she looks up into his dark eyes, gagging under his breath. “Let me go—”
“Maybe you’ll visit me now.” He unzips her jumper, sliding his hand down her pants.
“Jalal!”
The Arab looks up.
David Paniagua enters the kitchen. “Let her go.”
Jalal hesitates.
“Now.”
He releases her, but not before squeezing Rocky’s left breast.
Rocky falls sideways against an aluminum table, balling her fists in rage.
“Thomas Chau is missing,” David says. “Find him, please. I’ll be in my quarters.”
Jalal eyes Rocky. Licks his fingers, then heads out.
David opens the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and pours Rocky a drink. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Drop dead.” She drains the plastic cup. Refills it herself.
“You know, it doesn’t have to be this way. Reports are coming in from all over the world. Terrorist cells have been decimated, Gadhafi was executed, and there are reports that Castro’s regime is negotiating with the United States for asylum. My plan is working.”
“Your plan? You mean Covah’s plan, don’t you? Face it, David, you’re just Simon’s piss boy, a glorified stooge.”
She pushes past him and out the door.
Simon Covah enters the hangar bay. Concealed beneath the decking, set in two rows of six, are the twelve docking berths that hold the Hammerhead minisubs. As he approaches the first berth, Sorceress activates a hatch along the floor, opening it, unveiling a rectangular twelve-foot-by-twenty-foot steel box below.
Perched on skids within the dry dock is a remotely operated submersible, the vessel resembling a sleek, black hammerhead shark, slightly smaller and narrower than Gunnar’s two-man prototype.
With a double click, the dorsal fin hatch rotates counterclockwise and opens, exposing the insides of a small cockpit.
Covah reaches into his pocket and extracts the tiny transmitter the computer had surgically removed from Gunnar’s hip. Leaning over, he drops the device into the open vessel.
Sorceress reseals the dry dock, then floods the bay, launching its minisub.
Aboard the Boeing 747-400 YAL-IA 40,000 feet over the Strait of Gibraltar
General Jackson enters the cramped soundproof office located at the rear of the converted 747 jumbo jet, slams the door shut with the back of his left cast, then fumbles with the receiver of the president’s hot line with the other.
“Jackson here.”
“They attacked the carrier, General.”
“Yes, Mr. President, I know. As I stated earlier, Covah’s unpredictability places everything in jeopardy. In my opinion, sir, we may have allowed him too much rope.”
“I’m not interested in your ‘I told you so’s,’ General.”
Jackson clenches his jaw, remaining quiet.
“Is Joe-Pa still functioning?”
“Yes, sir. Beeping loud and clear.”
“Where’s the Goliath now?”
“Making its run through the Strait of Gibraltar, as we speak.”
“Forward the coordinates to the fleet. I’m ordering the Navy to destroy her.”
Jackson feels the blood drain from his face. “Sir … my daughter may be on board that ship.”
“Yes, Mike, I know. And I’m sorry.”
“Mr. President—”
“Forward Joe-Pa’s coordinates, General. That’s an order.”
Jackson listens to the high-pitched dial tone as he stares at the receiver in his trembling hand.
With a brutish growl, he slams the instrument back onto its cradle.
Aboard the USS Scranton
Michael Flynn swivels around to face his captain. “Lots of traffic heading our way, Skipper. I count two destroyers and three more shooters, all moving west, into the Strait.”
“What about—”
“Stand by, I’m hearing something else.”
Cubit, the XO, and sonar supervisor wait impatiently as Flynn closes his eyes to concentrate. “It’s a pump-jet propulsion unit, Skipper.”
“The Goliath?”
“I can’t be positive, sir, not with all this noise.”
“Best guess?”
“I only hear one engine, sir, and it seems much smaller. Best guess—it’s one of her minisubs.”
“Designate contact Sierra-5. What’s her heading?”
Flynn focuses on his sonar monitor. “Bearing heading north on course three-three-zero. It’s accelerating out of the Strait, moving into open waters. Stand-by.” The technician presses the headphones tighter to his ears. “The fleet’s following her out, Skipper. The antisub choppers, too.”
Bo Dennis looks at his CO. “You think it’s a ruse?”
“Either that, or the fleet knows something we don’t. Michael-Jack?”