“When my mother died, she left me an insurance policy worth a thousand dollars,” McCory had said. “Devlin put it in a savings account for me. There’s about five thousand in the account now.”
“You haven’t touched it?”
“No. I’ll loan it to you.”
“I can’t do that, Mac.”
“Sure you can. As long as you have a chance at Harvard, take it. I want interest, though.”
“Nine percent?” Daimler had offered.
“Call it seven,” McCory had said.
Daimler had long ago repaid the loan, but the offer itself was just one of the things he owed McCory.
He heard the phone ringing.
“Advanced Marine Development.”
“Justin Malgard, please.”
“May I say who is calling?”
“Weirgard, Amos, Havelock, and Moses,” Daimler made up on the spot.
“Please hold on.”
While he held on, he thought about the information his paralegal had dug up on Malgard. From the time he had taken over AMDI, it was apparent that Malgard wanted to be a big-time defense industry wheeler-dealer. He had drastically expanded his plant facilities located in Baltimore, at the cost of some heavy-duty loans. He and his wife had moved into an upscale house in Glen Burnie and purchased matching Mercedes 550 SECs. He was laying out stiff rentals for the office suite on New Hampshire Avenue. He could have operated out of the factory offices, but Malgard wanted to be in the thick of Washington intrigues.
“Hello. This is Justin Malgard.”
Without offering a name, Daimler said, “Mr. Malgard, I represent a person who has a special and personal interest in the XMC-22.”
“What! What are you talking about?”
“Let’s just say this person is possibly interested in seeing that the boat is returned to your control.”
“You’re saying you know who stole the Sea Spectres?”
“I’m saying that maybe we should discuss the problems.”
“Bullshit! You’re asking a ransom.”
“No. But we’d like to discuss the history of the boat and its design. With proper compensation… ”
Malgard hung up on him.
Which was about what Daimler might have expected.
For almost ten hours, the Prebble had been making flank speed to the south. She had left the Mitscher to keep tabs on the plethora of freighters and tankers working into and out of the northeast sector.
CINCLANT had ordered Barry Norman to join with Task Force 22 coming up from the Caribbean. The order had come twenty minutes after one of America’s AWACS aircraft had spotted what it believed to be a missile launch.
Short-lived, but a missile launch.
Coming out of nowhere.
No source identified.
No target identified.
CINCLANT was convinced the event suggested one of the stealth boats was experimenting with the Mini-Harpoon.
Norman was on the bridge, listening in on Task Force 22’s command net. According to the navigator, they were still eleven hours away from joining the task force. He was urging the clock to go faster.
When they ran down that boat, Norman wanted to be there. In fact, utilizing the gear aboard the Prebble was probably the only way they would corner the Sea Spectre.
His executive officer entered the bridge.
“Commander?”
“We’ve completed the drill, sir. It went very well.”
“Do it again, XO.”
“Sir?”
“I want these guys sharp as hell on that equipment. When we have to use it, there may be lives hanging in the balance.”
“Aye aye sir. We’ll do it again.”
Norman had read the coded cables describing the Warriors of Allah and their leader, Ibrahim Badr. That son of a bitch was someone he would like to get his hands on, personally.
Ibrahim Badr had compromised with Captain Abdul Hakim. The Hormuz had to appear as if it were going somewhere if it were picked up on someone’s radar, or by the Americans’ aerial reconnaissance. Circling about in the western Atlantic would be suspicious, although a breakdown of the vessel’s single steam turbine engine could be faked at some point, if necessary. Judging by the ship’s appearance, in fact, a breakdown could be expected.
At the moment, they were about 300 miles from the Bahamas, after fifty hours of steaming to the west, and were again headed north. They could have been transporting Venezuelan crude to Nova Scotia, creeping along at the Hormuz’s standard twelve knots of speed.
It was hot on the deck, just forward of the tanker’s superstructure, when Badr gathered his Warriors for a short meeting. The heat brought out the worst odors from the deck — acrid oil, spoiling garbage.
Badr leaned against a ventilator and surveyed his men.
Omar Heusseini’s eyes were dark and baggy. He had been studying radar and sonar manuals for four days almost without break. Heusseini was somewhere in his fifties — he had never been certain of his birthdate. There was a great deal of gray in his dark brown hair, and his eyes had a washed appearance. The desert had lined his face heavily and brought a slope to his shoulders, making him stoop a little. Heusseini had learned the trade of radar operation and maintenance as a member of the Shah’s armed forces and had fled Iran a few days after the Shah had been deposed.
“Omar?” Badr asked.
“I am ready, my colonel.”
When he had formed the Warriors of Allah, Badr had promoted himself to colonel. The rank seemed appropriate and not as self-serving as that of general.
The drone of airplane engines could be heard to the west, and Badr turned to look but could not see the aircraft.
“We will lift the boat from the tank again tonight, so that you may practice,” Badr told him. Within the steel hull of the tanker, the Sea Spectre’s electronics performed dismally.
“That is good,” Heusseini agreed. “There are some new computer routines I need to rehearse. It is truly magnificent equipment.”
Badr felt comfortable with Heusseini’s expertise. He was less comfortable with Amin Kadar, who would operate the radios and the sonar system. Kadar was in his early twenties, a very intent and focused young man. His gaze was clear, but as often as not, concentrated on some unknown objective just beyond the bounds of reality. A dreamer.
“Amin?”
Kadar turned away from his study of the sea and said, “Yes, Colonel?”
“The sonar?”
“It is fine. Much better than I have used in the merchant marines.”
“And the radios?”
Kadar shrugged. “Who will we talk to?”
“I am less interested in talking to anyone than I am in listening.”
The young revolutionary smiled. “The manuals in the desk were invaluable. I have given you the locations of the American naval forces, have I not?”
“That is true.”
When the Sea Spectre rested above the deck at night, suspended from the crane, Kadar scanned the naval frequencies, using the encryption and scrambling devices. He estimated that they had intercepted perhaps twenty percent of the Second Fleet’s directives to the task forces searching for the Sea Spectres. The search effort was called Safari, and the search area had been broken up into sectors, but they had not been able to determine where, or what size, the sectors were. Heusseini had charted many of the ships that might belong to one search force or another. He had used active radar with some impunity, since its use could be attributed to the Hormuz.