Seaghost

by William H. Lovejoy

  Andrews took it and scanned it quickly.

  “Jesus! Forty-three of them?”

  “That’s only the ones they know about, Jim. I doubt they all participated in the operation.”

  “Ibrahim Badr. He’s the leader?”

  “Palestinian, and apparently a pretty fair commander. Langley thinks he’s had training from the Libyans and maybe even the Soviets, in addition to on-the-job training with a couple of far-out groups. On actual and suspected terrorist operations, he’s credited with almost four hundred deaths. The profile suggests he’s a fanatic, but that he doesn’t let it get in the way of his thinking.”

  Nelson shook his head and looked up at the plotting board. “And we’ve got him out there, somewhere.”

  “What all have you got involved in Safari?” Monahan asked. The search for the Sea Spectres had been given the code name Operation Safari.

  “Mr. Dean,” Nelson called to an ensign sitting at a console at the side of the room, “give me Safari.”

  All of the odd-colored symbols blinked out, leaving the blue. They ranged from the Artic to the Antarctic, from Norfolk to the Mediterranean.

  “Everything we’ve got is looking for those boats,” Nelson said. “Mr. Dean, Safari Bravo.”

  Most of the symbols disappeared from the screen. The chief groups were located in four task forces off the coast.

  “That’s the primary hunt group,” Nelson said. “Prebble and Mitscher are the two destroyers directly east of us.”

  “Isn’t Prebble the destroyer with the anti-stealth gear?”

  “Right. We’re trying to keep her centrally located. Northwest of them is a six-ship task force headed by the frigate Knox. Down near the Bahamas is a task force under command of the Oliver H. Perry. The carrier America and her Task Force 22 has been recalled from the Caribbean. That’s it, coming through the Straits of Florida.”

  “You’re not showing Coast Guard vessels?”

  “Not on the screen. They’re Safari Alpha, and right now, we’ve got them canvassing the ports.”

  “You don’t think the Sea Spectres have left the area,” Monahan said.

  Nelson grimaced. “Hell, Jim, I don’t know. Admiral Clay and I have gone over this a dozen times. By now, those boats could be entering the Med. But to answer your question, I don’t think so, not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “With two boats travelling together, one or the other should have been seen by someone’s naked eye by now. Clay thinks they might have been loaded aboard some transport to hide them, and I tend to agree with him.”

  “And the transports are slower.”

  “Right. Mr. Dean, let me see Safari Target Two.”

  The screen blinked, and several dozen small rectangles appeared, each of them shown in orange. They were spread up and down the Atlantic, some of them halfway across it. Many were clustered near the West Indies.

  “Target One are the boats themselves, Jim. Target Two are suspicious vessels, primarily of Third World registry, with the capability of transporting one or both Sea Spectres. Freighters, tankers, container ships. We can’t exactly board these ships on the high seas, so we’re tracking them with choppers and other aircraft from the task forces, with subs and with land-based AWACS aircraft. As they make port, we’ll be able to begin eliminating them.”

  “The ships you’re showing are all outbound.”

  “Right,” Nelson said. “The premise was based on finding vessels that could have had a sea rendezvous with the stealth boats, then headed for somewhere else.”

  “What about inbound ships?”

  “What for?”

  “Something Aaron Stein mentioned is sticking with me,” Monahan said. “The Persian Gulf is not the only place terrorists could operate those boats. We’ve got a lot of shoreline and shipping right here. Why pollute the Gulf when you can sink a supertanker off Houston or in New York harbor?”

  Nelson looked stricken. “Goddamn. You don’t mean it?”

  “I’d hate to overlook the possibility, Aubrey. Hell, who’s to say one of those ships out there didn’t pick up the boats, steam out a ways, then turn around before we got our search grid set up?”

  “That’ll damn near double the vessels we’ll have to keep an eye on.”

  “The CIA may have to shift the orbits of some satellites. In fact, that should have been done by now.”

  “Ah, hell.” Nelson reached out and pressed the key on an intercom.

  “Sir?”

  “Go down to Admiral Clay’s office, and ask him if he can step in here, will you?”

  *

  1635 hours, 35° 37’ North, 71° 9’ West

  The Combat Information Center (CIC) was lit with red light. Captain Barry Norman entered through the light trap and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. On the bulkhead directly in front of him, someone had taped a picture of the Sea Spectre, like a postwar Betty Grable pinup. The picture had been sent to all ships of the Atlantic Fleet. It was somewhat superfluous to the men aboard the Prebble, since they had been involved in search-and-capture games with the boat for months.

  Lieutenant Commander Al Perkins saw him and strode across the room. “Hello, Captain.”

  “Al. What have we got?”

  “Deuce Two just made a pass near that freighter we picked up an hour ago.” Deuce Two was one of the Sea-sprite helicopters. “She’s Albanian and looks to be bound for Bristol. The decks are stacked with cargo, and Deuce Two doesn’t think they’d have been able to shift it enough to load a forty-foot boat.”

  “You pass the information to CINCLANT?”

  “Yes sir, I did.”

  “Okay. We’ve got some new orders,” Norman said. “CINCLANT wants to look at vessels inbound, also. You still have tracks on the container ships we passed?”

  “I can get ’em back, sir.”

  “Do that, and send Deuce Three out to have a look.”

  “Aye aye sir.”

  Norman took a moment to look over the electronic plot. Mitscher was five miles off their starboard flank. Half a dozen other ships within sixty miles were currently under observation.

  “I wish one of them was our bogey, sir.”

  “Do you, Al?”

  “I’d like to blow the son of a bitch out of the water.”

  Perkins’s red hair and intense anger made Norman remember a chief petty officer who had been assigned to Norman’s first command, a maintenance section at Pensacola. Norman had been a fresh lieutenant (j.g.). A hundred years ago, it seemed.

  Devlin McCory had not been an easy man to forget, since he and Norman had corresponded a few times a year for several decades. In fact, when he thought about it, he remembered that McCory had had a few ideas, and good ones, about boat and ship construction. Had one of those Christmas letters mentioned a stealth boat?

  McCory would probably find it ironic that the Navy had built a boat so stealthy that they could not find it themselves.

  Norman could hear the Irish laughter.

  *

  1840 hours, Edgewater

  McCory drove a 1966 Chevrolet step-side pickup. Like his older boats, it was in fully restored condition. The 327 cubic-inch V-8 hummed. It was painted a metallic blue, and “Marina Kathleen” was lettered in flowing script on the doors.

  He parked it in front of John Barley’s dry dock and shut off the engine. Before he could get around to the other side to open the door, Ginger Adams was out and on the ground. She was independent that way.

  She was wearing running shoes, jeans, and a gray-and-green plaid cotton blouse. Her blonde hair was fluffed out casually. McCory stopped to enjoy the view.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “You don’t look like a bank vice president.”

  “Now you want me to look like a vice president?”

  “Of course not. I’m just glad I came to you for a loan.”

  “Loans. Plural. Over a third of a million, and now in jeopardy. I’ll probably lose my job,” she said.


  “You’d better not go in there, then,” McCory told her, being serious. “There’s something about accessory after the fact.”

  Ginger slipped her arm inside his. “I’ve thought about it, Kevin, and I’ll take my chances.”

  He studied her face.

  “I’m being serious. This could mean big trouble for you.”

  “I said I’d thought about it.”

  “Your boss might not like seeing your name in the papers again.”

  “He didn’t say anything when I was arrested at the zoo in Miami.”

  “This is slightly different,” he said.

  She went up on her toes to kiss him. “It’s going to be all right. I mean it.”

  Over the years, McCory had been involved with a number of women. In some cases, infatuated. After a few months, however, the relationships had dissipated. With Ginger, however, the bond seemed to be growing stronger after almost a year.

  It was strange in a way because, though they had some common ground — Florida natives, degrees in business, an affection for some of the same authors, and a faith in the Miami Dolphins, they frequently disagreed on food, recreation, politics, and national issues. She accused him of being romantic and impulsive. Ginger thought his planning processes were, if not nonexistent, then chaotic. McCory had told her that, despite her personal appearance and activism, she was a conservative.

  Thinking about that, he said, “This really isn’t something that you should get involved in, hon.”

  “There is that element of danger, isn’t there? Beyond that, there is also an element of injustice that intrigues me. So quit worrying about it, McCory, and show me the damned boat!”

  He walked her up to the door and unlocked it. Pushed it open and turned on the lights.

  “My God!”

  “That’s about what Ted thought, too, only he was a little more profane.”

  They slipped inside, and McCory locked the door. His security measures weren’t intensive, but he was more conscious of them than he had ever been.

  Ginger crossed the dock head and went down the side dock, dodging the dry dock’s cradle timbers. She reached out and ran her hand over the smooth surface.

  “Nice lines, huh?” he said.

  “It’s beautiful. You’re sure Devlin designed it?”

  “I’m positive. I’ll show you.”

  McCory opened the hatch and helped her inside. Leading the way forward, he turned on overhead lights, using the white lights, rather than the red. The notes from his clipboard and Devlin’s drawings were spread out on the banquette table. Ginger slid onto the bench seat, and McCory sat beside her.

  She was patient as he went through the dozen sheets of paper on which he had scrawled notes, pointing out the details on the drawings. On the drawings, he had used red ink to write numbers in small circles that corresponded to the number of the comparison note.

  “She’s exactly forty-four feet, six inches long. The beam is thirteen feet, ten inches. The keel is cast in carbon-impregnated plastic, and the dimensions match the drawings exactly. Every rib is spaced as Devlin planned it. In the structure itself, the only differences are the cabin layout and the absence of a foredeck hatch. Here? See this? The same damned rotary engines Devlin proposed.”

  Ginger pored over the drawings intently, then said, “It seems conclusive enough to me. What are you going to do about it?”

  McCory snorted. “I was going to hold a mammoth press conference. It doesn’t seem like such a hot idea, under the circumstances.”

  She turned her head to look at him. “I’d agree with that. What does Ted say?”

  “To wait it out, see if they find the other boat. Then find a way to open negotiations with both the Navy and Advanced Marine Development.”

  “I don’t think you’re that patient.”

  “It’s difficult,” he agreed.

  Ginger leafed through his notes. “This is a mess.”

  “Are you a critic? I can read it.”

  “But no one else can. I’ll type it up for you.”

  “That will definitely make you an accessory.”

  “And then we’ll make copies of the notes and drawings. I’ll put the originals in the vault.”

  “That’s a good idea,” he said, wondering why he hadn’t considered the precaution.

  “Of course it is. Now, show me the rest of it.”

  He stood and led her to the helm. Powering up the instrument panel, he demonstrated some of what he had learned from reading the operations manuals. He explained the navigation system and the computer. Showed her the normal, the night-vision, and the infrared modes on the bow and stern cameras.

  “They’re telescopic, too.” McCory punched a code into the keyboard, and the main screen immediately zoomed in on the dock head. Wood splinters became steeples. In the upper right corner of the CRT, a green “10” appeared.

  “That’s a magnification of ten,” he told her.

  At the radar console, after powering up, he went active for one sweep. The ground clutter return along the shore almost whited out the screen, but dozens of blurry blips indicated ships and boats moving on the waterway or sitting at docks in Edgewater and New Smyrna Beach. Vehicles on coastal streets also returned an echo.

  He showed her the communications console.

  “What are these?” she asked, tapping the black boxes that were almost devoid of controls.

  “Those are a problem.”

  “In what way?”

  “I’ve experimented with most of the radio sets, and I’m pretty sure those three are encryption and scrambling devices. They’ll have top secret classifications, and there aren’t any manuals aboard for them. I expect the Navy would like to have them back.”

  “As if they don’t want the whole damn boat back?”

  “I’m going to negotiate that.”

  “Uh-huh. What else?”

  “Well, there are the missiles.”

  “Missiles! Shit.”

  He took her back and showed her the cargo bay.

  “Now, for the first time, I think you’re in real trouble,” Ginger said. She moved around the bay, caressing the missile cases with persimmon-tipped fingers.

  “Think so?”

  She spun toward him and smiled.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “Let’s go shoot one.”

  *

  2235 hours, Sarasota, Florida

  Chambers checked into the Holiday Inn, then moved his rented Ford to the parking place in front of room 118. He got out of the car, stretched his back muscles by rolling his shoulders, then reached back inside for his portfolio and carry-on bag.

  There was a stiff breeze coming in off the Gulf. Down on the beach, the palm trees swayed. It was a warm wind, and it only served to drive the mosquitoes inland.

  He locked the car, unlocked the room, entered, and tossed the bag on the bed. Slapping a mosquito attacking his neck, he closed the door and turned on the lights.

  Standard room, hot.

  He found the air conditioning controls and reset the thermostat. The blower came on and drowned out the sound of traffic on Highway 41.

  Slipping out of the silver-gray suit jacket, Chambers hung it on a hanger. It looked as if he had slept in it for two days. He shrugged out of the shoulder holster harness, wrapped the straps around the holster clamping the nine millimeter Beretta, and put it in the drawer of the nightstand. Then he unpacked the bag, hanging up his spare suit and shirts, taking the Dopp kit into the bath, and finally reaching one of his two bottles of Jack Daniels.

  Carrying the plastic bucket, he went back outside and found the ice machine. Only after he had his drink in hand — two cubes of ice, long slug of whiskey, dash of water — did he pick up the phone and dial the number in Glen Burnie. While the phone clicked at him, he took a long swig from the plastic glass, then sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Justin Malgard.”

  “Chambers.”

  “What did you find,
Rick?”

  “I haven’t found a damn thing yet, Justin. Not much, anyway.”

  Malgard preferred to be called Mr. Malgard, but after his first mission for AMDI, Chambers started calling him by his first name. It irritated the man, but he didn’t make an issue of it. Chambers had had enough of rank distinctions in the damned peacetime army.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Chambers drank from his glass. “First of all, there ain’t a Marina Kathleen in Fort Walton Beach. I found the address, all right, but the name’s been changed, and there’s an old couple runnin’ the place, managin’ it for some conglomerate. The corporation bought the marina from an insurance company, they said, and the managers didn’t know anythin’ about Devlin or Kevin McCory.”

  “Bought it from the insurance company, huh?”

  “Yeah. I nosed around the whole damned bay, talkin’ to a lot of people. After the old man died, I guess there was a hell of a fight between the insurance outfit and the kid. Nobody seemed to know for sure, but it could still be in the courts. The kid, Kevin, just walked. Or sailed, I guess. He took some boat, and one guy said the ownership of the boat is still in dispute.

  “Disappeared?”

  “Not entirely, Justin. I got a lead to Port St. Joe and drove down there, found out he’d worked in a marine shop for a couple months, then took off again. Shit, I’ve been back to Panama City, then down to Cedar Key, Tarpon Springs, and St. Petersburg. The son of a bitch keeps on movin’.”

  “Where are you now, Rick?”

  “Sarasota. I’ve got to check the marinas in the morning. What I’m thinkin’, though, is that we ought to find out whatever insurance company was involved. If they’re still debatin’ it, the company might have an address on him.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “We’re not involving anyone else, Rick. It’s just you and me, like it always has been.”

  “That’s really dumb, Justin. We could be savin’ a lot of time.”

  “Hey, Rick. I pay you fifty grand a year to do what you’re told to do.”

  “Plus bonuses,” Chambers got in. He didn’t want Malgard forgetting the bonuses.

  “Plus bonuses. For fifty thousand, you get to sit on your ass all year. For the bonus, you do what I want you to do. Got that?”