“That’ll damn near double the vessels we’ll have to keep an eye on.”
“The CIA may have to shift the orbits of some satellites. In fact, that should have been done by now.”
“Ah, hell.” Nelson reached out and pressed the key on an intercom.
“Sir?”
“Go down to Admiral Clay’s office, and ask him if he can step in here, will you?”
The Combat Information Center (CIC) was lit with red light. Captain Barry Norman entered through the light trap and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. On the bulkhead directly in front of him, someone had taped a picture of the Sea Spectre, like a postwar Betty Grable pinup. The picture had been sent to all ships of the Atlantic Fleet. It was somewhat superfluous to the men aboard the Prebble, since they had been involved in search-and-capture games with the boat for months.
Lieutenant Commander Al Perkins saw him and strode across the room. “Hello, Captain.”
“Al. What have we got?”
“Deuce Two just made a pass near that freighter we picked up an hour ago.” Deuce Two was one of the Sea-sprite helicopters. “She’s Albanian and looks to be bound for Bristol. The decks are stacked with cargo, and Deuce Two doesn’t think they’d have been able to shift it enough to load a forty-foot boat.”
“You pass the information to CINCLANT?”
“Yes sir, I did.”
“Okay. We’ve got some new orders,” Norman said. “CINCLANT wants to look at vessels inbound, also. You still have tracks on the container ships we passed?”
“I can get ’em back, sir.”
“Do that, and send Deuce Three out to have a look.”
“Aye aye sir.”
Norman took a moment to look over the electronic plot. Mitscher was five miles off their starboard flank. Half a dozen other ships within sixty miles were currently under observation.
“I wish one of them was our bogey, sir.”
“Do you, Al?”
“I’d like to blow the son of a bitch out of the water.”
Perkins’s red hair and intense anger made Norman remember a chief petty officer who had been assigned to Norman’s first command, a maintenance section at Pensacola. Norman had been a fresh lieutenant (j.g.). A hundred years ago, it seemed.
Devlin McCory had not been an easy man to forget, since he and Norman had corresponded a few times a year for several decades. In fact, when he thought about it, he remembered that McCory had had a few ideas, and good ones, about boat and ship construction. Had one of those Christmas letters mentioned a stealth boat?
McCory would probably find it ironic that the Navy had built a boat so stealthy that they could not find it themselves.
Norman could hear the Irish laughter.
McCory drove a 1966 Chevrolet step-side pickup. Like his older boats, it was in fully restored condition. The 327 cubic-inch V-8 hummed. It was painted a metallic blue, and “Marina Kathleen” was lettered in flowing script on the doors.
He parked it in front of John Barley’s dry dock and shut off the engine. Before he could get around to the other side to open the door, Ginger Adams was out and on the ground. She was independent that way.
She was wearing running shoes, jeans, and a gray-and-green plaid cotton blouse. Her blonde hair was fluffed out casually. McCory stopped to enjoy the view.
“What are you looking at?”
“You don’t look like a bank vice president.”
“Now you want me to look like a vice president?”
“Of course not. I’m just glad I came to you for a loan.”
“Loans. Plural. Over a third of a million, and now in jeopardy. I’ll probably lose my job,” she said.
“You’d better not go in there, then,” McCory told her, being serious. “There’s something about accessory after the fact.”
Ginger slipped her arm inside his. “I’ve thought about it, Kevin, and I’ll take my chances.”
He studied her face.
“I’m being serious. This could mean big trouble for you.”
“I said I’d thought about it.”
“Your boss might not like seeing your name in the papers again.”
“He didn’t say anything when I was arrested at the zoo in Miami.”
“This is slightly different,” he said.
She went up on her toes to kiss him. “It’s going to be all right. I mean it.”
Over the years, McCory had been involved with a number of women. In some cases, infatuated. After a few months, however, the relationships had dissipated. With Ginger, however, the bond seemed to be growing stronger after almost a year.
It was strange in a way because, though they had some common ground — Florida natives, degrees in business, an affection for some of the same authors, and a faith in the Miami Dolphins, they frequently disagreed on food, recreation, politics, and national issues. She accused him of being romantic and impulsive. Ginger thought his planning processes were, if not nonexistent, then chaotic. McCory had told her that, despite her personal appearance and activism, she was a conservative.
Thinking about that, he said, “This really isn’t something that you should get involved in, hon.”
“There is that element of danger, isn’t there? Beyond that, there is also an element of injustice that intrigues me. So quit worrying about it, McCory, and show me the damned boat!”
He walked her up to the door and unlocked it. Pushed it open and turned on the lights.
“My God!”
“That’s about what Ted thought, too, only he was a little more profane.”
They slipped inside, and McCory locked the door. His security measures weren’t intensive, but he was more conscious of them than he had ever been.
Ginger crossed the dock head and went down the side dock, dodging the dry dock’s cradle timbers. She reached out and ran her hand over the smooth surface.
“Nice lines, huh?” he said.
“It’s beautiful. You’re sure Devlin designed it?”
“I’m positive. I’ll show you.”
McCory opened the hatch and helped her inside. Leading the way forward, he turned on overhead lights, using the white lights, rather than the red. The notes from his clipboard and Devlin’s drawings were spread out on the banquette table. Ginger slid onto the bench seat, and McCory sat beside her.
She was patient as he went through the dozen sheets of paper on which he had scrawled notes, pointing out the details on the drawings. On the drawings, he had used red ink to write numbers in small circles that corresponded to the number of the comparison note.
“She’s exactly forty-four feet, six inches long. The beam is thirteen feet, ten inches. The keel is cast in carbon-impregnated plastic, and the dimensions match the drawings exactly. Every rib is spaced as Devlin planned it. In the structure itself, the only differences are the cabin layout and the absence of a foredeck hatch. Here? See this? The same damned rotary engines Devlin proposed.”
Ginger pored over the drawings intently, then said, “It seems conclusive enough to me. What are you going to do about it?”
McCory snorted. “I was going to hold a mammoth press conference. It doesn’t seem like such a hot idea, under the circumstances.”
She turned her head to look at him. “I’d agree with that. What does Ted say?”
“To wait it out, see if they find the other boat. Then find a way to open negotiations with both the Navy and Advanced Marine Development.”
“I don’t think you’re that patient.”
“It’s difficult,” he agreed.
Ginger leafed through his notes. “This is a mess.”
“Are you a critic? I can read it.”
“But no one else can. I’ll type it up for you.”