SeaGhost

Chapter 13

Except for the disaster on the tarmac, Mayport Naval Station appeared secure. The fire at the fuel depot had been quenched in midmorning. A hazy pall hung over the base, and the odor of burnt rubber and paint drifted in the still air.

Jim Monahan had spent most of the day in the operations center, following the search tracking sequence of TF22, Safari Bravo.

Safari Echo was no longer with them.

At four in the morning, shortly after he had arrived, he had talked to Admiral Clay in Norfolk.

He had provided a concise damage report. “The same story as the first two, Admiral.”

“You really think we should be in the defense business, Jim?” Clay asked. His tone was less sarcastic than it was disgusted.

“We’re going to get them, Admiral.”

“I have a request from Norman. He wants to steam northward, fifty miles off the coast.”

“Perhaps he knows something we don’t,” Monahan said.

“At this point, everyone seems to know something I don’t know,” the admiral said.

“The pattern, if there is one, suggests Badr is headed south.”

“Norman thinks that’s intentional. He tells me that, even if Badr hits an installation in southern Florida, he’s going to switch on us, go north, and do it abruptly. What do you think, Jim?”

Monahan didn’t like command decisions, suddenly. He knew he wasn’t making this one, but Clay liked sounding boards. His response skipped around the edge. “You know Captain Norman, sir. My impression is that he’s got some savvy.”

“He does that. I’m going to give him his way, but only with the Prebble. We’ll keep TF22 down your way. I’m going to divert the Oliver H. Perry slightly north and about a hundred miles offshore. Norman’s certain there’s a support ship we should be picking up on.”

“I agree with Captain Norman in that respect, sir.”

“All right, then. You call me if you get any intuitive ideas.”

“Are we down to that? To intuition?”

“Nothing else is working. What’s my casualty count, Jim?”

“Fifty-four, Admiral. Most of them resulted from the explosion at the fueling depot. They had been going all night, turning aircraft around.”

“It’s a damned sorry business,” Bingham Clay said, and hung up.

Monahan took a nap for a couple of hours, then shaved and spent the rest of the day reviewing damage reports and following the progress, or lack of it, of the search efforts.

Clay called him back just before seven.

“Jim, I’ve got a report from the FBI here. Kevin McCory’s got himself a marina in Edgewater, Florida. I think they finally called the IRS and got the address. The insurance company provided some additional data, and there are copies of some court papers.”

“Edgewater? That’s just down the coast from here. I thought he was on the Gulf Coast.”

“He might have wanted to be. From what I’ve got here, Kevin McCory was more or less run out of town after Devlin McCory was killed.”

“Killed? What was that?”

“Hold on,” Clay said. “It’s in here somewhere. Yes. Devlin McCory died in an explosion which all but destroyed his marina in Fort Walton Beach. There was some brouhaha with the bank and insurance company. At the time of the accident, the older McCory was heavily into some bank for cash to renovate the place. Apparently, the insurance policy rider didn’t cover the costs as it was supposed to, and the bank foreclosed, with the insurance company buying up the pieces. Kevin McCory disagreed and brought suit. He also took off with the company’s files and some boat his father had built, but which the insurance outfit claimed. The insurance company treated him like a fugitive, but the local sheriff apparently didn’t agree.”

“Jesus. Was it ever settled?” Monahan asked.

“Yes, about eighteen months ago. This doesn’t say what the settlement was, I don’t think. Hang on.”

Monahan waited, listening to the sound of rustling paper.

“Yes. There’s a court order here, an agreement signed by the insurance company and McCory’s lawyer. The company paid off a quarter million and let him keep the boat. I don’t… son of a bitch!”

“What’s the matter, Admiral?”

“Guess who the attorney was?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Daimler. Theodore Daimler.”

Monahan knew the name from somewhere. It flitted around for a bit before he grabbed it. “The guy up on the Chesapeake who had his boat stolen.”

“That’s it, Jim.”

“I was going to call McCory, but I think I’ll grab a chopper and fly down there,” Monahan said.

“Go.”

McCory heard someone banging on the door.

Ginger.

Damn.

He had been planning to slip away earlier tonight, leaving her behind. She’d be mad as hell, but he had decided that half of his anxiety was having her in harm’s way.

All of the lights inside the dry dock were on, as well as the standard lights in the cabin and cargo bay of the SeaGhost. It still felt lonely.

He was double-checking the missile connections on the launcher. Resigned to her catching him in the middle of a double-cross, he left the cargo bay, crossed along the corridor, and emerged from the hatchway. Leaping the short chasm to the side dock, he walked to the door.

Flipping the dead bolt, he pulled the door open.

It wasn’t Ginger.

The man appeared hard. Angles and planes in his face. Military haircut. Death in his eyes. In his hand, too.

He gestured with the automatic. “Back it up. Slow. Keep your hands in sight.”

Navy? How’d they figure it out?

McCory took a few steps backward and kept his hands out in front of him. He was dismayed that they had found him so easily, that he and Daimler hadn’t even opened negotiations.

“Hey, we can talk about this.”

The man ignored him, stepped inside, and closed the door. He didn’t lock it.

He looked around the lighted dry dock, nodded as if to himself, and said, “Where’s the other one?”

“The other one?”

“The Sea Spectre.”

“Got me. I understand some terrorist got it.”

“You have it hidden in one of these other boat houses?” He used the automatic to point south.

“As far as I know, they’re empty.”

He stood there, thinking. He wasn’t happy, and the expression on his face hardened, if that were possible.

“Where are the cops? The FBI?” McCory asked.

The hard eyes refocused on him. “There won’t be any. You and me, we’re going to wait a few hours until full dark, then we’ll take a little trip in that boat.”

What the hell?

McCory couldn’t figure it. Who was this guy?

Then he had it.

“You work for AMDI, right?”

“I work for myself.”

Advanced Marine, or Malgard, or whatever his name was, wouldn’t want the boat connected in any way with McCory. That might make the Navy investigate. For that matter, they wouldn’t want McCory found, at all.

“You got some rope around here?” The man backed away a couple of feet, kept his gun trained on McCory’s midsection, and let his eyes dart around the dock head. He spotted the coils of marine line hanging on a nail driven into one of the cradle timbers on the side dock.

“Over there. Come on, move.”

McCory led the way down the side dock and stopped in front of the lines. The man pulled up behind him.

“Hand me one of those ropes over your shoulder. Real easy, now.”

McCory lifted a heavy thirty-foot coil off the nail and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Hey!”

He spun to his left, crouching, whipping his right leg out, and swinging it.

It worked for Chuck Norris every time, but not for McCory. His ankle caught the man in the knee but didn’t topple him or sweep his legs out from under him.

He went off balance, though, shuffling his feet to regain equilibrium. Several coils of the rope hung on the wrist of his gun hand, and McCory grabbed the line and jerked as hard as he could.

The line clamped tight around his wrist and the hammer of the automatic, pulling it forward and aiming the muzzle down.

The gun went off.

Loud in the confined space, startling McCory.

The asshole dropped it.

McCory turned for the open hatch of the SeaGhost, took five running steps, and leaped headfirst through the hatch. He tucked his chin down, landed on the back of his neck and shoulders in the cross-corridor, and rolled over onto his feet. He grabbed the corner of the central corridor and pulled himself around it.

It took him five seconds to reach the commander’s desk, paw at the drawer, and find one of the Brownings. He slapped a magazine in and thumbed the safety off.

Pulled the slide back to inject the first round.

The boat rocked slightly as the man came aboard.

“Come on, McCory. You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

McCory moved aft toward the communications console and slid along the bulkhead until he reached the central corridor.

“Where you at?”

McCory peeked around the corner. The man was standing in the juncture of the corridors, his gun held out in front of him. The light of the cargo bay defined him in the doorway. He saw McCory’s head and shifted his gun hand.

“Just step… ”

McCory shot him.

The report numbed his ears.

The cabin filled with the stink of cordite.

McCory wasn’t a marksman, but his target was large and close. The slug caught him high in the chest and slammed him backward into the doorjamb of the cargo bay.

He was propped against the wall for a full two seconds as his knees wobbled. The gun tumbled from his hand and hit the deck. His eyes held total surprise.

Then he collapsed and died.

Or maybe it was the other way around.

McCory was numb, his ears ringing.

Ibn el-Ziam had heard both shots. The spacing was awkward, perhaps a minute and a half apart.

He sidled along the front of the building to the door and tried the handle. It turned easily, and he pushed it open a few centimeters.

Inside, it was brightly lit. He leaned close to the gap and scanned a narrow area. Seeing no movement, he edged the door open a little further.

Still, he saw no one.

But there was the boat. Ibrahim Badr had been correct. He frequently was.

El-Ziam stepped inside.

The boat moved.

A head appeared in the hatchway near the dock, and el-Ziam slipped back outside and pulled the door nearly shut.

It was not Chambers.

He assumed it was McCory.

He watched for another minute, then saw Chambers. McCory was dragging his body out of the boat.

Softly, he closed the door. Obviously, McCory was going to be busy for a little while.

While scanning the empty boat yard, he pondered his moves. Colonel Badr wanted the boat, and el-Ziam had a memorized list of approximate positions for the Hormuz. He was certain he could operate the boat. The only unknown was the fuel state. If there was enough fuel, he would take the boat out late at night. If the fuel was low, he would simply blow it up, drive to Miami, and fly to Beirut. He would no longer be needed.

From inside his waistband, el-Ziam withdrew the .22 caliber Bernadelli, found the silencer in his pocket, and screwed it in place. It was already cocked, and he slid the safety off.

Again, he turned the door handle slowly and eased it open.

McCory was less than five meters away, his arms wrapped around the chest of the dead man, dragging him toward the door. McCory held an automatic pistol in his right hand for some reason.

El-Ziam shoved the door fully open.

It squeaked.

McCory looked up. “Oh, shit!”

El-Ziam raised the pistol and fired.

Unfortunately, he shot the dead man again as McCory pushed the body aside and dove toward the floor.

McCory fired as he fell, and the bullet whined past el-Ziam’s head. He dodged sideways, lining the Bernadelli once again.

He had McCory sighted perfectly.

When McCory’s second shot hit him in the right cheekbone.

His vision blurred, then blacked out entirely.

Allah.

The Sikorsky Sea King set down in the middle of the street, amazing a few drivers who had been forced to a stop. They clambered out of their cars and stared. Dust and paper litter swirled away from the rotor blast.

Monahan slid the door back and dropped to the pavement. He waved off the copilot as he ran for the curb, and the helicopter lifted off immediately.

He looked around, spotted the office on the other side of the parking lot, and started toward it.

Down in the marina, people emerged from their boat cabins to check on the ruckus. Two women stood outside the office, the door open behind them. Monahan strode purposefully across the lot and up to them.

“I’m looking for Kevin McCory.”

One of the women, a girl really, said, “What are you? A captain?”

He smiled at her. “Commander Monahan. Is McCory around?”

“No,” the girl told him. “He left an hour ago.”

“Do you know where he went? It’s important.”

“He was supposed to come to my boat for dinner tonight, but he had to work,” the older woman said. It was difficult to tell her age. In retirement, certainly, but she had damned nice legs under the shorts.

“Do you know where he’s working, Mrs.…?”

“Kuntzman. But people call me Mimi. What’s the Navy want with Kevin?”

“It’s… kind of like consulting.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure he went up to Barley’s place. He’s got a big boat he’s working on.”

“Where is this Barley place?” Monahan asked.

The girl smiled at him. Perhaps she liked uniforms. She was examining his hand. Looking for a ring?

“Five miles down the coast,” Kuntzman said.

Monahan sighed and looked around. “Is there someplace where I could rent a car?”

“Ah, you don’t need to do that, Commander. I’ll take you down,” Kuntzman said.

“I’d really appreciate that.”

“Debbie, I’m going to take the Camrose.”

“Don’t scratch it,” Debbie said. “He’ll dock my pay, and there isn’t that much left to dock.”

“C’mon, Commander. We’ll go this way.”

Monahan followed her around the office, through a chain-link gate, and down a ramp. She sure had nice legs.

An hour after he had killed two men, McCory was still in shock.

That made three in a week. Little over a week.

They were going to put him away forever.

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

There had been some thought of loading the body of Chambers into the back of the truck, driving somewhere remote, and dumping it.

He had been right about Chambers. The man’s wallet held two driver’s licenses, one in the name of Richard Chambers and one in the name of Harold Davis. He decided the correct name was Chambers when he found an ID card listing Chambers as an assistant vice president of Advanced Marine Development, Incorporated.

For a moment there, his shock had been overcome by his rage. The bastards would have killed him to protect the secret of the SeaGhost’s origins. For the ten-thousandth time, he again questioned whether or not the explosions in Fort Walton Beach were accidental or not. He would have Daimler look into Chambers’s history, see how long he had been working for Malgard.

McCory sat there on the deck in the corridor for a couple of minutes, holding his Browning in one hand and the dead man’s wallet in the other. Finally, he had roused himself, shoved the wallet back into the man’s coat pocket, and picked up his gun from the deck. He didn’t even think about fingerprints. He inserted the gun back into the holster under Chambers’s armpit, then got up and wrestled the body upright, dragging it to the hatchway.

The body was heavy, and it took some time to get it back onto the dock.

Where in hell will I dump it?

He knew he wasn’t thinking too clearly, but he didn’t worry about it. There was blood on his hands from the chest wound, though it hadn’t really bled profusely. He was still gripping the Browning tightly in his hand.

Why?

The smoking gun. The killer weapon.

Jesus. They’ll fry me.

Damn, the body was heavy. The limp feet dragged on the chipped concrete of the dock head.

He should just call the cops, explain his way out of this thing. AMDI sent a hired killer, after all.

The door squeaked.

McCory looked up and saw a handsome, well-dressed man with a long gun standing in the doorway.

The gun moved, and McCory didn’t even think. He pushed the body away and fell down, squeezing the trigger twice.

And then he had two bodies.

His first reaction was to abandon everything and run for the truck. He’d successfully hidden himself and the Kathleen from the insurance company for years. He’d do it again.

Then he pulled the other body out of the doorway, closed the door, and locked it. He shoved the Browning into the waistband of his jeans. Though he felt as if he might gag, he knelt beside the body and patted the pockets until he found a wallet and a passport.

Francisco Cordilla? Who in hell is Francisco Cordilla? My God, they’re coming out of the woodwork.

There was nothing to identify him beyond a Spanish name and address in either his wallet or passport. He was carrying a lot of money, both U.S. and Spanish bills.

Leaving the bodies sprawled on the dock head, McCory went back to the SeaGhost, stumbled inside, and got himself a Dos Equis from the refrigerator. He sat in the banquette and took deep breaths and deep draughts of the dark ale.

Time slipped by jerkily, the minutes racing, then dragging their feet.

Christ, call the cops, you jerk.

An AMDI assassin would strengthen McCory’s case against the company.

Or would it? AMDI was just trying to get its boat back, and its repo man was iced by the thief.

Who was the other one?

He thought about the bodies.

Looked at his watch.

Didn’t want to touch the bodies. Not again.

Had to do something.

And McCory finally decided to go chase Ibrahim Badr. He had worked out a feasible plan earlier in the day. He needed to make an early start, though, before Ginger caught up with him.

Ginger.

Thinking about her forced him into action. She might show up at any moment. Taking one last gulp from the bottle, he went up to the dock and devoted ten minutes to loading the bodies back aboard the SeaGhost. He laid them out, side by side, in an aft corner of the cargo bay, then tossed a tarp over them.

He would drop them over the side on his way north. At the moment, it didn’t seem as if he had anything else to lose. He could devote his whole being to the task of running Badr down.

McCory activated the instrument, radar, and sonar consoles. He started the engines.

Climbing back to the dock, he went to the front of the building and shut off the lights. The interior lights of the SeaGhost, in the standard white mode, appeared spooky through the bronzed windows. A white glare from the open hatch bathed the side dock.

He walked out to the end of the dock and raised the sea door by hand.

Heard the deep gurgling of a V-8 marine engine.

It sounded suspiciously like Camrose.

While he stood there, the bow of his aged Chris Craft nosed inside the dry dock.

Mimi Kuntzman said, “Hi, there, Kevin!”

Ibrahim Badr had not thought that he would see the Chesapeake Bay Bridge ever again, and in reality, he did not see it clearly. It was very dark, and the skies were hung with low clouds.

Through the windshield, the bridge lights were visible, as were the unceasing strobe lights that warned aircraft. In the video monitor, it was a ghostly structure that quickly passed out of the camera’s vision as the Sea Spectre raced beneath it at fifty knots.

To the north were the running lights of several ships moving up the bay. Amin Kadar had identified their passive sonar signatures as those of medium-sized commercial craft.

“Twin screws, three thousand meters, almost directly ahead of us,” Kadar said over the intercom.

Badr turned the boat slightly to the right but did not decrease speed. He was becoming very confident of the Sea Spectre’s ability to go where it wished, invisible to the normal world. They were, in fact, proceeding head-on in the middle of the outbound traffic lanes, hugging the southern coast. He did not think the Coast Guard would stop him for that illegality. The lights of Virginia Beach gleamed through the left-hand windows like the well-rubbed beads of a tangled set of worry beads.

Ahead were the lights of the Hampton Bridge. Like the bridge behind them, very little traffic moved on it at this time of the morning. In the magnified bow video, he counted seven pairs of headlights.

Then the running lights of a naval vessel. Perhaps a frigate of some kind. It passed a kilometer to their left as he circled wide around it.

There were no alarms, not a visible alert aboard the ship, nor excited radio messages. Kadar had set the radios to the frequencies used by the Commander in Chief of the Atlantic Fleet, and though they frequently heard messages or intercepted telex traffic, both forms of communication were now indecipherable. Someone had realized that the Sea Spectre could eavesdrop and begun to employ some code. Kadar had been unable to make sense of it but felt assured that most of the warships were still searching for them far to the south.

It was the Christian Sabbath, an appropriate day to launch his largest offensive yet, Badr thought. He would wreak upon the Atlantic Fleet headquarters the same kind of chaos the Japanese had delivered to the Pacific Fleet headquarters in Pearl Harbor on another Sunday.

Once the bridge was visible in his rearview screen, Badr reduced his speed to fifteen knots. The telltale whiteness disappeared from the wake.

The U.S. Naval Shipyard passed on his left, and he turned left around its point, moving into the Hampton Roads. There were ships of various descriptions and unknown purposes anchored in the Roads. He ignored them and concentrated on the naval base on his left.

When he reached the confluence of the Lafayette and Elizabeth Rivers, fighting to join the James River, Badr slowed and reversed the boat, heading back to the north.

The lights of the naval base were now on his right, sleepy and peaceful.

Unexpectant.

“Omar, you may proceed.”

“I am using electro-optical targeting,” Heusseini said. “Missile bay doors opening.”

“Missile bay clear,” Rahman reported.

“Raising launcher.”

Badr advanced his throttles until the readout on the panel displayed fifteen knots. He would attempt to hold that speed, moving north back into the Roads, then around the peninsula and east toward the Hampton Bridge as Heusseini launched missiles steadily. Kadar was back in the cross-passage with Rahman, prepared to reload the launcher as quickly as possible. They had settled on twelve missiles.

Badr did not know what land-based defenses were available to the Navy here, but he suspected that within minutes of the first impact, the many naval ships in the area would be alerted.

Their position would easily be determined as the missiles launched. Still, in the four minutes required for reload, he could dart to another location and perhaps disappear for a few moments.

The risk was high, but the rewards were immense. Already, his successful attacks on American continental bases had created consternation within the populace. And in a society that so heavily depended upon justice being served, not to mention a society that was so certain of its definition of justice, his escape would infuriate them further.

Allah would see to it. Wyatt Earp would not get his man.

Or was that a Canadian myth? It was of no moment. Badr thought of the Canadians as American clones.

The Sea Spectre was less than a kilometer from the docks when Heusseini said, “We are ready, Colonel.”

“Commence firing.”

It was a beautiful rhythm. One ignition after another. The third missile was airborne by the time the first impacted somewhere inland. Heusseini selected his targets at random. Large buildings, ships at the docks, warehouses.

As soon as the fourth was launched, Badr slammed the throttles forward, ran toward the Roads, then slowed once again.

Three minutes.

Three and a half.

Fo…

“Missiles ready,” Rahman reported. “Bay clear.”

WHOOSH!

Then another.

Then the seventh and eighth missiles.

Even through the insulated skin of the Sea Spectre, Badr could hear the sirens wailing. They were that close to shore. Fires were spotted all over the base, growing in intensity. The morning became artificially light.

A missile struck what Badr thought was a cruiser in a dry dock, possibly rupturing fuel tanks. Yellow flame poured over the hull like fiery molasses.

“Missiles ready. Bay clear.”

Badr had swung the helm eastward as they reached the middle of the James River. They were now two kilometers offshore from the naval base, three kilometers west of the Hampton Bridge.

Four more missiles whisked away.

Half a dozen naval boats and ships were underway, nosing out into the river, aiming in their general direction. Searchlights scanned the waters.

“Load four more,” Badr commanded.

To their credit, no one complained about the change in plans. They were totally involved in the operation.

He raced forward at forty knots for three minutes, then slowed once again. The pursuing ships did not alter course to follow him.

“Omar, you must put one of them in the city proper, one on the bridge, and two to the north, aiming for Langley Air Base.”

“Allah willing,” Heusseini said.

“He does,” Badr affirmed.

They had nearly reached the bridge by the time missiles thirteen through sixteen had been loaded.

Heusseini launched them quickly, and Badr watched his repeater screen as if he were mesmerized.

A multistory building with lights in some of the windows, perhaps a sign saying some kind of insurance.

The bridge. A semi-truck trailed by two small automobiles. The truck became immense on the screen until it blacked out. He glanced up through the windshield just as the missile erupted, spewing metal, asphalt roadbed, pieces of driver, and structural beams in magnificent confusion. Red and orange and blue flames squirted skyward.

The air base. The missile homed in on a row of parked F-15 Eagles. Blackness. Badr wished he could have seen the actual explosion.

More parked aircraft seen from the camera of the fourth missile, but Heusseini veered from them and centered the missile on the control tower.

Blackness.

American might defenseless against a single boat.

The American ship sinking into oblivion.

While Ibrahim Badr felt his spirit rising against that Satan.

Rising, rising, to grasp the hand of the Prophet.