Monahan had grabbed a couple hours of bunk time in midmorning, but for the better part of the day, he had been listening to the radios, switching frequencies often, jotting notes at the communications desk. He understood the bulk of the code words being utilized.
McCory fried four hamburgers for dinner, stacking them high with Swiss cheese, onions, and dill pickles. He brought two of them and a bottle of Dos Equis to the communications console.
“Thanks,” Monahan said, pulling the right side of his headset back.
“Anything new?”
“Not particularly. I wish we had a copy of the Baker Two map grid. Best guess is that the area is becoming congested. None of the search ships are moving very fast. Safari Echo has identified three ships they’re keeping a close eye on.”
“What three?”
“A Panamanian container ship named the Morning Glory, a Colombian freighter called Nem Andes, and a Kuwaiti tanker named Hormuz.”
“Any particular reason?” McCory asked.
“Damned if I know. Probably, they’ve been on a track that makes them accessible to the Sea Spectre for the past nine days.”
“Why don’t they just board them?”
“It’s called piracy. You should know about that.”
“You sound like my lawyer.”
“Theodore Daimler?”
“Shit.”
“Hey, you didn’t think you were going to get away with it, did you?”
“I did. And I still do. This is my boat.”
Monahan took a bite out of his hamburger, but his eyes showed his disbelief.
McCory was off his rocker. Short a full deck. One elevator stop from the top floor. McCory thought Monahan was running through all the clichés.
All of them can go to hell, Devlin.
He ate one of his hamburgers while checking the sonar. Nothing. He sat in front of the radar screen, eating and wishing he could go active. He hated being blind.
The SeaGhost purred along, climbing the swells, sliding down the other side.
Monahan continued checking the frequencies. CINCLANT had tried to contact them a dozen times, but McCory had nixed any replies.
Once before noon, the Prebble had tried to reach them on the frequency Monahan called Tac-Three. They had not responded, but Monahan left the Tac-Three on standby.
When he had finished his second hamburger, McCory said, “I vote we go active on the radar and get a more recent reading.”
Monahan got up from his chair and moved forward, bracing himself against the rocking deck.
“You drive. I’ll shoot the picture.”
McCory slid over behind the wheel, disengaged the autopilot, and rested his hand on the throttles. As soon as Monahan had his sweep, McCory would scoot for a new position.
Two seconds later, Monahan said, “Hit it!”
He slammed the throttles forward.
The speaker beside his shoulder blared, “Safari Echo to all Safaris. We had an active radar at Baker Two, six-one, seven-eight.”
As the SeaGhost came on plane, McCory said, “Damn, they’re fast.”
“They want us pretty bad, McCory.”
“We’re on their side.”
“They don’t know who they just saw.”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s right.”
It was going to be an early night, Monahan thought. Already, the daylight was fading fast, deepening into gloom. The seas were rougher than before, he thought. He had listened in on some weather forecasts, but nothing scary was predicted.
He had now been aboard the Sea Spectre for almost twenty-four hours, and he thought it was a hell of a boat. Monahan knew damned well that the Prebble was within fifteen miles of them, and helpless. He didn’t know what he would do in Norman’s place. This thing was just ghostly.
A couple of times, he had daydreamed his excuse to Bingham Clay. He tried out McCory’s argument. I didn’t feel I had the authority to countermand a captain’s orders, Admiral.
The response to that was a gritty, Bullshit!
Finally, he had decided to use the truth and try to ride out the storm that followed. Probably, he would face a court-martial.
Why did you not follow your orders, Commander?
I didn’t want to follow them. I wanted to get the goddamned terrorist. Sir.
Monahan was post-Vietnam. The closest he had ever come to battle was service aboard a backup frigate during the Grenada invasion.
He had the training; he needed the action.
Bullshit, again.
The son of a bitch killed a lot of my colleagues. I wanted to wrap his head in a plastic bag and slowly fill it with water.
All right. Let’s go with that.
Monahan didn’t know all of McCory’s motives. There were probably several grains of truth behind his comment about his father. Then, too, McCory had had the SEAL training. Those people tended to be very good, very disciplined, and very loyal.
All right. Let’s buy that, too.
Monahan was at the commander’s desk, plotting on the Atlantic chart.
McCory came up behind him. “Figure it out?”
He pointed out his markings. “Extrapolating speeds from our two radar readings, I can’t tell much about the military ships. They seem to have changed courses and speeds from time to time. They’re kind of milling around.”
“Like ourselves.”
“And like Badr, if we’re thinking right. Over here, we’re showing the six commercial vessels we spotted this morning. They’re not all on the same course or track. With only two readings, we have to assume they’ve maintained their same tracks. If they have, I’ve got an approximate speed on each of them. Here, this one is making twelve knots. This one, sixteen knots. This one, eleven knots, and so on. The dotted lines project their future positions should they maintain course and speed.”
“One of the six is our bogey,” McCory said.
“I’d bet a steak dinner on it.”
“They serve steak in the brig?”
“With luck, somebody will sink us, just after we blow the fucker out of the water.”
Twenty minutes later, the Tac-Three channel sounded off.
“Night Light, Safari Echo.”
Monahan was seated in the radar position, and instinctively, he picked the microphone off its clip.
McCory, at the helm, looked over at him. “They might try to get a radio fix on our position. There are enough ships out there to triangulate us five times.”
He sat quietly.
“Night Light, if you’re monitoring, give me a click.”
He looked at McCory, who shrugged.
Monahan clicked the transmit button twice.
“Night Light, my money’s on the Hormuz. She’s tracking north on seven-one, one-five.”
Monahan clicked twice again.
Within fifteen seconds, CINCLANT was broadcasting on the command net.
“CINCLANT to all Safari elements. Both stealth boats are to be considered hostile. This is not a guessing game, and we will not take chances. By order of the president, through the Chief of Naval Operations, weapons systems are freed for Safari Charley, Safari Delta, and Safari Echo. Written confirmation to follow. Upon contact, Target One and Target Two are to be given one minute to capitulate. Failing that action, they may be fired upon.”
“Who’s Target One?” McCory asked.
“I believe we’ve been included,” Monahan told him. “You want to put this son of a bitch in gear?”