"Elaine called while you were gone. We've got a charter in five days."
"We can't be ready," Paul said.
"We'll launch day after tomorrow."
"How? Just because you put on the bikini?"
"No. Because I also offered a $15,000 bonus to the yard. We're booked for a $30,000 charter, but the pickup is in Manhattan on the evening of the third."
"Of July?"
"Yes."
"That's six days from now, Connie."
"I know. They'll finish up the day after tomorrow. We're scheduled to launch late that afternoon. That gives us three days to get to the 79th Street Boat Basin. I've got a slip booked for the afternoon of the third, and the guests come aboard after dinner."
"Where are we going, then?"
"They want to watch the festivities from the harbor on the Fourth and then cruise Long Island Sound. Probably up to Boston, maybe back up here. It's perfect; we get our shakedown cruise and get it paid for, too."
Paul stood in silence, processing what she had said.
"Come on; let's introduce you around," she said, tugging on the sleeve of his polo shirt.
"I'm not sure I — "
"Damn it! I need you to walk around with your arm around me like you love me, Paul. I want those guys to know I'm taken, okay?"
Paul nodded, doubt on his face, but he accepted the hug she offered. After a moment in her arms, he forgot his anger. "Okay, let's go."
Amal scratched his close-cropped beard as he dawdled over his late breakfast. Through the window next to his table he had a clear view of the docks at the 79th Street Boat Basin. Part of New York City's park system, this marina was on the waterfront on Manhattan's West Side, just to the west of Central Park. It was the ideal spot for ground zero, he reflected. Not that he had anything to do with the choice of the bomb's location. They didn't even trust him with the name of the vessel that would be the delivery system. That did not bother him; he understood the need to compartmentalize such information. He wondered if the yacht carrying the warhead was already in place. It could be any of the gleaming toys tied to the docks below him.
He didn't have the trigger yet. That would come on the morning of the Fourth of July; it was arranged. He would be summoned to one of the midtown hotels to pick up a package for delivery to the marina office. Traffic should be light on the morning of the holiday; he wondered if there would be tourists trying to flag him down. Cabs might be scarce. From habit, he considered how much money he could make by exploiting that opportunity. Then he caught himself and laughed. Making money wouldn't matter after noon on the Fourth of July.
He had been encouraged to reconnoiter the site of his coming martyrdom. They pretended that this was not a suicide mission, but he knew better. Three hours, they had told him. He would have three hours from the time he triggered the device before it obliterated Manhattan. He could trigger it from anywhere within a half-mile radius of the marina. He doubted that three hours would allow him to get far enough away to escape the effects of the nuclear detonation. It didn't matter; he was ready to make his entry into the garden of paradise. He would share in its delights with his father and his brothers who had gone before him, valiant warriors fallen in the service of Allah.
He wondered at the number of yachts that sat idle in the marina, awaiting the pleasure of the rich infidels with their whores. He didn't presume to understand Allah's forbearance in allowing these unbelieving scum to live so well. They flouted every precept of Sharia, encouraging their women to go about naked, or nearly so. He had been sickened by what he had seen in this great cesspool of a city. These people who used the yachts were among the worst of the worst, so it was fitting that the cleansing would begin here, in the heart of their nest.
"I'm sorry, Paul, but I just don't get it," Connie said. They were in their room at the bed and breakfast, a short walk from the boatyard. She stood at the sink, rubbing moisturizer into her skin. The air here was much drier than what she was accustomed to in the islands. "You know I'm yours; I'm not interested in those men."
Paul watched her and considered what she said. His initial anger had cooled as they went about preparing Diamantista II for launching. By the time they had stopped in at the local greasy spoon for dinner, he felt only a dull ache at the memory of Connie's flaunting her body before the yard crew. Her actions had advanced the launch schedule; there wasn't a man in the yard who wasn't fighting for the opportunity to work on Diamantista II.
"I know that," he said. "It's not that at all."
"Then what?" she asked.
"I know how you feel about men staring at you."
"So?" She turned to face him, her brow wrinkled as she tried to put herself in his position.
"So why put yourself on display, if you hate it so much?"
"Men are such easy marks," she said. "They're so driven by their silly fantasies. It makes me feel like I'm getting even, sort of."
"Getting even? How?"
"They lust after every woman they see; it really pisses me off."
"I'm confused." Paul looked down at the floor, shaking his head. "If their reaction irritates you, why do you lead them on like that?"
"A woman's appeal to men is like money in the bank. It's not my fault that they're stupid enough to run after me with their tongues hanging out, falling over each other hoping I'll smile at them. Don't tell me it didn't work, either. We're going to launch early."
Paul looked crestfallen at that. Elbows on his knees, he put his face in his hands for a moment. He looked up at Connie and shook his head.
"What, Paul? Say what you think; I can't read your mind, damn it."
"That all sounds so cynical, and ... "
Connie frowned, waiting. After several seconds of silence, she prompted him. "And what?"
"I was going to say cheap, but I — "
"Cheap!" She slapped him so hard that her palm stung, and then she burst into tears, her flash of anger quickly changing to frustration and then to pain at the grief she felt. She swallowed a sob and focused on him. Her heart melted at the vulnerability written on his handsome, weather-beaten features. He sat there, stunned, a hand to his cheek where the imprint of her palm was a dark red against his walnut-tanned skin.
"Oh, Paul," she sighed. "God, I'm so sorry. Me and my temper. I knew it would upset you. Can you forgive me?"
"Nothing to forgive. It's my problem; I just have to deal with that part of you. It's just a small bit of the whole package that I've fallen for."
He held out his arms, and she settled herself on his lap, leaning her forehead against his.
Chapter 2 - A Blast to Sail
Bill O'Brien had lost count of the number of times that he had watched the YouTube clip. In a less perilous situation, he might have found humor in the irony of his plight. He was at the heart of the intelligence gathering operation that kept the U.S. safe from acts of terrorism, and he was getting more information from YouTube than from anywhere else.
When he watched the video the first time, he had initiated a search through the databases maintained by the FBI's Counterterrorism Division, where he ran the Counterterrorism Analysis Section within the Analysis Branch. As he studied the resulting report, he became increasingly convinced that the threat made by the masked terrorist who claimed to speak for ISIS might be credible. The man had spoken flawless English with an American accent, and he had warned that a major East Coast city would be obliterated by a nuclear weapon on a major holiday in July. O'Brien and all the other analysts had concluded that meant July 4th, which was three days away.
O'Brien's team had been unable to find any evidence that the jihadist's threat was real, but that didn't mean it could be ignored. The obvious targets were in the Boston-Washington corridor, but there were plenty of other places to worry about. With over half of the U.S. population living within 50 miles of the East Coast, the detonation of even a small nuclear weapon anywhere along the coast would be devastating.
O'Brien had ordered a re-evaluatio
n of the data from all the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Radiation Portal Monitors for the last year, but he knew well the weaknesses of that system. Any positive indications would have been investigated and neutralized long ago, and the absence of findings did not mean that no weapons had been brought in.
He was in constant touch with his peers in the Operational Support Branch. They were running their own traps, looking for any signs of unusual activity by people on their watch lists. He knew they all felt intense frustration at the gaps in their data.
The Analysis Branch had stumbled across the video late this afternoon, before the news media found it. O'Brien knew that their lead time was short. He had reacted quickly, passing what he had up the organization to the Assistant Director of the Counterterrorism Division within 15 minutes of the receipt of the video. By now, he hoped the information had reached the Director.
O'Brien had been around long enough to understand the perils of organizational politics; he wasn't wasting his time worrying about what his bosses were doing with the information. His focus was on refining what they knew. Still, he hoped this one went straight to the President. He was no fan of the man in office, but he could well imagine the havoc that would result if the President saw the video on CNN before he was briefed.
"I think we should get Rick to suggest it," Abe said. He took a sip of lemonade. "They'll be more likely to accept the offer if it comes from him."
He and Mo sat at the kitchen table in their rented house trailer, relaxing after their day's work applying bottom paint to Diamantista II.
"Why would he do that?" Mo asked.
"I'll talk to him; we've done good work for him," Abe said. "We were involved in almost everything that was done to their boat; it would be a nice touch, don't you think?"
"Maybe," Mo said. "I'm not sure exactly what you mean by 'nice touch.' Nice for the people?"
"Well, yeah. Kind of. But I think it would be good business for the yard, too."
"Why do you give a shit about the yard, Abe?"
"I don't, stupid. I'm trying to explain why Rick would do it. Think about it; these people spent a lot of money with the yard. Maybe a hundred grand, right?"
"Yeah, so?" Mo frowned.
"So they'd probably think it was outstanding customer service if the yard manager offered to send crew along on their shakedown cruise. In case anything wasn't quite right, we'd be there to fix it."
"Anything like what?" Mo asked.
"Geez, Mo. For a genius, you're really thick sometimes, man. Probably nothing's gonna go wrong with the boat, but if Rick sends us along it will make them feel good, and it won't cost him anything."
"I think we should stick to the plan," Mo said.
"It's a dumb plan. Those goat-ropers have no idea what's going on here. They sit out there in the desert smoking camel shit and daydream. Tell me how their plan would work, okay?"
"Well, once the boat's launched and out on one of the moorings, we swim out there like Abdul said. In the middle of the night, while they're asleep. Tie them up, or whatever. We sail away before the yard opens. Those were our orders. What's wrong with that, smart-ass?"
"To start with," Abe said, "the work's gonna be finished early. I bet they launch by tomorrow afternoon."
"So?"
"So they might decide to leave tomorrow night. He's been loading groceries and stuff all day; they even filled the water tanks. They're ready. What if they take off as soon as the boat's in the water? Then what do we do?"
Mo scrunched his face up. "Why would they leave then? They'd have to sail in the dark."
"It's between three and four hundred miles from here to New York, depending on whether they go through the canal or around the Cape," Abe said.
"Yeah, okay," Mo agreed. "What's your point?"
"You really don't know jack shit about sailing, do you?" Abe asked.
"That's why you're here, Abe. Not everybody grows up rich enough to have a yacht in the family. What's your point, man?"
"They're gonna have to sail in the dark anyway, you dumb shit. A boat like that, it'll cover maybe 175 miles in 24 hours. Maybe 200, if everything's perfect. So they're looking at a couple of days of sailing around the clock. I heard her tell Rick they were picking up guests in Manhattan on the evening of the third, so they were cutting things pretty close. If they get a shot at leaving early, I figure they'll take it."
Mo sat, frowning, and considered what his friend had said. "You really think you can get Rick to do that?"
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure. The yard's gonna be closed for the holiday anyway, so he won't need us. I'll tell him we'll do it just for the experience, you know? It's not going to cost him anything, and it'll make the yard look good. I'll tell him we'll catch the bus back and be here ready to work after the holiday."
"What if he won't go for it? Or if they say they don't want us along?"
"Then I guess we're back to the original plan."
"Yeah, but if you're right about them leaving tomorrow afternoon, that won't work. Then what?"
"We could arm it before they leave."
"Yeah, but Abdul said not to; the battery might run down too low for the trigger to work."
"Then I guess I'd better make sure Rick sends us along. Don't worry so much. I'll make it happen."
The dark-complected, nondescript man sat in the back room of the Internet café in London with his headset on, waiting for the voice connection.
"Asalamu alaikum, Faisal," he heard.
"Wa’laikum asalam," he responded. "It has been done. They have the video; they think it was posted to YouTube, but when they look there, they will not find a link for it."
"Excellent," the voice in his ear said. "And no one will be able to tell where it came from?"
"As you wished," Faisal said.
"You are a genius, my friend, to think of discrediting them in advance. Now even if they discover something, their masters will not believe them."
"Insha’Allah," the man said.
"Subhan’Allah," the voice said, and the connection was broken.
Chapter 3 - A Blast to Sail
"They're nice kids," Rick Peterson said. "They're the two guys that put the most time in on your boat, too."
"Do you always send crew along on shakedowns?" Connie asked.
"Well, no. But it seems like a good idea, especially given the amount of work we did on Diamantista II. They actually suggested it, so I thought I'd see if you were interested."
"They suggested it?"
"Yeah." Rick glanced over at the crew still at work on the boat. He scratched the back of his neck and looked back at Connie, a grin on his face. "To be honest, I think they're just lookin' for a boat ride to New York, but what's wrong with that?"
"Nothing, I guess. Will you be paying them?"
"Nope. And they stressed they weren't lookin' for you to pay them, either. See, they ain't exactly hurtin' for money. At least I know Abe's not. His old man's a surgeon, and his mother's a college professor. They got money; kept a boat here for several years — 59-foot Hinckley — real beauty, she is. I think she's in the Med now."
"So Abe's got some sailing experience. Which one is he?" Connie asked.
"The big, handsome kid that's always smiling and joking."
"Dark red hair and freckles?" Connie asked.
"Yep. That's him."
"How about Mo?" she asked. "Which one is he?"
"He's the slight-built kid, dark hair, olive skin. Quiet; he lets Abe do most of the talkin'."
"And does he have any sailing background?"
"No, I don't think so."
"How'd he end up working for you, then?" Connie asked.
"Showed up here with Abe a few months ago. They'd both just come back from a year kickin' around Europe, like rich kids do after they finish college. I hired 'em as a package, based on knowin' Abe's folks. Mo was a real find; I lucked out on that one."
"How so?"
"Well, that kid's an engineering graduate. He don't sa
y much, but he's smart as paint, and the best natural boat mechanic I've ever seen. Nothin' he can't fix."
"Sorry to put you through the third degree, Rick, but I had a really bad experience with pick-up crew when I delivered my last boat to the islands. I learned to ask a lot more questions."
"No problem. I understand. I don't know much about Mo's background, except his father's an Army officer — Corps of Engineers. Gulf War vet. Guess he's in the reserves; he works for a big commercial construction operation."
"If they're rich kids, what are they doing working in the yard?"
"It's Abe's doin'. He wants to be a writer; he says he likes to mix with workin'-class people. Kinda broadens his horizons, or somethin'."
"It sounds like I can't really go wrong on this. Would I be on the hook for plane fare back?"
"Nah. Abe said they'd take the bus. Part of his workin'-class notion, I reckon."
"All right. Let me talk it over with Paul when he gets back from the grocery store, but I don't see why he'd object. You still think we'll launch this afternoon?"
"Yep. Got the travel-lift crew scheduled for one o'clock. Figured we'd put you out on a mooring for the night."
"Paul and I were talking about that last night. If we splash that early, we'll get underway today. We can be well offshore by dark, and it'll give us a little extra time to get to New York. I wouldn't mind a day to rest there before our guests come on board."
"Makes sense to me," Rick said.
"You think the boys would be okay with that?"
"Yep. Abe figured you were gonna do that, matter of fact. So I reckon they'll be ready. You or Paul just let me know quick as you can."
"That sounds okay to me," Paul said. "It would take some of the pressure off to have a couple of extra watch-standers."
"I thought the same thing." Connie frowned and scuffed the toe of her boat shoe in the gravel, watching the travel lift creep into position straddling Diamantista II.
"You look worried," Paul said. "They won't drop her. These guys know what they're doing."
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