“Incoming!” screamed the radio.
In the rearview screen, he saw both boats veer off as they took evasive action.
Two white trails of exhaust.
WHOOMP!
WHOOMP!
The two detonations came within two seconds of each other.
Both boats disappeared in the middle of white, then yellow-red fireballs.
Allah, Allah, Allah. This we do for you. The infidels will no longer rule our world.
“The submarine is in the middle of the channel,” Heusseini said. “It is two thousand meters from us.”
“Launch,” Badr ordered.
Two missiles ignited.
The first missile went bad for some reason. It spiraled wildly, then crashed into the surface of the water a thousand meters ahead. It exploded under the surface, raising a waterspout that rose hundreds of meters in the air.
Badr spun the wheel to the left to avoid it.
A large cannon on the deck of the submarine began firing at him.
The second missile hit the conning tower of the submarine, exploding in a fireball. Badr could not see the damage from where he was, and the bow camera was not lined up.
More frantic voices chattered on the radio.
Stormy water from the waterspout splashed down, peppering the foredeck like hail, streaking over the windshield.
Small geysers from cannon shells erupted off the right side, in range, but far from their target.
He retarded the throttles as he heard Heusseini and Rahman securing the launcher and the missile bay doors.
At ten or twelve knots, he would disappear from all of their sensing devices.
And slip out to the sea, dancing on their graves.
“Allah Akbar,” Kadar said.
*
0830 hours, Glen Burnie
Justin Malgard got the news on the early morning telecast. He kept the remote control handy, switching between networks, looking for the best coverage.
One submarine had been sunk. Two others had suffered heavy damage. Two patrol boats had been lost in the waterway, and they were still looking for crew members. Seven hours after the attack, they were reporting sixteen dead, twenty-one wounded, and seven missing in action.
Missing in action. At a base within the United States. Unthinkable.
And yet…
And yet, he thought about the substantially changed position he was in. His boat was proving invincible. The Navy should double the order. Congress would have only to refer to the newspapers for support of the appropriation.
He was nervous all through breakfast, trying to settle on a course of action. Trish noticed his agitation but did not say anything. Patty and Jason sniped away at each other with sarcastic comments as though there were no earthquakes, or even tremors, in their world.
As usual, Trish was running late. She left the dishes and rushed around the house, looking for the precisely right clothes to take Patty to her piano lesson and Jason to baseball practice.
As soon as Trish’s Mercedes had backed out of the drive, Malgard went to the den and started making phone calls. The admirals were too busy to talk to him. Commander Rosse at procurement was not in his office.
Finally, he was given a phone number for the commander he had met on Sunday morning, the one he did not like. Monahan was at Kings Bay.
“Yes, Mr. Malgard. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to see if there was some way in which I could help.” Being helpful now might lead to larger contracts later, and God knew he needed some large contracts.
“I don’t know that there’s any way in which you can help,” Monahan said. “The Navy’s taking care of it.”
“And not very well, from what I see on the news. Look, I built the damn boats. I know what they can do.”
“As does Admiral Stein. We have the Ship R&D people available.”
Malgard restrained his temper. “Still, something might have slipped through the cracks. Hell, man, I want this stopped as much as you do.”
“Very well, Mr. Malgard. Why don’t you fly down to Norfolk? Report to Rear Admiral Matthew Andrews.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And while I’ve got you on the line, Mr. Malgard, I do have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“I had a discussion with one of our ship captains, a man named Norman. He had an interesting story. Have you ever heard the name Devlin McCory?”
Shit!
“No, I haven’t. Is it important?”
“Perhaps not. Thank you, Mr. Malgard.”
Malgard missed the cradle when he slapped the phone down. He had his eyes closed.
*
0925 hours, Kings Bay Submarine Support Base
“I’m just checking in, Admiral,” Monahan said into the phone.
“What’s the picture down there, Jim?” Admiral Bingham Clay asked.
“We’ve recovered all the bodies, sir. Fatalities stand at twenty-four now.”
“Goddamn.”
“You knew Captain Torrey, I think.”
“Oh, Christ! He had the Pogy.”
“Yes, sir. He was killed aboard her when the first missile hit.”
Clay sighed deeply. “I’ll call Janice myself. Damage assessment?”
“The Pogy sank in position at her dock, but she’s salvageable, and the reactor’s secure. Sargo and Lipscomb are both heavily damaged. The first estimate suggests three to four months for repairs.”
“This is a real son of a bitch, Jim. Anything else?”
“Not here. I talked to Malgard, and he thinks he can help us out.”
“Right.”
“I sicced him on Admiral Andrews.”
“Okay. I’ll warn Matt. Speaking of warnings, Jim, the CNO and the SecDef went to the president. All East Coast installations are now on full alert, including Air Force and Army.”
“I hope that helps,” Monahan said.
“So do I.”
“One other thing, Admiral. Do you know Captain Norman on the Prebble?”
“Barry? Sure do. A fine officer, but he doesn’t have the temperament for flag rank. I think I promised him a battlewagon before he retires. In fact, Jim, we’ve moved the Prebble down your way, because she’s got some equipment that might help out. What about Norman?”
“He called me. It’s a long story, but way back when, he knew a CPO named McCory, helped him out in some crisis, and they’ve corresponded over the years. McCory claimed to have designed a stealth boat.”
“Is that right? What does Barry Norman want us to do about it?”
“Well, McCory is dead, but Captain Norman thought maybe the son would know something that could be beneficial.”
“Did you reach McCory? The son?”
“His name is Kevin. But no, the last address Norman had is a bummer. I wanted to know if you thought it was worth pursuing.”
“If Barry Norman says it’s worth a shot,” Clay told him, “it probably is. And let’s not fuck around finding him. Put the FBI on it. Better yet, I’ll call the Bureau.”
“That’ll probably get faster action, Admiral.”
“And you get back up here, Jim. I have a feeling I’m going to need you.”
“Uh, Admiral, would you mind if I stayed here a while?”
“What for?”
“I’ve got a feeling of my own.”
“Share it.”
“Badr’s moving south.”
“He strikes twice, and you’re reading his mind?” Clay asked.
“It’s just a gut reaction, I know.”
“Stay there. I’ll put out a notice to the South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida installations.”
*
0605 hours 28Aug72, Fort Walton Beach, Florida
Another few days, the fourteenth of September, and it would be the nineteenth anniversary of the marina. The time went by so damn fast.
Marina Kathleen was located near the eastern end of Santa Rosa Island, on a stubby promontory facing C
hoctawhatchee Bay, and was not a large enterprise. McCory had two hundred slips, over half of them occupied by permanent live-aboard residents. The place was nearly fifty years old now and was not the most modem facility in the area. It had been thirty years old when he bought it, using Kathleen’s $2000 insurance policy payment, and most of the $5000 settlement he had wheedled and threatened out of the estate of the drunk who had killed her for the down payment.
It had been a struggle all the way, but the marina was clean, the paint of the buildings and docks kept fresh. The slip rentals met the debt service, and most of McCory’s livelihood came from the maintenance end. He kept five full-time employees off the Fort Walton Beach unemployment rolls, and the three maintenance buildings were usually humming with engine overhauls and hull rebuilding. Generally, he had a runabout, ski boat, or small cruiser of his own design under construction, using finely fitted exotic woods in the earlier years, then more recently, fiberglass. He had a local reputation as a craftsman of the first order, and he loved the work. But more important, the marina kept him and Kevin together. When he was not in school, Kevin could be found close on his father’s heels.
Kathy’s folks had offered to take care of Kevin after she died, but McCory would have none of it. He took a hardship discharge from the Navy, his application greased along the way by his commander, Lieutenant (j.g.) Barry Norman. Though he loved the Navy, he loved his son more, and he was not going to take a chance on losing him.
Until now.
The two of them sat at the kitchen table in the apartment above the marina office, the only home Kevin had ever consciously known. It was small — two bedrooms and a living room — but it was ship-shape. Everything in place, from the outdated, fifties, overstuffed couch upholstered in chartreuse to the walnut secretary that had been Kathy’s grandmother’s. There were six framed pictures of Kathleen Moran McCory grouped on the wall in McCory’s bedroom, two in the living room, and one above the banquette in the kitchen. There were a dozen similar pictures of Devlin and Kevin McCory, usually with a boat or a fish in the background. Kevin’s high school swimming awards were hung over the secretary.
Through the window overlooking the main dock, McCory saw the Childress kid fueling Dag Wither’s Trojan sportfisherman. He checked his watch. It was five minutes after six.
Kevin reached for the counter behind him, grabbed the coffeepot, and refilled both of their mugs.
McCory found the manila envelope on the leatherette bench beside him and shoved it across the table.
“What’s this, Pop?” Kevin frowned.
Sometimes, it was like looking in the mirror. His own eyes looking back at him.
“For you.” He tried not to sound as gruff as he knew he frequently sounded.
“Ah, hell.” Kevin pulled the flap and dumped the contents of the envelope on the table.
Counted the cash. “Three hundred dollars, Pop? You can’t afford that.”
“Sure I can. Gainesville’s goin’ to be expensive. You’ll need it. Next semester, I’ll come up with a little more.”
“I’ve saved some of my own.”
“Yeah, I know. And the Navy’s payin’ part of it. But I want you to enjoy it a little, too, Kev. Don’t work your ass off all the time.”
“And these?” Kevin picked up the key chain and twirled the keys.
“That’s the sixty-six Chevy. Billy sanded the signs off the doors and repainted them.”
“Damn it, Pop. That’s your newest truck.”
McCory had never owned a new vehicle and had not owned a passenger car since the ’47 Ford sedan, which had been totaled when Kathy was killed.
“You need some wheels.”
“I’ve got a bus ticket.”
“Cash it in.”
They went down the outside stairs together, each of them carrying one of Kevin’s beat-up suitcases, and crossed the parking lot to where the marina vehicles were parked. Three pickups, two forklifts, and three small tractors. The fresh blue paint on the doors of the ’66 pickup did not quite match the oxidized paint of the rest of the truck.
McCory opened the passenger door, and they put the suitcases inside.
“Don’t mind tellin’ you, Kev, I ain’t been lookin’ forward to this day.”
“Me either, Pop.”
“Bullshit. Every kid’s got to get out and kick the world in the ass a little. Let the SOBs know you’re alive and you’re not takin’ their crap.”
They walked around to the other side, and Kevin got in behind the wheel.
“Do me proud, son.”
*
2145 hours, Edgewater
McCory knew it was way too early in the night to be moving the SeaGhost, but he shoved the dry dock door upward, then went back and boarded the boat. Closing the hatch, he went forward, flipped switches to warm up the radar and computers, then settled behind the helm.
The rotary engines started right away. He shifted to reverse and backed slowly out of the building. After circling back to the south, he shifted to forward, then advanced the throttles.
The SeaGhost advanced silently across the waterway. A number of boats were moving around to the north, apparently putting into Edgewater and New Smyrna. McCory didn’t hurry it. He drifted along at ten knots while the engine temperatures climbed to normal operating levels.
Once he was out of the usual traffic lanes, he turned north and activated the video cameras for night vision, fore and aft. He experimented with his speed, seeing how fast he could go before the wake tattled on him. Fifteen or sixteen knots seemed to be the maximum, and he held that speed.
Swerving the bow toward New Smyrna, he punched the third keypad under the monitor, switching it to the infrared tracking function. What he got was a kaleidoscopic mishmash of reds, oranges, yellows, greens, and blues. The red seemed to indicate the hot spots of exhausts and lights, both marine and automotive. He didn’t think the infrared was of much use, aimed at a beach.
He put the bow back on a northerly course until he reached Ponce de Leon Inlet, then turned eastward. Three miles offshore, he opened the throttles to the forward stops.
The SeaGhost responded immediately, leaping forward, the momentum holding him securely in his wrap-around seat. Within two minutes, he was making sixty-two knots. That was seventy-one miles per hour. On the highway, Florida State Trooper Mickey Myers would have pulled him over.
Myers kept a nineteen-foot Baja cuddy cabin at Marina Kathleen and had stopped McCory in his pickup a couple of times, offering mild warnings.
McCory tried some maneuvers. Sharp left and right turns, getting a feel for what abuse the SeaGhost would accept at various speeds.
She was exhilarating. There was a light chop to the seas, maybe two-foot troughs, and she skipped across the wave tops with ballerinalike ease. The turns at high speed were a little sloppy, but under fifty knots, she was as agile as Devlin might have dreamed.
She could stop on a dollar, if not a dime. To the right of the throttle handles were two levers that, when depressed, dropped curved paddles over the jet exhaust, deflecting the water stream forward. McCory tried using them at various speeds.
He devoted two hours to learning her characteristics, thinking occasionally that, if he had done the same with some of the women he had known, he’d probably be married, offspring underfoot, and the TV in permanent on-mode.
Just after one in the morning, some sixty miles off the coast, McCory set the automatic pilot and switched his attention to the sonar, radar, and radio sets. He spent two hours familiarizing himself further with the electronics.
The radio messages he listened to were a little baffling. CINCLANT and other operations centers seemed to be using code words. Some of the frequencies, and many of the scrambler modes, had been changed. Perhaps they had figured out that the terrorist boat had the ability to listen in on their scrambled conversations.
He practiced setting up the scanner, which allowed the monitoring of a dozen channels in all of the frequency bands.
>
There was a Task Force 22 in the area, somewhere to the north of him. By the number, he knew it was a task force of the Second Fleet. Normally, it would probably have operated in the Caribbean. He also figured out the TF22 was part of Safari Bravo. There was a Safari Alpha, also, but he didn’t determine what class of ships were included in the designation.
Safari Echo seemed to be a single ship. He heard coordinates and, after checking them on his chart, decided Safari Echo was fifty miles offshore from Kings Bay. Safari, McCory deduced, was the overall code for the search effort.
He resisted the impulse to go on the air and identify himself as Safari Zebra.
Last of the alphabet.
The last chance.
McCory had decided, independently of Ted and Ginger, that he and the SeaGhost had a better chance than anyone else of finding another SeaGhost.
If he wasn’t going to give her back to the Navy, he might as well use her. Devlin would have.
Do me proud, son.
So far, Kevin McCory wasn’t very proud of what he’d done. Or if he had been, he’d changed his mind.
What he could do, though, was monitor the Navy’s frequencies and be ready to step in. He was damn sure he could stop Ibrahim Badr.
If he could just handle all of the control stations by himself.
Ginger had said she’d help him, but there was no way in hell that he was going to further involve her.
All he had to do was learn the boat and her systems as well as he could, provision her, and be ready if he saw his chance.
Being ready meant learning to use the cannon and having the missiles prepared for launch.
McCory went aft to the cargo bay to load the launcher.
Chapter 11
0840 hours, C1NCLANT
“Mr. Malgard, Admiral Bingham Clay,” Matthew Andrews said, introducing them for the first time.
Malgard leaned forward slightly to shake the admiral’s hand and offered his best smile. Despite the man’s miniature stature, his hand was hard as steel, and his grip was firm. “Happy to meet you, Admiral.”
“Mr. Malgard.” Clay’s voice was neutral.
Why was it that every Navy man he met lately treated him like a distant, uninvited cousin? Damn it, he was a patriot and a defense contractor who had given them a state of the art weapons system. He held contracts worth millions. He was getting tired of the sneers.
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