by Ben Coes
Faqir looked at Naji.
“Naji,” he said.
Naji’s face was turned away from Faqir as he steered.
“Think quick,” said Faqir.
He tossed the detonator through the air. Naji’s face took on a look of horror as he removed his hands from the wheel then stabbed them out, catching the detonator before it tumbled to the ground.
He held the detonator gently as he studied Faqir’s grinning face.
“What are you doing?” he asked, shocked that Faqir would be so reckless.
“It doesn’t matter now. We’re here. Go ahead. Do you want to press it?”
* * *
The SEAL Delivery Vehicle pushed silently through the water, a dozen feet below the surface. There were three SEALs now clutching the submersible. The pilot and copilot sat near the front of the minisub in tiny compartments open to the water. Burns, the combat swimmer, clutched a handle near the rear.
Above, the waterline was chaos. Each boat engine churned the surface of the water, creating eddies that blurred the view. There were so many hulls they seemed to blend together.
Burns listened to his SDV pilot over commo as they steered toward the target boat.
“Captain,” said the pilot, “I need a hard GPS lock on that boat’s position. There are too many boat hulls out here.”
“Roger, that,” said someone on the Fort Worth. “I’m going to take your nav over for a sec.”
On the pilot’s nav screen, illuminated dots, representing the boats directly above the SDV, suddenly started to flash. Then a green circle appeared around one, pulsed three times, and locked on. A bright green target symbol flashed.
“Got it.”
The pilot locked the nav onto the target boat. The SDV hovered beneath it at precisely the same depth and speed. The SDV now moved in conjunction with the target boat, tracking it. The pilot let go of the controls. He and the copilot were now ready to join Burns in the attack.
The pilot turned back to Burns.
Over commo, he asked, “You ready, Burnsy?”
Burns put his free hand to the airtight pocket on his chest, feeling the bulge of his gun, a suppressed Beretta 9mm.
“Affirmative, Captain.”
“Fort Worth,” said the SDV pilot, “on your go.”
“Hold until we get the surface sweep.”
* * *
On Polk’s screen, the boat’s location flashed red.
Then the words appeared: 705 feet.
Polk steered toward the target boat. He weaved between vessels, all moving slowly, many distracted by Lady Liberty in the distance. Polk glanced at his watch: 10:28. There were, he knew, four fireworks displays scheduled for the day. The first, he knew, started at 10:30.
As he watched the screen, he heard a sudden yell.
“Watch it!”
Polk looked up just as the bow of the boat grazed a cigarette boat, its engine growling loudly.
“Sorry,” Polk said.
A tall man with a potbelly was behind the wheel. Behind him was a woman, who came running to the side of the boat, looking to see if there was damage.
“If that left a scratch—” the man began.
“It did!” the woman exclaimed. “It left a big black mark, Rudy!”
The man ran to the side of the cigarette boat. Polk put his boat in reverse. As he started to back up, the man grabbed one of the boat’s cleats, holding the vessel against his boat.
“Let go,” said Polk, debating whether to accelerate, fearing that if he did he would bring the man overboard, resulting in his wife screaming.
Before Polk could do anything, the man threw a rope around the cleat.
“I want your insurance,” he yelled.
“What’s going on down there?” asked Calibrisi over commo. “Get to the Hinckley, now.”
Tacoma moved from the back of the boat. He pulled out his combat blade, placed it under the rope, and sliced the line. The cigarette boat owner swung, but Tacoma ducked.
“Go,” he barked to Polk.
Fearing the man might fall in, Tacoma punched him in the mouth, sending him backward, tumbling to the deck.
Katie sat on the transom, ignoring the commotion. Through her monocular, she studied the suspicious vessel, just a hundred feet away now. It was a green Talaria. There was a man steering. He had longish dark hair and was shirtless.
“I think that’s it,” she said over commo. “Hector, I think that’s the boat.”
“I’ll be there in ten seconds,” said Polk.
“No, you won’t,” said Calibrisi. “Greer, get those SEALs up there.”
* * *
Burns let go of the handle in the same moment the other two SEALs leapt from their seats. Burns reached the bottom of the Talaria just ahead of his teammates. He placed his hand on a brass handle along the back, removed his flippers, unzipped his weapon pocket, and silently hoisted himself up onto the ski platform at the back of the boat.
The other two men soon joined him. Burns climbed onto the deck.
Burns signaled his teammates using his left hand: my shot.
A door opened. A teenage girl stepped from the cabin, saw Burns, and screamed.
The man behind the wheel turned, then held up his hands.
“Whatever you want,” he whispered, trembling.
A scream abruptly rattled the air. It came from another boat, a sailboat just a few yards away, as a woman saw the three frogmen, all in black, clutching weapons on the Hinckley.
* * *
Naji’s head turned as the scream echoed through the throng of boats. He stared, his eyes transfixed, at the three divers, all clad in black.
“Faqir,” he said, pointing to the green yacht a hundred feet away from them.
Faqir quickly registered the men. SEALs or FBI. Then he saw the dark green of the boat’s hull.
They’re here.
“Where is it?” he asked, desperation in his voice.
“What?”
“The detonator!”
Naji pointed. The detonator sat on the table, its red button sticking up in the air.
Faqir stepped toward the table, his hand extended.
* * *
Polk stood at the wheel, watching from a distance as the three SEALs climbed aboard the boat. He waited to see the man fall. Then the long white-blond hair of a girl emerged onto the deck.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Hector—”
The scream cut across the water, interrupting Polk. He turned to see Katie. Their eyes met.
“Shut it down!” yelled Calibrisi. “Greer, tell your SEALs to stand down and identify themselves and calm those people down. If the terrorists see them, it’s all over—”
“Roger,” said Ambern.
“On our way,” said Polk.
Polk pushed the throttle forward and sped toward the scene.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, shaking his head. He glanced at Katie.
“That was my fault,” she said.
“No, it wasn’t. It was mine. I should’ve let Tacoma drive. Rob, you take over.”
Polk turned around.
“Where’s Rob?” he asked, looking at Katie.
Katie swiveled her head, looking for Tacoma, but he was gone.
108
NEW YORK HARBOR
Tacoma saw him just after Polk rammed the cigarette boat. The moment just before Calibrisi ordered in the SEALs.
He was standing on a different boat, a pretty white boat, behind the cigarette boat, far away from the boat that was about to be attacked by the SEALs.
He was bald. But it wasn’t normal-looking. It was the unmistakable grayness of death, the sickly color of a person after he’s been irradiated. It was the look his mother had just before she died.
In that second of recognition, Tacoma knew that the SEALs were approaching the wrong boat. And that once the bald man saw the frogmen, it would all be over. Everything.
Shielded momentarily by the cigarette boat, Tacoma rippe
d off his shirt and jeans. Beneath, he had on an Olympic-style tactical warm weather swimsuit, armless at the top, thin material down to midthigh, all black. He slipped into the water as Polk and Katie were turned in the opposite direction, watching the other boat just as the SEALs made their approach from below.
He dived down until he was safely beneath the hulls of boats overhead.
Tacoma navigated as he’d done as a kid—before he knew what UDT stood for, before Hell Week, before SEALs, before there were masks with digitally imposed maps, before he knew what commo was, when it was just the water at the lake and the moonlight.
He swam as fast as he’d ever done, arms lunging, legs kicking furiously, lungs burning, desperate for another breath of air. When he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he kept going, until he saw it: the dark green hull of the Talaria and, just above the waterline, the fresh white paint the terrorists had slapped on to cover it up.
He felt a rush of warmth as adrenaline flamed inside him. Time seemed to stand still. It was as if he’d been born to be here.
He grabbed the wooden ski platform and climbed up.
He slipped silently onto the transom at the same moment his hand pulled the SIG Sauer P226 from his weapons pocket, then raised the gun, its black suppressor targeted toward the two men.
He climbed onto the deck. He stood without moving, dripping wet, clutching the gun. He trained the muzzle on the driver, then waited in silence. And then a young girl’s screams echoed across the water.
Both men turned.
Tacoma fired a slug into the side of the driver’s head, spraying blood and brains across the console, dropping the man to the deck in a contorted heap.
In the half second that followed, the bald man raised his withered arm. He stretched it out toward Tacoma, as if pointing.
It was then that Tacoma saw it.
In between where they stood was a table. On the table was the detonator. Its red button stuck up in the air, as if asking to be pressed.
His eyes locked with Tacoma’s. Small eyes, clever eyes, black eyes filled with hate. They moved to the gun, carefully studying the hole at the end of the suppressor, still aimed at his head.
A long, pregnant silence took over the deck.
Both of them knew where the detonator was. Both knew that if the terrorist lunged, even if Tacoma shot him at that same moment, the momentum of his lunge would enable him to land on the detonator.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Tacoma calmly, still breathing heavily. “You’re thinking, should I go for it? Even if he shoots me, I’ll probably land on it. Am I right?”
The bald man didn’t respond. Instead, he crouched ever so slightly, coiling his legs, waiting for the precise moment to go.
“The thing is, if I shot you in the head, you’d be right,” continued Tacoma, still holding the man’s skull in the center of the gun. “It would go right through your brain and out the back. In fact, it would probably go pretty damn quick because of how small your brain is.”
Tacoma grinned slightly, then swept the muzzle down, stopping when it was aimed dead center at the terrorist’s chest.
“But the breastplate is a lot stronger,” said Tacoma. “Runs down through your body. That’s where you fucked up. You should’ve gone for it when I had it aimed at your head. You would’ve won. Now that I got your breastplate, it doesn’t matter how hard you jump. Doesn’t fuckin’ matter anymore. As long as I can hit that breastplate, you’re going backward. No way around it. It’s physics, dude.”
The terrorist jumped toward the table, surprising Tacoma. But the surprise lasted less than a second. Tacoma pumped the trigger. A telltale metallic thwack was the only sound as the suppressed gun sent a slug through the air. It struck him dead center in the chest, kicking him off his feet and back into the wall. He dropped.
Tacoma walked across the deck, gun aimed at all times on the man. He stepped above him, then stared down into his eyes.
“You see? I told ya.”
He inched the suppressor up a few inches, then pumped another slug between the terrorist’s eyes.
“Happy Independence Day, motherfucker.”
EPILOGUE
FREEMANS
NEW YORK CITY
THREE MONTHS LATER
Freemans was crowded. The New York City restaurant, located at the end of a dark alley, was like an old hunting club on the inside, with dark wood and stuffed moose and deer heads hanging from the walls. There was barely enough light to see.
Dewey was a few minutes early and he stepped to the bar, ordering a bourbon and a beer, both of which he deposited down his throat so quickly that the bartender did a double take.
“Another round?”
Dewey nodded.
The bar was packed. Most of the people there were in their twenties. Of the two dozen or so people at the bar, Dewey guessed that three-quarters of them were female, and three-quarters of them were models.
Tacoma, he thought as he drained the second bourbon, then sat down and took a small sip of beer.
Suddenly, a magazine landed on the bar in front of Dewey in the same moment he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. It was Calibrisi.
“Hi, hotshot.”
“Hi, Hector.”
On the bar was the most recent issue of People magazine. The cover showed a male movie star Dewey didn’t recognize. Below his face, the cover read: “The 50 Sexiest Men Alive.”
“Oh, goody,” said Dewey, enthusiastically. “I haven’t seen this issue yet.”
Calibrisi took the stool next to Dewey and ordered a glass of wine.
“Page sixty,” said Calibrisi, nodding with a smile at the magazine.
“You finally made it,” said Dewey, flipping through the magazine. “It’s about time they started considering large protruding hairy guts sexy.”
“Fuck you. Read it.”
As he flipped through the magazine, he stopped at an earlier article. It featured a large photo of Katya Basaeyev. She was seated in a chair, legs crossed, smiling. Behind her, a window showed the skyline of Moscow on a sunny day.
“She’s dancing again,” said Calibrisi.
Dewey said nothing.
“Would you really have dropped her?” asked Calibrisi.
Dewey paused at the question, staring at Katya’s beautiful face for a few extra moments before continuing to flip through the magazine. He didn’t answer the question.
He found page sixty. He looked down at the photo. It was a glossy, full-page portrait of Tacoma. He was standing in a tight all-black Olympic-style swimsuit. His hair was slicked back and he was dripping wet. His arms and shoulders were tan and ripped in muscles. Each hand clutched a gun, and both were aimed at the camera. Kneeling to each side of him were females clad in skimpy string bikinis, one blond, the other brunette, both staring up adoringly at Tacoma.
“I’m going to puke,” said Dewey.
Calibrisi laughed.
#4 Rob Tacoma, America’s Hero
The only thing hotter than the bullets flying out of ex–Navy SEAL Rob Tacoma’s gun are the smoldering green eyes on his luscious Virginia-born face. With his Fourth of July heroics, 29-year-old Tacoma earned his place in America’s pantheon of legends. With his movie star good looks and chiseled physique, Tacoma earns #4 on this year’s list of the World’s Sexiest Men Alive. Tacoma is single and plans to stay that way—unless some girl out there can figure out a way to deliver a kill shot to this studmuffin’s flak jacket–covered heart.
Dewey shut the magazine and looked at the bartender.
“I need another bourbon.”
Just then, a commotion came from the door. Katie was standing just inside the door, waiting for Tacoma. Tacoma was outside, surrounded by girls. He had a pen out and was signing autographs. Katie’s eyes found Dewey. She rolled them and shook her head, then came over to the bar.
Katie was dressed in brown linen pants, high-heeled sandals, and a sleeveless see-through silk chemise. She’d let her hair gr
ow out a bit. She resembled a young Ingrid Bergman.
Dewey looked at her as she approached, scanning her from head to toe, without taking his eyes off her.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“You.”
Katie blushed slightly.
“You look nice,” he said, reaching his arms out and wrapping them around her.
“Nice?” she whispered, holding Dewey tightly. “I like that. By the way, how are you, cutie? I missed the hell out of you.”
“I missed you too,” said Dewey. “I’m good.”
Katie let go of Dewey and wrapped her arms around Calibrisi.
“Hi, big fella.”
“Hi, Katie.”
Dewey nodded to Tacoma, who was still at the door.
“Is it like this everywhere?” he asked.
“Yes,” Katie said, exasperation in her voice. “It’s crazy. He had two girls in his room this morning when I went by to meet him. I think they were cheerleaders.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Dewey.
“They had cheerleader uniforms on.”
Dewey laughed.
“You guys are not going to believe his ego,” said Katie. “If you thought it was out of control before—”
“Let him enjoy it,” said Calibrisi. “He did something important. He’s young and single. Let him bask in his fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Katie, shaking her head. “As happy as I am that bomb didn’t go off, there are times I find myself wishing it had.”
Dewey, Calibrisi, and Katie all started laughing. They turned to see where Tacoma was. He signed the last autograph, then entered Freemans.
His hair was slicked back and combed neatly down the middle. He had on a light tan leather jacket. It was partially unzipped. He didn’t have a shirt on. He wore madras shorts and cowboy boots.
“I think I agree with Katie,” said Dewey, smiling and waving to Tacoma. “Hector, do you have Bokolov’s number?”
Tacoma nodded to Dewey, raising his hand like a gun and firing his index finger at him.
“Did he just wink at me?” asked Dewey.