“Bingo,” Clark said quietly. The police lieutenant straightened his tie to signal the men at the door. They made it easy, the last two first-class passengers to come out. Qati looked sick and pale, Clark noticed. Maybe it had been a bad flight. He stepped over the rope barrier. Chavez did the same, smiling and calling to a passenger who looked at them in open puzzlement.
“Ernesto!” John said, running up to him.
“I'm afraid I'm the wrong—”
Clark went right past the man from Miami.
Ghosn was slow to react, dulled by the flight from America, relaxed by the thought that they had escaped. By the time he started to move, he was tackled from behind. Another policeman placed a gun against the back of his head, and he was handcuffed before they hauled him to his feet.
“Well, I'll be a son-of-a-bitch,” Chavez said. “You're the guy with the books! We've met before, sweetheart.”
“Qati,” John said to the other one. They'd already been patted down. Neither was armed. “I've wanted to meet you for years.”
Clark took out their tickets. The police would collect their luggage. The police moved them out very quickly. The business and tourist passengers would not know that anything untoward had happened until they were told by family members in a few minutes.
“Very smooth, Lieutenant,” John said to the senior officer.
“As I said, we know our business.”
“Could you have your people phone the embassy and tell them that we got 'em both alive.”
“Of course.”
The eight men waited in a small room while the bags were collected. There could be evidence in them, and there wasn't that much of a hurry. The Mexican police lieutenant examined their faces closely, but saw nothing more or less human than what he'd seen in the faces of a hundred murderers. It was vaguely disappointing, even though he was a good-enough cop to know better. The luggage was searched, but aside from some prescription drugs — they were checked and determined not to be narcotics — there was nothing unusual. The police borrowed a courtesy van for the drive to the Gulfstream.
“I hope you have enjoyed your stay in Mexico,” the lieutenant said in parting.
“What the hell is going on?” the pilot asked. Though in civilian clothes, she was an Air Force major.
“Let me explain it like this,” Clark said. “You Air Scouts are going to drive the airplane to Andrews. Mr. Chavez and I are going to interview these two gentlemen in back. You will not look, not hear, not think about anything that's going on in back.”
“What—”
“That was a thought, Major. I do not want you to have any thoughts about this. Do I have to explain myself again?”
“No, sir.”
“Then let's get the hell out of here.”
The pilot and co-pilot went forward. The two communications technicians sat at their consoles and drew the curtain between themselves and the main cabin.
Clark turned to see his two guests exchanging looks. That was no good. He removed Qati's tie and wrapped it around his eyes. Chavez did the same to his charge. Next both were gagged, and Clark went forward to find some earplugs. Finally, they set both men in seats as far apart as the airplane's cabin allowed. John let the plane take off before he did anything else. The fact was that he despised torture, but he needed information now, and he was prepared to do anything to get it.
“Torpedo in the water!”
“Christ, he's dead aft of us!” Ricks turned. “Best possible speed, come left to two-seven-zero. XO, take the return shot!”
“Aye! Snapshot,” Claggett said. “One-eight-zero, activation point three thousand, initial search depth two hundred.”
“Ready!”
“Match and shoot!”
“Three fired, sir.” It was a standard tactic. The torpedo fired on the reciprocal heading would at least force the other guy to cut the control wires to his weapon. Ricks was already in sonar.
“Missed the launch transient, sir, and didn't catch the fish very soon either. Surface noise…”
“Take her deep?” Ricks asked Claggett.
“This surface noise may be our best friend.”
“Okay, Dutch… you were right before, I should have dropped the outboard.”
“ELF message, sir — SNAPCOUNT is cancelled, sir.”
“Cancelled?” Ricks asked incredulously.
“Cancelled, yes, sir.”
“Well, isn't that good news,” Claggett said.
“Now what?” the Tacco asked himself. The message in his hand made no sense at all.
“Sir, we finally got the bastard.”
“Run your track.”
“Sir, he fired at Maine!”
“I know, but I can't engage.”
“That's crazy, sir.”
“Sure as hell is,” the tactical officer agreed.
“Speed?”
“Six knots, sir — maneuvering says the shaft bearings are pretty bad, sir.”
“If we try any more…” Ricks frowned.
Claggett nodded. “… the whole thing comes apart. I think it's about time for some counter-measures.”
“Do it.”
“Five-inch room, launch a spread.” Claggett turned back. “We're not going fast enough to make a turn very useful.”
“I figure it's about even money.”
“Could be worse. Why the hell do you think they cancelled SNAPCOUNT?” the XO asked, staring at the sonar scope.
“X, I guess the danger of war is over… I haven't handled this well, have I?”
“Shit, skipper, who would have known?”
Ricks turned. “Thanks, X.”
“The torpedo is now active, ping-and-listen mode, bearing one-six zero.”
“Torpedo, American Mark 48, bearing three-four-five, just went active!”
“Ahead full, maintain course,” Dubinin ordered.
“Countermeasures?” the Starpom asked.
The captain shook his head. “No, no — we're at the edge of its acquisition range… and that would just give it a reason to turn this way. The surface conditions will help. We're not supposed to have battles in heavy weather,” Dubinin pointed out. “It's hard on the instruments.”
“Captain, I have the satellite signal — it's an all-forces message, 'Disengage and withdraw from any hostile forces, take action only for self-defense.'”
“I'm going to be court-martialed,” Valentin Borissovich Dubinin observed quietly.
“You did nothing wrong, you reacted correctly at every—”
“Thank you. I hope you will testify to that effect.”
“Change in signal — change in aspect, torpedo just turned west away from us,” Lieutenant Rykov said. “The first programmed turn must have been to the right.”
“Thank God it wasn't to the left. I think we've survived. Now, if only our weapon can miss…”
“Sir, it's continuing to close. The torpedo is probably in acquisition — continuous pinging now.”
“Less than two thousand yards,” Ricks said.
“Yeah,” Claggett agreed.
“Try some more countermeasures — hell, go continuous on them.” The tactical situation was getting worse. Maine was not moving quickly enough to make an evasive course worthwhile. The countermeasures filled the sea with bubbles, and while they might draw the Russian torpedo into a turn — their only real hope — the sad fact of the matter was that as the fish penetrated the bubbles it would find Maine with its sonar again. Perhaps a continuous set of such false targets would saturate the seeker. That was their best shot right now.
“Let's keep her near the surface,” Ricks added. Claggett looked at him and nodded in understanding.
“Not working, sir. sir, I've lost the fish aft, in the baffles now.”
“Surface the ship,” Ricks called. “Emergency blow!”