Seaghost

by William H. Lovejoy

  “Not now. You have a story to tell me.”

  “Story?”

  “You promised, damn it!” She pouted.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got to make my rounds. Deb, you can go ahead and lock up. Leave a note for Marla, will you? The back windows could use some Windex.”

  Debbie slipped off the counter. “Gotcha, Mac.”

  Hanna said, “I’ll walk down with you youngsters.”

  Hanna Wilcox couldn’t have been more than fifty years old, but she thought of anyone younger as an agile teenager.

  The three of them went out the back door, took the ramp down to the floating docks, and strolled toward the end of it. The night was balmy, a nearly full moon on the rise, and the stars clear. A light breeze kept the insects offshore. At the second cross-dock, Hanna turned off for her Indigo, a new thirty-six-foot Trojan sedan.

  McCory and Adams walked out to the end of the dock, then turned and came back. He eyed the locks on storage lockers. They turned off on the fueling dock, and he checked the pumps for leaks and locks.

  “You’re not eager to tell me tales,” Ginger said.

  “I’m organizing my thoughts.”

  When they reached the Kathleen, moored in Slip 1, McCory took her hand and guided her up the three steps to deck level. They stepped aboard, and McCory hooked the safety cable between the railing gap back in place.

  The Kathleen was the first boat Devlin McCory had designed, a tribute to his far-sighted vision. She was forty-six feet long, and though she had been built in 1954, her lines were as sleek as any motor yacht produced currently. A long, rakish bow, gunwales that swooped downward toward the stern. The foredeck was long, the cabin had large side windows and windshields, the stern deck was raised to accommodate the master’s cabin below. From the stern deck, a short companionway on the left rose to the flying bridge and another, centered, companionway descended to the salon. The hull was wooden, but every piece was hand fitted. Her chrome fittings gleamed in the moonlight. The teak deck was polished to a high luster. Except for updated electronics and two new Cummins 320 diesels that McCory had installed, she was as his father had built her. As far as McCory was concerned, the craftsmanship could no longer be found. Similar, new boats could bring better than a quarter of a million dollars.

  McCory followed Ginger down the companionway and reached around her to push open the door. She turned on the salon lights.

  “Now, a beer?”

  “Is it a long story?”

  “I can make it that way.”

  “White wine.”

  McCory went to the galley and opened the overhead wine cabinet. Devlin McCory had built the racks from teak. He pulled a bottle of Chablis from its cradle.

  “It’s not cold,” he told her.

  “That’s okay. I can live with it.”

  Ginger was wearing a white summer cotton dress, hemmed just a fraction above her smooth knees. The belt matched her shoes and was pale aqua. To maintain her banker’s image — what there was of it — she also wore a pale blue scarf tucked into her collar.

  She kicked her shoes under the helmsman’s seat, then went around pulling the off-white drapes over the windows.

  McCory got himself a bottle of Michelob from the refrigerator, then found two glasses, one stemmed, in another cabinet.

  Ginger unknotted her scarf, slipped it from her neck with a whisper, and tossed it on the dinette table. She unbuckled her belt, zipped through a half-dozen buttons, and peeled off her dress.

  Clad in panties and a half-cupped bra, she settled into the corner of the sofa under the windshield and watched him fumble with the glasses.

  He nearly dropped the stemmed glass.

  Unplugged the Chablis and filled her glass.

  Unscrewed the top of the beer bottle and filled his own glass.

  “I can see this is going to be a tough story to tell,” he said.

  “Want me to get dressed?”

  “Unh-uh. I’ll struggle.”

  Handing her the wine, he sat down beside her.

  “Start at the beginning,” she suggested.

  “Let’s see. At one o’clock yesterday morning, the U.S. Navy tried to board me.”

  Ginger almost spilled her wine. “What!”

  “That was just before the boat blew up.”

  Eyes wide, she asked, “That was the damned beginning?”

  “Well, not quite.”

  Chapter 5

  0900 hours, The Pentagon

  “Advanced Marine Development has had a long relationship with the United States Navy,” Malgard said. “Since 1956. It would have been courteous to have notified me of the theft of my boats, rather than let me find out by way of television. I’ve had to wait two days for this meeting. And then come in on a Sunday morning.”

  Malgard thought his indignation sounded sincere. He stood in the small conference room and glared at the men sitting at the table. Commander Roosevelt Rosse, the black man from Procurement with whom he normally worked, sat at one side of the long table. Next to him was another commander, named Monahan, who did something with the Second Fleet. At the head of the table was a rear admiral. A skinny, tall man with a horsey face and a protruding Adam’s apple, Matthew Andrews, was in charge of fleet intelligence.

  “Sit down, Mr. Malgard,” Andrews said, rather firmly.

  Malgard slowly sat down but kept the anger showing on his face.

  Andrews tapped a thick file resting on the table in front of him. “The Navy’s relationship with AMDI was primarily conducted with your father, I believe. A series of contracts for marine fittings and accessories over the years, all of high quality and delivered on time. From what I read here, it was a satisfactory arrangement.”

  Malgard nodded, not certain where the admiral was leading the discussion.

  “In late 1985, your father passed away, and you assumed control of the company.”

  Andrews paused.

  Malgard nodded again.

  “Since then, I note quite a few instances of late shipments and cost overruns.”

  The son of a bitch was questioning his management. Malgard looked to Rosse for support, but the man’s face was noncommittal. Commander Monahan sat with his elbow on the table, his chin resting in his hand, and his eyes showed intense interest in the accusations.

  “In the fall of 1986, AMDI proposed its first major contract, that is, for a complete program, rather than as a subcontractor. It was awarded the XMC-22 stealth assault boat program.”

  “Is this what you’ve been doing for two days, Admiral? Reviewing history, instead of looking for my boats?”

  Andrews’s eyes bored at him, and he continued as if he had not been interrupted. “The XMC-22 program is nineteen months behind schedule, and there have been cost overruns amounting to three hundred and sixteen thousand dollars.”

  “Don’t lay that on me, Admiral,” Malgard said. “Your people have a big hand in there.”

  Rosse cleared his throat and said, “That’s true, Admiral. We have made some design changes, after testing, that have contributed to the delay. The sonar was changed out. Intake baffles were redesigned. There were some cooling system alterations, also, I believe.”

  “Nineteen months’ worth?” Andrews asked.

  Monahan spoke for the first time. “Mr. Malgard, as I understand it, once the test sequence is approved, AMDI is to begin production of twenty boats. The basic program has already been approved by the Department of Defense and Congress.”

  “That is true, Commander, but with exceptions. Any additional costs due to design changes would have to be approved by Congress.”

  “So you’re almost two years behind the time you thought you would have contract income for your company?”

  Malgard suddenly felt as if he was under interrogation. It was supposed to be the other way around. He looked to Andrews, but the admiral’s face suggested he was in favor of Monahan’s line of questions.

  “Almost two years. That is correct,” he
said cautiously. “Research and development payments have been made on schedule, of course.”

  “Of course. Along with additional payments for unexpected costs. You’ve been pressuring the procurement division to get the full program underway?”

  “I’ve talked to some people, yes.”

  “The reporter for The Washington Post told us that he received an anonymous tip that led to his story on the Sea Spectre. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Monahan’s gaze was unwavering.

  “I don’t know a thing about it,” Malgard said. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  “It seemed to me,” Monahan said, “that that article in The Post was intended to generate interest in the boat, maybe put some pressure on people to get the production program started.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  Monahan shrugged. “We’ve certainly got exposure now. Classified information on secret weapons system leaked to the press. The boats stolen. Television and newspaper reporters all over the building. Dead man, too.”

  Malgard felt his face reddening. From anger. “Commander, are you suggesting that I stole my own boats?”

  “The boats belong to the U.S. Government,” Andrews said. “You’re the contractor and designer.”

  “Listen, goddamn it!” Malgard said, “I’m here, because I want to know what you’re doing about recovering them.”

  “We would like,” the admiral told him, “a complete listing of your personnel.”

  “What!”

  “We want to know the background of everyone working for you. There may be a possibility of insider information.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “The dead man,” Monahan said, “has been identified as Muhammed Hakkar. According to the CIA and Interpol, he has connections with a terrorist group known as the Warriors of Allah. We want to make certain that he did not also have connections with someone working in either your plant or your office.”

  “That would be unbelievable. We have an enviable security record, and our procedures are approved by DOD. And it was the Navy who blew the security on the boats. You listen to me, Admiral. The loss of these boats is nothing but a setback for AMDI. Until the testing is completed, we are at a standstill. I want them back more than you do. Instead of harassing me, you should be chasing down the Warriors of Allah, or whatever the hell they are.”

  “Do you think the Warriors of Allah took the boats?” Monahan asked.

  “I don’t know who took them. You’ve got more information than I have.”

  Malgard did not like the way the commander looked at him. He also did not care for the son of a bitch’s questions. As soon as he got home tonight, he would toss the telephone bill from last month.

  He did not want anyone seeing the call made from Glen Burnie to The Washington Post.

  *

  1040 hours, 30° SV North, 62° 5’ West

  Abdul Hakim, master of the Hormuz, was skeptical of Ibrahim Badr’s claims about the Sea Spectre, but then the tanker captain was a cynic of high degree.

  He was also as slovenly in appearance as was the Hormuz, Badr thought. The tanker, built in 1959 and capable of transporting only 16,000 tons of Arabian crude, was long past her useful lifespan. Her hull plates were streaked with rust that was thick as pita. The decks were littered with paper, chicken bones, and coagulated oil.

  Hakim’s skin was a streaky yellow, the result of an unsuccessful battle with jaundice. He wore a beard that was untrimmed and skimpy. The whites of his eyes were orange, and his fingernails were black. The skin of his hands was impregnated with stains of unknown origin.

  Despite his appearance, he was lord of the tanker, and he ruled his realm with the steadfast ruthlessness of a nineteenth-century pasha.

  He had been apoplectic over Badr’s stationing of armed guards in the hatchways of the Sea Spectre while Badr slept for almost a full day, regaining the forty hours of sleep he had lost during the infiltration of the American mainland and the foray on the Naval Ship Research and Development Center.

  Now, Hakim stood at the bottom of the tank, like an arrogant goat, looking up at Badr in the hatchway of the Sea Spectre. Despite the blowers and ducting intended to ventilate, the heat at the bottom of the tank was ferocious, and the sweat dripped from the man’s face.

  “I want to see for myself, Colonel Badr.”

  “I think your orders simply state that you are to assist the Warriors of Allah in any manner possible, Captain Hakim.”

  “Though not blindly,” the captain retorted. “I am still in charge of my vessel, and I will not place it in jeopardy for reasons of minor importance.”

  Badr considered that Allah meant for him to make the journey through his lifetime suffering the idiocy of fools.

  “Very well. You may come aboard, but you are not to reveal to anyone what you see.” Badr nodded to Amin Kadar, and the man lowered the rope ladder to the bottom of the tank, which was about five meters below the hatchway.

  The fat captain struggled valiantly with the swaying ladder and finally reached the hatch. He was panting loudly, and the massive stomach under his filthy khaki shirt heaved as he pulled himself inside. He wore a red-and-white-checked kuffiyah that hid his dirty black hair. His khaki pants were torn at the knees, and he wore rubber sandals.

  Badr backed up and turned forward into the short corridor leading to the control center. At the hatchway on the other side, Ibn el-Ziam leaned against the open portal and grinned at Badr.

  Badr nodded his head, agreeing with el-Ziam’s silent appraisal of the good captain Hakim.

  In the main cabin of the boat, Heusseini and Rahman looked up as Badr and Hakim entered. The Warriors of Allah claimed a membership of fifty-six, but only the five men — now four — Badr had brought with him were fluent in English. He was happy that he had recognized the necessity. The manuals that Omar Heusseini and Ahmed Rahman were poring over were filled with engineering and scientific terms that none of them had ever heard, much less seen in print, before. It would have been so much magical gibberish to the Arabic-only speakers in his band. As it was, there was more guesswork taking place in the interpretation of the manuals than Badr could have wished.

  Badr stopped and leaned against the table in the eating area while Hakim looked around the cabin, some degree of wonderment growing in his face.

  Badr felt himself the captain of his own kingdom. He was tall and lean in fresh khakis, though the extreme heat was already taking its toll. His black hair was cut short and combed back on the sides. The experience of combat was in his dark eyes, and the hard, abrupt planes of his face were finished in flat olive. He folded his muscular arms over his chest and let his eyes follow Hakim as the man peered at the radios, the sonar, the radar, the intricacies of the instrument panel.

  “It is but a toy,” Hakim said.

  The man operated his tanker on a compass, a barometer, and an ancient radar set; everything else was broken.

  “But it is a lethal toy.”

  Hakim spread his hands expansively, rapping Heusseini on the back of the head in the process. “I do not see it.”

  “Come.”

  Badr led the man back down the short corridor to the missile bay, opened the door, and turned on the lights.

  The missiles gleamed dully in their racks along the side of the hull, each of them painted a midnight blue and identified with small white letters and numerals. Each was about a meter-and-a-half long and fifteen centimeters in diameter. Four short, movable fins were located at the rear, and two stubby wings were fixed at midlength. Badr had tried to lift one from its cradle, but the weight was too great. It explained the small cranes set into the forward corners of the cargo area.

  The missile launcher itself was an engineering marvel, as far as Badr was concerned. The base was composed of interlocking beams made of some matte gray material he had not seen before. It collapsed into the hold by a scissoring action and, when fully extended, probably stood two to three meters above the boat
’s deck. The top of the launcher had rails for four missiles, with a blast deflector plate mounted to the rear. It appeared that the launcher head rotated in a full circle, as well as moved up and down in an arc of perhaps forty-five degrees.

  “Is that lethal enough for you, Captain Hakim?”

  The captain crossed to the side bulkhead and caressed a missile with his dirty hand. “They are impressive, Badr. How do they perform?”

  Badr shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? We will find out soon enough.”

  “As soon as we reach the Gulf.” The captain smiled, revealing a broken tooth.

  “There has been a change in plans,” Badr said. “We will not immediately return to the Arabian Gulf.”

  The Westerners called it the Persian Gulf, but they were in error about that, as they were about almost everything in his homeland. In reality, Badr did not have a homeland. He was Palestinian, a guest in Iraq, Libya, Syria, and Lebanon for all of his life. He was determined to right that wrong, and the means to the end required the elimination of western influence in the Middle East.

  In that quest, he had been tutored by the best of his brethren, studying under such as Abu Taan of the Palestinian Armed Struggle Command and Abu Nidal of the Black June Organization.

  Originally, he had planned to use the boat to sink the supertankers that plied the Gulf, choking off the energy so vital to the Americans and Europeans.

  That was the plan Hakim was following. “We are already underway for the Gulf, Badr.”

  “Your orders are to support my cause, Hakim. And my cause is to strike at the infidels where I can.” He stuck a finger out, pointing at a missile. “That weapon allows me to bring the battle to the American shore. That is what we will do.”

  Hakim frowned. “I will put your boat over the side and leave you to it, then.”

  “No. You will do as you are told, or the Hormuz will find itself with a new master.”

  Hakim’s arms and shoulders went rigid. Badr thought the man might have thrown the missile at him, if he could have lifted it. He tried to stare Badr down for a moment, but then his eyes sidled away.

  “What must be done?”

  “First,” Badr said, “you will reverse course. We are going back to where we came from.”