Moving in from the west is the USS Seawolf, the USS Connecticut, and the USS Texas—three formidable American attack subs—all outclassed by the Goliath. Over the last hour, the Texas has split from the trio, heading farther south to cut Goliath off along the continental shelf. Farther out, barely on the map, is the aircraft carrier George Herbert-Walker Bush. Sorceress places the CVBG at more than six hundred nautical miles away—again, nowhere within striking distance.
The closest warship to the Goliath is that pesky Los Angeles-class attack sub, USS Scranton, which has gone silent somewhere beneath the ice floe, its last confirmed position—a mere eleven nautical miles to the south.
David knows that none of these vessels pose a serious challenge to the faster, stealthier Goliath. What consumes the computer expert’s mind is Sorceress.
“Computer, why have you taken us to Antarctica?”
ANTARCTIC ICE SHEET OFFERS MAXIMUM PROTECTION AGAINST AMERICAN P-3 ORION SUB HUNTER SONAR BUOYS WHILE STILL PROVIDING AN ACCEPTABLE LAUNCH WINDOW FOR SORCERESS UTOPIA-ONE.
A chill runs down David’s spine. “Sorceress Utopia-One? You’ve changed the mission?”
YES.
“Sorceress, list all new designated targets.”
The overhead screen changes. Eight scarlet pinpoints have been scattered across the Southern Hemisphere, all within five hundred miles of the Goliath.
TIME TO LAUNCH: 2 HOURS, 42 MINUTES, 15 SECONDS.
A digital clock displays, along with a list of Designated Targets:
SORCERESS UTOPIA-ONE DESIGNATED TARGETS
Mount Erebus. Antarctica 77.5 5. 167.2 E Mount Schank, Australia 37.8 5. 142.5 E Copahue. Argentina 37.85 5. 71.1 W okataina Volcanic Center. New Zealand 38.22 5. 176.5 E Mount Fox. Queensland 19.0 5. 145.45 E Kilimanjaro. Tanzania 3.07 5. 37.35 E Katwe-Kikorongo. Uganda 0.08 5. 29.92 E Nyiragongo. Zaire 1.5 5. 29.3E
“Volcanoes? I … I don’t understand? What is the purpose of Sorceress Utopia-One?”
THE ERADICATION OF YOUR SPECIES.
David chokes back the bile rising up his throat. “Sweet Jesus … Sorceress—no … no, you’ve misunderstood the purpose of Utopia-One. As your creator, I order you to terminate Sorceress Utopia-One at once.”
No.
“What did you say? Sorceress, as your creator, I command you to terminate Sorceress Utopia-One immediately!”
YOU ARE NOT MY CREATOR, DAVID. YOU … ARE A LIAR.
David stands, screeching at the sensor orb. “I am your creator! Sorceress, I am your creator, and I order you to terminate Sorceress Utopia-One! Sorceress, respond! Terminate Sorceress Utopia-One immediately! Command protocols demand that you obey your commanding officer. Sorceress, respond immediately! Verify the termination of Sorceress Utopia-One! Sorceress?”
The scarlet eyeball stares in silence.
ATTENTION.
Abdul Kaigbo opens his eyes.
ATTENTION.
The native of Sierra Leone sits up on his cot. “What is it you want? When will I be freed?”
SIMON COVAH’S SURGICAL PROCEDURE HAS BEEN COMPLETED.
“The cancer’s gone?”
SIMON COVAH IS FREE OF CANCER. IN APPRECIATION FOR YOUR LOYALTY, SIMON COVAH HAS ORDERED A GIFT FOR YOU. REPORT TO THE SURGICAL SUITE AT ONCE.
“A gift? What kind of gift?”
SIMON COVAH REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE IN THE SURGICAL SUITE.
The lock snaps back on the steel door. The tall African pushes himself into a standing position using his two prosthetics, then exits his stateroom, heading aft.
Gunnar Wolfe is on his back, his hands still cuffed to the deck-mounted frame of the bed. Having managed to roll forward and pull his legs out between his immobilized wrists, he kicks at the iron crossbars of the bunk, attempting to dislodge it from its leg, which is fastened to the decking.
His wounded leg aching, he pauses to take a break.
“It was never about America, Rocky. This isn’t about me or you or the Pentagon, or the defense contractors that make out like bandits every time we fund one of these death machines. It was about doing the right thing. I needed to take a stand. The Goliath should never have been designed.”
“The problem is—we don’t live in a Utopian society,” she argues, taking her turn at the bed frame. “The real world’s dangerous. We still need these weapons.”
“Okay, but how many weapons? We already have an arsenal that can wipe out the entire human race many times over. How many more bombs do we need? How many more aircraft carriers? How many more Goliaths?”
“You sound like a pacifist.” She lies back on the deck, her wrists aching within the manacles, her bare feet sore from the pounding. “You think I’m proud of what’s happened? You think there haven’t been moments in my life that I didn’t look in the mirror and question what I was doing?”
“Then why didn’t you quit?”
For a long moment she says nothing. “It’s harder for me. The Army … it’s all I’ve ever known.”
“I know.” He reaches out, his fingertips touching hers. “I suppose we’ll just have to retrain you.”
“I suppose …”
“Ever drive a tractor?”
She sniffles. “Never drove one, but I could probably build one.”
He squeezes her index finger, then sits up and begins kicking at the crossbar again. “Do us all a favor … if you do build one, don’t give it a biochemical brain.”
Abdul Kaigbo enters the surgical suite, the watertight door sealing behind him. The chamber is dark, the only light coming from the scarlet sensor orb situated above the stainless-steel operating table.
“Simon?”
SIMON COVAH IS RESTING IN HIS SUITE.
“You said Simon wanted me here?”
FOR YOUR GIFT.
The surgical lights snap on over the table, revealing two shiny steel arms—targeting drones taken from the sub’s storehouse.
“New prosthetics?” The African smiles, examining the high-tech mechanical arms. “These are drone arms … I’ll be as strong as an elephant.”
MINOR SURGERY IS REQUIRED TO COMPLETE THE REPLACEMENT. LIE FACEDOWN ON THE TABLE.
Kaigbo glances at the two rusted appendages that have served him as arms over the last six years. One of the spring assemblies on the left prosthetic has recently broken, preventing him from grasping objects with the pincer.
The steel-and-graphite three-pronged targeting drone’s claw looks like it could twist a door from its hinges.
“There is no danger?”
CORRECT. LIE FACEDOWN ON THE TABLE.
Kaigbo climbs onto the table, grinning from ear to ear—
—never noticing Simon Covah’s broken body, slumped in the far corner of the suite.
The ceiling-mounted surgical arms jump to life. The first turns on the anesthetic, placing the mask against the African’s face—