SeaGhost

Chapter 5

“Advanced Marine Development has had a long relationship with the United States Navy,” Malgard said. “Since 1956. It would have been courteous to have notified me of the theft of my boats, rather than let me find out by way of television. I’ve had to wait two days for this meeting. And then come in on a Sunday morning.”

Malgard thought his indignation sounded sincere. He stood in the small conference room and glared at the men sitting at the table. Commander Roosevelt Rosse, the black man from Procurement with whom he normally worked, sat at one side of the long table. Next to him was another commander, named Monahan, who did something with the Second Fleet. At the head of the table was a rear admiral. A skinny, tall man with a horsey face and a protruding Adam’s apple, Matthew Andrews, was in charge of fleet intelligence.

“Sit down, Mr. Malgard,” Andrews said, rather firmly.

Malgard slowly sat down but kept the anger showing on his face.

Andrews tapped a thick file resting on the table in front of him. “The Navy’s relationship with AMDI was primarily conducted with your father, I believe. A series of contracts for marine fittings and accessories over the years, all of high quality and delivered on time. From what I read here, it was a satisfactory arrangement.”

Malgard nodded, not certain where the admiral was leading the discussion.

“In late 1985, your father passed away, and you assumed control of the company.”

Andrews paused.

Malgard nodded again.

“Since then, I note quite a few instances of late shipments and cost overruns.”

The son of a bitch was questioning his management. Malgard looked to Rosse for support, but the man’s face was noncommittal. Commander Monahan sat with his elbow on the table, his chin resting in his hand, and his eyes showed intense interest in the accusations.

“In the fall of 1986, AMDI proposed its first major contract, that is, for a complete program, rather than as a subcontractor. It was awarded the XMC-22 stealth assault boat program.”

“Is this what you’ve been doing for two days, Admiral? Reviewing history, instead of looking for my boats?”

Andrews’s eyes bored at him, and he continued as if he had not been interrupted. “The XMC-22 program is nineteen months behind schedule, and there have been cost overruns amounting to three hundred and sixteen thousand dollars.”

“Don’t lay that on me, Admiral,” Malgard said. “Your people have a big hand in there.”

Rosse cleared his throat and said, “That’s true, Admiral. We have made some design changes, after testing, that have contributed to the delay. The sonar was changed out. Intake baffles were redesigned. There were some cooling system alterations, also, I believe.”

“Nineteen months’ worth?” Andrews asked.

Monahan spoke for the first time. “Mr. Malgard, as I understand it, once the test sequence is approved, AMDI is to begin production of twenty boats. The basic program has already been approved by the Department of Defense and Congress.”

“That is true, Commander, but with exceptions. Any additional costs due to design changes would have to be approved by Congress.”

“So you’re almost two years behind the time you thought you would have contract income for your company?”

Malgard suddenly felt as if he was under interrogation. It was supposed to be the other way around. He looked to Andrews, but the admiral’s face suggested he was in favor of Monahan’s line of questions.

“Almost two years. That is correct,” he said cautiously. “Research and development payments have been made on schedule, of course.”

“Of course. Along with additional payments for unexpected costs. You’ve been pressuring the procurement division to get the full program underway?”

“I’ve talked to some people, yes.”

“The reporter for The Washington Post told us that he received an anonymous tip that led to his story on the Sea Spectre. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Monahan’s gaze was unwavering.

“I don’t know a thing about it,” Malgard said. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“It seemed to me,” Monahan said, “that that article in The Post was intended to generate interest in the boat, maybe put some pressure on people to get the production program started.”

“That’s absurd.”

Monahan shrugged. “We’ve certainly got exposure now. Classified information on secret weapons system leaked to the press. The boats stolen. Television and newspaper reporters all over the building. Dead man, too.”

Malgard felt his face reddening. From anger. “Commander, are you suggesting that I stole my own boats?”

“The boats belong to the U.S. Government,” Andrews said. “You’re the contractor and designer.”

“Listen, goddamn it!” Malgard said, “I’m here, because I want to know what you’re doing about recovering them.”

“We would like,” the admiral told him, “a complete listing of your personnel.”

“What!”

“We want to know the background of everyone working for you. There may be a possibility of insider information.”

“Ridiculous!”

“The dead man,” Monahan said, “has been identified as Muhammed Hakkar. According to the CIA and Interpol, he has connections with a terrorist group known as the Warriors of Allah. We want to make certain that he did not also have connections with someone working in either your plant or your office.”

“That would be unbelievable. We have an enviable security record, and our procedures are approved by DOD. And it was the Navy who blew the security on the boats. You listen to me, Admiral. The loss of these boats is nothing but a setback for AMDI. Until the testing is completed, we are at a standstill. I want them back more than you do. Instead of harassing me, you should be chasing down the Warriors of Allah, or whatever the hell they are.”

“Do you think the Warriors of Allah took the boats?” Monahan asked.

“I don’t know who took them. You’ve got more information than I have.”

Malgard did not like the way the commander looked at him. He also did not care for the son of a bitch’s questions. As soon as he got home tonight, he would toss the telephone bill from last month.

He did not want anyone seeing the call made from Glen Burnie to The Washington Post.

Abdul Hakim, master of the Hormuz, was skeptical of Ibrahim Badr’s claims about the Sea Spectre, but then the tanker captain was a cynic of high degree.

He was also as slovenly in appearance as was the Hormuz, Badr thought. The tanker, built in 1959 and capable of transporting only 16,000 tons of Arabian crude, was long past her useful lifespan. Her hull plates were streaked with rust that was thick as pita. The decks were littered with paper, chicken bones, and coagulated oil.

Hakim’s skin was a streaky yellow, the result of an unsuccessful battle with jaundice. He wore a beard that was untrimmed and skimpy. The whites of his eyes were orange, and his fingernails were black. The skin of his hands was impregnated with stains of unknown origin.

Despite his appearance, he was lord of the tanker, and he ruled his realm with the steadfast ruthlessness of a nineteenth-century pasha.

He had been apoplectic over Badr’s stationing of armed guards in the hatchways of the Sea Spectre while Badr slept for almost a full day, regaining the forty hours of sleep he had lost during the infiltration of the American mainland and the foray on the Naval Ship Research and Development Center.

Now, Hakim stood at the bottom of the tank, like an arrogant goat, looking up at Badr in the hatchway of the Sea Spectre. Despite the blowers and ducting intended to ventilate, the heat at the bottom of the tank was ferocious, and the sweat dripped from the man’s face.

“I want to see for myself, Colonel Badr.”

“I think your orders simply state that you are to assist the Warriors of Allah in any manner possible, Captain Hakim.”

“Though not blindly,” the captain retorted. “I am still in charge of my vessel, and I will not place it in jeopardy for reasons of minor importance.”

Badr considered that Allah meant for him to make the journey through his lifetime suffering the idiocy of fools.

“Very well. You may come aboard, but you are not to reveal to anyone what you see.” Badr nodded to Amin Kadar, and the man lowered the rope ladder to the bottom of the tank, which was about five meters below the hatchway.

The fat captain struggled valiantly with the swaying ladder and finally reached the hatch. He was panting loudly, and the massive stomach under his filthy khaki shirt heaved as he pulled himself inside. He wore a red-and-white-checked kuffiyah that hid his dirty black hair. His khaki pants were torn at the knees, and he wore rubber sandals.

Badr backed up and turned forward into the short corridor leading to the control center. At the hatchway on the other side, Ibn el-Ziam leaned against the open portal and grinned at Badr.

Badr nodded his head, agreeing with el-Ziam’s silent appraisal of the good captain Hakim.

In the main cabin of the boat, Heusseini and Rahman looked up as Badr and Hakim entered. The Warriors of Allah claimed a membership of fifty-six, but only the five men — now four — Badr had brought with him were fluent in English. He was happy that he had recognized the necessity. The manuals that Omar Heusseini and Ahmed Rahman were poring over were filled with engineering and scientific terms that none of them had ever heard, much less seen in print, before. It would have been so much magical gibberish to the Arabic-only speakers in his band. As it was, there was more guesswork taking place in the interpretation of the manuals than Badr could have wished.

Badr stopped and leaned against the table in the eating area while Hakim looked around the cabin, some degree of wonderment growing in his face.

Badr felt himself the captain of his own kingdom. He was tall and lean in fresh khakis, though the extreme heat was already taking its toll. His black hair was cut short and combed back on the sides. The experience of combat was in his dark eyes, and the hard, abrupt planes of his face were finished in flat olive. He folded his muscular arms over his chest and let his eyes follow Hakim as the man peered at the radios, the sonar, the radar, the intricacies of the instrument panel.

“It is but a toy,” Hakim said.

The man operated his tanker on a compass, a barometer, and an ancient radar set; everything else was broken.

“But it is a lethal toy.”

Hakim spread his hands expansively, rapping Heusseini on the back of the head in the process. “I do not see it.”

“Come.”

Badr led the man back down the short corridor to the missile bay, opened the door, and turned on the lights.

The missiles gleamed dully in their racks along the side of the hull, each of them painted a midnight blue and identified with small white letters and numerals. Each was about a meter-and-a-half long and fifteen centimeters in diameter. Four short, movable fins were located at the rear, and two stubby wings were fixed at midlength. Badr had tried to lift one from its cradle, but the weight was too great. It explained the small cranes set into the forward corners of the cargo area.

The missile launcher itself was an engineering marvel, as far as Badr was concerned. The base was composed of interlocking beams made of some matte gray material he had not seen before. It collapsed into the hold by a scissoring action and, when fully extended, probably stood two to three meters above the boat’s deck. The top of the launcher had rails for four missiles, with a blast deflector plate mounted to the rear. It appeared that the launcher head rotated in a full circle, as well as moved up and down in an arc of perhaps forty-five degrees.

“Is that lethal enough for you, Captain Hakim?”

The captain crossed to the side bulkhead and caressed a missile with his dirty hand. “They are impressive, Badr. How do they perform?”

Badr shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? We will find out soon enough.”

“As soon as we reach the Gulf.” The captain smiled, revealing a broken tooth.

“There has been a change in plans,” Badr said. “We will not immediately return to the Arabian Gulf.”

The Westerners called it the Persian Gulf, but they were in error about that, as they were about almost everything in his homeland. In reality, Badr did not have a homeland. He was Palestinian, a guest in Iraq, Libya, Syria, and Lebanon for all of his life. He was determined to right that wrong, and the means to the end required the elimination of western influence in the Middle East.

In that quest, he had been tutored by the best of his brethren, studying under such as Abu Taan of the Palestinian Armed Struggle Command and Abu Nidal of the Black June Organization.

Originally, he had planned to use the boat to sink the supertankers that plied the Gulf, choking off the energy so vital to the Americans and Europeans.

That was the plan Hakim was following. “We are already underway for the Gulf, Badr.”

“Your orders are to support my cause, Hakim. And my cause is to strike at the infidels where I can.” He stuck a finger out, pointing at a missile. “That weapon allows me to bring the battle to the American shore. That is what we will do.”

Hakim frowned. “I will put your boat over the side and leave you to it, then.”

“No. You will do as you are told, or the Hormuz will find itself with a new master.”

Hakim’s arms and shoulders went rigid. Badr thought the man might have thrown the missile at him, if he could have lifted it. He tried to stare Badr down for a moment, but then his eyes sidled away.

“What must be done?”

“First,” Badr said, “you will reverse course. We are going back to where we came from.”

The eastern coast of Florida was hazy, muted, and variegated greens that muddied into one another. Seven miles offshore, the Kathleen cut the long swells easily, cruising at twenty knots. The stereo speakers on the flying bridge and the stern deck reverberated with Elton John’s “Bennie and the Jets.” Unfortunately, the clients had brought along their own cassette tapes.

McCory was on the bridge, dressed in cutoffs and a red-and-white striped soccer shirt, his feet up on the instrument panel. He wore sunglasses and a baseball cap adorned with the Miami Dolphins’ logo. From time to time, he checked the automatic pilot.

On the wrap-around bridge lounge seat, the two kids — boys, ten and twelve years old — were playing checkers. The view of the sea had bored them a half hour out of Edgewater.

The clients, two couples in their thirties, were on the aft deck, in the shade of the white canvas awning he had rigged. They were sitting in deck chairs around the table, drinking margaritas. Having a good time. Their laughter swelled and ebbed.

McCory didn’t run many charters. He didn’t want to infringe on the business of the charter captains who based themselves at Marina Kathleen. Occasionally, if they were fully booked, he would take a party out on the Starshine, his thirty-eight-foot sport fisherman. Today was different. The outing was an early-morning run down to Cape Canaveral to watch a Titan IV launch. It had been booked three weeks before by the two men, who were engineers with one of the aerospace companies.

The launch had been expectedly delayed three times before it got off successfully and spectacularly. White fire and heavy contrails arcing into the bright blue Atlantic skies. McCory had enjoyed it. Then, he had grilled sirloin steaks for lunch, hot dogs for the boys.

He kept resisting the impulse to nudge the throttles forward, hunting for the Kathleen’s top end of thirty knots. He felt restless. It was difficult to maintain his normal, easygoing demeanor. He wanted to get up and pace the deck.

Grab an airplane for Washington.

March into the Hoover Building and say, “I did it.”

The fact that the Sunday papers down in the salon reported that the dead man, Muhammed Something-or-other, was some kind of terrorist didn’t make it any easier.

McCory had killed another human being.

Didn’t know the man but tried to paint a picture of him. Guessed he was a killer of innocents, assumed he had created carnage in Italy, Beirut, the Gaza strip, somewhere, but it still caused him to ache deep inside.

Like a drunk, driving a lethal weapon, swerving into a teenager on a dark road. Didn’t mean it, officer.

Didn’t make it right.

He was beginning to question his own motives in taking the SeaGhost, too. When he first saw the newspaper photos, it had been anger that ruled heart and head. That had evolved into a basically simple plan of grabbing the boat, composing an elaborate analysis of the boat in comparison with Devlin’s drawings, then making some kind of big splash. Press conference, maybe. Humiliate the damned Navy.

That had changed in the millisecond of impact with the Zodiak.

Everything was different. From the papers and newscasts, it was apparent that the Navy thought the… Warriors of Allah had taken both boats. There was a massive search underway all over the western Atlantic. McCory had seen the Navy and Coast Guard ships out in force. A Coast Guard cutter had put into New Smyrna Beach and Edgewater on Saturday afternoon, disgorging a bunch of sailors who ran along the coast asking the citizens if they had seen anything. Showing them The Post photo of the SeaGhost.

A lieutenant (j.g.) had hit up Marge Hepburn, she told him. Marge hadn’t seen any strange boats.

Now, he wasn’t certain what he would do. Admitting to the Navy that he had taken the SeaGhost also meant submitting to a charge of manslaughter, or reckless endangerment, or something along that line. Daimler could tell him. Would tell him, in fact.

McCory had been on the run before, but he had been running from an insurance company, not the law or the Navy. He was tired of running.

Still, he had to do something.

By the time he tied up in Slip 1, disembarked his clients, hosed the salt rime from the decks, and cleaned the salon, he had not stumbled over any solutions. He changed the sheets in the bow cabin. The sea had made one of his couples romantic. It was three-fifteen.

McCory checked the office and found that Marla Fox had replaced Marge. She already had the Windex and the paper towels out and was eyeing the back windows with some distaste. She was a cheery and chunky seventeen-year-old. She was also a trusting soul, somewhat daring, and not afraid of some of the things she should be afraid of.

“You really think those windows need cleaning?”

“Marla, you can’t see the other side of the waterway.”

“Isn’t this supposed to be in my contract, or something?”

“You don’t have a contract.”

“Oh.”

“Anything new?” he asked.

“Dan called in and told me to credit him with a couple hours on his time sheet. Somebody lost a water pump, and he replaced it.”

“I can’t believe Crips would work on Sunday.”

“He was probably drunk,” Marla said, and she had a point.

He spent a couple more minutes talking with her, then searched under the kneehole of his desk for the cardboard tube he wanted. He went out to the fueling dock where he kept the Camrose tied up. She was a nineteen-foot Chris Craft runabout that he had fully disassembled, rebuilt, and refinished. Born in the same year as McCory, she sported a Vee-drive and a Chrysler marine engine. Mahogany wood and blue leather. More elegance than get-up-and-go, but he liked her. The Kathleen and the Camrose, he owned outright. He owed over fifty thousand dollars on the Starshine, but her charters brought in just enough to meet the payments and the maintenance. No profit in her, just yet.

He also owed a quarter-million dollars on the marina. The cash flow was sufficient to meet his overhead and give him a couple thousand a month in salary. McCory had long since given up the notion that he would one day be a millionaire. More likely, he would die owing a million.

Then again, he had never aspired to millionaire status. One day at a time, with enough left over to buy a bottle of Dos Equis.

Releasing the spring lines, he clambered aboard and blew the bilges while she drifted from the dock. The engine caught on the first revolution, and McCory slipped it into gear and eased out of the marina while the engine warmed up. The exhaust gurgled in the water behind.

The flat planes of the windshield glass reflected the bright sun in little shatters of light that bounced back onto the highly polished mahogany of the foredeck. He guessed the afternoon temperature at above ninety. The sweat trickled down his sides.

The five-mile trip down to Barley’s Marine Refitters took eleven minutes, and he tied up at the finger pier next to Dry Dock One. John Barley was up near his office and had the hood off of a big Merc outboard motor. The motor was mounted on a small ski boat sitting on a trailer behind a GMC Suburban. The boat’s owner stood by anxiously as Barley probed for the solution to some fault in the motor.

McCory waved at him, and Barley waved back. Spit a wad of chewing tobacco in a twelve-foot curve.

McCory entered his rented building and locked the door behind him. He turned on the lights.

God, she’s beautiful. Like you knew she’d be, Devlin.

He walked down the side dock, reached out, and opened the hatch.

Thought about the articles in the Sunday paper.

Thought about Ted Daimler.

He tossed the cardboard tube aboard the boat and went back to the telephone over the workbench. He had to check his wallet for the phone number of Daimler’s home in Chevy Chase.

“Daimler residence. This is Ricky.”

“Hi, Ricky. This is Uncle Kevin.”

“Hey, Mac! How you doing?”

“I’m doing just fine. How are you?”

“Somebody stole Dad’s boat. You know that?”

“I heard about it. You’ll have to come down here and go fishing with me.”

“Neat. When?”

“Maybe later this summer. We’ll talk about it. Is your father around?”

“Yeah, hold on.”

Daimler picked up the phone a couple of minutes later. “You trying to steal my boy, now?”

“Must have picked up a new habit.”

“Jesus. That’s all Reba and I will hear about for the next two months. When can I go, when can I go? By the way, get rid of the habit.”

“You read the papers, Ted?”

“Read the papers! For Christ’s sake, Mac! I’ve been calling you for two days.”

“Yeah, I saw some notes Marge left. I’ve been busy.”

“Get yourself an answering machine. Then answer it.”

“I’ve got an answering service. She’s a nice lady.”

Daimler paused for a moment. Maybe composing himself. Then, he asked, “You get that thing hidden away?”

“Yep. In fact, I’m standing here looking at it right now.”

“This is getting way out of hand, Mac.”

“I know. Shit, I feel awful.”

Surprisingly, Daimler didn’t chastise him. “I don’t know that you need to feel too badly. The guy was a real asshole. The CIA links him to the murders of some twenty people, Mac. We probably did the world a favor.”

“It may take me a while to come around to that point of view. What have you heard?”

“The Pentagon’s in an uproar. The White House is alarmed. The FBI is investigating me.”

“What!”

“Probably checking my story. They talked to one of my partners and a couple clients, but it got back to me. Reba said a strange sedan was poking around the neighborhood, checking our house. She thinks they’re burglars casing the joint. So far, I’ve kept her from calling the cops.”

“Damn. I’m sorry I got you involved, Ted.”

“Well, let’s not worry about the history. Let’s worry about you and me. What are the plans?”

McCory told him about his original scheme, including the press conference.

“Not a good idea, not now,” Daimler said.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Time is our best bet. Let’s let it blow over, drop back to page fifty in the papers. As long as the Navy thinks the Arabs have both boats, we’ve got some breathing room. Hell, maybe they’ll catch them.”

“It’ll be tough, Ted. That’s one fine boat.”

“Keep in mind that I was the second civilian to ride in one, Mac.”

“Yeah. I want to find some solution that keeps you out of it.”

“Hey! You’re my kind of man.”

“I mean it.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be surprised if I told you the same thing has been on my mind? Keeping me out of it?”

“I’m not surprised,” McCory told him.

“I’m still working on it. There’s a conflict of interest, since I was part of the caper, unwilling participant though I was. We don’t want to be in court, where the wrong questions could come up, the kind I’d have to answer. At some point, we’re going to have to negotiate a settlement, but let’s not rush into it until we’re ready. Send me a check for a hundred bucks.”

“What for?”

“Retainer. I want the attorney-client privilege locked in.”

“Hell, you’ve always been my lawyer,” McCory said. “You settled the insurance deal.”

“Earned my fee, too.”

“Took you four years.”

“Did it right.”

“Debatable.”

“Fuck you.”

“You think I’m in deep shit?” McCory asked.

“Of course. What else? But send me the check. I want it formalized.”

“Then what?”

“Then we wait and watch. There’ll be a place where we can jump in.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“What are you doing now?” Daimler asked.

“I’ve got Devlin’s drawings, and I’m going to start comparing them to the craft.”

“Okay. Take your time. Stay out of trouble.”

“I intend to. I’m maintaining my normal schedule.”

“You have a normal schedule? Look, Mac, not a word of this to anyone. Got that?”

Involuntarily, McCory cleared his throat.

“Oh Christ! Who’d you tell?”

“Ginger.”

“Ginger? She’s the dream girl we met last time we were down?”

“Hey, you dreaming about my woman?”

“You planning on marriage?” Daimler asked.

“It hasn’t been discussed.”

“Start discussing it.”

“What the hell? You my social advisor now?”

“We don’t want her testifying against you.”

“You just said we weren’t going to court.”

“Just in case.”

After he hung up, McCory spent an hour lifting the spare rotary engines out of the cargo bay with an overhead engine hoist. He parked them in one corner of the dock-head, stacked the cardboard boxes of parts with them, and covered everything with a paint-splattered tarpaulin. Then he inserted several clean sheets of paper in a clipboard, found a tape measure and a roll of black electrical tape, and climbed aboard the SeaGhost.

First things first. McCory went forward to the helm and used his pocket knife to cut a small piece of plastic tape. He carefully pressed it in place on the instrument panel, covering the title, Sea Spectre. She was the SeaGhost, and he was going to prove it.

He pulled Devlin’s drawings from the cardboard tube and started at the stern. There was a small access door in the aft end of the cargo bay. He had to stoop to get through it.

He found a light switch and flipped it on. Four small bulbs lit up, and he looked around. Most of the space was taken up by four individual fuel bladders. There was an electronics compartment that contained another radar antenna, a camera, and a few black boxes. He skipped all of that, since Devlin hadn’t included specifics about the electronics in his drawings.

In the decking was a large hatch. He pulled it up and found the jet housings below. The rotary engines were mounted forward of them, under the cargo bay. It was a nice installation. Everything was clean, painted gray. There was a sheen on the housings, and when he tested it with his finger, he discovered light oil. A leak somewhere, but then, there were always leaks.

Spreading the large drawings on the deck near the hatch, McCory extended the tape measure and started by measuring the width of the keel.

If he stayed busy enough, he wouldn’t think about Coast Guard lieutenants questioning his employees or prison or dead Arabs.