“I don’t know that there’s any way in which you can help,” Monahan said. “The Navy’s taking care of it.”
“And not very well, from what I see on the news. Look, I built the damn boats. I know what they can do.”
“As does Admiral Stein. We have the Ship R&D people available.”
Malgard restrained his temper. “Still, something might have slipped through the cracks. Hell, man, I want this stopped as much as you do.”
“Very well, Mr. Malgard. Why don’t you fly down to Norfolk? Report to Rear Admiral Matthew Andrews.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And while I’ve got you on the line, Mr. Malgard, I do have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“I had a discussion with one of our ship captains, a man named Norman. He had an interesting story. Have you ever heard the name Devlin McCory?”
Shit!
“No, I haven’t. Is it important?”
“Perhaps not. Thank you, Mr. Malgard.”
Malgard missed the cradle when he slapped the phone down. He had his eyes closed.
“I’m just checking in, Admiral,” Monahan said into the phone.
“What’s the picture down there, Jim?” Admiral Bingham Clay asked.
“We’ve recovered all the bodies, sir. Fatalities stand at twenty-four now.”
“Goddamn.”
“You knew Captain Torrey, I think.”
“Oh, Christ! He had the Pogy.”
“Yes, sir. He was killed aboard her when the first missile hit.”
Clay sighed deeply. “I’ll call Janice myself. Damage assessment?”
“The Pogy sank in position at her dock, but she’s salvageable, and the reactor’s secure. Sargo and Lipscomb are both heavily damaged. The first estimate suggests three to four months for repairs.”
“This is a real son of a bitch, Jim. Anything else?”
“Not here. I talked to Malgard, and he thinks he can help us out.”
“Right.”
“I sicced him on Admiral Andrews.”
“Okay. I’ll warn Matt. Speaking of warnings, Jim, the CNO and the SecDef went to the president. All East Coast installations are now on full alert, including Air Force and Army.”
“I hope that helps,” Monahan said.
“So do I.”
“One other thing, Admiral. Do you know Captain Norman on the Prebble?”
“Barry? Sure do. A fine officer, but he doesn’t have the temperament for flag rank. I think I promised him a battlewagon before he retires. In fact, Jim, we’ve moved the Prebble down your way, because she’s got some equipment that might help out. What about Norman?”
“He called me. It’s a long story, but way back when, he knew a CPO named McCory, helped him out in some crisis, and they’ve corresponded over the years. McCory claimed to have designed a stealth boat.”
“Is that right? What does Barry Norman want us to do about it?”
“Well, McCory is dead, but Captain Norman thought maybe the son would know something that could be beneficial.”
“Did you reach McCory? The son?”
“His name is Kevin. But no, the last address Norman had is a bummer. I wanted to know if you thought it was worth pursuing.”
“If Barry Norman says it’s worth a shot,” Clay told him, “it probably is. And let’s not fuck around finding him. Put the FBI on it. Better yet, I’ll call the Bureau.”
“That’ll probably get faster action, Admiral.”
“And you get back up here, Jim. I have a feeling I’m going to need you.”
“Uh, Admiral, would you mind if I stayed here a while?”
“What for?”
“I’ve got a feeling of my own.”
“Share it.”
“Badr’s moving south.”
“He strikes twice, and you’re reading his mind?” Clay asked.
“It’s just a gut reaction, I know.”
“Stay there. I’ll put out a notice to the South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida installations.”
Another few days, the fourteenth of September, and it would be the nineteenth anniversary of the marina. The time went by so damn fast.
Marina Kathleen was located near the eastern end of Santa Rosa Island, on a stubby promontory facing Choctawhatchee Bay, and was not a large enterprise. McCory had two hundred slips, over half of them occupied by permanent live-aboard residents. The place was nearly fifty years old now and was not the most modem facility in the area. It had been thirty years old when he bought it, using Kathleen’s $2000 insurance policy payment, and most of the $5000 settlement he had wheedled and threatened out of the estate of the drunk who had killed her for the down payment.
It had been a struggle all the way, but the marina was clean, the paint of the buildings and docks kept fresh. The slip rentals met the debt service, and most of McCory’s livelihood came from the maintenance end. He kept five full-time employees off the Fort Walton Beach unemployment rolls, and the three maintenance buildings were usually humming with engine overhauls and hull rebuilding. Generally, he had a runabout, ski boat, or small cruiser of his own design under construction, using finely fitted exotic woods in the earlier years, then more recently, fiberglass. He had a local reputation as a craftsman of the first order, and he loved the work. But more important, the marina kept him and Kevin together. When he was not in school, Kevin could be found close on his father’s heels.
Kathy’s folks had offered to take care of Kevin after she died, but McCory would have none of it. He took a hardship discharge from the Navy, his application greased along the way by his commander, Lieutenant (j.g.) Barry Norman. Though he loved the Navy, he loved his son more, and he was not going to take a chance on losing him.
Until now.
The two of them sat at the kitchen table in the apartment above the marina office, the only home Kevin had ever consciously known. It was small — two bedrooms and a living room — but it was ship-shape. Everything in place, from the outdated, fifties, overstuffed couch upholstered in chartreuse to the walnut secretary that had been Kathy’s grandmother’s. There were six framed pictures of Kathleen Moran McCory grouped on the wall in McCory’s bedroom, two in the living room, and one above the banquette in the kitchen. There were a dozen similar pictures of Devlin and Kevin McCory, usually with a boat or a fish in the background. Kevin’s high school swimming awards were hung over the secretary.
Through the window overlooking the main dock, McCory saw the Childress kid fueling Dag Wither’s Trojan sportfisherman. He checked his watch. It was five minutes after six.
Kevin reached for the counter behind him, grabbed the coffeepot, and refilled both of their mugs.
McCory found the manila envelope on the leatherette bench beside him and shoved it across the table.
“What’s this, Pop?” Kevin frowned.
Sometimes, it was like looking in the mirror. His own eyes looking back at him.
“For you.” He tried not to sound as gruff as he knew he frequently sounded.
“Ah, hell.” Kevin pulled the flap and dumped the contents of the envelope on the table.
Counted the cash. “Three hundred dollars, Pop? You can’t afford that.”
“Sure I can. Gainesville’s goin’ to be expensive. You’ll need it. Next semester, I’ll come up with a little more.”