It had been a tense few minutes with Mimi Kuntzman.
She had tapped Camrose’s reverse lever momentarily to stop her forward progress and eased in against the side dock, nosed up behind the SeaGhost.
“What in the world is that?”
“Experimental, Mimi. Don’t tell anyone, huh?”
“You know me, Kevin.”
He did. She would hang onto the secret for at least ten or twelve hours.
McCory looked to the officer sitting beside Mimi. The silver oak leaves on his lapel made him a commander. He was peering through the windshield at the assault boat, and he may have been surprised to see it. McCory couldn’t tell in the vague twilight.
“Who are you, Commander?”
His eyes left the boat reluctantly, and he looked up at McCory. “The name’s Monahan. Jim.”
“Come on up here, Jim.”
“Well, uh…”
“Now.”
Monahan eyed the handle of the automatic sticking out of McCory’s waistband. He clambered over the seat into the back of the boat and stepped up on the gunwale.
McCory offered him a hand. The commander looked at it for a long moment, then grasped it, and McCory pulled him up onto the dock.
“Thanks, Mimi. I’ll see that he gets back.”
“Okey doke. We’re having dinner next week, remember.”
“I won’t forget.”
“And no last-minute excuses.”
She pulled the lever into reverse and backed out of the dry dock. Seconds later, she was gone.
McCory turned to the commander who was once again staring at the SeaGhost.
“What do you do, Commander?”
The man laughed, but it sounded as if he had grit in his throat. “For the last nine days, I’ve been looking for that boat. Where’s the other one, McCory?”
“Got me. I think the guys I ran over took it.”
Monahan stood there shaking his head, pondering it.
“Come on, get aboard.”
His eyes widened in disbelief. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Sure you are. You can walk, or I can drag you.” McCory tapped the handle of the automatic.
“You wouldn’t use that.”
“Yesterday, I’d have said the same thing. Go.”
Monahan walked toward the hatch and disappeared inside.
McCory released the spring lines, then followed him. He released one of the coiled lines in the cross-corridor from its Velcro strap and carried it with him.
He found Monahan in the cargo bay, and the commander had pulled the tarp back from the bodies. When he looked up at McCory, there was tension pulling the skin of his face tight. His eyes had a new look to them, and McCory didn’t think it was respect.
Monahan dropped the tarp back in place and stood up. “Who are they?”
“The big guy worked for Advanced Marine. Wet work, I guess you’d call it. I don’t know about the other one, but as a guess, I’d say he’s a Warrior of Allah. Retired, now.”
“What in the fuck is going on here?”
“I’ll tell you something, Commander Jim. I’ve wondered the same thing.”
“You’ve got missiles loaded.” Monahan appeared to have just noticed the collapsed launcher.
“Yeah, I do. But take a count, Monahan. You’ll find only one of them missing. Let’s go forward and find you a comfortable spot.”
McCory used a few varieties of the knots his father had taught him to secure Monahan in the banquette. He had considered leaving him behind, but sure as hell, Ginger would show up and free him.
He needed as many hours as he could get.
It was still twilight when he backed out of the dry dock and crossed the waterway. The SeaGhost whispered up the far side of the waterway, past Edgewater and New Smyrna, then through Ponce de Leon Inlet without attracting attention, and as soon as they were clear, McCory shoved the throttles to their forward detents and set the autopilot.
Monahan was sitting in the corner of the banquette, his back resting against the outer bulkhead. He didn’t have much freedom of movement.
McCory sat down opposite him.
“Sorry about the bindings, Jim, old boy. But I can’t take any chances on you right now.”
“Go to hell!”
“Probably, but I’m going to tell you a story, first. You can believe it or not.”
It took him almost twenty minutes to get it all out. He went back over Devlin’s unsuccessful attempt to sell the SeaGhost to the Navy. He detailed his suspicions about Devlin’s death in Fort Walton Beach. Told him about his analysis of the boat. Explained what had happened with Chambers and Cordilla.
Monahan didn’t say a word, just stared at him.
“What do you think of that, Jim?”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah. You have family?”
The commander wasn’t saying.
“You’ve got a wedding ring. Love your wife? I loved my father, and whatever you might be thinking, that’s my whole damned motive.”
Monahan didn’t even sleep, though McCory stretched out on a bunk for two hours, clutching the Browning in his hand. That was after he had slowed down to pass Safari Bravo. It was still headed south at slow speed, and he worked his way through the task force using passive sonar and without attracting attention. He didn’t sleep well.
When he got up, he made himself a bologna sandwich and offered one to Monahan. Monahan wouldn’t answer, so McCory figured he wasn’t hungry.
From time to time, he checked the sonar and radar consoles, but he didn’t go active with either. He scanned different frequencies on the radios, then left the HF set tuned to CINCLANT, switching on the overhead and helm speakers.
He plopped in the helmsman’s seat and toyed with the autopilot. Checked his fuel consumption. He still had plenty of fuel.
The primary screen displayed the map function. The dot that was the SeaGhost was 103 miles off Cape Hatteras on a heading of sixteen degrees. With the NavStar Global Positioning System, he could bet he was within ten yards of where the computer said he was.
The radio got hot at 0340 hours.
“Listen to that, Jim. Badr’s attacking CINCLANTELT.”
Monahan struggled to sit up straighter. “Shut up, so I can hear.”
They both listened to the transmissions for a few minutes. McCory got lost on some of the code names that were being used, but Monahan appeared to comprehend most of them.
“Shit,” he said.
“Bad, isn’t it?”
“They hit Langley Air Base, too. Fatalities are high.”
“Anyone spot him?” McCory asked.
“I think a couple of them did, but he’s gone now.” McCory disengaged the autopilot and swung the helm to the right. Reset the autopilot.
“What are you doing?” Monahan asked.
McCory swung around in his seat to face Monahan. “Going after him. He’s using my dad’s boat the wrong way, and I’m going to sink the son of a bitch.”
“You’re headed the wrong way.”
“I don’t think so. I’m going where he’s going, not where he’s been.”
“You know his destination?”
“Not specifically. But he’s got a mother ship somewhere, and she’s not invisible.”
Monahan pursed his lips. “You know Barry Norman?”
“Norman?”
“Captain Barry Norman.”
“Oh. Yeah. That is, not personally. Devlin talked about him a lot.”
“Norman thinks the way you do.”
McCory grinned. “No one thinks the way I do.”
“Do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Untie me.”
“And what will you do?”
“I’ll help. You can’t run this SOB by yourself.”
*
0355 hours, 35° 19’ North, 73° 2’ West
The Prebble was making twenty knots, cruising northeasterly. She was 214 miles ea
st-southeast of Norfolk, Virginia.
Barry Norman didn’t think he could be in a much better position.
The Mitscher was fifteen miles ahead of him, coming his way. She had been joined by another destroyer and a missile frigate. To their east was the frigate Knox with four more ships.
Sixty miles to the south-southeast was the Oliver H. Perry and four ships in her task force.
Task Force 22 was out of it.
There was an underlying hum of tension and anticipation in the Combat Information Center. Lieutenant Commander Al Perkins was grinning.
Norman had been right.
That did not make it easier for him, listening to the casualty reports coming out of CINCLANT. It only increased his resolve to make the bastards pay dearly.
“Al.”
“Sir.”
“I’m going up to the bridge now. You keep me aware.”
“Aye aye sir.”
“And notify the aviator hot dogs that we’re going to launch birds in ten minutes.”
“Aye aye sir.”
Norman left the CIC and made his way up to the bridge. The first mate, Commander Owen Edwards, had the conn.
“Captain’s on the bridge,” intoned a seaman.
“As you were. You still have the conn, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.”
Norman stood near the port-side windows and studied the sea. There were heavy seas running, pushed by thirty-knot winds out of the southwest. A heavy overcast obscured the stars, though there were a few holes in the cloud layer.
The intercom sounded. “Bridge, Comm.”
Edwards responded, punching the button. “Bridge. Go ahead, Comm.”
“Is the captain there? He’s wanted on the Tac-Three.”
“I’ll take it, Owen,” Norman said, replacing the first mate in front of the intercom.
“Relay it, Comm.”
He pressed the Tac-Three button.
“Safari Echo, Captain Norman here.”
“Captain, this is Commander Jim Monahan.”
“What’s up, Commander?”
“You’re not going to believe it. Hell, I don’t even believe it.”
*
0409 hours, 34° 59’ North, 74° 31’ West
“On board a Sea Spectre?” Norman’s voice was perplexed.
“That’s right. Only McCory calls it a SeaGhost.”
“McCory. Devlin McCory’s boy?”
Monahan pressed the transmit button and told him the story in three sentences.
“It sounds like a McCory, all right. What’s your intent, Commander?”
“McCory thinks this boat has a better chance than most against Badr. He wants to find the support ship and intercept the other Sea Spectre.”
There was a pause while Norman thought that over. Finally, he said, “Let’s keep the two boats straight. You’re now code-named Night Light.”
“Night Light, copy.”
“Now, Night Light, you have reported this to CINCLANT?”
“Not yet, Echo.”
“Do that. Then get back to me.”
Monahan slid back the panel in the desktop to reveal the telex keyboard, spent a moment composing in his mind, then typed out an involved message for CIN-CLANT. He thought it was better that Bingham Clay have something in writing in front of him when he made this decision.
When he was done, he transmitted the message, then turned in the chair. “You have more of that bologna, McCory?”
“Or peanut butter. There’s some hamburger in there, too, if you’re up to frying it.” McCory was still at the helm, studying the map on the screen.
Monahan got up, went to the galley, and made himself a bologna sandwich. He found the Dos Equis in the refrigerator and opened one of those, too. He was starved.
He leaned against the counter and bit large chunks out of the sandwich, chewing fast. Outside, the sea was dark, and no ships were visible. The Sea Spectre took the seas well, even though they looked to be roughening. A slight, rhythmic rise and fall was all that betrayed her speed.
“You’re buying my story, then?” McCory asked, looking back at him.
“Your tale is pretty damned fantastic. I don’t know that I’m buying anything, McCory. It’s going to take a hell of a lot of unraveling.”
“But you’ve got some facts.”
“Yeah. I don’t think you were involved in any of the attacks, simply because you’ve got the right number of missiles. And you were too damned dumb to dump the bodies.”
“I hadn’t had the chance.”
“You had seven hours.”
“Well, I forgot about it.”
“Uh-huh.”
Monahan didn’t know what to think about McCory. The man seemed sincere enough, if misguided. As soon as Monahan had seen the Sea Spectre in the dry dock, he had begun to worry. It didn’t fit his notion that the boats had both been taken by Badr. When he found the bodies in the cargo bay, he had almost panicked. This was a madman.
He had not liked McCory’s story, either. The big, bad Navy, the oppressive financial institutions, the maligned white knight seeking justice. Right out of a paranoid’s fantasy.
But he had thought about it in the ensuing hours. Anything was possible, he had decided, though he intended to remain skeptical.
McCory seemed competent at the helm.
“You serve in the Navy, McCory?”
“I’ve got some SEAL time.”
That made Monahan feel a little better. Sometimes, training would tell.
The speaker overhead reported a casualty count at Norfolk.
“What was that?” McCory asked.
“Sixty-four dead, two hundred twelve wounded.”
“Shit. Bastards.”
By the time he finished his sandwich, the printer began to chatter. He crossed the cabin, waited for it to finish printing, then ripped the message from the printer. He read it with expanding disbelief.
ENCODED, TOP SECRET MSG 04170607
TO: CMDR J E MONAHAN, NIGHT LIGHT
COPY: SAFARI ECHO, SAFARI CHARLEY, SAFARI DELTA
FROM: CINCLANT INTELOFF
SEA SPECTRE UNAUTHORIZED FOR MISSION. SEA SPECTRE CONSIDERED FUGITIVE. ADDRESSEE DIRECTED TO PLACE KEVIN MCCORY UNDER ARREST AND PROCEED TO NEAREST PORT ASAP. SAFARIS ECHO, CHARLEY, DELTA INSTRUCTED TO ENSURE COMPLIANCE.
He turned around to face McCory. “Looks like your ride is over.”
*
0645 hours, 35° 52’ North, 72° 24’ West
Admiral Bingham Clay was still out on the base somewhere, comforting his casualties in person. By remote control, he was responding to Monahan’s and Norman’s urgent messages with the reply that he would be in touch soon.
McCory had read the telex right after it came in. “Who’s CINCLANT INTEL?”
“Rear Admiral Matthew Andrews.”
“He hasn’t got much imagination,” McCory said.
Monahan didn’t disagree, but said, “An order’s an order.”
“Get the big boss. Call the Chief of Naval Operations.”
“The CNO isn’t going to countermand a fleet order. He never does. Operations are left strictly to fleet commanders. And I doubt that Bing Clay will reverse it, either. Technically, Andrews is right.”
“Who’s Bing Clay?”
“He’s CINCLANT. My boss.”
McCory looked at Monahan with new regard. “You’re right up there, aren’t you, Commander?”
“I do my job. I’m pretty good at it.”
McCory thought it over, then said, “Here’s my perspective, Commander. Ownership of the boat is in dispute and not settled by the courts. I’ve got possession, and damn it, I’m the captain. You try to take my command from me, that’s mutiny. Besides, I’ve got the gun.”
“You still want to go after Badr?”
“That’s what we’re doing, Andrews or no Andrews.”
“I’ll try to reach Clay.”
He tried for a couple of hours while McCory continued on his cours
e, finally altering it slightly northward.
The sea began to lighten after four in the morning, and by 6:45, the day was gray. Choppy, cold, gray sea. Gray overcast. Gray horizons.
There was nothing to be seen on any of McCory’s horizons.
The SeaGhost’s position was almost directly east of Norfolk, 156 miles off the coast. From the time of the attack and subsequent escape of Badr, the terrorist, if he had gone directly east, could be within twenty-four miles. If he had deviated slightly north or south, the range could be up to fifty miles.
What McCory needed was Badr’s support ship. “Commander, can you operate that radar?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go active for a couple sweeps and record it.”
Monahan sat down at the console as McCory retarded his throttles. The SeaGhost slowed quickly, lost headway, and wallowed in the troughs.
Monahan probably wasn’t familiar with that particular radar set, but he looked it over, then did what he was told. After he had an image stored, he switched to passive, then called the image back up on the screen.
McCory pressed the number four pad on his primary monitor and got a copy of the radar image.
There were ships all around them.
“Jesus Christ!” he said. Checking through the windshield and side windows, he couldn’t see a one.
“I’m on ninety-mile scan,” Monahan said.
“Can you identify any of those?”
The commander sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to visualize what he knew from the last time he had looked at a plot.
“I’ll try. West of us, and slightly north, is a single target. That should be the Prebble. Safari Echo.”
As he watched the screen, a rectangular square appeared next to the blip, with the letters “PRBL” in it. Monahan’s fingers were clicking away at the computer keypad.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” McCory said. Actually, he had seen something about target identification in the manual but had skipped over it.
“There have been a few advances since you were on active duty,” Monahan said.
“How come the Prebble is alone?”
“Partly because her captain is Barry Norman. Her choppers are equipped with high-gain infrared sensors.”
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