He ripped the pertinent pages from the telephone book, folded them, and stuffed them in the pocket of his beige suit jacket. It was pretty wrinkled, he decided. He was going to have to stop somewhere along the way and get both of his suits pressed.
He figured he could reach Malgard in his Washington office that time of the afternoon, so he used his credit card number and dialed the AMDI office number. Malgard didn’t often go out to his manufacturing plant. Chambers figured him for being more interested in being a wheel around Washington than in building boats for the Navy.
“Advanced Marine Development.”
“Cheryl, this is Rick Chambers. The boss around?”
“Hold on a moment, Rick.”
It took nearly four minutes for Malgard to drop whatever he was doing and pick up the phone.
“Where are you at, Rick?”
“Miami.”
“Christ! You haven’t found him, yet?”
“Hey, I just got here. I’ve got maybe a hundred marinas to check out. You sure McCory stole your boats?”
“Not on this phone, damn it! Yes, I’m sure.”
Chambers sighed and patted the yellow pages in his pocket. “Okay, Justin. I’ll get on it.”
“Get on it fast, damn it! He’s had damn near six days now.”
“Maybe he sunk them?”
“He didn’t sink them. He’s got them somewhere, and he’s going to want big bucks for them. I’m not paying.”
“Yeah, okay. You can pay me instead.”
Chambers hung up the phone and turned around to stare at Biscayne Bay. Jesus, there were a lot of boats.
But what he needed was to find a young lady.
He found her three hours later, in the twelfth marina, up near the northern end of the bay. Her name was Elaine, and she was relaxing in the cockpit of a small sloop named Lainie’s Choice. She was in her mid-thirties, tanned the color of cashews, and dressed in pink shorts and a man’s white shirt. Chambers didn’t think there was anything under the shorts and shirt but Elaine.
He leaned on the railing of the dock and looked down at her. A big cruiser moving out of the marina created ripples that rocked the small sailboat.
She looked up at him, frowned.
“You Elaine?” he asked.
“Who’re you?”
“Name’s Davis. Harold Davis.” He pointed his thumb toward the shore end of the dock. “The manager back there said you might know a man named McCory.”
There. That little shift in the eyes, thinking back on pleasurable thoughts.
“Why you looking for this McCory?”
“I’m with Marathon Equitable Insurance. We’ve been trying to find Kevin McCory so we can pay him a settlement.”
“What kind of settlement?”
“It has to do with his father. Can’t say much more than that.”
“I haven’t seen him in almost two years,” she said, her blue eyes remembering every lost day. She used the back of her hand to flip the long, bleached blonde hair away from the side of her face,
“You have any idea where he went?”
“Not really. He talked about Tampa Bay, once.”
Chambers had already been there. “Anywhere else?”
“Fort Lauderdale, maybe.”
“Has he still got that cruiser? The old one?”
“It’s a motor yacht. Custom-built. The Moran. Yes, he still had it when he was here.”
That explained a couple of big gaps in McCory’s itinerary. He’d changed the name of the boat.
“Well, thanks, Elaine.”
“Sure. I hope you find him.”
“Oh, I will.”
*
1721 hours, Chevy Chase
Ted Daimler felt sick, but it was not the flu.
It was the carnage he had viewed on television.
All of the networks had abandoned their scheduled programming, which was not much of a loss, and gone to North Carolina, first with affiliates, then with their own reporters as they arrived on the scene. The twisted wreckage of armored personnel carriers and trucks was a favorite scene. Gaping holes in structures and burned barracks came in second. Subreporters were stationed at the doorways to hospitals in Camp Lejeune, Jacksonville, Wilmington, and Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, where a number of bad burn cases had been flown.
The government had been noncommittal for most of the day, but finally in the early afternoon, the Navy conceded that the stolen stealth boat was likely behind the attack. Ibrahim Badr was profiled.
The fatality count stood at sixty-one. There were 194 wounded.
Daimler had gone to the office in the morning but was back home by ten o’clock. He called McCory a dozen times but only left a message with Marge Hepburn.
Finally, just as Reba started talking about a dinner he did not feel like eating, McCory called back.
“Worst possible scenario, Ted.”
“Do you really think so?” Daimler asked. The sarcasm could not be more evident.
“Shit, I’m aching, man.”
“Oh, hell, I know you are.” Daimler found himself pushed into his counseling role. For most of the day, his world had been self-centered, knowing that he had a part, however small, in the whole drama. “We have to keep in mind, Mac, that this isn’t us. It’s not our script.”
“I appreciate your use of ‘our,’ Ted, but it’s me. I started this thing.”
“Not necessarily. If we hadn’t knocked on the door of Pier Nine first, this Badr asshole would have two boats.”
“Maybe.”
“What surprises the hell out of me,” Daimler said, “is that the SOB hung around. I thought he’d be knocking off supertankers in the Persian Gulf by now.”
“Which offends your Republican sense of justice.”
“Sure, but losing oil is better than losing Marines. But, Mac, what I called about. I think it’s time I approached the Navy. We’re not going to get anywhere with this Malgard. Let’s lay the whole thing out — the drawings and your notes, and give them the boat back.”
“There’s just one thing, Ted.”
“There would be.”
“I’ve decided to keep the boat.”
Daimler groaned. McCory did things like that. Always the unexpected. When he was younger, Daimler had been able to take it.
*
2020 hours, Edgewater
McCory wore his gray slacks and a blue blazer. He wore a white dress shirt and a conservatively striped blue tie. Except for his single suit, it was the best combination in his wardrobe.
Ginger Adams was a knockout in a white sheath that was just a little taut in the right places. She had her hair up in a carefully sculptured style that, counting her three-inch heels, made her over six feet tall. He figured she could stop traffic better than any cop.
It was a festive occasion, the annual summer dinner party for the bank’s employees. McCory didn’t feel very festive, and he knew that Ginger didn’t either. Still, she kept a bright smile in place, and she appeared very comfortable in the company of her tellers and the members of her board of directors. She was good at small talk.
McCory had never been invited into her banking family before, so this was kind of a formalization of their relationship, he supposed. If it hadn’t been planned for three weeks, he might have begged off.
The lights in the ballroom of the Adler Hotel had been dimmed to a level that competed with the flickering candles on the tables. A multi-faceted, mirrored ball rotated over the dance floor, like something out of the forties, and the raised bandstand was outlined with white Christmas tree lights. It felt like Tommy Dorsey or Guy Lombardo.
The dinner came off well, with the president and vice presidents making gratefully short speeches, though McCory could have listened to Ginger for a while longer. They passed out awards to outstanding employees. They served roast beef contributed by a very lean steer. Afterward, a trio of guitar, bass, and piano, fronted by a college-girl singer, played music that had been mostly
recorded before the band members were born. They were heavy on Eddy Arnold’s stuff, and McCory guessed that Ginger had not been on the selection committee.
She came back to their table from a gab session and said, “Dance with me.”
“That didn’t sound like a question.”
“It wasn’t.’
“I’m a terrible dancer.”
“I’ll judge that.”
After he got into the rhythm of “Turn the World Around,” feeling her close to him, her fingers keeping time against the back of his neck, he figured he wasn’t too bad.
She agreed. “You’re only half-terrible.”
“That’s what all my friends say.” He pulled his head back to look into her eyes. There were golden sparkles among the hazel. “I’m afraid I’ll spoil your night.”
She pulled his head back and rested her forehead against his cheek. “No, you won’t. I understand. The Marines.”
“I’d like to find the son of a bitch.”
“Maybe you will,” she said. “Maybe I’ll help you find him.”
*
2310 hours, Miami
Ibn el-Ziam deplaned and walked through Miami International’s teeming terminal into a hot, moist night. From a dispenser, he bought a copy of The Miami Herald. The headlines, and practically the whole front page, were devoted to the terrorist attack on Camp Lejeune. It was all he could do not to throw his arms up and shout, “Rejoice!”
He looked at the first taxi in the line, rethought his needs, and went back inside to rent a car. The lady told him he would like a Pontiac.
He did not like it. Americans were too soft, surrounded themselves with unnecessary luxuries. He had not liked the Mercury he had had to rent in Washington, either. Sitting in a restaurant or hanging around the alley near the office building on New Hampshire Avenue drew too much attention to himself, so he had rented the car and parked it successively in different spots around the block, staying within range of the transmitter attached to the Advanced Marine Development telephone.
The company had a large number of telephone lines coming into it, and el-Ziam had selected the first one. He had almost gone back into the building several times in order to change the tap to another line, because the calls made to the first number were so infrequent.
But finally, in midaftemoon of the second day, his patience had been rewarded. He had two names. Rick Chambers and McCory. He did not know what either of them looked like, but he did know that Chambers was searching for McCory among the marinas of Miami. The Justin on the telephone in Washington seemed certain that McCory was responsible for taking the boat. Of interest to Ibrahim Badr, too, would be the fact that this Justin assumed that McCory had taken both boats.
As he pulled into one of the multiple lanes of the Airport Expressway, el-Ziam wondered if the man named Chambers had been exaggerating when he said that he had a hundred marinas to search.
Surely, he must have been.
But then, el-Ziam had never been in Miami before. Even if it were true, it should not take him long to locate someone who had seen Chambers. If the man had asked many questions, he had probably left a broad trail behind him.
A trail that would lead el-Ziam directly to McCory.
Ala bab Allah. Whatever will be, will be; let us leave it to Allah.
Chapter 10
0135 hours, Intracoastal Waterway, Southern Georgia
Ibrahim Badr was enjoying himself immensely. Allah was on the side of the righteous. The news reports on the radio of the consternation in the American military were gratifying. The Marine Commandant had demanded, in front of some reporter, the right to invade the Middle East and had subsequently been reprimanded by the Secretary of Defense.
The success of yesterday’s raid on the Marine base was with them all. Heusseini had slept all day, sweating in the heat of the day and the cargo tank, in one of the bunks. Amin Kadar was a little more relaxed, his eyes focused upon this world for a change. Ahmed Rahman had prepared himself — shaving, trimming his full mustache, cleaning his glasses — as if he were to meet a beautiful woman.
The cabin was almost totally dark, but Badr could feel the changes vibrating in the air. It was optimism. It was invincibility.
“They will expect us,” Omar Heusseini said.
“Yes,” Badr replied over the headset. “I expect the American president has ordered his bases to the highest state of alert.”
Through the windshield, he could see that the submarine base was lit with every available light. It was six kilometers away to the south. Badr had brought the Sea Spectre into the Intracoastal Waterway near the head of Cumberland Island and threaded it silently southward down the waterway.
Small boats crisscrossed the nighttime bay, their probing searchlights rotating about, skipping across the surface of the water.
The Sea Spectre was making ten knots, riding smoothly on waveless water.
“Launcher deployed,” Rahman said.
“I have too many targets,” Kadar said from his sonar position. “At least six small boats. I think a submarine is moving south.”
“On the surface?” Badr asked.
“I cannot tell. Perhaps. Probably.”
“Omar?”
“I may go active?”
“In one minute. Amin, you will go to the back now and assist Ahmed.”
They had practiced the new procedure several times that afternoon, using Kadar as an assistant to Rahman in reloading the launcher.
As Kadar left his seat at the sonar, Badr said to Heusseini, “You may go active.”
Badr switched in the radio. Kadar had used the manuals to locate the frequencies, as well as the scrambler and encryption modes, for several channels utilized by the Kings Bay Submarine Base operations center. Kadar programmed the radios to scan all of the channels. There had been very little activity on the radio. Occasionally, some of the small boats patrolling the outreaches of the submarine pens had reported in.
The frequency was quiet then, until Heusseini let the radar make three full sweeps.
“I see only two submarines in the docks,” Heusseini said.
“Proceed,” Badr told him.
“Boxer!” burst over the radio. “Mickey Three. I’ve got a hot radar in the north.”
“Pinpoint it, Three.”
“It’s gone now.”
“Mickey Three and Six, Boxer. Investigate radar radiation source.”
Badr eased the throttles in, picking up speed. “Is the missile bay clear?” he asked.
“Clear,” Rahman reported.
“You may fire when you are ready, Omar.”
With targets as clearly defined and as defenseless as submarines on the surface, Badr had elected to use the radar-targeting mode of the missiles.
He glanced at the green-tinged video image in the screen, set for a magnification of five. Two small patrol boats were rising to the plane, headed toward him.
Heusseini went active on the radar again, manipulating his radar-targeting circle with the controls on the panel. Badr watched his thumb as it pressed the arming, then the launch keypads.
The computer decided.
A half-second.
Several voices screamed on the radio. “Active! He’s gone active!”
The missile launched with a bright scream of fire. A second later, the second missile ignited.
“Incoming! We’ve got incoming missiles. Two of them!”
Badr slammed the throttles forward, and the SeaGhost lifted out of the water, racing toward the southeast as Badr shut down the radar.
Two kilometers away, he pulled the throttles back. He had lost the camera view of the patrol boats, but through the side window, he saw their running lights streaking toward where they had been. Aboard one of them, an impatient finger triggered a stream of green machine-gun tracers, all useless.
He could not hear it.
The first two missiles had detonated. At that distance from the base, Badr could not tell what they had hit, but it was i
n the port area.
Heusseini went active again. Within four seconds, two more missiles launched, and Badr again moved the throttles forward. He turned the wheel slightly to the right and headed directly south, bypassing the base by several kilometers.
“Retracting launcher,” Heusseini said quietly.
The patrol boats had swung in their direction. They were now within three kilometers.
Two more of the patrol boats raced toward them from the port.
Missiles three and four found their targets. Bright flashes of yellow-red fire erupted in the night.
He was making fifty knots. The voices on the radio were panicky, overlapping one another. The radio scanner jumped from channel to channel. Someone was asking for damage assessments. Someone else confirmed for Badr that both docked submarines had been hit. Watertight doors were closing off compartments. One of the submarines was taking water.
“Boxer, this is Memphis.”
“Go ahead, Memphis.”
“We’ve got him on sonar. Making five-two knots, bearing one-seven-seven. Coming directly at us, five thousand yards.”
“Take him out, Memphis.”
“I have permission to free weapons?” the man on the submarine asked.
“Go. I’ll take responsibility.”
The conversation had to be between the base and the submarine underway for the Atlantic, now ahead of the Sea Spectre.
In the rearview screen, Badr saw that two of the patrol boats had lined up directly behind the Sea Spectre. They may have seen the wake the stealth boat was creating, but he did not think they could catch him. Machine-gun muzzles on the foredecks winked whitely.
“Reloaded,” Rahman called on the intercom.
“Raising launcher,” Heusseini said. “I am going to the active mode.”
“Aim first for the pursuit boats,” Badr said.
Heusseini worked his controls, pressed the launch key once, then a second time.
The darkness ahead was erased twice as first one missile, then the second, launched toward the rear.
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