Badr was still bothered by the missing second boat. From the Navy intercepts and the newscasts, it, too, had disappeared from the face of the earth.
The aircraft engines became louder, and low on the horizon, Badr saw the amphibian approaching. It was a twin-engined Canadair CL-215.
“Ahmed?”
Ahmed Rahman had been a missile specialist in the Iraqi army. He was thirty-four years old and appeared somewhat studious behind thick spectacles and a bushy black mustache. His fundamentalist Sunni beliefs made him a dedicated soldier. Badr had brought him along originally to direct the tanker’s defense, with handheld Stinger missiles, in the event that pursuit led to the tanker. With the acquisition of the Sea Spectre’s missiles, Rahman’s mission had changed. His task was made difficult by the lack of manuals regarding the missiles, their launcher, and their relationship to the other systems on board.
“From the missile that I have disassembled, I suspect that it is a small copy of the McDonnell Douglas RGM-84A Harpoon, Colonel. The electronics are miniaturized beyond belief. There is a solid boost motor for launch and a small turbojet for cruise. The warhead consists of a depleted uranium armor penetrator and approximately two hundred pounds of high explosives.”
“We can make it work?” Badr asked.
“I will know that only after I am able to try it. Target acquisition is accomplished from the boat, but I do not know the effective range or speed. Once airborne, the missile either follows active radar or infrared emissions to the target or may be guided from the boat by way of the electro-optical scanner or radar targeting. It will be interesting,” Rahman concluded.
“Yes. It will be interesting.”
The amphibious airplane had circled the ship, then settled to the sea and was approaching the ship quickly.
Badr signaled el-Ziam, and the two of them crossed the deck to the railing where Hakim’s sailors had attached a transfer basket to the crane.
Ibn el-Ziam was a Bedouin, and looked uncomfortable in his western clothes and newly smooth-shaven face. His discomfort, however was more likely derived from his role as a sailor. El-Ziam was quite at home in the west. He wore Levi’s, running shoes, a plaid shirt, and a heavy cast on his arm. The cast contained the tools he would need on his mission and provided the cover story. Injured at sea, he was being transferred to the Bahamas for medical attention. He carried a small valise.
“Do you have your papers?” Badr asked.
“Yes, Colonel. I am Francisco Cordilla. I have American dollars and Spanish pesetas.”
Badr held the valise while el-Ziam scrambled into the basket.
“You know what you must do?”
“Of course. As soon as I reach Washington, I will seek out this manufacturer, this Advanced Marine Development, Incorporated.”
“You must find the other boat.”
“I will find it, Colonel. Do not fear.”
Of all his men, Badr trusted el-Ziam the most. The man had proven over and over again his ability to slip unnoticed into foreign countries — Germany, France, Britain, Italy, and others — and deliver lethal parcels.
The man enjoyed his tasks, and he smiled at Badr as the crane groaned and the basket lifted from the deck.
Chapter 8
McCory didn’t get up until almost noon, worrying that he was falling into Ginger’s habit of sleeping late. He liked being a morning person.
He crawled out of the queen-sized bed in Kathleen’s master cabin, located under the stern deck, made the bed, then slipped into the small head to shower and shave. He dressed in Levi’s, deck shoes, and a blue T-shirt with a Dolphin’s logo on the left breast.
Taking the short companionway up to the salon, he started the pot with four cups of real caffeine, flipped on the stereo to catch the news, then got two strips of bacon, one egg, and two pieces of rye toast underway.
When his breakfast was ready, he scooped it all onto a plate, set it on the dinette table, and slid open the big window over the table. Windless day, temperature climbing. It felt good. His newspaper was resting on the side deck next to the window. He tipped the paperboy well for that service.
McCory took his time with breakfast, leafing through the paper, listening to Randy Travis, Reba McIntyre, and Ricky Van Shelton issuing from the Marantz stereo receiver. Nashville had a whole new generation of names attached to it, and he lamented the absence of Cash, Haggard, and Lynn from regular inclusion on the top forty.
From his vantage point in Slip 1, McCory could survey most of his minikingdom, primarily down the main dock. Bob Weston was fueling his sport fisherman, the Prime Mover, down at the fuel dock. Among his residents, McCory had an honor system of fueling. They topped off their tanks, listed the quantity on a clipboard, and signed it. He billed them. The inventory hadn’t come up a gallon short in a year.
Try that in Miami or New York.
His residents were a continual renewal of his faith in people.
Mimi Kuntzman came up the dock, whistling some song he didn’t know. She was seventy-one years old, looked fifty, and wore shorts and a pink-and-blue striped blouse. Strong, muscled, chorus girl’s legs. Ann Miller. Juliet Prouse. As she came alongside the Kathleen, she stopped and peered in his window.
“That smells suspiciously like breakfast.”
McCory leaned close to the window. “It is. Want some, Mimi?”
“I had mine at seven. You didn’t work so late, you could get up like normal people. It’s not good for you, Kevin, all that work.”
“I’ll try to slow down.”
“It’s another big boat, isn’t it? Like Mimosa?”
“What is?”
“The one you’re working on over at John Barley’s. Monte Harris saw the Kathleen tied up over there last night. And you didn’t get back until nearly six this morning.”
Mimi was what McCory imagined having a mother would be like. “I promise. I’ll slow down.”
“And I want you over for dinner on Saturday night. Six sharp. Bring your friend.”
She turned and went on down the dock.
McCory watched her through the front windshield until she started up the ramp. Shook his head. Secrets were difficult to keep around here. He was going to have to be more careful. And for the first time, he began to wonder what the reaction would be among his friends if they found out he’d stolen a Navy boat. They read the papers and watched TV. They weren’t stupid, and there was always the chance that a Mimi Kuntzman or a Monte Harris or a Bob Weston might start putting two and two together and come up with XMC-22. None of them had ever known Devlin, but he had mentioned his father to them from time to time.
He worried a little about firing the missile. The news media had yet to notify the public that missiles were missing from Navy inventories. What if one of his friends found out how McCory and Ginger spent their nights?
He didn’t want to lose any friends.
The dishes were almost done when the phone rang. He crossed the salon to the built-in desk — every tenon and mortise hand fitted by Devlin — and picked up.
“Kevin.” Gravelly voice.
“Yes, Marge.”
“There’s a couple gentlemen here would like to rent the Starshine. Two days.”
“What do they look like?’
“I can’t answer that.”
“Because they’re right there?”
“Yes.”
“Ages over thirty?”
“More than that,” she said.