"Everything we shot has already been broadcast," Doherty said, trying to keep his voice patient and reasonable. "Including the terrorists' demands. The people already know al-Qaeda was trying to blackmail us. What else could we release that they haven't already seen?"
"I am not going to comment on that, Mr. Doherty. But I will ask you for your cooperation. So far as the government of the United States is concerned, this story is over."
Doherty looked around the mall concourse. It was becoming crowded as more and more passengers and crew members were released by the government officials who'd been questioning them. "Come on, Jim," he said. "We won't get anywhere here."
"But…"
"Come on."
Sandra Ames was waiting for them at a cafe table in front of the shipboard Starbucks. She still looked pale and withdrawn, and had said little since they'd witnessed the brutal execution of Arnold Bernstein. "No luck?" she asked, looking up from her espresso.
"It's a cover-up," Doherty said. "I can smell it."
"A cover-up of what?" Petrovich wanted to know. "And how? They can't silence all of these people on board. And everyone knows the ship was hijacked."
"Yeah," Doherty added. "And there was Khalid's ultimatum. We broadcast it!"
"Fuckin'-A!" Petrovich was becoming more wound up by the moment. Without a camera on his shoulder, he could become quite animated at times. "Everyone knows about the plutonium!"
"I think they don't want Americans to know just how close we came to losing New York City," Doherty said. "It took us, what? Another nine or ten hours to reach port after the commandos took down the ship this morning? I don't know what that translates to in miles, but we had to be pretty damned close to Massachusetts and Connecticut to be able to make it the rest of the way here that quick. That's the story, I think."
"I wish we'd been able to uplink the footage we got this morning," Petrovich said. "You know they're not going to release those shots of the hostage-rescue people coming in. Shit, you'd think they'd want people to see that stuff!"
"Let them have their damned secrets," Sandra Ames said, sagging back in her chair. "I just want to go home."
Doherty looked at her in surprise. "You don't want to follow up the story?"
"I don't want to follow up any story. I'm going home. To Elk Grove, Illinois. And I don't ever want to set foot on a boat again in my life."
"It's a ship, Sandra," Doherty said. He started to say something more, something to make her change her mind… and then changed his own. Her experience on the Atlantis Queen's forward deck seemed to have sucked the life out of her. Hell, they taught you in journalism school that you were supposed to be objective as a reporter. Unfortunately, there were things, experiences, about which it was impossible to remain objective.
"I took a job with CNE to interview stars and celebrities," Ames added. "To gossip about which airhead was dating which fool in Hollywood, whose movies were getting rave reviews, and whose career or marriage was on the rocks! Not to… not to…" She couldn't continue.
"I hear you, Sandy," Doherty said.
No matter. There were plenty of talking heads in the biz who could tell the story on-camera.
And he thought he knew where to go to start digging. If the authorities were clamping down on the story on this side of the pond, there was always the British. When he'd checked the Internet news services that morning, they'd been full of the story of how the British SAS had taken down the pirated cruise ship and the plutonium transport. An interview with someone at Royal Sky Line might be productive… especially if he could talk to members of the crew.
Khalid's ultimatum had threatened to blow up the two ships, no more. But what if that madman had planned on blowing them up right here, on the Hudson River next to Manhattan's West Side? Or a few miles south, alongside the Statue of Liberty, for instance? How much plutonium had been involved? How far would the radioactive cloud have traveled up the New England coast? How badly, and for how long, would the fallout from a dirty bomb of that size have crippled American trade and business at a time when her economy was already teetering on the brink?
Just how close had the Queen and the Sandpiper come to that particular Ground Zero? And why was the presence of American commandos in the rescue being covered up? Doherty had heard one of the men on Deck Ten shout, "He's American." And Doherty knew he'd seen American helicopters in the sky that morning.
God, there was a story here, a huge story! If he couldn't sell the story to someone at one of the major news networks, then he would write a book.
The hell with entertainment. And the hell with government suits.
The people had the right to know…
Pier 88
Passenger ship docks New York City Friday, 1740 hours EST
Tabitha Sandberg walked down the gangway, unseeing, unfeeling. New York City was her home — she'd met Adrian here at that party at her sister's place just a few blocks uptown, on 67th Street — but right now Tabitha didn't feel like she would ever be home again. God, Ade, I miss you!
It had happened so damnably fast. She and Adrian had been in the ship's theater, where the terrorists had led them at gunpoint last night. There'd been that burst of noise from up in the rear balcony… and then gunfire, people screaming, people running. She'd been sitting with Adrian in one of the theater seats, had jumped up when the shooting had exploded and started to run.
Adrian had jumped up, launched himself at her, and knocked her down.
And when she'd rolled him off of her, he'd been dead.
Damn it, it was so senseless!
They'd been talking about a new life together, a new chance, a new start. She had relatives, her sister included, who hadn't cared for the May-December relationship thing, and there were relatives on his side who'd thought Tabitha was just after his money.
Fuck them. Fuck them all. They didn't know. Couldn't know. Adrian had loved her and she'd loved him, and he'd died trying to protect her.
Just like he'd stood up to those terrorists who'd broken into their stateroom Monday night, looking for the young woman who'd come in over the outside balcony. He'd tried to protect Tabitha then and gotten clubbed in the face.
She shuddered at the memory, wrapping her arms tight across her chest.
Alone, she started walking up the pier. The massed skyscrapers rose like a cliff face beyond the massed throng of New Yorkers packed onto Twelfth Avenue behind the police barricades.
They'd offered her professional counseling. Therapy. The doctor on the ship had been especially sympathetic, had suggested that she seek help for post-traumatic stress disorder.
But that would mean having to talk about it, and Tabitha didn't know if she would ever be able to face that.
She knew a lot of the passengers were taking Dr. Barnes up on that offer, though. There was the young woman she'd met while they'd been prisoners in the theater… Tricia Johnson. The twit had actually fallen for one of the terrorists… and she'd been in hysterics when she learned the kid had been killed.
Stockholm syndrome. Tabitha had heard about it. People held prisoner in hostage situations for more than a few days often developed deep feelings for their captors. After all, the terrorists literally held the power of life and death over their prisoners, and when you were consumed by feelings of helplessness your mind could get pretty messed up. The guy standing over you with a gun became a strong figure of stability and of protection… not a sick bastard who might rape or kill you in the next few seconds.
Tabitha was, she knew, in absolutely no danger of falling in love with those… those monsters.
Even her hatred and her bitterness, though, seemed.. distant. More than anything else, she was numb.
God, Ade, what am I going to do?
They'd offered to ship her luggage to one of the hotels where they were putting up the passengers off the Atlantis Queen, but she'd opted to go to her sister's place instead. She'd be able to get a cab right over there at West 48th and Twelfth.
&nb
sp; She'd survived this city for twenty-five years before she'd met Adrian.
She would survive this.
Somehow.
Concourse deck, Atlantis Queen Pier 88, New York City Friday, 1752 hours EST
"What do you think, Reggie?" Jake Levy asked. "Dunno, man. She's… different, that's for sure." "Arnie Bernstein's death really hit her bad, I guess." "I know she had a thing for him. Bossed him around like nobody's business, but she kind of loved him, I think."
"Ah, you know he was just about the only guy in the group who wasn't banging her, right?"
Carmichael shrugged. "No big deal either way, right? That's just banging. Not love."
Levy suppressed a wry smile. Carmichael had been Harper's current boyfriend for all of… what? Two months? But he'd never seemed jealous of the woman's dalliances with other men in her entourage. An open relationship, she'd called it.
It took all kinds.
They were watching Gillian Harper leaning against the railing, watching the crowds. They'd expected her to want to leave the ship immediately; she'd always been drawn to crowds and seemed to have a special fascination for press conferences. Anything that would give her exposure and media attention.
But not, it appeared, this time.
"I think it did hit her, Arnie's death, I mean," Levy said. "And I think she was damned scared. Maybe for the first time in her life. She told me this morning she didn't want to go through with 'Livin' Large.'"
"Shit no, man! She's under contract!"
"Maybe she's just thinking about someone other than herself for a change." Levy hesitated. It sounded like Carmichael was more worried about the money than about Harper's affections. "We'll see how it works out. Maybe we can interest her in a new project."
"Just so long as it doesn't have to do with boats, man," Carmichael said. "I ain't never gonna get on one of these things again!"
New York Presbyterian Hospital
New York City Friday, 1810 hours EST
"How's the wrist, Ms. Caruthers?" Donald Myers asked.
Elsie Caruthers was sitting up in the hospital bed, her right arm encased in a lightweight plastic cast extending almost to her elbow. Anne Jordan hovered nearby. They'd flown all of the injured off of the Atlantis Queen early that morning, flying them by helicopter to New York Pres on Manhattan's West Side.
"I keep telling them I'm fine," Caruthers said, petulant. "That young doctor on the ship fixed me up just fine."
"Well, they wanted to make sure everything was okay," Myers said.
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"You managed to break your wrist!"
"Just a crack. Hairline fracture, the radiologist called it." Caruthers' mouth worked in what might have been a smile. "I'd have whacked that young son of a bitch harder if I could've!"
"Now, Elsie, you don't mean that!" Jordan said.
"I do mean it. This wasn't a damned movie, Anne. It was real, and those men would have killed us if they could've. Or killed those girls… or worse." She shook her head. "I'd do it again!"
"Well, you won't have to, will you?" Myers said. "No more cruises for you!"
"Who says?" She looked up at him sharply. "I signed on for a tour of the Mediterranean, and I intend to have it! God knows I may not have that many more years, and I'm going to go there before I die! Greece. Turkey. Egypt. I'm going to see them!"
"Well, I'm sure that can be arranged," Myers said, startled. "Another Walters tour group, maybe."
"Exactly! And you'll take us, Mr. Myers, won't you? As our guide?"
"Ah… er..
"Because, you know, I've always loved your lectures, even when you got the facts a little confused, sometimes."
"Of course, Ms. Caruthers," Myers said. He felt an odd mix of resignation and enthusiasm. "I'd be happy to."
Pier 88
Passenger ship docks
New York City
Friday, 1812 hours EST
Jerry Esterhausen walked down the gangplank with Janet Carroll. "So… will I be able to see you again, Janet?"
Carolyn Howorth gave him a sidelong look. "Jerry, you don't even know my real name!"
"Because you won't tell me!" he said. "Or who you really work for!"
She laughed. "My friends call me CJ," she told him. "That's all you need to know."
"Okay, am I your friend?"
"Of course!"
"Then… CJ, will you have dinner with me tonight?"
She didn't answer immediately, and he must have taken her hesitation as a negative. "I mean, just dinner! I've just never known a girl who knows her way around a computer like you! And… and what you did to crack the ship's computer system was just brilliant! I'd just like to — "
"It's okay, Jerry," she said. "Yes."
" — be able to talk. And it calls for a celebration, y'know? Rosie's gonna be famous, y'know, and I had a call this morning from the company about how someone wants to put her on a new cruise ship that's operating out of Florida, a real giant named the Oasis of the Seas, and… huh?"
"I said 'Yes.' I'd love to have dinner with you."
"Uh… oh!" He swallowed and adjusted his glasses. "Gee, great!"
She laughed. He was such a stereotypical geek. "No promises," she told him. "I have to be in Washington tomorrow."
"Uh, sure! No promises! I just… uh… well… I don't know what to say!" He frowned. "I guess I'm better at talking to robots than I am to girls."
"You do just fine, Jerry," she told him. She took his hand as they turned to walk down the pier toward the waiting crowd. "You do just fine."
EPILOGUE:
Commissary
NSA Headquarters
Fort Meade, Maryland
Saturday, 1835 hours EST
Dean was seated at a table in one of the building's cafeterias with Lia DeFrancesca and Carolyn Howorth when William Rubens walked in. "Don't get up," he said as Dean started to rise. "Stay off of that ankle."
Dean grinned ruefully and patted his cane. "That's something they never covered in boot camp," he said. "Do not jump off a twenty-foot ladder."
"Remember that next time," Rubens said. "How is it?"
"Bad sprain, nothing more."
"The idiot could have killed himself," Lia said. But she was grinning.
"Good. Thought you'd like to hear, Charlie," Rubens said. "David Yancey has a good chance. They're putting him through a series of bone marrow transplants.. but they say that the truck beds themselves gave him a measure of shielding. He's young; he's strong; he should make a full recovery."
"I'm glad to hear it," Dean said. "He deserves the Medal of Honor."
"That might be a problem," Rubens said. "Technically he's a civilian. I plan to nominate him for the Congressional Gold Medal, though."
Dean chuckled. "That's one way to get the 'Congressional' bit in there legally." The Medal of Honor was often, but incorrectly, referred to as the Congressional Medal of Honor, since it was awarded by the President on behalf of Congress. The Congressional Gold Medal, however, was one of the two highest medals to be awarded to a civilian, "for an outstanding deed or act of service to the security, prosperity, and national interest of the United States."
"How about a medal for every man on the Neptune strike force, and every SEAL off that submarine?" Carolyn Howorth said. She'd arrived from New York that morning on a business commuter flight.
"They all did a hell of a job," Charlie Dean said. "Medals aren't the same, though, as knowing the job got done."
"And done with so little collateral damage," Lia added.
"We got lucky," Dean said. "Very lucky, in fact; only one passenger and one crew member killed in the assault. And… what? A dozen wounded out of thirty-three hundred?" That didn't count the one passenger and several members of the ship's crew killed before Neptune had gone in, of course. Still, total casualties — collateral damage, as Lia put it — had been incredibly light.
Poor David Llewellyn. He'd died before they'd reached the Ike.
"I'm
glad you're just interested in the job," Rubens said, "since this op will be so highly classified, you boys won't be allowed to show your medals off."
"It's being buried?" Dean asked. "Why?"
"Interests of national security. Translated as… 'the politicians don't want anyone to know how close we came to losing New England.'"
"I'd think the people would be dancing in the streets. Judging from the news footage I've been seeing, they are dancing in the streets!"
"The official story is that the Atlantis Queen and the Sandpiper were still 'several hundred miles off the coast.' Not thirty miles from Martha's Vineyard."
"I don't understand that," Howorth said, shaking her head.
"Some folks think it's better that we stay fat and happy. And that we not know about our politicians playing cover-your-ass."
"In light of that," Dean said, "you might want to reconsider your resignation letter." Rubens had confided in Dean shortly after he'd gotten back aboard the Eisenhower
Rubens snorted. "I don't know yet. I'm not sure I want the job anymore, not when I spend more time fighting with the people who are supposed to be on our side. Since you pulled off Neptune, the NSC probably won't want my head on a platter. Not this time, anyway."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"It helps that we caught so many of the hijackers alive. A half-dozen or so prisoners from the Atlantis Queen, and another twelve from the Sandpiper We're already learning a lot of new stuff about the Islamic Jihad International Brigade and how it fits in with al-Qaeda. And this new Japanese group, the KKD… that's going to bear watching. Fuchida has been talking. Looks like al-Qaeda's trying to branch out, forge new alliances." He grinned. "The Japanese have already disavowed the group. They want nothing to do with them."
"Moderate Muslims have been disavowing al-Qaeda for years," Dean pointed out.
"Oh, Lia," Rubens said. "You might be interested to know that your op in Lebanon has drawn some official attention."
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