“Wilco.”
Ticking.
Ticking.
“Hey, Night Light! He’s launched two.”
McCory could see the three white dots that were his own missiles. They were curving down toward the sea far ahead.
But two growing black dots with white halos were headed his way.
“Shut her down, Jim. They’ll be infrared-targeting.”
Monahan pulled the throttles back and turned to port.
“Night Light, Deuce. I’ve lost both of you.”
All five missiles missed their targets. The two from Badr’s boat shrieked past on their right.
Monahan returned to his course and ran the throttles up.
“Night Light, Deuce. Two bits this sucker’s headed for home again.”
“You think east, Deuce?” Monahan asked.
“Damn betcha.”
“Good as any direction,” Monahan told the helicopter pilot
“He’s got to hold it under fifteen knots to avoid wake and a heat signature,” McCory said.
“We’ll close fast. What then?”
“I’m not going to have time to load a missile.”
“You’re a spendthrift with missiles, you know that, Kevin?”
“Lack of practice. Under your right thumb? On the wheel?”
“I’ve got it.”
“That’s your cannon. I’ll activate it.”
McCory leaned over and pressed the two pads on the helm panel that enabled the gun. He switched both Monahan’s and his own screen to night-vision video. A targeting circle with distance elevation markings appeared in the center of the screen.
“Under your left thumb is a rocker switch, Jim. It increases or decreases the target range, raising or lowering the cannon aim.”
“Is it accurate?”
“Damned if I know. I’ve never tried it. I’ll bet you a million bucks it’s skittish as hell at this speed and in these seas.”
“You got a million bucks?”
“No. So I don’t mind losing it.”
“Heads up!” Deuce One shouted.
Less than a mile away, one, then another missile blossomed. The black circles encased in a white border-exhaust flare surrounding the nose cone from McCory’s view — grew rapidly. They never exceeded thirty feet off the sea.
Monahan threw the helm over so quickly that the SeaGhost almost went over. The starboard side rose to a fifty-degree angle, throwing McCory out of his seat.
The boat banged back down, took a wave over the bow that drenched the windshield, then popped back up. McCory came to rest on the deck against the banquette.
Monahan hung onto the wheel, then reached forward to kill the engines.
The SeaGhost had not come to rest when the first missile plowed into the sea off the port side and detonated. The erupting charge of water heaved the boat clear of the sea, canting her over to the right. When she slapped into the surface again, the impact threw Monahan against the wheel, then into the starboard window.
The second missile went somewhere else.
The SeaGhost came to rest, wallowing in the troughs.
Monahan sagged and slipped to the deck.
Shaking his head to clear it — his ears were ringing from the concussion — McCory struggled to his feet and crossed the deck.
Monahan was out cold. He pulled him out from under the helm, slipped into the seat, and started the engines.
He had a vague idea of where the other boat was.
“Night Light, Deuce Two. You all right?”
He didn’t answer. Shoved the throttles in.
The boat skittered up the front of a swell, canted over the top of the wave, picked up speed.
Rolled the wheel back to the left, then straightened it.
Wondered if the SeaGhost’s skin had ruptured anywhere.
Hang on Devlin. You and me, we’ll get this son of a bitch.
At forty knots, the fuzzy image appeared on the screen. Two seconds later, he could tell it was the other SeaGhost. She was stern on to him. She was tinted green by the enhancement of the night vision. Two hundred yards.
He retarded the throttles.
Badr must have seen him in his rearview screen. The stealth boat leaped ahead as Badr ran up power.
McCory rammed the throttles forward again. The SeaGhost lurched, slid into a wave, came up on plane. She danced on the wave tops.
McCory pressed the firing stud with his right thumb. With his left thumb, he slowly brought up the arc of the gun.
The thunder of the cannon was deafening within the fiberglass boat. Ahead he saw shells ripping into the sea, creating miniature white fountains, advancing on the other boat, but erratically, due to the rocking of the SeaGhost.
Too short.
Thumb the rocker switch.
Too far to the left.
He brought the wheel slowly right.
Dance.
Dance.
Into the transom. That’s one.
A second shell slammed home.
A brilliant silver-white mushroom.
Chapter 16
1100 hours, Ponce de Leon Inlet
On the fifteenth of July, Ricky Daimler took the call on the ship to shore and talked to his dad for a few minutes, then said, “Mac, Dad wants to talk to you.”
McCory went back and took the chair at the desk. He picked up the phone. “Yes, Counselor?”
“It figures that you’d be going off fishing while I’m doing the work.”
“Actual work? You can report progress?”
“Number one. The Navy’s bringing court-martial charges against Commander Roosevelt Rosse. They think they can prove he slipped Devlin’s drawings to Malgard.”
“Good on number one. But do you really think that was your work?”
“My suggestion, buddy. Supported by Norman and Monahan, of course. And by the way, both of them are up for decorations. I think Monahan’s embarrassed by it all. How did you swing him your way?”
“Irish ancestry. Did you have a number two?”
“Number two, the Navy’s bringing fraud and conspiracy charges against Malgard, and I’m pretty certain the D.A. down your way is going to get an indictment against him for attempted murder.”
“Attempted?”
“Against you. Even though Chambers was on Malgard’s payroll at the time of Devlin’s death, they don’t have enough evidence to swing a jury.”
“Shit.”
“We do what we can, Mac. Here’s the best part. I just got back from a meeting with the AMDI board of directors and its five attorneys, four of whom could use a good firing. The company is shy of cash, but they’ll settle by naming Devlin as the designer of the SeaGhost and giving you thirty percent of the company’s shares. That’s enough to get you the presidency.”
“I don’t want to be the president. You be the president.”
“I don’t have an interest.”
“I’ll give you five percent of the shares.”
“My interest is rising.”
“Better, you work it so I get to be chairman, with no real duties, and you get to be vice chairman of the board. We’ll hire a president. And fire the extra lawyers.”
“For five percent?”
“Done.”
“Now,” Daimler said. “About my fee.”
“I sent you a hundred bucks.”
“That’s right. Okay, we’re straight, except for my boat.”
“I’ll give you Starshine. She’s worth a couple hundred thou. You come out ahead.”
“It doesn’t go as fast as my Scarab did.”
“You’re getting older. Slow down.”
“Aw, hell. All right.”
“And there’s only fifty grand owing on it.”
“Jesus!”
“You’re still ahead of the game,” McCory said, and hung up.
In the panel ahead of him, there were a lot of gaping holes where the Navy had retrieved their special radios and black boxes. He would have to r
earrange what was left.
In the shipyards at Norfolk, they had also relieved the SeaGhost of its armament and ordnance, though they had left him the radar, sonar, and navigation computer. McCory had already sketched out the changes he would make to the interior.
He spun around in his chair and looked forward. Ricky was at the helm, driving hell-bent for the approximate location of the Bahamas.
Ginger was at the banquette table, leaning against the outer bulkhead, her nice knees pulled up on the bench seat. She was wearing cutoffs and a Miami Dolphins’ T-shirt. When she saw him looking at her, she gave him the finger.
But she smiled, too. She was coming around. He didn’t think her anger at being left behind was heartfelt.
Behind the platinum aura of her hair, the blue sea stretched into infinity, serene.
Wish you could be here, Devlin.
It’s all right, son. It’s all right, now.
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