“You’re right,” Katy said, her eyes wild. “They were gunning for you. Why?”
“Because I’m trying to stop them.”
“From doing what?” Katy demanded. “For God’s sake, if there’s a possibility that you’re coming back to me in a body bag, I want to know why. What’s so fucking important?”
“They’re going to attack us again. Maybe here in Washington, in about a week.” McGarvey brushed her hair away from her eyes. She was on the verge of crying, but she was no longer spinning out of control. “How about going back to Florida and—”
“Not a chance,” she said.
“This time when it’s over, it’ll really be over for me. I’ll stay retired. Promise.”
Kathleen managed a small, tight smile. “I’ve heard that one before, more times than I care to count.”
“We’ll see,” McGarvey said. “Are you okay now?”
“Just peachy,” she replied. “Now sit down and have your coffee while I try not to burn your eggs.”
SIXTY-ONE
The attitude that they were all going to die had seeped through the boat like a flu virus. No one spoke above a whisper, and for the past few days everyone had gone about their duties like mindless robots. Even al-Abbas had become docile.
Graham rose from a light sleep around local apparent noon, five days out from Gibraltar, got a glass of tea from the galley, and went forward to the control room.
“Captain on the con,” al-Hari called out.
Ziyax, who was leaning over the chart table, looked up, but no one else bothered to respond. For now Graham preferred it that way. A tractable crew was an easily led crew, so long as there was no action. “As you were,” he said.
They were running on diesel power at snorkel depth, and the entire boat stank of fuel oil. He stepped back to sonar. “Mr. Isomil, how does it look above?”
The Libyan chief sonar operator looked up, his narrow face drooping, his eyes dull as if he were half-asleep. “We’re quite alone out here, Captain,” he said.
Graham could see for himself that all three sonar scopes were blank. “Check again,” he said. “And if you still detect nothing, run a diagnostic. I want to make absolutely sure there are no targets within range.”
“Yes, sir,” Isomil said, rousing himself.
Graham went back to the control room, raised the search periscope, and did a slow three-sixty. It was a blustery day, with whitecaps in all directions to the horizon under a partly cloudy sky. But the waves hadn’t built up yet, so the motion aboard was still minimal. The conditions on the surface were perfect for what he wanted to do.
A minute later Isomil called from sonar. “Captain, my machines are in good working order, and there are no surface or subsurface targets painting.”
“Very well,” Graham said. “Keep a sharp eye for the next few hours.”
“Aye, sir.”
Graham called the ESMs. “Ahmad, we’re going to run on the surface all afternoon. I want you to keep a very close eye on all frequencies, but especially on the military radar bands, both surface and air.”
“Yes, sir. Cap’n, request permission to raise the Snoop Tray to take a look before we surface.”
“Very well, but be smart about it.” Graham released the Push-to-Talk button on the intercom phone.
Ziyax and the other officers were looking expectantly at him. He’d gotten their attention.
“Prepare to surface the boat,” Graham ordered.
“It’s still broad daylight,” Ziyax countered.
Graham gave the Libyan captain a bland look. “This will be your last chance,” he said. “When I give an order I expect it to be carried out without hesitation or discussion. Is that clear?”
“Yes, but—”
“The next time you question an order of mine I will shoot you, and dump your body overboard. Is that also quite clear?”
Ziyax glanced at al-Abbas at the ballast board.
“Yes, Captain, quite clear,” Ziyax said. “Diving Officer, prepare to surface the boat.”
“Aye, prepare to surface,” al-Abbas repeated the order, with no hesitation.
Graham keyed the phone. “ESMs, are we clear?”
“Yes, we are, Cap’n,” Lieutenant Khalia answered.
“Very well, keep a sharp eye,” Graham said. He hung up the phone. “Surface the boat, we need some fresh air in here. We stink like a pigsty.”
Ziyax stiffened at the insult, but this time he did not delay. “Diving Officer, blow positive.”
“Aye, sir, blowing positive,” al-Abbas repeated the order, and he began transferring compressed air from a pair of storage tanks into several ballast tanks and they started to slowly rise toward the surface.
“Are we changing course now, sir?” Ziyax asked.
They didn’t have a current ephemeris of the American spy satellites over this piece of the ocean, but Graham figured it was a safe bet that if the Shehab remained on the surface for the rest of the afternoon, at least one would fly overhead and spot them.
“Negative,” he said. “Maintain your present heading, Captain.”
McGarvey and Katy were on their way out the door to catch an early movie and a pizza and beer afterwards, something they hadn’t done for a very long time, when the secure telephone rang. The last few days had been quiet, with nothing to do but enjoy their granddaughter and a little taste of their retirement. But McGarvey had been expecting the call. It was Rencke.
“Oh wow, NRO spotted the sub in mid-Atlantic about an hour ago,” Rencke gushed excitedly.
“Are we sure it’s the right one?” McGarvey asked.
“Louise repositioned a Marvel-two and got a reasonable angle. Unless there’s a pair of Foxtrots crossing the big pond, she’s our boat.” The supersecret Marvel series of spy satellites had been put in high-earth orbit to watch all of Europe in response to the emergence of Germany as a new world power.
“What’s her heading?”
“Southwest, same as before,” Rencke said. “He’s heading for the ditch after all.”
“I don’t think so,” McGarvey said. Last week he had pulled Graham’s jacket from the Directorate of Intelligence’s current People of Interest file, and spent a few hours studying the man’s background. Included were two psych evaluations that Rencke had managed to purloin from British Royal Navy records; the first just prior to Graham’s graduation from Perisher, and the second just prior to his discharge under other-than-honorable conditions.
He had learned enough to understand that Graham was driven not only by a strong need for revenge against the people he felt were responsible for his wife’s death, but by a deep sense of pride. The man’s ego was like a rocket engine on his back with no cut-off switch.
“Where then?” Rencke asked.
“Washington,” McGarvey said. Katy was watching him from the doorway, a sad, resigned expression on her pretty face.
“Okay, kimo sabe, what do you want to do? We still have a few days.”
“If he’s going to try what I think he will, I’ll need to borrow a sub driver and a SEAL team from the navy.”
“How much can we tell them out of the chute?” Rencke asked.
“Nothing. Not even my name, just that it’s a CIA op. We have to keep it away from the ONI in case the leak is at the Pentagon and not down at Gitmo.”
“How soon?”
“It’ll take at least a couple of days to set it up, so yesterday would be good.”
“Keep your cell phone turned on,” Rencke said.
“Right.”
The sun was setting a couple of points off the submarine’s starboard bow and Graham, standing on the cramped bridge, shielded his eyes against the glare. They’d been running on the surface for a little more than six hours and he was certain that they’d been spotted by at least one American satellite.