Guard spotted her yesterday off Baja California, and I got satellite pictures this morning. It’s there, Mac. You’re probably looking right at it.”
McGarvey pushed his way through the spectators and raced across to the other side of the bridge. “How do you know that the bomb is aboard that ship?”
“It was delivered to the dock in Karachi. We got the delivery man last night. Traced it back to a flight from Peshwar. Chinese life rafts in Peshwar, Pakistan?”
The only ship moving on the bay side was the second Coast Guard cutter. No cargo vessel. At least none near enough so that if the nuclear device were to be lit off it would damage the bridge or kill anyone on it. They would have to deal with radioactive fallout, but that would come later.
“No chance that it could have come in late last night or early this morning?”
“I don’t think so, Mac. It’s gotta be right there.”
“Good work, Otto. We’ll find it.” McGarvey broke the connection. He was still missing something, goddammit. Bahmad would not have come this far to fail. He radioed Villiard at the FEMA Operations Center as he walked back across the bridge to the ocean side “Villiard,” the Secret Service agent came back.
“The bomb is aboard a Cypriot-registered cargo ship. Margo. Find out if its come into port yet, and where it is.”
Villiard was enough of a pro not to ask questions right now. “Stand by.”
Nothing was changed in the Golden Gate. The cargo ships were still parked just around the point, waiting to come into port. Delayed because of the shipping restriction.
He checked his watch. The first runners would be on the bridge in less than thirty minutes. There wasn’t enough time for one of those cargo ships to pull up anchor and get here. Villiard was back and he was excited.
“The Margo showed up about an hour ago. She’s anchored in a holding basin at Seal Point.”
“I’m on the bridge. There’re five ships out there, two that I can see right now. Neither one of them is moving. Anyway they’d never make it here in time to—” McGarvey stopped in mid-sentence as if a spike had been driven into his skull.
“You still there?”
“The bomb’s on the Margo,” but she’s also carrying a helicopter.”
“Sonofabitch.”
“Scramble the jet and tell the pilot to splash that chopper the moment her rotors start to turn. Do it now while we still have time.”
“I’ll alert the President’s detail.”
“Scramble the jet first, Jay.” McGarvey pushed through the crowd at the curb and ran out into the middle of the roadway. “I’m right in the middle of the bridge. I want a chopper down here right now to take me out to the Margo.”
“I’m on it,” Villiard replied tersely, and he was gone.
McGarvey grabbed a passing cop and had him start clearing the road for the helicopter to land.
M/V Margo Bahmad tossed his leather bag into the dinghy, then turned around and looked at the pilot boat not quite certain that he’d heard what he thought he’d heard. The radio was on, tuned to the San Francisco Harbor Control working channel. He jumped aboard and had to step over the bodies in the cabin to get to the radio, his eyes going instinctively to the bomb wedged between the driver’s seat and the bulkhead. The radio was silent for the moment. He turned down the squelch.
“Negative, she’s off Seal Point. The Coasties, are scrambling a jet.”
“Meeks is out there, but I’ve not been able to raise him,” Bahmad stepped back, staggered by what he was hearing. They knew! Somehow they knew.
“I haven’t been able to reach him or Iglesias.”
Bahmad looked at his watch. The runners wouldn’t be on the bridge for another twenty-five minutes. The bomb was set to go off then. But if the authorities came out here they would discover the dead pilot and his driver. The bomb would go off here, killing a few people instead of thousands. He would have failed again. The thought threatened to send him over the edge.
“Maybe they have radio problems.”
As had happened many times before, the solution came to Bahmad all in one piece. He knew every step that he would have to take, including the diversion he would have to create if he was going to have the time to make his escape.
He went out to the starboard rail and yanked the six-foot whip antenna out of its mount. The radio went dead. Anyone looking when the pilot boat approached the bridge would see that the antenna was down which would explain their radio silence.
Back at the helm he started the inboard, activated the autopilot and put the transmission in forward, setting the throttle to a few hundred RPMs above idle. It would take the pilot boat at least twenty minutes, maybe a little longer to get to the bridge at that speed.
The boat strained at the line holding it to the Mar go’s boarding ladder. Bahmad had some difficulty jumping across because the pilot boat was pitching and hobby horsing pulling at its leash like a puppy dog wishing to run free. He pulled out his stiletto and cut the line. The pilot boat immediately headed away.
He pulled the dinghy over, jumped aboard, lowered the outboard, connected the gas line and pushed the starter button. It roared into life instantly.
The pilot boat still hadn’t cleared the Margo’s bow by the time Bahmad climbed out of the dinghy and raced up the boarding ladder, but he didn’t bother looking. That part of the operation was now completely out of his control.
On deck he ducked through a hatch and took the stairs two at a time up to the bridge. He hurriedly set the main autopilot to steer the same course as the pilot boat, then hit the switch to bring up the anchor.
The pilot boat would take care of itself. And just maybe when the authorities saw the Margo heading for the bridge it would keep them busy long enough for Bahmad to get clear.
Once the bomb lit off no one would be coming for him, the survivors would be far too busy trying to stay alive.
He headed down to the engine room, a smile on his plain, round face. Even in disunity there can be unity. Even in disharmony there can be harmony. And even in the face of my enemies there can be victory.
Insha’Allah.
“What boat is that?” McGarvey shouted over the tremendous roar of the Coast Guard’s SH 3 Sea King helicopter’s two turboshaft engines. The chief petty officer who was studying the container ships at anchor out ahead of them lowered his binoculars and looked where McGarvey was pointing. “That’s the pilot boat,” he shouted back. He took a quick look through his binoculars. “Their antenna is down.” He handed his binoculars to McGarvey. “You’d better check out the Margo, sir.”
McGarvey picked out the big container ship. It was the only one with a helicopter on its crowded decks. But the chopper was still tied down, and there was no activity around it. “What is it?”
“Her anchor, sir. It’s up.”
McGarvey switched to the bow. The anchor was definitely dripping water. It had just been pulled up. But there was no possibility that the ship would get anywhere close to the bridge in time.
He was still missing something, goddammit. But his headaches were back and it was hard to think straight.
“Tell your pilot I have to get aboard on the double, chief,” McGarvey shouted. He set the glasses aside and took out his Walther to check the load and the action.
Bahmad had not planned it this way. There was something else.
The Met Life Blimp “Lead One, this is Baker Seven, they’re coming up on Primary,” Gardner radioed. Primary was the code name for the bridge.
“Copy, Baker Seven. Do you have Thunder in sight?”
Gardner could hear the strain in the radio operator’s voice. Something was going on. “He’s on the approach.” Thunder was the President.
“Okay, we’re closing down the race. Tell your pilot to get you on the ground right now.”
“What’s going on, Lead One?” Gardner asked, but there was no reply.
