At that point, according to Hawke’s hastily thrown together plan, there would be six of the bright red tugs pushing and pulling Leviathan out to sea. Two up front with hawsers, towing. Two angled on either side, steering. And two at the stern, pushing. A book Hawke had read as a child popped into his brain. Little Toot. It was about a little tugboat with a big heart. He hoped like hell he had six little Toots on his side right now.
Karen Moran had dropped off two pilots. Bob Stuart, the Moran harbor pilot, was assigned to steer Leviathan out to the 20-Alpha buoy. At that point, he’d relinquish the helm to a New York state pilot, the “hooker,” he was called. The Sandy Hook pilot was responsible for the ship’s safe passage through the Ambrose Channel. Once they’d safely left the Ambrose Light astern, Leviathan would be in open ocean. There, they might have a chance. A slim one, maybe, but a chance all the same.
They were just now passing the Statue of Liberty to starboard. Hawke checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. He estimated they were doing six knots if they were lucky. Maybe five. He was suddenly aware of Mariucci standing by his side at the rail.
“I don’t like this,” Mariucci said. “At all.”
“It’s not going to work,” Hawke replied, admitting the truth for the first time. “We’ve got to go to evacuation. Give me the radio.”
“Fuck’s sake. You can’t evacuate fifteen million people, Alex! You got any idea how many people would die in that kind of panic? Don’t even think about it.”
Hawke’s eyes flashed with anger. “Where the hell is von Draxis?”
“Locked him up in his stateroom. We cut off his phone, took away his cell. Don’t worry, he ain’t calling anybody about this. And if he gets a call from his Chinese friends, we’ll make sure he makes all the right noises.”
“Any luck down below?” Alex asked. “The divers?”
“Hell, no. The damn thing is encased in solid lead. No way to get to it. Or even X-ray it! We did insert probes. It’s hot all right. And it’s got live wires. It’s the real deal, Alex. A live nuclear fission bomb.”
“What about my idea of cutting out that whole section of keel and just making an offshore run with that? Hell, we could airlift it out of here with a big Sikorsky. Drop it in the trench and be done with it.”
“The divers and arc welders tried, Alex. Couldn’t cut through. Too thick. Not anywhere near enough time. This is our shot right here, Alex. Tow her out beyond the Continental Shelf where the land drops off and scuttle her. What’s the White House say?”
“Hurry.”
“Yeah. What are we doing, six knots? That French captain is all right. He was never in on this goddamn thing, Alex. He’d like to get his hands on von Draxis right now—and Bonaparte. He’s on the bridge now with the harbor pilots, trying to help. When I left him, Dechevereux was on the radio, coordinating a rendezvous with the sub.”
“Sub?”
“A nuclear attack sub the president ordered up to meet us out at the Shelf. The USS Seawolf.”
“Where’s Seawolf now?”
“She was conducting an ‘emergency blow’ training exercise just off Block Island. She’s steaming toward the ‘Wall’ at flank speed. Hey! Where are you—”
“Alaska.”
“What? What about Alaska?”
“Let’s go see the captain,” Hawke said. “I’ve got an idea.”
2:37 A.M., EST
Captain Dechevereux and the two harbor pilots were at the helm when Hawke and Mariucci entered the bridge. Hawke went first to the two pilots. “I want to thank both you guys for all your help. And your bravery. I know you volunteered. As soon as we get to the Ambrose Channel, call one of the tugs alongside and hop off. All right? Go home to your families. And put in for hazard duty. You deserve it.”
“Yes, sir,” they said, practically in unison. “Thanks a lot.”
“Captain Dechevereux,” Hawke said. “Just curious. Did your great hero Bonaparte include nuclear terrorism in your job description?”
“He is no longer my hero, monsieur. If that monster knew about this, he should be shot.”
“He bloody well knew about it, I assure you. The question is, did you?”
“I am a professional seaman. I have a seafaring tradition in my family that goes back centuries. I am insulted by your question.”
“My apologies. Captain Mariucci is convinced of your innocence. I had to find out for myself. Tell me again how much damage the Chinese technicians did in your engine room?”
“As I told you, monsieur. They didn’t harm the reactors. No need. They simply short-circuited the computer monitoring systems. The short-circuit presented itself as a ‘malfunction’ warning, which in turn triggered a shutdown of the reactors. A crew of nuclear engineers would need hours to get them up and running again. Hopeless.”
“You can’t just give new computer instructions?”
“The technicians destroyed the computers. Backup as well.”
“Captain, listen to me carefully. I believe you told me you plan to sail in environmentally controlled areas. Alaska, for instance.”
“We do.”
“You must use auxiliary engines—”
“Yes. Gas turbine engines, Mr. Hawke. Basically jet engines converted to marine use.”
“Her speed with those engines?”
“Thirty knots is not inconceivable. But I’ve just come from the engine room. The turbines, too, are disabled. Bastards removed the igniters and smashed the fuel pumps.”
Hawke smiled at Mariucci for the first time in recent memory.
“That big Coast Guard kid you had watching the gangway. Is he still aboard?”
“Yeah. Tynan. He did a sweep of the ship. Found a bunch of Chinese stowaways. Nuclear techs who worked in the reactor rooms. I got him posted amidships, keeping an eye on them for me.”
“I saw a rating on that boy’s shirt. Some kind of machinist, right?”
“Yeah. He only pulled guard duty because of his size.”
“I want Tynan in the engine room. It’s our only shot. Let’s go.”
“Alex?” Mariucci said, grabbing Hawke’s arm. “We were supposed to call the president three minutes ago. You have to—”
“You call him,” Hawke said, handing him the radio. “Tell him to cross his bloody fingers.”
2:44 A.M., EST
The president turned and looked at his colleagues assembled at the long table in the Sit Room. You could calculate the degree of tension by the permanent smiles frozen on the faces of the Filipino staff clearing the table of dishes and pizza boxes. The wood-paneled wall slid back to display a projection map of New York Harbor. The blue icon inching southward toward Sandy Hook with six red satellites was Leviathan and her tugs.
“Six knots? This isn’t even going down to the wire,” McAtee said, picking up the laser pointer. “I just heard from Leviathan. They’re still nine miles from Sandy Hook. Seven more to the Ambrose Light. And another twelve to the ‘Wall.’ Twenty-eight miles at six knots is not going to make my day.”
Charlie Moore said, “At six knots, it will take them roughly five hours to reach the ‘Wall.’”
“Right,” McAtee said, “And we’ve got less than two.”
“Mr. President,” a senior staffer said, “I’ve got the governors of New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut standing by. All state, local, and federal emergency medical services have ramped up. I think it’s time to cut and run—”