The President continued to read the speech on the teleprompter in front of him. As always, Bob Fortier was prepared with the message they wanted to convey at just the right moment. And this was their moment. Every voter west of the Mississippi was glued to their television, and those on the east coast who were not in front of their TVs were listening to him on the radio. All programming was pre-empted. This was his time. His show.
Tomorrow, they would go to their polling places and vote. And who would they be voting for? William Hawkins.
The president read on, smiling occasionally, sounding confident and showing his pride in being an American. The speech touched on what he’d accomplished in the past four years in preparing America’s defenses for this kind of assault. He referred to the course of action he planned to keep the nation on for the next four. He talked about the hijacking and made it clear that his foreign policies must be credited for their ability to quash this threat and force these terrorists to abort their plans. Strength was the only way to answer terror, he told the nation. American strength.
Hawkins knew John Penn must be squirming in his small mansion in Rhode Island. There would be no rebuttal this time about the need for “balancing the interests of America with our responsibilities to the people on whose backs we’ve grown wealthy.” This was no moderated debate. Will Hawkins, President William Hawkins, had the platform all to himself.
He folded his hands in a prayerful attitude. Looking straight into the camera, he finished the speech with his own words.
“Tomorrow, as a nation, we will go and exercise the right that Americans have fought and died for. No terrorist will ever jeopardize that freedom while I stand watch. Go, my fellow Americans, with the secure knowledge that the future is safe for you and your children. You, my brothers and sisters, who are on the road, return to your homes. Here in the White House, we have kept the light burning for you.”
The director motioned for the camera crew to stop filming as those in the Oval Office started to cheer.
Hawkins moved from behind his desk and circulated among the crew and his staff and the members of his party’s congressional leadership that had come to share in his glory. Now he could do what he was even better at — shaking hands and making small talk.
Chapter 51
The wall of seawater rushing in with each rise and fall of the vessel was washing away everything, including equipment that had been bolted in place.
The blast had separated McCann from Amy, and he remembered that his head had smashed against something. Now he was lying on top of the Fire Control panel and seawater was slapping against his face.
McCann had no idea what time it was, or if he’d been knocked out or not. He could see light coming in from somewhere beyond the periscope platform and the cascading water. The battle lanterns above him were still burning. Beneath him, he could hear the banging bass sound of deep water. The forward compartment was filling quickly, and that meant the lower levels must be full.
If the ship went down now, they’d all go with it. He looked around madly but he could see no sign of Amy or Brody. He remembered holding onto her until the blow.
He rolled off the panel and was nearly swept under by the turbulence of the seawater in the compartment. The water came almost to his chest. Wading through the control room, he clung to anything he could get a grip on.
It seemed like forever before he made it to where he’d last seen Amy. Filling his lungs with air, he went under. Darkness was all around him. He searched where she’d been standing before. He came up for air and looked around, shouting her name, before diving again.
The water was rising even higher. He could see where the light was seeping in. Back near the escape trunk, the explosion had torn open a gaping hole in the hull. Everything surrounding it was demolished.
He went under again and pulled himself toward Sonar. There was still no sign of Amy.
Surfacing, he pulled open the door to the Sonar Room. Brody was unconscious and still in his chair at the sonar station. His face was barely above water, and there was blood on his forehead. From the spider web breaks in what was still visible of the monitor screen, McCann guessed the young man’s head had been driven into it by the force of either the explosion or the rushing water. He grabbed his man by the collar of the shirt and tried to lift him from the chair. No luck. Brody’s leg was caught on something.
McCann didn’t know if Brody was alive or already dead, but he had to try to get him out of there. The water was continuing to wash in around them. He reached down, yanking at the table that trapped Brody’s legs. Brody’s body started moving away from the chair. He was free.
McCann put an arm across the man’s chest and began towing him through the control room toward the bridge access ladder. The forward escape hatch was wrecked. He’d have to carry Brody up through the sail to the bridge. It was going to be a tough climb.
As he went, he continued to look for Amy. By the periscope platform, he lost his footing and went under, dragging Brody with him. Regaining his feet, he came up and heard Brody coughing and sputtering. At least he was still alive, McCann thought.
But what about Amy.
“Amy! Amy!”
It took some effort to lift Brody’s body over his shoulder. It took even more to climb the ladder up through the narrow trunk that led to the bridge. At the top, he felt himself getting weak as he tried to open the hatch with one hand. The shoulder he’d been shot in was starting to go numb, and he was losing feeling in his hand and arm.
Finally, the hatch opened and, as McCann pushed it up, light streamed in.
Time was of the essence. Wherever Amy was, he had to find her soon. McCann carried Brody’s body up until the young man was clear of the hatch, and then he rolled him onto the decking topside.
Leaving him there, McCann slid back down the ladder, entering the water again. The light from above improved visibility, but not the scene itself. The water had risen so high that he now had to swim. He saw no sign of Amy in what was left of the control room. He considered the direction of the blast and where the water might have carried her. He turned and looked past the helm. The communication shack was just forward of the control room. He took a deep breath and swam in that direction.
The door to the radio room was hanging at an angle, half torn from its hinge, and one of the helmsman’s chairs was against it. The room was filling with water. He inhaled and dove, entering the radio room where the bottom of the door allowed him access.
Coming to the surface inside, McCann saw her.
She had a terrible cut on her forehead, and her mouth was barely above the water. He shouted to her but he didn’t think she heard him. She seemed to be in a daze, but still conscious enough to keep fighting for her life. She was a scrapper.
McCann tried to get past the communications panels, but he had little success. Taking in another gulp of air and going down, he braced himself between a bulkhead and a panel and shoved. Slowly, the panel began to move, and then righted itself. He came up gasping, and pulled himself toward her. He was able to get in far enough to take hold of her hand.
“Amy!” he shouted. “We have to go under to get out.”
She looked at him blankly.
“Trust me.”
She didn’t understand him, and she fought him as he pulled her around one of the panels. She went under once and then she was beside him in the cramped space. The water was rising quickly now. There were barely two or three inches of air left near the overhead. McCann’s face was right next to hers.