crossing and recrossing the bridge. Hundreds of people had gathered at the rails, and hundreds more on foot were streaming onto the bridge to wait for the race.
There were at least four helicopters in the air passing back and forth directly over the bridge, and a pair of Coast Guard cutters patrolling the waters on either side of the center span. Their bow guns were uncovered, the barrel caps off, and the three crewmen who he could make out on the nearest cutter wore their Kevlar helmets. They meant business. No ship would be allowed anywhere near the bridge until the runners were safely over.
He continued to study the waters on either side of the bridge until he spotted a small white powerboat, some sort of a pennant flying from a whippy mast, passing the Coast Guard cutter on the seaward side of the bridge.
The cutter did not challenge the little boat, which continued straight out toward the holding basin.
Bahmad lowered the binoculars and allowed a faint smile to crease his lips. It was the pilot boat and it had a free rein in the harbor.
He pocketed a walkie-talkie, set to the standard VHP channel 16 and went to open the port quarter gate and lower the ladder. It was too bad about the helicopter. But there was more air traffic than he had counted on. Someone was bound to see the chopper lift off from the Margo. What wouldn’t be so easy to spot however, would be the Zodiac and powerful outboard motor that he’d found in a deck locker last night. At the time he’d merely noted that it was there, along with the lifting tackle to put it in the water. But now he was glad he had gone looking out of curiosity and had found it.
Soon, he thought. Very soon now and the United States would be a very different place in which to live. He would also have to get back to the chart room to do a final bit of navigation, but that part was easy compared to what he’d already gone through.
The presidential motorcade, lights flashing, sirens screaming, swept down the Candlestick Park exit off U.S. 101 a couple of minutes before 11:30 a.m.
“Thunder is clear, seven,” the Secret Service officer riding shotgun in the President’s limousine radioed softly.
Crowds had gathered along the half-marathon route over the bridge. Thousands of them waved small American flags, but there were many along the route who waved the flags of the several dozen participating countries.
“It’d be nice to think that they turned out for us in such numbers,” Governor S. Howard Thomas commented. His complexion was florid. He’d drunk enough Chivas to float a battleship at last night’s AP managing editor’s dinner. But he had given a creditable speech this morning to the San Francisco Downtown Rotary Club that surprised even Haynes.
“Your being here won’t hurt, Howard,” the President said. “The talk will get around.”
The governor shot him a sly look, not sure if the President wasn’t being sarcastic. It was no secret that Haynes disliked him. But Thomas was the party favorite; he had done a reasonably good job in his first term, and the ass running against him was a total flake.
“I can see him hitting the Pentagon, or Wall Street, even the Congress, but not here.” The governor gave the President’s wife and his wife the famous Thomas reassuring smile. “Not here, not today. Too many of his own people would get hurt. They’d tear him apart back home. Limb from limb.”
“I’m still nervous,” Mildred Thomas admitted.
The President’s wife patted her hand. We would have canceled the games if there was a possibility that something was going to happen. Our own daughter is here.”
“I know. And I think you’re so brave,” Mrs. Thomas said sincerely. “But I’m not.”
The President gave his wife an appreciative look. What they didn’t need right now was a nervous or even hysterical woman on the stage at the opening ceremonies. It was difficult enough keeping the truth from the public though the media had started to put it together. A few calls to the presidents of the networks had put the lid on the story for a little while, at least through this weekend. But the dam would break soon. Then they would be faced with conducting an investigation in the face of a frightened nation. At that point even if the bomb were never to be used, bin Laden would have already won. The idea of a terrorist act was to terrorize. Well, just the threat of this attack was going to be enough to set the average American off. Nobody would ever feel safe in their homes so long as bin Laden was alive. It was the argument he had used on the TV execs.
“Nothing to be brave about, Mildred; unless Deb wins the race in which case they’ll say that the fix was in and scream for our blood,” the President assured her.
They slowed down as they passed through the stadium entrance directly onto the field. The stadium was filled to capacity. All the athletes were lined up in ranks and files behind then: national flags. Most of them wore white blazers and dark blue slacks or skirts, but the marathon runners were decked out in their shorts with their numbers pinned on the backs of their shirts.
The stage was decorated with red, white and blue bunting and the pennants of all the participating nations.
A huge cheer went up through the stadium as the President’s limousine crossed the field and stopped in front of the stage. ISO director Octavio Aguilar and the other dignitaries all rose, and as the President and first lady got out of the car the band played “Hail to the Chief.”
The President searched for his daughter’s face in the middle of the American delegation. He thought he spotted her, but then he wasn’t sure as he and his wife started slowly up the stairs with Governor and Mrs. Thomas, shaking hands as they went. Two of his Secret Service agents were already on stage, four flanked the President and First Lady, and a dozen others ringed the platform. There were even more in the skybox and at other strategic positions in the stadium. Everyone was alert, no one was asleep on the job this morning.
It was a poor defense against a nuclear weapon, the fleeting thought crossed the President’s mind, but then he was shaking hands with the tiny, birdlike Octavio Aguilar and his even more diminutive wife Marianna.
“International Special Olympians,” the announcer’s voice blasted through the stadium. “Coaches, trainers, ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States of America.”
The crowd cheered as the President stepped to the microphone to make his remarks and declare that the games were open. He prayed to God that this would be the beginning of a completely uneventful week.
Bahmad reached the bottom of the boarding ladder as the pilot boat rounded the Marge’s stern. One man was in the cabin at the wheel, and another was at the rail on the aft deck. He would be Russell Meeks, the pilot, who was supposed to come aboard to guide the Margo to her berth after the race. Bahmad raised his hand and waved. Meeks waved back as the man driving the pilot boat expertly brought her alongside, throwing the transmission into neutral at exactly the right moment.
Bahmad passed a line across to Meeks, who seemed to be surprised, but took it. The usual procedure was for the boat to come alongside and for the pilot to simply jump across.
“I’d like to talk to you for a minute before you come aboard, Mr. Meeks. If you don’t mind,” Bahmad said.
“What’s going on?” Meeks wore a San Francisco Harbor Pilot cap and jacket. He carried a walkie-talkie in a holster in his belt like a gun. If he reached for it Bahmad would kill him on the spot.
“It’ll just take a minute, sir. I need to talk to you and your driver. I have to show you something.”
Meeks was an older man, white hair, deeply lined face, but he was built like a linebacker. He’d probably worked on or around boats all of his life. He was suspicious now. “Who are you?”
“I’m Joseph Green, first officer. I’ve really gotta talk to you, man. There’s nothing wrong, I mean, but this is important. Believe me.”
Meeks turned, leaned into the cabin and said something to the delivery skipper that Bahmad didn’t quite catch. He turned back, nodded, cleared off the line and stepped aside.
Bahmad jumped aboard and stumbled as if he had lost his balance. He reached out to Meeks with his left hand to steady himself, while he reached in his jacket for his pistol with his other. He turned toward the delivery driver who watched from his high seat at the helm, a calm but curious look on his narrow, dark face. Bahmad got the impression that he might be Hispanic.
“Easy,” Meeks said.
Bahmad pulled out his pistol, thumbed the safety catch off and fired one shot into the delivery driver’s
