“Perhaps he knows something we don’t,” Monahan said.
“At this point, everyone seems to know something I don’t know,” the admiral said.
“The pattern, if there is one, suggests Badr is headed south.”
“Norman thinks that’s intentional. He tells me that, even if Badr hits an installation in southern Florida, he’s going to switch on us, go north, and do it abruptly. What do you think, Jim?”
Monahan didn’t like command decisions, suddenly. He knew he wasn’t making this one, but Clay liked sounding boards. His response skipped around the edge. “You know Captain Norman, sir. My impression is that he’s got some savvy.”
“He does that. I’m going to give him his way, but only with the Prebble. We’ll keep TF22 down your way. I’m going to divert the Oliver H. Perry slightly north and about a hundred miles offshore. Norman’s certain there’s a support ship we should be picking up on.”
“I agree with Captain Norman in that respect, sir.”
“All right, then. You call me if you get any intuitive ideas.”
“Are we down to that? To intuition?”
“Nothing else is working. What’s my casualty count, Jim?”
“Fifty-four, Admiral. Most of them resulted from the explosion at the fueling depot. They had been going all night, turning aircraft around.”
“It’s a damned sorry business,” Bingham Clay said, and hung up.
Monahan took a nap for a couple of hours, then shaved and spent the rest of the day reviewing damage reports and following the progress, or lack of it, of the search efforts.
Clay called him back just before seven.
“Jim, I’ve got a report from the FBI here. Kevin McCory’s got himself a marina in Edgewater, Florida. I think they finally called the IRS and got the address. The insurance company provided some additional data, and there are copies of some court papers.”
“Edgewater? That’s just down the coast from here. I thought he was on the Gulf Coast.”
“He might have wanted to be. From what I’ve got here, Kevin McCory was more or less run out of town after Devlin McCory was killed.”
“Killed? What was that?”
“Hold on,” Clay said. “It’s in here somewhere. Yes. Devlin McCory died in an explosion which all but destroyed his marina in Fort Walton Beach. There was some brouhaha with the bank and insurance company. At the time of the accident, the older McCory was heavily into some bank for cash to renovate the place. Apparently, the insurance policy rider didn’t cover the costs as it was supposed to, and the bank foreclosed, with the insurance company buying up the pieces. Kevin McCory disagreed and brought suit. He also took off with the company’s files and some boat his father had built, but which the insurance outfit claimed. The insurance company treated him like a fugitive, but the local sheriff apparently didn’t agree.”
“Jesus. Was it ever settled?” Monahan asked.
“Yes, about eighteen months ago. This doesn’t say what the settlement was, I don’t think. Hang on.”
Monahan waited, listening to the sound of rustling paper.
“Yes. There’s a court order here, an agreement signed by the insurance company and McCory’s lawyer. The company paid off a quarter million and let him keep the boat. I don’t… son of a bitch!”
“What’s the matter, Admiral?”
“Guess who the attorney was?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Daimler. Theodore Daimler.”
Monahan knew the name from somewhere. It flitted around for a bit before he grabbed it. “The guy up on the Chesapeake who had his boat stolen.”
“That’s it, Jim.”
“I was going to call McCory, but I think I’ll grab a chopper and fly down there,” Monahan said.
“Go.”
McCory heard someone banging on the door.
Ginger.
Damn.
He had been planning to slip away earlier tonight, leaving her behind. She’d be mad as hell, but he had decided that half of his anxiety was having her in harm’s way.
All of the lights inside the dry dock were on, as well as the standard lights in the cabin and cargo bay of the SeaGhost. It still felt lonely.
He was double-checking the missile connections on the launcher. Resigned to her catching him in the middle of a double-cross, he left the cargo bay, crossed along the corridor, and emerged from the hatchway. Leaping the short chasm to the side dock, he walked to the door.
Flipping the dead bolt, he pulled the door open.
It wasn’t Ginger.
The man appeared hard. Angles and planes in his face. Military haircut. Death in his eyes. In his hand, too.
He gestured with the automatic. “Back it up. Slow. Keep your hands in sight.”
Navy? How’d they figure it out?
McCory took a few steps backward and kept his hands out in front of him. He was dismayed that they had found him so easily, that he and Daimler hadn’t even opened negotiations.
“Hey, we can talk about this.”
The man ignored him, stepped inside, and closed the door. He didn’t lock it.
He looked around the lighted dry dock, nodded as if to himself, and said, “Where’s the other one?”
“The other one?”
“The Sea Spectre.”
“Got me. I understand some terrorist got it.”
“You have it hidden in one of these other boat houses?” He used the automatic to point south.
“As far as I know, they’re empty.”
He stood there, thinking. He wasn’t happy, and the expression on his face hardened, if that were possible.
“Where are the cops? The FBI?” McCory asked.
The hard eyes refocused on him. “There won’t be any. You and me, we’re going to wait a few hours until full dark, then we’ll take a little trip in that boat.”
What the hell?
McCory couldn’t figure it. Who was this guy?
Then he had it.
“You work for AMDI, right?”
“I work for myself.”
Advanced Marine, or Malgard, or whatever his name was, wouldn’t want the boat connected in any way with McCory. That might make the Navy investigate. For that matter, they wouldn’t want McCory found, at all.
“You got some rope around here?” The man backed away a couple of feet, kept his gun trained on McCory’s midsection, and let his eyes dart around the dock head. He spotted the coils of marine line hanging on a nail driven into one of the cradle timbers on the side dock.
“Over there. Come on, move.”
McCory led the way down the side dock and stopped in front of the lines. The man pulled up behind him.
“Hand me one of those ropes over your shoulder. Real easy, now.”
McCory lifted a heavy thirty-foot coil off the nail and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Hey!”
He spun to his left, crouching, whipping his right leg out, and swinging it.
It worked for Chuck Norris every time, but not for McCory. His ankle caught the man in the knee but didn’t topple him or sweep his legs out from under him.
He went off balance, though, shuffling his feet to regain equilibrium. Several coils of the rope hung on the wrist of his gun hand, and McCory grabbed the line and jerked as hard as he could.
The line clamped tight around his wrist and the hammer of the automatic, pulling it forward and aiming the muzzle down.
The gun went off.
Loud in the confined space, startling McCory.
The asshole dropped it.
McCory turned for the open hatch of the SeaGhost, took five running steps, and leaped headfirst through the hatch. He tucked his chin down, landed on the back of his neck and shoulders in the cross-corridor, and rolled over onto his feet. He grabbed the corner of the central corridor and pulled himself around it.