He shoved the throttles in, felt the SeaGhost rise to the power.
“Should I make some coffee?”
“It’s almost breakfast time, why not?” McCory said.
Ginger moved back to the galley, and McCory half-concentrated on the empty sea ahead. The star shine gleamed on wave caps.
He wasn’t paying much attention to the radio, which was channeled through a speaker in the bulkhead next to his right shoulder. Only the excitement in the voice jarred him awake.
“Safari Echo, Deuce Three. I’ve got a hot target.”
“Three, this is Echo. Target coordinates?”
The pilot read off some Baker Two numbers. “I’m not getting a radar return on the target, but the infrared’s screaming. It’s the same picture we’ve had during sea trials up north.”
“Let’s have some sonobuoys as soon as you get in close, Deuce Three. And go to Tac-Two. Let’s get off the command net.”
The voices disappeared as they moved to another frequency, replaced by cryptic messages among ships of the task force.
From what McCory could deduce, Safari Bravo had themselves a target.
Ginger had been listening. “They found him!”
“They found us.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
McCory pulled the throttles back as he made a 180-degree turn. He didn’t know where the helicopter was, but he thought it would be tracking on the heading he had shown them.
He settled on a heading of 355 degrees. The speed came down to twelve knots, and he held it there.
Two minutes later, he saw the helicopter sliding by on his left. It was several hundred feet high and a half mile away, and it obviously didn’t see him as it went by. A minute after that, he picked up its lights on the rearview screen.
He sighed.
Ginger came up behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders. “That was close, I guess.”
“Yeah. It may take us a while to get home.”
“I thought this thing was invisible.”
“So did I, but apparently we leave an infrared trail at speed.”
“What speed?”
“I wish I knew.”
McCory waited another five minutes, then turned to a heading of 270 degrees. He would hold that for ten minutes before again aiming toward the south.
Through the left-side windows, he saw the dance of the strobe light as the helicopter began circling.
All around them, in fact, he could see more aircraft lights approaching.
Rick Chambers was wearing his silver-gray suit. He hadn’t had a chance to have it dry-cleaned, and it was wrinkled badly, though not as badly as his only other choice. The shirt was fresh, a blue cotton with a spread collar.
He was tired, and he was getting hungry again, though he didn’t feel like having another hamburger. He’d grabbed one yesterday, after getting into town. It was probably the reason why he’d missed McCory.
The girl in the office hadn’t known where he’d gone, only that he taken his boat, now renamed the Kathleen, and gone somewhere. She had no idea in the world when he’d be back.
He’d had another hamburger for breakfast, when he called Malgard. He called the office and got referred to a Virginia number.
“I found him, Justin.”
“It’s about damned time. Where?”
“He’s got a marina in Edgewater. Funny thing, it’s named the Marina Kathleen, just like the old man’s was.”
“You find the boats?”
“No. In fact, though, McCory’s not around. He left sometime last night and wasn’t back when I checked at five this mornin’.”
“Well, you hang around until he shows up.”
“And then?”
“Just what we discussed.”
“I can do it like I did the first one. Accidents will happen.”
“No, damn it! That turned out to be a hell of a mess. The newspapers didn’t let it die for a long time. You just locate the boats, then take him out. Very clean, now, Rick. He just disappears.”
“Gotcha, chief. Write out my bonus check.”
When he’d gotten back to the marina, the Kathleen was back in its slip. Chambers parked across the street, down half a block from the marina office, under a stand of palm trees, and waited.
He waited forever.
He fumbled with his binoculars from time to time but saw no movement aboard the boat.
He pulled the Beretta from its holster and double-checked the nine millimeter loads in the magazine.
He fidgeted.
At eleven, he left the car and walked down the street to buy two hamburgers, fries, and a milkshake.
At 11:40, McCory appeared on the deck of his boat. He messed around for a while, hosing it off and polishing some of the chromework.
A little after noon, he went up to the office and disappeared inside. He didn’t reappear until after five, going back down to his boat. Chambers left the car several times, taking walks along the street, but staying close to the marina.
Boring, boring, boring.
Chambers had another pair of hamburgers.
At a quarter of seven, McCory left the boat, dressed in Levi’s and a blue T-shirt. He walked up the ramp, bypassed the office, and got into an old pickup in the parking lot.
Chambers started the Ford.
McCory left the lot, headed south.
Chambers let a Volkswagen and a Camaro get between them before he pulled away from the curb.
It was a short trip, maybe four or five miles.
He almost missed it. As he went by a place called Barley’s Marine Refitters, a conglomeration of old boats and old structures, he saw the blue pickup pulling up to a dilapidated building on the shore.
He drove on by and, a mile later, found a place to make a U-turn.
Coming back, he stopped short of his destination by a quarter-mile, pulling off the road to park in a clump of palmetto.
He checked the Beretta again, then got out of the car and walked along the road verge.
There was a gate in the chain-link fence at the refitting place, but it was open.
Chambers scanned the yard but didn’t see any movement inside. The pickup sat nosed up to the boat house. He couldn’t see any lights on inside, then noticed that all of the windows were filled with plywood.
Good place to hide a stolen boat. There were a couple more of the boat houses to the south, also.
He looked up and down the road. A few cars moved along it, ignoring him as they shot by. Down the way, a pizza joint was doing a brisk business. Hot rods and custom trucks were parked all around it.
He walked through the gate and started down the slope toward the boat house. It was still light out, but he figured, what the hell? It was isolated, and if Malgard’s boats were inside, it was as good a place as any other.
Chapter 13
Except for the disaster on the tarmac, Mayport Naval Station appeared secure. The fire at the fuel depot had been quenched in midmorning. A hazy pall hung over the base, and the odor of burnt rubber and paint drifted in the still air.
Jim Monahan had spent most of the day in the operations center, following the search tracking sequence of TF22, Safari Bravo.
Safari Echo was no longer with them.
At four in the morning, shortly after he had arrived, he had talked to Admiral Clay in Norfolk.
He had provided a concise damage report. “The same story as the first two, Admiral.”
“You really think we should be in the defense business, Jim?” Clay asked. His tone was less sarcastic than it was disgusted.
“We’re going to get them, Admiral.”
“I have a request from Norman. He wants to steam northward, fifty miles off the coast.”