The frequency was quiet then, until Heusseini let the radar make three full sweeps.
“I see only two submarines in the docks,” Heusseini said.
“Proceed,” Badr told him.
“Boxer!” burst over the radio. “Mickey Three. I’ve got a hot radar in the north.”
“Pinpoint it, Three.”
“It’s gone now.”
“Mickey Three and Six, Boxer. Investigate radar radiation source.”
Badr eased the throttles in, picking up speed. “Is the missile bay clear?” he asked.
“Clear,” Rahman reported.
“You may fire when you are ready, Omar.”
With targets as clearly defined and as defenseless as submarines on the surface, Badr had elected to use the radar-targeting mode of the missiles.
He glanced at the green-tinged video image in the screen, set for a magnification of five. Two small patrol boats were rising to the plane, headed toward him.
Heusseini went active on the radar again, manipulating his radar-targeting circle with the controls on the panel. Badr watched his thumb as it pressed the arming, then the launch keypads.
The computer decided.
A half-second.
Several voices screamed on the radio. “Active! He’s gone active!”
The missile launched with a bright scream of fire. A second later, the second missile ignited.
“Incoming! We’ve got incoming missiles. Two of them!”
Badr slammed the throttles forward, and the SeaGhost lifted out of the water, racing toward the southeast as Badr shut down the radar.
Two kilometers away, he pulled the throttles back. He had lost the camera view of the patrol boats, but through the side window, he saw their running lights streaking toward where they had been. Aboard one of them, an impatient finger triggered a stream of green machine-gun tracers, all useless.
He could not hear it.
The first two missiles had detonated. At that distance from the base, Badr could not tell what they had hit, but it was in the port area.
Heusseini went active again. Within four seconds, two more missiles launched, and Badr again moved the throttles forward. He turned the wheel slightly to the right and headed directly south, bypassing the base by several kilometers.
“Retracting launcher,” Heusseini said quietly.
The patrol boats had swung in their direction. They were now within three kilometers.
Two more of the patrol boats raced toward them from the port.
Missiles three and four found their targets. Bright flashes of yellow-red fire erupted in the night.
He was making fifty knots. The voices on the radio were panicky, overlapping one another. The radio scanner jumped from channel to channel. Someone was asking for damage assessments. Someone else confirmed for Badr that both docked submarines had been hit. Watertight doors were closing off compartments. One of the submarines was taking water.
“Boxer, this is Memphis.”
“Go ahead, Memphis.”
“We’ve got him on sonar. Making five-two knots, bearing one-seven-seven. Coming directly at us, five thousand yards.”
“Take him out, Memphis.”
“I have permission to free weapons?” the man on the submarine asked.
“Go. I’ll take responsibility.”
The conversation had to be between the base and the submarine underway for the Atlantic, now ahead of the Sea Spectre.
In the rearview screen, Badr saw that two of the patrol boats had lined up directly behind the Sea Spectre. They may have seen the wake the stealth boat was creating, but he did not think they could catch him. Machine-gun muzzles on the foredecks winked whitely.
“Reloaded,” Rahman called on the intercom.
“Raising launcher,” Heusseini said. “I am going to the active mode.”
“Aim first for the pursuit boats,” Badr said.
Heusseini worked his controls, pressed the launch key once, then a second time.
The darkness ahead was erased twice as first one missile, then the second, launched toward the rear.
“Incoming!” screamed the radio.
In the rearview screen, he saw both boats veer off as they took evasive action.
Two white trails of exhaust.
WHOOMP!
WHOOMP!
The two detonations came within two seconds of each other.
Both boats disappeared in the middle of white, then yellow-red fireballs.
Allah, Allah, Allah. This we do for you. The infidels will no longer rule our world.
“The submarine is in the middle of the channel,” Heusseini said. “It is two thousand meters from us.”
“Launch,” Badr ordered.
Two missiles ignited.
The first missile went bad for some reason. It spiraled wildly, then crashed into the surface of the water a thousand meters ahead. It exploded under the surface, raising a waterspout that rose hundreds of meters in the air.
Badr spun the wheel to the left to avoid it.
A large cannon on the deck of the submarine began firing at him.
The second missile hit the conning tower of the submarine, exploding in a fireball. Badr could not see the damage from where he was, and the bow camera was not lined up.
More frantic voices chattered on the radio.
Stormy water from the waterspout splashed down, peppering the foredeck like hail, streaking over the windshield.
Small geysers from cannon shells erupted off the right side, in range, but far from their target.
He retarded the throttles as he heard Heusseini and Rahman securing the launcher and the missile bay doors.
At ten or twelve knots, he would disappear from all of their sensing devices.
And slip out to the sea, dancing on their graves.
“Allah Akbar,” Kadar said.
Justin Malgard got the news on the early morning telecast. He kept the remote control handy, switching between networks, looking for the best coverage.
One submarine had been sunk. Two others had suffered heavy damage. Two patrol boats had been lost in the waterway, and they were still looking for crew members. Seven hours after the attack, they were reporting sixteen dead, twenty-one wounded, and seven missing in action.
Missing in action. At a base within the United States. Unthinkable.
And yet…
And yet, he thought about the substantially changed position he was in. His boat was proving invincible. The Navy should double the order. Congress would have only to refer to the newspapers for support of the appropriation.
He was nervous all through breakfast, trying to settle on a course of action. Trish noticed his agitation but did not say anything. Patty and Jason sniped away at each other with sarcastic comments as though there were no earthquakes, or even tremors, in their world.
As usual, Trish was running late. She left the dishes and rushed around the house, looking for the precisely right clothes to take Patty to her piano lesson and Jason to baseball practice.
As soon as Trish’s Mercedes had backed out of the drive, Malgard went to the den and started making phone calls. The admirals were too busy to talk to him. Commander Rosse at procurement was not in his office.
Finally, he was given a phone number for the commander he had met on Sunday morning, the one he did not like. Monahan was at Kings Bay.
“Yes, Mr. Malgard. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to see if there was some way in which I could help.” Being helpful now might lead to larger contracts later, and God knew he needed some large contracts.