Pirate: A Thriller

by Ted Bell

  “Correct, sir.”

  “I just had a thought, Mr. President,” Gooch said.

  “Go ahead,” McAtee said.

  “This Leviathan. It’s been their plan all along. That ship is the Chinese attempt to check Wild Card.”

  The room went silent.

  “What does that mean, John?” the president said.

  “Check. Checkmate.”

  “How so?”

  “Trigger one, trigger all. We initiate our detonation sequence, they initiate theirs.”

  “I think John’s absolutely right. Only we know where their bomb is,” CIA Director Kelly said.

  “That’s correct, Brick,” the president said. “We do know where it is. I just pray to God we get that damn thing out of New York before they pull the trigger.”

  “Until we do, we’re in an undeclared state of war with Red China, Mr. President,” John Gooch said.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  New York City

  2:01A.M., EST

  NEW YORKERS ARE HARD TO SPOOK. THAT’S WHAT MASTER Chief Petty Officer Ken Tynan was thinking, anyway. People in Manhattan, they’ve seen just about everything in the last four or five years. So, when drivers on the West Side Highway see a line of NYPD cruisers an entire city block long, bumper-to-bumper out front of the Passenger Ship Terminal, you know what, they don’t pay a whole lot of attention to it. All those cop cars in a row, lights flashing; it was cool-looking. Good scene. Like some Bruce Willis or Arnold movie on one level. Reassuring on another.

  Nor did New Yorkers think much of the six Moran tugs that were currently steaming up the East River toward Pier 93. Any insomniac looking out the window in Midtown, or over in Jersey, wouldn’t think twice about a few tugboats, even though it was just after two o’clock in the morning.

  Except for all the uniforms swarming around, the French Line check-in area at Pier 93 was deserted. Outside on the dock, at the foot of the gangway where Tynan was located, guys from the NYPD Marine Units were standing by. Everybody was shooting the shit, occasionally looking up at the draught markings rising up the side of the big black wall and wondering what the hell was going on.

  All anybody knew was that Captain John Mariucci and his Anti-Terrorist guys had some kind of operation going. There was a rumor fragment just circulating that the giant cruise ship had sprung a radiation leak. Divers were down, examining the hull and the bulbous keel. You could see their work lights bobbing around down there, fuzzy white orbs in a halo of green.

  Some scientist wonks had set up shop on the counters inside the check-in area, crunching numbers on their laptops. With all the streamers, it looked like the back room at a political rally. They’d evacuated the whole crew of the boat an hour ago. Tynan, who was a gas turbine tech himself, was amazed at the number of Chinese technicians streaming off that boat. They all had that nerdy “nuclear” look. Now, only the ship’s captain and a couple of other guys remained on board, far as he knew.

  Pretty exciting stuff for a Sunday night in June. You never know, right?

  All Chief Tynan was sure of, he wasn’t supposed to let anybody get on or off this ship, period, and that’s just what he was doing. So far, it had been pretty easy. People didn’t generally mess with him. Before he’d trimmed down to meet the Coast Guard regs, he weighed two-fifty, two-sixty; this was when he’d been on the U.S. wrestling team that had gone to Athens. One match, he’d dislocated his wrist seven times. He’d won anyway. “You go for my wrist again, I’m going to go for your head,” he’d told King Kong, Russia’s thirteen-year undefeated legend, Alexander Karelin.

  “Tynan!” he heard somebody shout at him. He turned around and saw his boss Mariucci and another guy heading toward him. Ken saluted and said, “Yes, Captain?”

  “We’re going aboard,” Mariucci said. “Everybody get off?”

  “All the crew was evacuated, sir. About an hour ago.”

  “Anybody try to leave or get on this thing since then?”

  “No, sir,” Tynan said. “Nobody.”

  “Good. If they do, arrest ’em. If they resist arrest, shoot ’em.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m putting the Coast Guard, namely you, in charge of this NYPD Marine Unit, Tynan. Here’s a packet of sealed instructions to be opened on my verbal order. Stay tuned, you’ll hear from me on your headset. I’m wearing a mike.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You hear me say the word ‘Moran,’ you and the Marine Unit captain open the envelope together. Got it, Tynan?”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “Where’s the captain of this vessel now?”

  “In the owner’s private stateroom, sir, talking to the builder. Big two-story penthouse flanking the bridge on the right side. I’ve got two of my men outside the door and one more by his private elevator. They’re not going anywhere, sir.”

  2:06 A.M., EST

  Hawke and Mariucci found Captain Dechevereux and von Draxis sitting in the baron’s movie set Art Deco living room. Everything was done in black and white. A wall of windows rose two stories high and gave a breathtaking view of Manhattan. They were sitting on a sofa beneath a scale model of Leviathan, the model itself more than fifteen feet long. A third man, huge, with a shaved skull, sat in a chair opposite. He wore white duck trousers and a black T-shirt that said VDI Security. On the floor near his feet was a dog, size large, a Doberman pinscher.

  “Nice view from up here,” Mariucci said. “Too bad you got to leave.”

  Von Draxis got to his feet.

  “Ah, Captain Mariucci,” he said, “won’t you join us? You, too, uh…George. Please, sit. Have a drink. I was just telling the captain here about the time my hero Onassis was ordered to change the Olympic logo on all his airliners. You’ve heard this one?”

  “No,” Mariucci said, looking at Hawke.

  “Olympic Airways had the same logo as the Olympics, five inter-locking rings, you know? The Olympic Committee, the IOC, said legally he couldn’t use that five-ring logo on his planes. Cost him a fortune to change them. You know what he did, that wily Greek bastard?”

  “He added a sixth ring,” Hawke said.

  “What? That’s exactly right! Good for you, George.”

  “Danke vielmaus,” Hawke said with a slight bow. The baron looked at him again, shaking his head.

  “Here’s the deal, Mr. von Draxis,” Mariucci said. “You are hereby—”

  “Baron von Draxis. Please.”

  “Fine. Here’s the deal, Baron. With the authority invested in me by the United States government, I am hereby rescinding your landing rights. If you do not remove your vessel immediately, you will be in violation of U.S. federal laws and subject to seizure.”

  “Seize away, Captain! We’re not moving. I told you. The ship’s propulsion monitors have malfunctioned. Besides, we have shut down the reactors.”

  “Is he telling the truth, Captain?” Mariucci asked Dechevereux.

  “The reactors are down. It would take hours to restart them.”

  “Zo. You see? I am, quite literally, powerless. Now. If you’d be so good as to leave my ship, Captain Dechevereux and I can continue our conversation.”

  “You want us to leave?”

  “Ja, I do. Arnold? Be so kind as to escort these gentlemen off my ship.”

  The bald giant smiled and got to his feet. So did his dog. He had a strange weapon in his hand. It looked like a German machine gun from World War II.

  “Lovely weapon,” Hawke said to the big man, “A Schmeisser machine pistol, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Hawke had heard all about the gun when Stokely debriefed him upon arrival in Oman. The gun, the twin Arnolds, and von Draxis’s pet Doberman.

  “This is your driver?” the baron said, incredulous. Mariucci smiled and nodded.

  “Baron, come over here a second,” Mariucci said.

  “What?”

  “Just come over here to the window. I want you to see something. Beautiful sight.”

  �
��If you insist,” von Draxis said, moving slowly toward where Mariucci stood at the window.

  “What is it?” the baron sighed.

  “Look down there on the street. Tell me what you see.”

  The baron stepped closer to the window and looked down. The line of flashing NYPD cars now stretched the length of the block and around the corner all the way to Eleventh Avenue. Von Draxis shook his head sadly and made a clicking sound with his tongue at the top of his mouth.

  “Polizei,” he said.

  “Yeah. You want to save yourself a whole lot of trouble? Show me what’s in your keel. Tell me how to get at it.”

  The German froze in place. His small eyes took on a ball-bearing hardness.

  “Arnold,” von Draxis said quietly, “Bitte, please ask George if he’s carrying a weapon. If he is, relieve him of it. If he refuses to cooperate, kill him.”

  “Little late for this kind of drama, Baron,” Hawke said.

  “Do it, Arnold!”

  Hawke pulled the Walther out of the holster in the small of his back, reversed the muzzle, and handed it to the German thug.

  “Are you armed, Captain Mariucci?” von Draxis asked.

  “Nope. Clean.”

  “Sehr gut. I want you both to go over there and sit down. You and your charming driver. Sit side by side on that sofa where Arnold can keep an eye on you. All right? Please?”

  “Whatever you say,” Mariucci said, looking at Hawke. “Hey, Moran? Pick a seat.”

  “Moran?”

  “His last name, Baron. His first name is George.”

  “Ah.” There was an ornate French desk by the window, bare except for an Apple G5 laptop and two telephones, one white and one black. Von Draxis sat in the gilded desk chair and lit up his computer. He punched in a series of commands, staring at the screen. Hawke leaned forward, attempting to see the display. There was a low growl from the Doberman, staring at him with big black eyes.

  “Nice dog, Baron,” Hawke said, reaching out to it. “Come here, Blondi, kommen Sie hier.”

  Von Draxis swiveled on his chair, staring at Hawke in utter disbelief. “Blondi, did he say?”

  “That’s what he said.” Mariucci smiled.

  “But this is the dog’s actual name!” von Draxis said, a look of incredulity on his face. “How does George—”

  “He’s a dog psychic,” Mariucci said. “What can I tell you?” Mariucci got up and walked back over to the windows. Chief Tynan had heard the magic word, all right. The six Moran tugs were moving into position just off the pier. His own guys, Marine Unit officers, were running fore and aft readying the lines that would secure Leviathan to the tugboats.

  The white phone rang.

  Von Draxis picked it up.

  “General Moon, thank you for responding so promptly to my e-mail. I’m here in New York aboard the vessel with a Captain Mariucci from the New York Police Department. Yes, yes. Here at the dock. Everything is fine. Don’t worry. Your ship is not going anywhere. You may initiate the sequence whenever you wish. Good-bye, General, and may I say what an honor it’s—I’m sorry, sir? Yes, you may. Please hold the line.”

  “Initiate the sequence?” Mariucci said. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Von Draxis looked at Mariucci. “He wants to talk to you, Captain.”

  Mariucci stood up and took the phone from von Draxis.

  “This is Captain Mariucci,” he said. “Who is this?”

  He listened intently for roughly sixty seconds, all the color draining from his face.

  “Wait a second, General,” he said, picking up a pen, “I think I better write that last part down.”

  Mariucci scribbled a line on the pad. “Okay, repeat that for me one more time, please? Yeah. Okay. I’ve got it. Good-bye, General. I’ll convey your message.” He tore the top page from the pad and stared at it for a second.

  There was a noticeable tremor in his hand as he replaced the receiver. He drew himself up and turned to Alex Hawke.

  “That was General Sun-yat Moon of the People’s Republic of China,” Mariucci said, his voice devoid of emotion. “He wants us to call the president and deliver a message for him.”

  “A message.”

  “Yeah. I think you should do it, Alex. He knows you.”

  “Mind if I use your phone, Baron?” Hawke said, getting to his feet.

  “Please,” the Baron said, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

  “What’s the message?” Hawke asked, punching in the president’s direct line.

  “Here. I wrote it down.”

  Hawke heard the president say, “Jack McAtee.”

  “Mr. President. Alex Hawke.”

  “Alex. Where are you now?”

  “Aboard Leviathan at Pier 93 in New York, sir. I have an urgent message for you, sir. Just received directly from General Sun-yat Moon in Hong Kong. You may wish to have others hear this, sir.”

  “I’m putting you on the Sit Room speaker. Go ahead, Alex.”

  “Mr. President, the general has issued the following demand—I am quoting him now, sir. ‘The United States must rescind her order to initiate Operation Wild Card immediately. Failure to do so will have disastrous consequences.’”

  “All right. We’ve got that. Did he give you a time frame?”

  “Yes, sir, he did. He just initiated the sequence. The device will detonate at 4:00 A.M., Eastern Standard Time. Once initiated, the detonation sequence is immutable and irreversible without his code. Can’t change it. Can’t stop it.”

  “What time is it now? Damn it. Two-oh-nine.”

  “Yes, sir. We have less than two hours.”

  “Christ. We’re already working on something here. You need to get that boat into deep water in a hurry. Can you manage that, Alex?”

  “I think we have to, Mr. President.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. He said unless he receives certifiable confirmation that Wild Card has been neutralized, you can kiss New York City good-bye.”

  Chapter Sixty-two

  New York Harbor

  2:16 A.M., EST

  HAWKE, STANDING AT THE STERN RAIL ON THE LINER’S uppermost deck, watched the tugboat operation with mounting dread. If ever he’d had a time-critical mission, this one was it. The tug Karen Moran, one of six tugs assigned by the U.S. Coast Guard, had moved into position off the great liner’s stern. The hawser, a thick towing cable, looped down from a bollard on Leviathan’s stern out to the tug’s bow. Suddenly, the slack snapped out; the tug began to pull mightily. Against her will, Leviathan was about to back out of the berth. It was a painfully slow process.

  Every passing minute darkened his thoughts.

  Still, New York City slept, ten million dreamers blissfully unaware of the deadly drama unfolding in her harbor. Imagining the lives behind every dark window along the river, Hawke had a sudden, stinging thought. Ambrose Congreve across town in his hospital bed. Perhaps the bedside lamp was lit. And Diana Mars was sitting quietly by his bedside reading Yeats to him.

  As for himself? He’d always felt he’d been born with one foot in the grave. He’d lost his wife to a sniper’s bullet. The bullet that found her heart had been meant for him. Living on borrowed time has a numbing effect; any thoughts of death Hawke had now were centered on others. Ambrose and Diana, at this late date, had finally found love. Mariucci was a true New York hero. That Coast Guard kid, Tynan, who’d won a gold medal for America in Athens. None of these people deserved this. To vanish like—

  He looked at the radio in his hand.

  He had an open line to the president. But calling him again so quickly with such sketchy information would serve no good purpose. There were a lot of anxious people holding their breath in the Sit Room, dealing simultaneously with two potential catastrophes. The U.S. Pacific Fleet and the Chinese fleet were now eyeball to eyeball in the Straits. Here, the clock was ticking relentlessly. Over the next few minutes, Hawke would have to parse out unfolding information careful
ly. Avoid false hopes or unrealistic expectations.

  To be honest, he dreaded telling them what he was thinking at this very moment.

  Another tug, the Diane Moran, was positioned amidships on the starboard side. The swiftly running tidal current complicated her mission. The tug skipper’s job was to keep the ship backing straight out. Once the liner’s stern had cleared the berth, the pier itself would be used as a pivot. A tug pushing against the side would shove the stern upriver. That would swing the bow out into open water so that she was headed south toward the Statue of Liberty and the Ambrose Channel.

  At that point, according to Hawke’s hastily thrown together plan, there would be six of the bright red tugs pushing and pulling Leviathan out to sea. Two up front with hawsers, towing. Two angled on either side, steering. And two at the stern, pushing. A book Hawke had read as a child popped into his brain. Little Toot. It was about a little tugboat with a big heart. He hoped like hell he had six little Toots on his side right now.

  Karen Moran had dropped off two pilots. Bob Stuart, the Moran harbor pilot, was assigned to steer Leviathan out to the 20-Alpha buoy. At that point, he’d relinquish the helm to a New York state pilot, the “hooker,” he was called. The Sandy Hook pilot was responsible for the ship’s safe passage through the Ambrose Channel. Once they’d safely left the Ambrose Light astern, Leviathan would be in open ocean. There, they might have a chance. A slim one, maybe, but a chance all the same.

  They were just now passing the Statue of Liberty to starboard. Hawke checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. He estimated they were doing six knots if they were lucky. Maybe five. He was suddenly aware of Mariucci standing by his side at the rail.

  “I don’t like this,” Mariucci said. “At all.”

  “It’s not going to work,” Hawke replied, admitting the truth for the first time. “We’ve got to go to evacuation. Give me the radio.”

  “Fuck’s sake. You can’t evacuate fifteen million people, Alex! You got any idea how many people would die in that kind of panic? Don’t even think about it.”