Monahan was sitting in the corner of the banquette, his back resting against the outer bulkhead. He didn’t have much freedom of movement.
McCory sat down opposite him.
“Sorry about the bindings, Jim, old boy. But I can’t take any chances on you right now.”
“Go to hell!”
“Probably, but I’m going to tell you a story, first. You can believe it or not.”
It took him almost twenty minutes to get it all out. He went back over Devlin’s unsuccessful attempt to sell the SeaGhost to the Navy. He detailed his suspicions about Devlin’s death in Fort Walton Beach. Told him about his analysis of the boat. Explained what had happened with Chambers and Cordilla.
Monahan didn’t say a word, just stared at him.
“What do you think of that, Jim?”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah. You have family?”
The commander wasn’t saying.
“You’ve got a wedding ring. Love your wife? I loved my father, and whatever you might be thinking, that’s my whole damned motive.”
Monahan didn’t even sleep, though McCory stretched out on a bunk for two hours, clutching the Browning in his hand. That was after he had slowed down to pass Safari Bravo. It was still headed south at slow speed, and he worked his way through the task force using passive sonar and without attracting attention. He didn’t sleep well.
When he got up, he made himself a bologna sandwich and offered one to Monahan. Monahan wouldn’t answer, so McCory figured he wasn’t hungry.
From time to time, he checked the sonar and radar consoles, but he didn’t go active with either. He scanned different frequencies on the radios, then left the HF set tuned to CINCLANT, switching on the overhead and helm speakers.
He plopped in the helmsman’s seat and toyed with the autopilot. Checked his fuel consumption. He still had plenty of fuel.
The primary screen displayed the map function. The dot that was the SeaGhost was 103 miles off Cape Hatteras on a heading of sixteen degrees. With the NavStar Global Positioning System, he could bet he was within ten yards of where the computer said he was.
The radio got hot at 0340 hours.
“Listen to that, Jim. Badr’s attacking CINCLANTELT.”
Monahan struggled to sit up straighter. “Shut up, so I can hear.”
They both listened to the transmissions for a few minutes. McCory got lost on some of the code names that were being used, but Monahan appeared to comprehend most of them.
“Shit,” he said.
“Bad, isn’t it?”
“They hit Langley Air Base, too. Fatalities are high.”
“Anyone spot him?” McCory asked.
“I think a couple of them did, but he’s gone now.” McCory disengaged the autopilot and swung the helm to the right. Reset the autopilot.
“What are you doing?” Monahan asked.
McCory swung around in his seat to face Monahan. “Going after him. He’s using my dad’s boat the wrong way, and I’m going to sink the son of a bitch.”
“You’re headed the wrong way.”
“I don’t think so. I’m going where he’s going, not where he’s been.”
“You know his destination?”
“Not specifically. But he’s got a mother ship somewhere, and she’s not invisible.”
Monahan pursed his lips. “You know Barry Norman?”
“Norman?”
“Captain Barry Norman.”
“Oh. Yeah. That is, not personally. Devlin talked about him a lot.”
“Norman thinks the way you do.”
McCory grinned. “No one thinks the way I do.”
“Do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Untie me.”
“And what will you do?”
“I’ll help. You can’t run this SOB by yourself.”
The Prebble was making twenty knots, cruising northeasterly. She was 214 miles east-southeast of Norfolk, Virginia.
Barry Norman didn’t think he could be in a much better position.
The Mitscher was fifteen miles ahead of him, coming his way. She had been joined by another destroyer and a missile frigate. To their east was the frigate Knox with four more ships.
Sixty miles to the south-southeast was the Oliver H. Perry and four ships in her task force.
Task Force 22 was out of it.
There was an underlying hum of tension and anticipation in the Combat Information Center. Lieutenant Commander Al Perkins was grinning.
Norman had been right.
That did not make it easier for him, listening to the casualty reports coming out of CINCLANT. It only increased his resolve to make the bastards pay dearly.
“Al.”
“Sir.”
“I’m going up to the bridge now. You keep me aware.”
“Aye aye sir.”
“And notify the aviator hot dogs that we’re going to launch birds in ten minutes.”
“Aye aye sir.”
Norman left the CIC and made his way up to the bridge. The first mate, Commander Owen Edwards, had the conn.
“Captain’s on the bridge,” intoned a seaman.
“As you were. You still have the conn, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.”
Norman stood near the port-side windows and studied the sea. There were heavy seas running, pushed by thirty-knot winds out of the southwest. A heavy overcast obscured the stars, though there were a few holes in the cloud layer.
The intercom sounded. “Bridge, Comm.”
Edwards responded, punching the button. “Bridge. Go ahead, Comm.”
“Is the captain there? He’s wanted on the Tac-Three.”
“I’ll take it, Owen,” Norman said, replacing the first mate in front of the intercom.
“Relay it, Comm.”
He pressed the Tac-Three button.
“Safari Echo, Captain Norman here.”
“Captain, this is Commander Jim Monahan.”
“What’s up, Commander?”
“You’re not going to believe it. Hell, I don’t even believe it.”
“On board a Sea Spectre?” Norman’s voice was perplexed.
“That’s right. Only McCory calls it a SeaGhost.”
“McCory. Devlin McCory’s boy?”
Monahan pressed the transmit button and told him the story in three sentences.
“It sounds like a McCory, all right. What’s your intent, Commander?”
“McCory thinks this boat has a better chance than most against Badr. He wants to find the support ship and intercept the other Sea Spectre.”
There was a pause while Norman thought that over. Finally, he said, “Let’s keep the two boats straight. You’re now code-named Night Light.”
“Night Light, copy.”
“Now, Night Light, you have reported this to CINCLANT?”
“Not yet, Echo.”
“Do that. Then get back to me.”
Monahan slid back the panel in the desktop to reveal the telex keyboard, spent a moment composing in his mind, then typed out an involved message for CIN-CLANT. He thought it was better that Bingham Clay have something in writing in front of him when he made this decision.
When he was done, he transmitted the message, then turned in the chair. “You have more of that bologna, McCory?”
“Or peanut butter. There’s some hamburger in there, too, if you’re up to frying it.” McCory was still at the helm, studying the map on the screen.
Monahan got up, went to the galley, and made himself a bologna sandwich. He found the Dos Equis in the refrigerator and opened one of those, too. He was starved.
He leaned against the counter and bit large chunks out of the sandwich, chewing fast. Outside, the sea was dark, and no ships were visible. The Sea Spectre took the seas well, even though they looked to be roughening. A slight, rhythmic rise and fall was all that betrayed her speed.