Making his way around timbers and braces, McCory reached the front of the building and found the switchbox. He turned on several overhead lights.
It took a couple of minutes for his eyes to adjust to the radiance.
It was a utilitarian structure. A twenty-foot wide dock head crossed the front of the building, supporting workbenches, heavy tools and a latrine stuck in one corner. Overhead, a steel-legged rack contained the winches that lifted canvas slings that went under a hull. Once a boat was elevated above water level, the side docks could be cranked out under it. Everything was old. Most planks had splintered, and some had large chunks broken out of them. Any moving surface requiring grease was coated with both grease and dirt. The casings, rods, drive shafts, and bolts of ancient machinery were tinged with rust. The tops of wooden beams and steel I-bars had once been layered with dust, but McCory had washed it out before refinishing the Mimosa’s hull two months before.
There wasn’t a pane of glass left intact in a window, and fortunately, McCory had simply boarded them over with plywood. It made the interior private.
He went back to the side dock and rigged several spring lines to secure the boat, then walked out to the end and made sure the door was locked in its down position.
Then he walked back to the front of the building and lifted the telephone from its wall mount. It was connected to the same number as the Marina Kathleen.
He dialed.
“Mmmpf?”
“Good morning, Ginger.”
“Mmmpf! You mmmpf!”
“Me?”
“Bastard!”
“It’s 5:10 in the morning. Beautiful day. You should be getting up, anyway.”
“Your memory is fading, Kevin. I don’t get up until noon,” she said, and hung up.
He dialed again.
She let it ring three times before picking up.
“I need a ride, hon.”
“Where are you?”
“You know John Barley’s Refitters?”
“That’s only five or six miles. Walk it.”
“I don’t have any shoes.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“If I get out of this bed, you have to tell it to me.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Good-bye.”
“I’ll tell you.”
“Give me ten minutes. Oh, hell no! Give me twenty minutes.”
Rick Chambers smiled at the waitress, who was too tired to notice. She placed the coffee cup in front of him with a weary clatter and turned away, stifling a yawn.
Chambers didn’t like being ignored, especially by women. He almost said something to her, then thought better of it.
He was on an operation, and attention was the last thing he needed, even in an airport restaurant.
There hadn’t been many interesting operations in the last few years. Sometimes, it seemed like he’d become nothing more than an errand boy. He didn’t like the feeling, though the salary and the free time were acceptable.
And he wasn’t a boy. Richard Chambers was fifty-one years old. He’d done his twenty years as a Special Forces trooper, rising to master sergeant, after a couple of demotions, before his retirement. If he cared about proving his competency in the Green Berets, he could point to a stack of blue, flat, cardboard boxes somewhere in his mother’s house that contained a Distinguished Service Medal, a couple of Silver Stars, three Bronze Stars, two Army Commendation Medals, four Purple Hearts, and a few other trinkets with his name engraved on the backs.
He didn’t much care about the jewelry anymore. A Silver Star didn’t buy zilch. Greenbacks were better. He had become a little complacent, enjoying the restaurants around D.C. a bit more than he should have, lolling around his Arlington Heights condominium, taking long weekends at AMDI’s hospitality condo in Palm Springs.
There were maybe fifteen pounds around his waist that shouldn’t be there. Otherwise, he was still fit enough. The shoulders and neck were as thick, hard, and strong as ever. His hair was a trifle longer than in his military days but still maintained in a brush cut. His cheeks and jaw were slightly padded with new flesh, but the hard angles of his cheekbones and the somewhat sunken sockets gave his hazel eyes a menacing appearance. His nose had been broken a couple of times and wasn’t quite lined up with the rest of his face. On the left side of his neck was a thin, angry white scar, the result of a 7.62 round that had passed a little close.
Chambers wore thousand-dollar suits that were tailored to his six-four, 240-pound frame. This morning’s suit was a silver-gray with thin, dark red stripes, and as customary, he didn’t wear a tie. On the table beside his plate — wiped clean except for the sprig of parsley — was a thin leather portfolio. It contained all of the paperwork that Malgard had given him. There wasn’t much there.
He had sent his carryon through Delta’s baggage check, because he didn’t want the magnetometer sounding off when he entered the concourse.
Checking the time on the stainless steel Rolex strapped to his wrist, Chambers tossed a couple of bills on the table, stood up, and strolled back into the terminal. He never gave anyone the impression that he was in a hurry or late for an appointment. He sauntered his way down the concourse to his gate in the Delta Airlines section, leaned against a post, and studied the Boeing 737 parked on the ramp.
When the girl at the counter called the flight and the people clambered out of their chairs and scrambled for a place in line, Chambers remained where he was. He didn’t like fighting mobs. Besides, he had reserved a first-class ticket. Window seat. He always got a window seat.
The line dwindled down, and Chambers joined the end of it, passed down the skyway, and entered the aircraft. He pulled his ticket and boarding pass from the inside jacket pocket and handed it to the girl.
“Good morning, sir. Off to Tallahassee?”
“Right.” Connecting to Pensacola. He hadn’t been down that way in years.
“Fine, sir.” Glancing at the boarding pass, she said, “You’re in row three, on the right, aisle seat.”
“No.”
“Sir?”
“I reserved a window seat.”
She checked the ticket, then the boarding pass. “Oh, I believe there’s been a mistake. The window seat’s been taken.”
“Then correct it.”
“Sir?”
“Correct your mistake.”
She studied his face for a moment, then said, “Just a moment, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”
Rick Chambers always got his way.
The Antelope was holding position some two miles off the western coast of the bay. Nearby, a salvage barge had been anchored, and a hill of fiberglass chunks was slowly growing on its deck. The two V-8 engines and part of an outdrive from the once-proud Scarab were lashed down near the gunwale.
Several small boats and launches chugged about. Sailors in blue work uniforms scampered about the decks or leaned against railings, grabbing a smoke. Infrequently, a diver’s head popped free of the water’s surface.
The gunboat was not large enough to take a helicopter, and James Monahan was lowered to the aft deck by the helicopter’s winch. He was met by a chief petty officer and led forward to the bridge.
He heard a triumphant shout and looked over the railing. A scuba diver was treading water, holding aloft a bottle of Chivas Regal. Treasure from the deep.
The sun had come up hot and gotten hotter. The armpits of Monahan’s khakis were already stained after the long flight from Norfolk in the back of the Sea Knight.
The CPO rapped on the door of the captain’s quarters aft of the bridge, then opened the door for him. He found Commander Martin Holloway and Admiral Aaron Stein inside. Holloway was bleary-eyed and a little bedraggled and, like Monahan, young for his rank. Stein was in whites, the space above his left breast pocket rainbowed with ribbons picked up in Vietnam and Grenada. He was of medium build but sported a beginning paunch.