That realization made his heart sink anew. The increasing likelihood of interdiction by the FBI or Coast Guard meant hostages would have zero probability of survival. That in turn meant Maggie’s only hope of rescue depended on him. Once she was safe he’d do his best to stop the terrorists, but she came first. He’d need surprise and perfect timing, and if he blew any part of it, both of them would end up dead. He raised his wounded arm and flexed the joint. The bleeding had slowed, but his elbow had stiffened, making movement even more painful. After a time, the radar showed the yacht change course, turning southwest. It was still around five hundred yards out, but now with the new heading the wind was off his stern, so he was able to increase speed. Over the next twenty minutes, he narrowed the gap and was only about two hundred yards back when the yacht changed course again and began moving almost directly south. The GPS showed the Sound beginning to narrow as the land squeezed closer from both shores. The seas had subsided slightly, but hard rain still pelted. His teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Minutes later, even though the yacht was only a hundred yards ahead, he realized he had a new problem. The cold had debilitated him. His wounded arm now hung almost immobile at his side, and the fingers on his other hand were nearly too stiff to move. If he tried to leap on the yacht’s stern, he risked falling helplessly into the water.
He shook his head, refusing to focus on failure. He was staring at the radar screen, watching what was now a second radar blip converging with the first, when the rain ceased abruptly. He tore his eyes off the screen and looked overhead. Almost immediately, the absence of driving rain allowed warmth to begin flooding back into his limbs. It took several seconds to comprehend that he was passing beneath what had to be the Throgs Neck Bridge. Low clouds obscured the structure, but from overhead came the unmistakable thump of car tires crossing expansion joints.
Seconds later, he roared back into the cold rain, but the shelter of the bridge had bought him a little extra time. Now his fingers would move again and the uncontrollable shivering had diminished.
He looked back at the radar and struggled to pick the yacht out of the two convergent blips. One of the blips was moving directly toward the shore, so he decided the yacht had to be the other one. From here, his lead narrowed quickly. He drew to within fifty yards, then forty, thirty. He stared at the screen but snatched quick glances at the fog, trying to perceive a shape, something solid against the shifting whiteness. He continued to close the gap, backing off the throttles as he suddenly noticed that he was in the smooth wake of the other boat. He looked down at the water, thinking it seemed oddly calm, given the churning screws of the yacht’s engines. He inched closer and closer until a shape materialized. Panic hit him then. It was no yacht, but a tug pushing a barge!
SIXTY-TWO
OYSTER BAY, NY, JULY 2
ANN JENKINS CHEWED HER CUTICLES bloody as she peered out the window of the Coast Guard chopper and thought how the past forty-five minutes had probably turned her career to toast, and about how not long ago she’d been standing in the parking lot behind the Oyster Bay Cove Police Department going over the satellite photos with her team of FBI agents and Nassau County Police S.W.A.T. officers.
She’d been expecting a radio call any second from the Nassau County Police helo announcing that they were on station offshore of Biddle’s dock, positioned to prevent an escape by boat and otherwise provide general backup and assistance. The call had come all right, only the Nassau County PD said the weather was deteriorating too rapidly for their chopper to fly. Sorry, they told her, but she’d need to call the Coast Guard.
Just then the black kid showed up, almost hysterical, babbling about a fire at Biddle’s estate, shots fired, and a wounded cop. That was also when she’d learned that the Oyster Bay Fire Department had been notified first and was already rolling. She’d blown off the planning and raced everyone out to Biddle’s estate where they spent fifteen precious minutes arguing with the fire chief and EMT’s about who would go in first. Finding the dead security man behind the guardhouse won the argument for her, but they’d gone into Biddle’s property a full hour before the Coast Guard chopper’s scheduled arrival.
Then, of course, there was the situation they’d found: Kosinsky wounded and being tended by a retired fireman, Maggie DeVito missing along with Brent Lucas, three dead security guards, no sign of the terrorists, a blown-up cottage with some bloody human remains and another body in the courtyard. Also, Prescott Biddle and his wife were missing, along with Biddle’s yacht.
The chopper finally circled in just as the weather was completely shutting down, but Jenkins had ordered them to land anyway so she could jump aboard. Now she stared out fogged-up windows that showed only the reflection of their flying lights against the dense clouds, while trying to hold down the contents of her stomach in the buffeting.
Initially, thinking the terrorists might have run for the open ocean, they’d made an easterly sweep out of Oyster Bay, where they found three ships. They’d gone in low over each one, and the co-pilot had adjusted the radar to give them a good idea of length and size. There’d been two towed barges and a small commercial boat, but nothing remotely the shape of a hundred-foot yacht.
From there they circled west, and in the past few minutes, they’d checked out several more blips—all barges—between Oyster Bay and the Throgs Neck Bridge. They were following a fresh blip and gaining altitude to go over the bridge when she noticed the co-pilot stiffen and sit forward.
She tapped his shoulder. “Got anything?” she shouted over the roar of the rotors.
He shrugged, pointing to the screen. “A second ago, I thought I saw something along the western shore, but it disappeared.” They came over the bridge, closed on the first target, and as the pilot sharpened the resolution, Jenkins saw the signal split into two parts.
The co-pilot shook his head. “That’s weird,” he shouted. “Looks like a small boat, maybe twenty-five feet, almost on top of a tug.”
Jenkins tried to ignore her heaving stomach and think. What if the terrorists were on a smaller boat than she’d thought? What if were they trying to take over a tug? It was a possibility. On the other hand where were DeVito and Lucas? Were they dead, or taken hostage, or were they also out in the fog trying to find the terrorists?
As she watched the screen, the smaller blip fell back and came to a stop, letting the barge pull ahead. Suddenly, Jenkins had an idea, and she tapped on the co-pilot’s shoulder again. “What about that other blip you saw?” she shouted.
He pointed to a spot behind them, close to the shoreline.
“Let’s check it out,” she called.
As they headed in that direction and the co-pilot adjusted the radar, the blip appeared once again.
“Is it moving?” she shouted.
The co-pilot stared at the screen a moment, then nodded. “Very slow.”
What if the terrorists were sneaking instead of running? Fog made that the superior strategy.
Suddenly, the co-pilot shouted, “Whitestone Bridge.” They began an abrupt climb and swung in a tight circle as they reacquired their target, and then the helicopter dropped so quickly that Jenkins though her stomach would tear loose. The pilot positioned them almost directly behind the blip while the co-pilot adjusted the radar and studied the image. After a second, he said something to the pilot. Suddenly, the flying lights went out, and the helicopter began to descend, getting nearer and nearer the boat.