Then Bunker Hill picked up the Chinese destroyer. The Captain called General Quarters and armed all weapons in case the Chinese wanted payback for Virginia’s attack on their carrier.
“Combat, Luhu’s position.”
"Range thirteen thousand yards. Bearing zero-four-zero, speed fifteen knots, course three-zero-zero."
The enemy continued to match Bunker Hill’s every rate and directional change.
"TAO. Sonar. Second contact bearing one-six-five, range thirty thousand yards! I see a periscope.”
The Captain ordered, “Alter course to two-nine-zero. Let’s see if it follows.” The sub mirrored the direction change. The Captain smiled. “Return course to zero-four-zero.” Again the sub mirrored Bunker Hill. “Good.”
Paloma stared at the Captain. What was good about being shadowed?
Sonar reported, "It’s diving... It’s gone."
“Captain,” the Radar Control Officer broke in. “Something was stuck to the periscope. I’ll zoom in on the image.” He blew up the thin strand of cable protruding above the ocean’s surface.
Paloma gasped. “It’s the Texas State flag.”
“USS Texas, SSN 775, hiding in the Luhu’s baffles where the destroyer couldn’t see it, but we would.” The Captain grinned. “That stays in this room.”
Around 2200, the Chinese destroyer left. By 2235, Paloma fell asleep, dreaming of shaking hands with the Texas crew who risked their lives to let her ship know they had friends.
Chapter Forty-nine
Day Twenty-two, Monday, August 28th, evening
Washington DC, NCTC HQ
Rowe rubbed his raw eyes, nerves frayed from another day fueled by coffee. Seventy-two hours and still nothing. They missed something— Sun, James, himself—but what? He opened the file to the first page and started over.
And put it down. His brain felt sticky and he’d been running on adrenaline too long. James's team whispered in huddled groups, ties loosened, faces grey with exhaustion, desperate to solve this puzzle before disaster again struck. James stood tensely in his office, door ajar, arguing with a group of analysts. Time to catch a nap. Not real sleep, just a light doze, a smidgeon under awareness, mind edging on awake.
Five minutes later, he stood in his hotel room, in the shower, inhaling the steam, letting hot water sink into his pores and wishing it would wash the fog from his mind. He reached fifty percent when his phone rang. Bobby.
"Get back here, Zeke. We got another message buoy."
Rowe threw on fresh jeans and a shirt, ran a comb through his hair, and took a cab back. He passed through the metal detector, bypassed the elevator and pounded up the stairs two at a time to the third floor, badged the guard at the door, and rushed inside buzzing with adrenaline.
Everyone looked like they'd been poked with a pin. Rowe nudged the nearest person—Carlos. Rowe fished his name out of the fog of memory. An MIT grad who chose the FBI over Microsoft when his sister died in Desert Storm.
"Carlos. What did I miss?"
The techie’s pants were rolled up off his shoes and his hair might have been combed with a pitchfork. He shot a look over the top of smudged glasses. "They found Virginia’s message buoy in the attack site debris. They airlifted it to CENTCOM and forwarded it to us."
"Hunh.” Message buoys were noisy. Smart to launch it during the attack.
Carlos grinned. "Those crazies got more than they bargained for taking an American sub. Our Virginia boys are pissed off."
Rowe thanked him and zagged his way to the front of the room. They’d received a message. Torpedoes disabled. VLS in progress.
The room erupted in cheers as a wave of energy washed over the exhausted crowd.
Rowe inched closer to James. “That’ll take the teeth out of the sub’s offense. We may not need those codes from Cy after all.”
"Firing on a fellow warship annoys our boys." He leaned back, eyes flat as pebbles, black circles beneath them. "How do you disable torpedoes?"
"I'd go after the torpedo tube shutter door assemblies. They’re protected from sabotage outside the sub, but not inside."
James swayed and reached a hand out to balance himself. Rowe could say something, but he respected a man who pushed his limits.
James flipped the note over. "They also gave us an address—604 Park Place. You and Duck track it down."
Rowe hustled to his car, awake now, and stowed his Colt under the front seat with extra ammunition clips. As he plugged the directions into the GPS, Duck jumped in. Thirty minutes later, Rowe crossed the bay with its sailboats and pleasure craft and happy people without a care in the world, then zigged over to Park Place’s neighborhood.
"Al-alah took a water tour of this area."
Duck found the address on Google Earth. "It's south of Annapolis, a short drive from Washington, and walking distance to Herron Bay off Rockhold Creek. From here, you can get a lot of places really fast by boat."
After twenty minutes of exploring, Rowe turned onto Park Place. The front yards were squares of ratty grass. In the driveway of one house slouched a broken down Chevy, in another a bike rack with two bent bikes chained together. Halfway down the block, a roll-off body overflowed with yard clippings.
Rowe bobbed his head toward a one-story low-slung house badly in need of paint. "That’s Al-alah’s car. He should have gotten rid of it." Rowe tingled.
As they edged by the house, Rowe saw Al-alah through the bay window, sitting at a computer wearing a white dashiki, face calm, beard nicely trimmed around his weathered scholarly face, eyes focused. Rowe pretended the car stalled two doors down, got out, raised the hood and tinkered as he surveyed the area. People went on errands, visited neighbors, one accepted a FedEx delivery. No one paid the two strangers any attention.
Ten minutes passed and Rowe stood with an exasperated sigh, slammed the hood shut and let his eyes rove as though in need of help until they landed on Al-alah, still at his computer. Rowe stomped down the street, somewhat hidden in the shadow of a string of maple trees, and stopped at the sidewalk leading to Al-alah’s door. He scratched his head and peered in the front window, then muttered and approached the front door while Duck snuck around the rear.
"Hello!" he called out, mixing friendly with irritation as he pounded on the battered screen door. No movement. He pounded again. "Mister! My damn car broke down! My friends are waiting at the harbor. My dal-garn cell is out of juice. I'll pay you to borrow your phone."
Al-alah ignored Rowe.
Rowe rapped again. "Hey, buddy! I see you. I'm in bad shape out here!"
Rowe caught Al-alah’s eye and gestured for him to open the door.
When Al-alah shook his head, Rowe rang the bell. "It'll only take a moment, buddy. I need to use your phone is all, not have dinner with you. Hey, maybe you’ll call for me. Would that be OK? Or would you drive me to the bay? It’s real close."
Al-alah waived a brusque hand, Go away.
"I got my Triple A card. You call. Tell them what-the-hell this fuckin-address is."
A splintering sound erupted from the back of the house. Al-alah turned and lurched out of sight. Rowe heard a scuffle, a painful yelp, and then Duck's grinning face appeared at the door, one arm around Al-alah’s throat and the other holding a gun to the slight man's head.
"Al-alah says come in. Where are his manners?"
Rowe limped in as Duck patted Al-alah down and threw him into the chair by his computer. The terrorist stumbled and slammed his hand into the keyboard to steady himself. Rowe pulled the curtains while Duck searched the house, and then called James.
"I'm ten minutes away. Don’t let him out of your sight. He’d just as soon die for Allah as talk to the enemy. Don’t let him.”
Patience was someone else’s virtue, but after two minutes, Rowe was bored. Maybe Al-alah would volunteer information.
"Talk to us, Mr. Al-alah Sir. We’re nice. Our friend Bobby is pretty mad about the hijacked sub, one-hundred-plus dead submariners, thousands of dead on the
cruise ship and carrier, and you scaring thirty thousand civilians."
Al-alah studied Rowe. "I saw you yesterday. I thought American spies were stealthy."
Rowe held his hand up. "Thanks to your friends in Afghanistan, I’m no longer a spy."
The terrorist offered a slight smile. “They must have liked you. They didn’t take your hands.” His gaze scooted to the computer screen. “Or your eyes.”
Rowe flashed back to Al-alah’s stumble. "He’s deleting the hard drive.”
Rowe snatched the laptop and watched helplessly as data raced by on the screen. He pushed escape, stabbed the power button, and then slammed the keyboard on the floor. The keys splattered, but it continued to whir.
His phone rang. "What?"
"Zeke. I got something for you."
Kali. Just who he needed. "Me, first. Al-alah is erasing his hard drive. How do I stop it?"
"Pop the battery out, and then bring the computer to me. I’ll see what I can recover.”
The computer immediately powered down. He breathed a sigh. "What's up, Kali?"
"I found where Ankour Mohammed will be August 30th. He’s meeting his dad in North Korea.”
That was in two days, the same day North Korea launched the missile. “You're an angel."
Rowe checked his watch. Eight minutes till Bobby arrived. He paced in a circle, and then leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Then his left foot moved, his mouth opened, and he wet his lips. Outside, a basketball bounced and a chainsaw roared. Rowe scratched first his arm, then his shoulder, and then swatted at an invisible fly.
Duck eyed his friend. “You wait much longer, you’re gonna need a safe word.”
Ten minutes, one second and Rowe dragged a chair six inches in front of Al-alah, eyes glued to the prisoner like a Doberman to raw meat.
"We know your plan, Nasr. We have a few questions.”
When Al-alah snickered, Rowe backfisted him hard on his temple.
“The rules have changed, Professor. Yesterday you might have been winning, but not today. You want proof?” As though Al-alah answers, he continued, “I know everyone in your honors class at NYU Abu Dhabi. You started with ten geniuses. Three died on Triumph. Three more are on Virginia.” Rowe was guessing, but figured he was close. “The last four will be in custody week’s end. That has to put a wrench in your jihad.”
Al-alah took off his glasses to inspect the lenses. “You think you know, but you don’t.”
"Ankour Mohammed, ne Yong Soon Young, aka Gil-dong, is the reason we’re so close. He’s talented, but too young for spy work." Rowe tsked. "Do you read Shakespeare? He was popular when your religion last conceived an original thought. Like all Mr. Shakespeare’s characters, Mohammed has a fatal flaw: Pride."
Al-alah looked confused.
"Mohammed’s pride serving Allah has become revenge against Paloma Chacone for rejecting him and you for stepping on his honor. First, you forced him to work with females and then forbade him punishing them. Those were mistakes."
When Al-alah’s temple pulsed, Rowe knew he hit a nerve. He pulled his chair forward until their knees touched. Muslims hated physical contact with the infidel. The man shuddered and Rowe crowded him more.
"Turns out Anchor cares less for Islam than impressing the man who threw him out of North Korea years ago.”
Al-alah flinched at the use of Mohammed’s nickname.
“When he told Dad about your cell of brilliant students, Dad immediately saw their usefulness to deflect attention from his country’s space-based weapon launch. In return for his son’s support, he offered the approval Anchor wanted his entire life. With guidance from Dad, Anchor’s goal morphed from serving Allah to regaining his personal honor."
Duck sucked his breath in. “He chose Kim Jung-un over Allah? That’s harsh.”
Al-alah should have been furious, but the corners of his mouth rose. Why not? He had hijacked two submarines, the West’s reputation was in tatters, and an American cruiser was in his sites.
But Rowe knew where to poke his verbal stick.
“Now, this is important, Doc. I’ll speak more slowly if you like. Here is why you’ll lose: Salah Mahmud al-Zahrawi. He wants Mohammed to hijack Bunker Hill, not to assist in your jihad but to deflect attention from his own end game.”
Surprise popped into Al-alah’s eyes. “I know all about the warning you received. Turns out, so does Anchor and he believes you’ll lose. The phone call I just got? Anchor already considers you dead. You knew al-Zahrawi was cleaning up loose ends—first Oliver Najafian, then Norman Krakhower and Sean Delamagente—but why would he kill you?”
Rowe rolled his eyes. “Man’s a psychopath. That’s all you need to know.”
Al-alah met Rowe’s glare. “I cannot betray al-Zahrawi. You of all people understand why.”
“Give me the word, you’ll be as protected as a mullah’s mistress.” Duck shook his head. “I’ll go first. Anchor is not going to blow Bunker Hill up. He’s giving it to his father.”
Al-alah lurched. “You lie. He will destroy the ship to destroy the female Paloma Chacone. Our jihad will succeed!”
Rowe waited for Al-alah to continue, but the professor’s lips had become a tight line.
“We know Taggert’s your mole. We’ve already told the captain.”
Al-alah jerked. “Mohammed told you—“But he stopped.
Rowe grinned, feeling it come together. “I have only one more question: Why’s al-Zahrawi want Virginia? Tell the truth, I’ll protect you. Lie and I’ll tell everyone you betrayed them."
"Stand down, Zeke, Duck." James pressed into the room, his team inches behind him. Duck grimaced, but moved away to allow the hand-off.
Rowe turned to James to update him before he took the prisoner. With Rowe’s back turned, Al-alah hit himself in the mouth.
Duck yelled, "He’s swallowing poison!" Al-alah frothed, eyes rolling back, crimson dripping where he bit his tongue. "Call the medics!"
No one started CPR. The ME pronounced Al-alah at 4:02 pm.
Rowe tore the house apart, checked vents, under the floorboards, in the toilet tank, even shined a flashlight down the drains, but found no hard drive backups. He couldn’t stop thinking about what had bothered him since the sub disappeared: Why did al-Zahrawi need Virginia?
Chapter Fifty
Day Twenty-two, Monday, August 28th, Night
Somewhere over the Atlantic
The sun shone bright and pure above the stench of what imperialists called 'progress'. He was on another plane ride, this one home, where his father awaited him with open arms. The General himself had arranged Mohammed’s extraction from the Great Satan and provided his son’s newest disguise, the uniform of South Korea’s military.
Mohammed would be glowing except for his repeated failure to kill the boy. Though chased off by police, Mohammed had returned at 1 am to find mother and son gone. A light shone one apartment down so he pounded on the door, pasted a concerned frown on his face and claimed to be a friend of Kali's, here to tell her about… well, a dead aunt. The geezer squinted at him, spit onto the ground and slammed the door. Rage boiled over and he crashed through the thin wood entrance only to find himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun. The man’s hand was rock steady, gaze unblinking. He demanded Mohammed leave and pumped the shotgun. The ch-ching sent ice water through Mohammed’s veins.
How hard could it be to follow her from her office? Except, she didn't show up for work that day or the next.
He would have continued to wait, but Nasr said Mohammed must get ready for the final step. To the youth's surprise, Nasr entrusted him with eight mujahedeen, more than enough to accomplish his goal, if not Nasr’s.
As they kissed goodbye, Nasr said, "When you complete your task, go to NYU Abu Dhabi library study carrels every afternoon at 2 with a copy of The Communist Manifesto. Al-Zahrawi will find you."
As Mohammed drove away, he passed the man he recognized as Zeke Rowe and knew Nasr would die toda
y. With Nasr dead, Mohammed would kill Paloma.
Chapter Fifty-one
Day Twenty-three, Tuesday, August 29th, late morning
New York, FBI safe house
Kali slapped herself, took a cold shower, and brushed her teeth. Her face was still frightening, all dark shadows, red eyes, and pale skin. She made coffee and took thick mugs to Duck and her protection detail, and then returned to work. Tomorrow marked the deadline.
As the sun cast its first luminescent glow over the landscape, Kali sighed. "What a beautiful day, Eitan. Normal people will have picnic lunches, take walks in the park, and go to movies. Not try to save the world."
Eitan poured orange juice, popped open a bag of peanut butter-stuffed pretzels, and dropped it on the table with a half-eaten bag of cheese-flavored popcorn. "But they'll eventually ask what they accomplished with their lives. You and I will know.
“Chinese should be here within the half hour. Umm. Which episode is this?” He nodded toward the Stargate marathon he and Kali had on as background noise while they worked. A news alert interrupted.
"A San Diego naval officer’s boyfriend is wanted for questioning in her murder. She was found dead, throat slashed, after meeting him for dinner."
Mohammed’s picture popped up. Eitan blanched and sweat prickled his forehead.
“Paloma is at sea, Eitan."
He gulped and bobbed his head. Kali looked—really looked—at her genius friend for the first time in days. His intelligent eyes were sunken and bloodshot, his thinning hair stuck out like porcupine quills, and his fingers were stained orange up to the second knuckle.
He dialed James on speaker. "I decrypted Barot’s plan. It’s quite simple—elegant even. He suggests blowing up the submarine’s nuclear reactor in shallow water while the sub cannot dive. In this way, the explosion goes up, not out and down where it would be neutralized by water. I’m sending it to you and Zeke.”
He yawned. “What about Taggert? Even though Al-alah as much as admitted he was the mole, I still need proof.”
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