“You’re buying my story, then?” McCory asked, looking back at him.
“Your tale is pretty damned fantastic. I don’t know that I’m buying anything, McCory. It’s going to take a hell of a lot of unraveling.”
“But you’ve got some facts.”
“Yeah. I don’t think you were involved in any of the attacks, simply because you’ve got the right number of missiles. And you were too damned dumb to dump the bodies.”
“I hadn’t had the chance.”
“You had seven hours.”
“Well, I forgot about it.”
“Uh-huh.”
Monahan didn’t know what to think about McCory. The man seemed sincere enough, if misguided. As soon as Monahan had seen the Sea Spectre in the dry dock, he had begun to worry. It didn’t fit his notion that the boats had both been taken by Badr. When he found the bodies in the cargo bay, he had almost panicked. This was a madman.
He had not liked McCory’s story, either. The big, bad Navy, the oppressive financial institutions, the maligned white knight seeking justice. Right out of a paranoid’s fantasy.
But he had thought about it in the ensuing hours. Anything was possible, he had decided, though he intended to remain skeptical.
McCory seemed competent at the helm.
“You serve in the Navy, McCory?”
“I’ve got some SEAL time.”
That made Monahan feel a little better. Sometimes, training would tell.
The speaker overhead reported a casualty count at Norfolk.
“What was that?” McCory asked.
“Sixty-four dead, two hundred twelve wounded.”
“Shit. Bastards.”
By the time he finished his sandwich, the printer began to chatter. He crossed the cabin, waited for it to finish printing, then ripped the message from the printer. He read it with expanding disbelief.
ENCODED, TOP SECRET MSG 04170607
TO: CMDR J E MONAHAN, NIGHT LIGHT
COPY: SAFARI ECHO, SAFARI CHARLEY, SAFARI DELTA
FROM: CINCLANT INTELOFF
SEA SPECTRE UNAUTHORIZED FOR MISSION. SEA SPECTRE CONSIDERED FUGITIVE. ADDRESSEE DIRECTED TO PLACE KEVIN MCCORY UNDER ARREST AND PROCEED TO NEAREST PORT ASAP. SAFARIS ECHO, CHARLEY, DELTA INSTRUCTED TO ENSURE COMPLIANCE.
He turned around to face McCory. “Looks like your ride is over.”
Admiral Bingham Clay was still out on the base somewhere, comforting his casualties in person. By remote control, he was responding to Monahan’s and Norman’s urgent messages with the reply that he would be in touch soon.
McCory had read the telex right after it came in. “Who’s CINCLANT INTEL?”
“Rear Admiral Matthew Andrews.”
“He hasn’t got much imagination,” McCory said.
Monahan didn’t disagree, but said, “An order’s an order.”
“Get the big boss. Call the Chief of Naval Operations.”
“The CNO isn’t going to countermand a fleet order. He never does. Operations are left strictly to fleet commanders. And I doubt that Bing Clay will reverse it, either. Technically, Andrews is right.”
“Who’s Bing Clay?”
“He’s CINCLANT. My boss.”
McCory looked at Monahan with new regard. “You’re right up there, aren’t you, Commander?”
“I do my job. I’m pretty good at it.”
McCory thought it over, then said, “Here’s my perspective, Commander. Ownership of the boat is in dispute and not settled by the courts. I’ve got possession, and damn it, I’m the captain. You try to take my command from me, that’s mutiny. Besides, I’ve got the gun.”
“You still want to go after Badr?”
“That’s what we’re doing, Andrews or no Andrews.”
“I’ll try to reach Clay.”
He tried for a couple of hours while McCory continued on his course, finally altering it slightly northward.
The sea began to lighten after four in the morning, and by 6:45, the day was gray. Choppy, cold, gray sea. Gray overcast. Gray horizons.
There was nothing to be seen on any of McCory’s horizons.
The SeaGhost’s position was almost directly east of Norfolk, 156 miles off the coast. From the time of the attack and subsequent escape of Badr, the terrorist, if he had gone directly east, could be within twenty-four miles. If he had deviated slightly north or south, the range could be up to fifty miles.
What McCory needed was Badr’s support ship. “Commander, can you operate that radar?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go active for a couple sweeps and record it.”
Monahan sat down at the console as McCory retarded his throttles. The SeaGhost slowed quickly, lost headway, and wallowed in the troughs.
Monahan probably wasn’t familiar with that particular radar set, but he looked it over, then did what he was told. After he had an image stored, he switched to passive, then called the image back up on the screen.
McCory pressed the number four pad on his primary monitor and got a copy of the radar image.
There were ships all around them.
“Jesus Christ!” he said. Checking through the windshield and side windows, he couldn’t see a one.
“I’m on ninety-mile scan,” Monahan said.
“Can you identify any of those?”
The commander sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to visualize what he knew from the last time he had looked at a plot.
“I’ll try. West of us, and slightly north, is a single target. That should be the Prebble. Safari Echo.”
As he watched the screen, a rectangular square appeared next to the blip, with the letters “PRBL” in it. Monahan’s fingers were clicking away at the computer keypad.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” McCory said. Actually, he had seen something about target identification in the manual but had skipped over it.
“There have been a few advances since you were on active duty,” Monahan said.
“How come the Prebble is alone?”
“Partly because her captain is Barry Norman. Her choppers are equipped with high-gain infrared sensors.”
“They can pick up the stealth boats?”
“They were testing it when you stole the boat.”
“It works. They found me Sunday morning.”
“But you got away, right?”
“Cut the speed way back. Must have reduced my heat signature.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, up north of us, and to the east, is the task force headed by Mitscher. That’s Safari Charley. To their east is a task force led by the Knox and attached to Charley.”
“MITS” appeared in a box near the lead ship. On the screen, it looked to be about twenty miles from the Prebble and forty miles from the SeaGhost.
“PERR” flashed onto the screen next to a cluster of ships to the south.
“One of those, and I don’t know which one, is the Oliver H. Perry,” Monahan told him. “She’s heading up Safari Delta.”
McCory put his finger on the screen and pointed out about nine blips that seemed independent. “These are commercial vessels?”
“I’d think so. They’ll be under observation by either Charley or Delta. We’ve been dogging most of these ships for six days, McCory.”
“Is that right? Then, if Badr didn’t make his meet before daylight, he’s going to have to hide out until nightfall?”
“That would be my guess. There’ll be aircraft watching those ships all day long.”
“So we’ll just play tag ourselves. Stay out of everyone’s way and maybe take a look at those commercial ships.”