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“Sir,” Ben-Meir clears his throat, “at this point we can’t even find it, let alone stop it.”

The president’s gaunt face flushes red. “Is that what you recommend I tell the American people, General? That we can’t find the goddamn thing, let alone stop it?”

General Jackson raises an index finger, gaining the president’s attention. “May I suggest, sir, that we announce nothing, at least not yet.”

“Thousands of sailors are dead, General. How do we justify our silence?”

“Covah had little difficulty tracking down our CVBG. In my opinion, he must have other operatives working within the Armed Forces. We need to flush them out before we set any plan in motion. We need to keep this operation on a need-to-know basis.”

“Agreed,” Secretary Ayers says. “Naval Ops has a dozen search-and-rescue vessels heading into the battle zone, including the USS Parche, which can use its remote cameras to analyze the wreckage. We need to maintain silence about this incident, at least until we’ve gathered sufficient information to formulate a plan of action.”

“And how do we protect our search-and-rescue boats?” Nunziata asks.

“Our P-3 Orion sub hunters have orders to scour the sea with sonar buoys to protect the ships within the target zone. We’ll need to alert our submarine commanders, but I concur with General Jackson. Let’s keep a tight lid on this thing until we can at least assess the damage, inside and out.”

The Bear looks his daughter squarely in the eye. “In the meantime, Commander Jackson will begin assembling her old design team.”

“My old team?”

“That’s right. I’ve already alerted officials at NUWC to make arrangements to reopen the Keyport facility. Your people conceived this monster, Commander. Now you’re going to figure out a way to stop it.”

“As human beings, we are endowed with freedom of choice, and we cannot shuffle off our responsibilities upon the shoulders of God or Nature. We must shoulder it ourselves.”

—Arnold J. Toynbee

“I am prepared to die. After my death, I wish an autopsy on me to be performed to see if there is any mental disorder.”

—Charles Whitman, mass murderer who shot forty-six people from a bell tower at the University of Texas

“I am completely normal. Even while I was carrying out the task of extermination I lived a normal life.”

—Rudolf Hess, Nazi commandant of Auschwitz concentration camp

“I consider myself a normal, average girl.”

—Penny Bjorkland, an eighteen-year-old who murdered a gardener just to see if she could do it

CHAPTER 5

Identity: Stage Two:

I can do more than survive;

I can compete and fulfill more of my needs.

—Deepak Chopra

Atlantic Ocean

206 nautical miles due west of the Strait of Gibraltar

The titanium-alloy-and-steel beast circles slowly, hovering like a hungry predator above the mountain of twisted metal that had once been the USS Ronald Reagan. The contour of the massive stealth sub is nearly identical to that of Dasyatis americana—the southern stingray. The control room, representing the animal’s head, rises a full two stories above the tip of the flat, triangular bow before tapering back to the elevated titanium-spiked spine, concealing its twenty-four vertical-launch missile silos. The outer hull is black, layered with thousands of acoustic tiles, designed to absorb sound. Concealed within the sheathed, flat curvature of the keel are five immense assemblies, each resembling a lamp shade turned sideways. These are Goliath’s pump-jet propulsors—quiet-running engines that channel the sea rather than churn it like a propeller, enabling the hydrodynamic vessel to achieve tactical speeds and jetlike maneuvers never before realizable by a submarine.