He got up and went to the sonar station, which was set on passive. Pulling the headset on, he listened for a while to sea noises. Big fish, maybe. Nothing that he could identify as man-made.
When he took the earphones off, Ginger asked, “Getting nervous?”
“Hell, yes. You?”
“I’ve been nervous since Ponce de Leon. You want to take the helm while I try out your bathroom?”
They switched places. McCory tried all of the modes on the primary screen. Night-vision video showed him a lot of sea. A few running lights and anti-collision strobe lights on aircraft in the distance. Infrared was cool, except for distant hot spots which he suspected were generated by aircraft exhaust pipes.
There was nothing of particular interest out there.
Badr could be, and probably was, sixty miles away. Getting further away.
The only thing closing in was the United States Navy. If they spotted the SeaGhost, they would probably shoot first and talk later, if there was anything left to which they could talk. If he was in a listening condition, he would be listening to charges of treason.
Ginger came back as he was turning to a heading of 190 degrees. Moving into the swells, the ride evened out.
“Trying another direction?”
“Yes. A direction for home.”
She sat in the radar operator’s seat. He didn’t think there was any disappointment showing in her face.
“It does seem a little futile,” she said.
“If I’m going to do this, I’m going to have to plan a little better,” McCory said. “Racing off to where Badr was doesn’t do much good.”
He shoved the throttles in, felt the SeaGhost rise to the power.
“Should I make some coffee?”
“It’s almost breakfast time, why not?” McCory said.
Ginger moved back to the galley, and McCory half-concentrated on the empty sea ahead. The star shine gleamed on wave caps.
He wasn’t paying much attention to the radio, which was channeled through a speaker in the bulkhead next to his right shoulder. Only the excitement in the voice jarred him awake.
“Safari Echo, Deuce Three. I’ve got a hot target.”
“Three, this is Echo. Target coordinates?”
The pilot read off some Baker Two numbers. “I’m not getting a radar return on the target, but the infrared’s screaming. It’s the same picture we’ve had during sea trials up north.”
“Let’s have some sonobuoys as soon as you get in close, Deuce Three. And go to Tac-Two. Let’s get off the command net.”
The voices disappeared as they moved to another frequency, replaced by cryptic messages among ships of the task force.
From what McCory could deduce, Safari Bravo had themselves a target.
Ginger had been listening. “They found him!”
“They found us.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
McCory pulled the throttles back as he made a 180-degree turn. He didn’t know where the helicopter was, but he thought it would be tracking on the heading he had shown them.
He settled on a heading of 355 degrees. The speed came down to twelve knots, and he held it there.
Two minutes later, he saw the helicopter sliding by on his left. It was several hundred feet high and a half mile away, and it obviously didn’t see him as it went by. A minute after that, he picked up its lights on the rearview screen.
He sighed.
Ginger came up behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders. “That was close, I guess.”
“Yeah. It may take us a while to get home.”
“I thought this thing was invisible.”
“So did I, but apparently we leave an infrared trail at speed.”
“What speed?”
“I wish I knew.”
McCory waited another five minutes, then turned to a heading of 270 degrees. He would hold that for ten minutes before again aiming toward the south.
Through the left-side windows, he saw the dance of the strobe light as the helicopter began circling.
All around them, in fact, he could see more aircraft lights approaching.
*
1845 hours, Edgewater
Rick Chambers was wearing his silver-gray suit. He hadn’t had a chance to have it dry-cleaned, and it was wrinkled badly, though not as badly as his only other choice. The shirt was fresh, a blue cotton with a spread collar.
He was tired, and he was getting hungry again, though he didn’t feel like having another hamburger. He’d grabbed one yesterday, after getting into town. It was probably the reason why he’d missed McCory.
The girl in the office hadn’t known where he’d gone, only that he taken his boat, now renamed the Kathleen, and gone somewhere. She had no idea in the world when he’d be back.
He’d had another hamburger for breakfast, when he called Malgard. He called the office and got referred to a Virginia number.
“I found him, Justin.”
“It’s about damned time. Where?”
“He’s got a marina in Edgewater. Funny thing, it’s named the Marina Kathleen, just like the old man’s was.”
“You find the boats?”
“No. In fact, though, McCory’s not around. He left sometime last night and wasn’t back when I checked at five this mornin’.”
“Well, you hang around until he shows up.”
“And then?”
“Just what we discussed.”
“I can do it like I did the first one. Accidents will happen.”
“No, damn it! That turned out to be a hell of a mess. The newspapers didn’t let it die for a long time. You just locate the boats, then take him out. Very clean, now, Rick. He just disappears.”
“Gotcha, chief. Write out my bonus check.”
When he’d gotten back to the marina, the Kathleen was back in its slip. Chambers parked across the street, down half a block from the marina office, under a stand of palm trees, and waited.
He waited forever.
He fumbled with his binoculars from time to time but saw no movement aboard the boat.
He pulled the Beretta from its holster and double-checked the nine millimeter loads in the magazine.
He fidgeted.
At eleven, he left the car and walked down the street to buy two hamburgers, fries, and a milkshake.
At 11:40, McCory appeared on the deck of his boat. He messed around for a while, hosing it off and polishing some of the chromework.
A little after noon, he went up to the office and disappeared inside. He didn’t reappear until after five, going back down to his boat. Chambers left the car several times, taking walks along the street, but staying close to the marina.
Boring, boring, boring.
Chambers had another pair of hamburgers.
At a quarter of seven, McCory left the boat, dressed in Levi’s and a blue T-shirt. He walked up the ramp, bypassed the office, and got into an old pickup in the parking lot.
Chambers started the Ford.
McCory left the lot, headed south.
Chambers let a Volkswagen and a Camaro get between them before he pulled away from the curb.
It was a short trip, maybe four or five miles.
He almost missed it. As he went by a place called Barley’s Marine Refitters, a conglomeration of old boats and old structures, he saw the blue pickup pulling up to a dilapidated building on the shore.
He drove on by and, a mile later, found a place to make a U-turn.
Coming back, he stopped short of his destination by a quarter-mile, pulling off the road to park in a clump of palmetto.
He checked the Beretta again, then got out of the car and walked along the road verge.
There was a gate in the chain-link fence at the refitting place, but it was open.
Chambers scanned the yard but didn’t see any movement inside. The pickup sat nosed up to the boat house. He couldn’t see any lights on inside, then noticed that all of the windows were filled wi
th plywood.
Good place to hide a stolen boat. There were a couple more of the boat houses to the south, also.
He looked up and down the road. A few cars moved along it, ignoring him as they shot by. Down the way, a pizza joint was doing a brisk business. Hot rods and custom trucks were parked all around it.
He walked through the gate and started down the slope toward the boat house. It was still light out, but he figured, what the hell? It was isolated, and if Malgard’s boats were inside, it was as good a place as any other.
Chapter 13
1847 hours, Mayport
Except for the disaster on the tarmac, Mayport Naval Station appeared secure. The fire at the fuel depot had been quenched in midmorning. A hazy pall hung over the base, and the odor of burnt rubber and paint drifted in the still air.
Jim Monahan had spent most of the day in the operations center, following the search tracking sequence of TF22, Safari Bravo.
Safari Echo was no longer with them.
At four in the morning, shortly after he had arrived, he had talked to Admiral Clay in Norfolk.
He had provided a concise damage report. “The same story as the first two, Admiral.”
“You really think we should be in the defense business, Jim?” Clay asked. His tone was less sarcastic than it was disgusted.
“We’re going to get them, Admiral.”
“I have a request from Norman. He wants to steam northward, fifty miles off the coast.”
“Perhaps he knows something we don’t,” Monahan said.
“At this point, everyone seems to know something I don’t know,” the admiral said.
“The pattern, if there is one, suggests Badr is headed south.”
“Norman thinks that’s intentional. He tells me that, even if Badr hits an installation in southern Florida, he’s going to switch on us, go north, and do it abruptly. What do you think, Jim?”
Monahan didn’t like command decisions, suddenly. He knew he wasn’t making this one, but Clay liked sounding boards. His response skipped around the edge. “You know Captain Norman, sir. My impression is that he’s got some savvy.”
“He does that. I’m going to give him his way, but only with the Prebble. We’ll keep TF22 down your way. I’m going to divert the Oliver H. Perry slightly north and about a hundred miles offshore. Norman’s certain there’s a support ship we should be picking up on.”
“I agree with Captain Norman in that respect, sir.”
“All right, then. You call me if you get any intuitive ideas.”
“Are we down to that? To intuition?”
“Nothing else is working. What’s my casualty count, Jim?”
“Fifty-four, Admiral. Most of them resulted from the explosion at the fueling depot. They had been going all night, turning aircraft around.”
“It’s a damned sorry business,” Bingham Clay said, and hung up.
Monahan took a nap for a couple of hours, then shaved and spent the rest of the day reviewing damage reports and following the progress, or lack of it, of the search efforts.
Clay called him back just before seven.
“Jim, I’ve got a report from the FBI here. Kevin McCory’s got himself a marina in Edgewater, Florida. I think they finally called the IRS and got the address. The insurance company provided some additional data, and there are copies of some court papers.”
“Edgewater? That’s just down the coast from here. I thought he was on the Gulf Coast.”
“He might have wanted to be. From what I’ve got here, Kevin McCory was more or less run out of town after Devlin McCory was killed.”
“Killed? What was that?”
“Hold on,” Clay said. “It’s in here somewhere. Yes. Devlin McCory died in an explosion which all but destroyed his marina in Fort Walton Beach. There was some brouhaha with the bank and insurance company. At the time of the accident, the older McCory was heavily into some bank for cash to renovate the place. Apparently, the insurance policy rider didn’t cover the costs as it was supposed to, and the bank foreclosed, with the insurance company buying up the pieces. Kevin McCory disagreed and brought suit. He also took off with the company’s files and some boat his father had built, but which the insurance outfit claimed. The insurance company treated him like a fugitive, but the local sheriff apparently didn’t agree.”
“Jesus. Was it ever settled?” Monahan asked.
“Yes, about eighteen months ago. This doesn’t say what the settlement was, I don’t think. Hang on.”
Monahan waited, listening to the sound of rustling paper.
“Yes. There’s a court order here, an agreement signed by the insurance company and McCory’s lawyer. The company paid off a quarter million and let him keep the boat. I don’t…son of a bitch!”
“What’s the matter, Admiral?”
“Guess who the attorney was?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Daimler. Theodore Daimler.”
Monahan knew the name from somewhere. It flitted around for a bit before he grabbed it. “The guy up on the Chesapeake who had his boat stolen.”
“That’s it, Jim.”
“I was going to call McCory, but I think I’ll grab a chopper and fly down there,” Monahan said.
“Go.”
*
1850 hours, Edgewater
McCory heard someone banging on the door.
Ginger.
Damn.
He had been planning to slip away earlier tonight, leaving her behind. She’d be mad as hell, but he had decided that half of his anxiety was having her in harm’s way.
All of the lights inside the dry dock were on, as well as the standard lights in the cabin and cargo bay of the SeaGhost. It still felt lonely.
He was double-checking the missile connections on the launcher. Resigned to her catching him in the middle of a double-cross, he left the cargo bay, crossed along the corridor, and emerged from the hatchway. Leaping the short chasm to the side dock, he walked to the door.
Flipping the dead bolt, he pulled the door open.
It wasn’t Ginger.
The man appeared hard. Angles and planes in his face. Military haircut. Death in his eyes. In his hand, too.
He gestured with the automatic. “Back it up. Slow. Keep your hands in sight.”
Navy? How’d they figure it out?
McCory took a few steps backward and kept his hands out in front of him. He was dismayed that they had found him so easily, that he and Daimler hadn’t even opened negotiations.
“Hey, we can talk about this.”
The man ignored him, stepped inside, and closed the door. He didn’t lock it.
He looked around the lighted dry dock, nodded as if to himself, and said, “Where’s the other one?”
“The other one?”
“The Sea Spectre.”
“Got me. I understand some terrorist got it.”
“You have it hidden in one of these other boat houses?” He used the automatic to point south.
“As far as I know, they’re empty.”
He stood there, thinking. He wasn’t happy, and the expression on his face hardened, if that were possible.
“Where are the cops? The FBI?” McCory asked.
The hard eyes refocused on him. “There won’t be any. You and me, we’re going to wait a few hours until full dark, then we’ll take a little trip in that boat.”
What the hell?
McCory couldn’t figure it. Who was this guy?
Then he had it.
“You work for AMDI, right?”
“I work for myself.”
Advanced Marine, or Malgard, or whatever his name was, wouldn’t want the boat connected in any way with McCory. That might make the Navy investigate. For that matter, they wouldn’t want McCory found, at all.
“You got some rope around here?” The man backed away a couple of feet, kept his gun trained on McCory’s midsection, and let his eyes dart around the dock head. He spotted the coils of
marine line hanging on a nail driven into one of the cradle timbers on the side dock.
“Over there. Come on, move.”
McCory led the way down the side dock and stopped in front of the lines. The man pulled up behind him.
“Hand me one of those ropes over your shoulder. Real easy, now.”
McCory lifted a heavy thirty-foot coil off the nail and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Hey!”
He spun to his left, crouching, whipping his right leg out, and swinging it.
It worked for Chuck Norris every time, but not for McCory. His ankle caught the man in the knee but didn’t topple him or sweep his legs out from under him.
He went off balance, though, shuffling his feet to regain equilibrium. Several coils of the rope hung on the wrist of his gun hand, and McCory grabbed the line and jerked as hard as he could.
The line clamped tight around his wrist and the hammer of the automatic, pulling it forward and aiming the muzzle down.
The gun went off.
Loud in the confined space, startling McCory.
The asshole dropped it.
McCory turned for the open hatch of the SeaGhost, took five running steps, and leaped headfirst through the hatch. He tucked his chin down, landed on the back of his neck and shoulders in the cross-corridor, and rolled over onto his feet. He grabbed the corner of the central corridor and pulled himself around it.
It took him five seconds to reach the commander’s desk, paw at the drawer, and find one of the Brownings. He slapped a magazine in and thumbed the safety off.
Pulled the slide back to inject the first round.
The boat rocked slightly as the man came aboard.
“Come on, McCory. You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
McCory moved aft toward the communications console and slid along the bulkhead until he reached the central corridor.
“Where you at?”
McCory peeked around the corner. The man was standing in the juncture of the corridors, his gun held out in front of him. The light of the cargo bay defined him in the doorway. He saw McCory’s head and shifted his gun hand.
“Just step…”
McCory shot him.
The report numbed his ears.
The cabin filled with the stink of cordite.
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