“Tell me, Jim.”
Monahan had come to his feet as soon as Clay appeared. “Not good, Admiral. The reports are still coming in, but it looks like they were hit with six missiles.”
“Casualties?”
Andrews, with a telephone pressed against the side of his face, responded. “I’ve got the hospital on the line, Bing. Ambulances are still coming in, but so far, we’re counting forty-two dead and one hundred and twelve wounded. Some of those are damned serious. The fatality count is going to climb. I’ve ordered aircraft to transport burn cases to San Antonio.”
“Son of a bitch!” Clay snorted.
One of the things that Monahan had always respected about Bingham Clay was the man’s concern for people. He worried about the men and women assigned to his command first and everything else second.
“Matt,” the admiral said to the intelligence deputy, “you see if they need more medical help down there. If they do, you get it to them.”
“Aye, aye,” Andrews said, and went back to the phone.
“We got Washington in on this?” Clay asked.
Monahan nodded. “Lieutenant Commander Horan is the duty officer. He called the CNO’s office right away, and they’re monitoring our board.”
Monahan had a mental picture of the staff cars converging on the Pentagon. Someone would have gotten the President out of bed by now.
“Targets, Jim?”
“From what I’ve got right now,” Monahan waved the telex he was holding, “it looks sporadic. One wing of the headquarters building; a warehouse full of soft goods — bedding, uniforms, and the like; and a motor pool — fifty-six vehicles damaged at last count. Three barracks buildings were hit, and that’s where we took most of the casualties.”
“Shit, shit, shit! Any doubt in your mind that it was the Sea Spectres?”
“No sir,” Monahan said. “I think, though, that only one of the boats was involved.”
“Why?”
“Elapsed time of the attack. With both boats, we’d have had eight missiles launched in the first wave. There were only six total, and there was almost a five-minute pause from the first salvo to the second.”
“They’re holding one of the boats in reserve, then?”
“Yes. Or they’ve sent the other boat on to the Persian Gulf.”
“Give me an impression, Jim.”
Monahan took a minute to sift through the images in his mind. “I think the primary objective was shock value, sir. They didn’t go in with preset targets. The impact pattern is too random. There were other targets available that would have been more spectacular. Fuel and ammunition storage sites, for example.”
“Matt?” Clay looked to Andrews.
Andrews nodded while continuing to talk on the phone. His expression said he did not necessarily want to agree with Monahan but did not have a better alternative prepared at the moment.
Clay pointed at the plotting board. There were so many symbols converging on the coast of North Carolina that it was difficult to read. “What the hell’s going on there?”
“Task Force 22 is three hundred miles southeast. America has sent Tomcats and Intruders. Langley Air Base has put up F-15s. There’s some Coast Guard cutters in the area. Every naval installation within four hundred miles has scrambled air and sea search craft.”
“Who in the fuck ordered that?”
Monahan held off on an answer, and Andrews finally spoke up, “I did, Bing. We’ve got to pin that SOB down while we’ve got him in a known sector.”
Clay frowned, slipped out of his uniform blouse, and tossed it on the chair next to him. He sat down.
“Well, let’s get some order injected into it. Commander Horan, get a headset and stand by. Jim, you go find an airplane and get down to Lejeune.”
The Prebble had joined up with Task Force 22 just after midnight. The flagship had stationed her three miles ahead and one mile to the port side of America.
Since 0220 hours, Barry Norman had been pacing his bridge, pausing frequently to watch the flights of aircraft taking off from the carrier. Their afterburners streaked the horizon behind the destroyer.
He was angry and frustrated. He was mad as hell about the success of the attack on the Marine Corps base. It made a statement, not only about the value of the Sea Spectre as an assault craft, but also about the complacency of American troops in a peacetime garrison.
His frustration was a result of being stationed within the task force, when he should be closer to the scene. The Prebble had the best, if not the only, chance of locating Badr.
“Bridge, CIC.”
Norman recognized Perkins’s voice and crossed the deck to the intercom mounted on the bulkhead. “Bridge. Go ahead, Commander.”
“Message just in, Captain. CINCLANT’s suggesting that only one boat was involved in the attack. All Safari elements are to continue observation of commercial vessels while simultaneously mounting the search in the North Carolina sector.”
Norman had figured out sometime before that only one boat was involved. It was about time the commands figured it out, too. On the task force radio net, broadcast from the overhead speakers, he heard the flagship detaching some ships to continue surveillance of the tankers and freighters they had been dogging. The rest of the task force was given a new course heading.
“Commander Perkins, send a message to CINCLANT, copy CINC TF22. ‘Commander, Prebble recommends her detachment at flank speed to scene of crisis. Rationale, Prebble mounts anti-stealth gear.’”
“Right away, sir.”
Twelve minutes later, Perkins called him back, unsuccessfully disguising the jubilation he felt. “Captain! We’ve been released from the task force! We’re now Safari Echo.”
“It’s about damn time somebody started thinking,” Norman said. “Instructions?”
“Wide open, sir. ‘Proceed at best possible speed. Engage search at your discretion.’”
“Thank you, Commander.” Norman turned to the second mate, who had the watch. “Susan, give us a course for Onslow Bay. And we want every knot we can get out of her.”
“Aye aye sir.”
Norman went below to his quarters to catch a few hours of sleep but found himself spread out on his bunk, eyes closed, wide awake.
He felt the vibrations as the turbines met the challenge of full power. The chief engineer would have all of his people on duty, watching those shafts.
He kept thinking about that one boat.
A damned terrorist could cause a lot more havoc using both boats. Since when did someone like this Ibrahim Badr think rationally?
He did not want to underestimate Badr or anyone like him. As far as Arabic logic went, Norman was the first to admit he did not fathom it, but still…
Terrorist groups were not known for holding back. Hell, if Norman was directing a similar operation and had both boats available, he would have used them.
Devlin McCory.
Norman had looked up his old correspondence with Devlin. Clear back in 1985, he had mentioned a design he was working on for a stealth boat. Twice more, in later letters, he had referred to it. There was nothing specific, but he had sounded excited about it.
But Devlin was gone. Only the boy was left, and Norman had no idea what had become of him. Kevin, that was the name. From the tone of Devlin’s letters, he suspected that father and son had been close.
Maybe Kevin had Devlin’s drawings? Could he be helpful in tracking down the Sea Spectre?
No.
But Norman could not let go of it. He ought to tell someone.
He sat up on the edge of his bunk and pressed the intercom button. “Comm, this is the Captain.”