by C. A. James
“You’re wasting my time.”
“I’m sorry. This is simple: I’ll make you a deal. I’ll take down Senator Dean Platte. In return, after I’m convicted, you commute my sentence to ten years at most. You’ll be president, you can do that. I don’t want to die in prison. And Platte is the real mastermind, not Patterson.”
“Why are you talking to me instead of a federal prosecutor?”
“Because I know you’re a woman of your word and that you have compassion, ma’am.”
“No deal, Blackwell. If you get the death penalty, I might commute your sentence to life imprisonment, but that’s only because I oppose the death penalty on principle. You want better than that? Talk to the prosecutor.”
“Yes, thank you, Madam Vice President.”
Helena Marshall Burns turned without another word and left. A Secret Service agent came in.
“Erica Blackwell?”
“Yes?”
“You are under arrest for conspiracy, treason, and murder.”
Christine unbuttoned the mainsail cover and rolled it back along the boom into a compact bundle of canvas, then stowed it neatly under the cockpit seat. She examined all of her rigging: halyards, sheets, guys, sails—everything was in order.
It was the first race of the new season, and she’d be damned if she was going to lose even one. This year, she’d have a huge advantage she’d never been able to achieve before: focus. The moment the dust had finally settled from the Zarrabian incident, Christine had marched into Grant Petri’s office and announced her retirement. It was time to devote herself full time to writing—and sailing.
Petri had tried to talk her out if it, but he’d probably realized from the outset that it was hopeless. She’d already made up her mind. But he did convince her to stay on part-time as commentator and senior correspondent for national politics.
She looked up at the bright blue sky. It was a sunny spring morning with light, variable breezes. Was it going to stay this way, or would the wind pick up? Should she use the standard jib or the Genoa jib? If the wind stayed light, the huge Genoa jib would take the day. But if it picked up, the wind would overpower the Genoa and force a lengthy sail change in the middle of the race. She looked again at the sky, dotted with a few wispy clouds, then back at the two sail bags, uncertain which to select for the first race.
“Hey!”
She turned at the sound. TJ McCaig was standing on the dock behind Watergate.
“TJ! Wow, what a surprise!” She jumped off the boat to the dock and gave him a hug, then stepped back and looked him over.
“You’re looking fit and trim. Retirement agrees with you?”
“Seems like I have less free time now than ever. I’m keeping myself busy. How ‘bout you? I heard you’re semi-retired, too.”
“Same feeling. I don’t know how I ever found the time to work. I get up each day with all sorts of plans, and next thing you know it’s bedtime. I’m mostly a writer now.”
“A book? Don’t tell me, it’s not about—”
“No, it’s not about Zarrabian. I suppose everyone expects that, but no. I’m doing what every retired news anchor does: the egotistical autobiography. It pays the bills. It’ll have a chapter about Zarrabian, but I really don’t want to dwell on that.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling.”
“I’m also working on a book about the history of colonialism, focusing on the Middle East and how the past is the root of what’s going on today.”
“Sounds fascinating!”
“Oh, don’t give me that. It sounds boring and you know it. But it’s one of those things that gets hold of you and you can’t let it go. It’ll probably end up in the bargain bin at the bookstores, but at least I’ll get it out of my head. What about you? What are you doing down here on the dock?”
“Well, I, uh . . .”
“You didn’t come down here just looking for me, did you?”
“No! Look, it’s over there.” McCaig pointed down the dock. “The metal-flake wine-colored one.”
“Denny’s boat? What, you’re crewing for Denny now?”
“No. My boat. I bought it. Sold my condo in Hawaii. I kind of like the Bay Area.”
“TJ! You’re kidding me! You’ve only been sailing what, three times and you buy a Santa Cruz 27? It’s not exactly a beginner’s boat!”
McCaig laughed. “No, it’s not a beginner’s boat. I took some lessons for a while from some tall, skinny kid down in Santa Cruz with long surfer hair; he looked like a leftover hippie from the sixties. Lately I’ve been crewing for a guy over in Berkeley. He’s pretty good and really taught me the ropes. He says I’m a natural.”
“So now you want to be a racer?”
“Today is my first single-hander.”
“Are you going to be on my tail?”
“Not quite yet! I’m hoping to finish in the middle of the pack.”
“I’ll watch for it. Hey, you ever hear from Omar?”
“I talked to him a couple weeks ago. Did you know he’s married now?”
“No way!”
“It’s true. You remember that librarian in Rio Vista? Saylor?”
“No way!”
“Yes. I guess Bashir was quite smitten with her back there when we were using her little library to save the world.”
“So Bashir moved out there or something?”
“No, she got a position at the University down in Santa Cruz, so they moved to Half Moon Bay. She drives south and he drives up to San Francisco every day.”
He smiled. “That warms my heart.”
“That’s not all. She’s pregnant already. I don’t know how they’re going work day care with her baby plus the new one.”
McCaig laughed. “Wow. It’s hard to imagine Omar as a dad.”
“I’ve heard you grow into the job. Hey, I gotta run, there’s a race today.”
“Right! Good luck out there.”
“Thanks, you too. Maybe I’ll see you at the clubhouse?”
She looked at him for a long moment. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite book retailer or www.goodreads.com?
Thanks!
C.A. James
Follow me on:
Web Site: www.AuthorCAJames.com
Twitter: @AuthorCAJames
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# # #
This is a work of fiction. Readers will surely wonder whether a small group of terrorists could really blow up a major earth-fill dam and cause the destruction described in this book, or blow up an LNG supertanker and destroy Boston Harbor. Regarding the former, the Army Corps of Engineers is very aware of the potential for terrorist attacks against dams across America, and says this incident couldn’t happen as described. Skeptics note that a number of terrorist acts were preceded by assurances that “it couldn’t happen.” LNG supertankers are another story. While I’m hardly an expert on military hardware, it is noteworthy that these ships are heavily guarded when in port, and Boston is the only remaining major city that still has an LNG terminal near a populated area. And yes, there really is a public-storage building across the harbor from the Boston LNG terminal.
With the exception of Carl Wirtanen, all characters in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Carl Wirtanen was a real astronomer whom I had the pleasure to know. He passed away long before this story takes place, but I tried to capture his humor, kindness, intelligence, and quiet competence in my fictional character.
This book is entirely my own creation, but many people helped along the way. First and foremost among these is my wife, who suffered through badly flawed early revisions and bravely pointed out the inadequacies of the story and characters. Zarrabian’s character in particular was strongly influenced by her insights.
Thanks to all of my family and fri
ends who read the draft versions and provided feedback. The book wouldn’t have been possible without your help and encouragement.
Special thanks to my editors, Dawn Daniels and Ben Silverman. Ben provided critical feedback that added realism, drama, and consistency to the plot, and Dawn’s careful reading, attention to detail, and amazing knowledge of style and grammar improved the manuscript enormously.
Thomas Frey, executive director of the DaVinci Institute, wrote an article entitled “The Fort Peck Incident” that first brought the issue of a potential terrorist attack against the Fort Peck Dam to the public’s attention. I am indebted to him for his thoughtful article.
And finally, thanks to all of the computer programmers who contributed to the free open-source LibreOffice word processor.
About the Author
James started his professional career as a college dropout at the age of seventeen. Four years as a sailing instructor, boatbuilder, machinist, and carpenter taught him the value of craftsmanship, the satisfaction that comes from quality work, and what it means to have real responsibilities. He also figured out that laboring in the hot sun can make college seem quite attractive.
Born and raised in California, James graduated from UC Davis with a degree in electrical engineering, and some years later earned his master’s degree in Computer Science from Stanford University, thanks to a fellowship from Hewlett Packard Laboratories. It was while at Stanford studying artificial intelligence that James got his first inspiration to write a book. Family and work took precedence for the next few decades, but in 2010 James’ first book, The Religion Virus: Why We Believe in God was published by O-Books of London.
With the publication of The Religion Virus, James became a blogger and wrote over five hundred articles about religion, morality, politics and related topics.
The Zarrabian Incident is James’ first work of fiction.
In addition to his writing, James is an accomplished amateur guitarist, a tolerable clarinet player, a deep-sea sailor, and the father of three. In his spare time, he enjoys hiking and bicycling with his wife in the beautiful mountains of Southern California.