Conch?”
“China’s opening position is a remarkable display of plausible deniability. They said, ‘What bomb?’”
“Right. The bomb they put in Leviathan’s keel, goddamn it!” General Moore said.
“What about the Gulf?” the president asked.
“They say they aren’t in the Gulf. France is. Suggested we speak with Monsieur le President Bonaparte about Oman. He’s the one who ordered the French troops to invade.”
“And Taiwan?”
“Taiwan is their property. That’s the view. They actually quoted the Taiwan Relations Act. In an odd way, they seemed to be advising prudence on our part.”
“Prudence?”
“Just a feeling. That we should tread lightly.”
“Ah. And this veiled warning took place prior to the Chinese foreign minister knowing Wild Card was on the table, correct?”
“Correct, sir.”
“I just had a thought, Mr. President,” Gooch said.
“Go ahead,” McAtee said.
“This Leviathan. It’s been their plan all along. That ship is the Chinese attempt to check Wild Card.”
The room went silent.
“What does that mean, John?” the president said.
“Check. Checkmate.”
“How so?”
“Trigger one, trigger all. We initiate our detonation sequence, they initiate theirs.”
“I think John’s absolutely right. Only we know where their bomb is,” CIA Director Kelly said.
“That’s correct, Brick,” the president said. “We do know where it is. I just pray to God we get that damn thing out of New York before they pull the trigger.”
“Until we do, we’re in an undeclared state of war with Red China, Mr. President,” John Gooch said.
Chapter Sixty-one
New York City
2:01 A.M., EST
NEW YORKERS ARE HARD TO SPOOK. THAT’S WHAT MASTER Chief Petty Officer Ken Tynan was thinking, anyway. People in Manhattan, they’ve seen just about everything in the last four or five years. So, when drivers on the West Side Highway see a line of NYPD cruisers an entire city block long, bumper-to-bumper out front of the Passenger Ship Terminal, you know what, they don’t pay a whole lot of attention to it. All those cop cars in a row, lights flashing; it was cool-looking. Good scene. Like some Bruce Willis or Arnold movie on one level. Reassuring on another.
Nor did New Yorkers think much of the six Moran tugs that were currently steaming up the East River toward Pier 93. Any insomniac looking out the window in Midtown, or over in Jersey, wouldn’t think twice about a few tugboats, even though it was just after two o’clock in the morning.
Except for all the uniforms swarming around, the French Line check-in area at Pier 93 was deserted. Outside on the dock, at the foot of the gangway where Tynan was located, guys from the NYPD Marine Units were standing by. Everybody was shooting the shit, occasionally looking up at the draught markings rising up the side of the big black wall and wondering what the hell was going on.
All anybody knew was that Captain John Mariucci and his Anti-Terrorist guys had some kind of operation going. There was a rumor fragment just circulating that the giant cruise ship had sprung a radiation leak. Divers were down, examining the hull and the bulbous keel. You could see their work lights bobbing around down there, fuzzy white orbs in a halo of green.
Some scientist wonks had set up shop on the counters inside the check-in area, crunching numbers on their laptops. With all the streamers, it looked like the back room at a political rally. They’d evacuated the whole crew of the boat an hour ago. Tynan, who was a gas turbine tech himself, was amazed at the number of Chinese technicians streaming off that boat. They all had that nerdy “nuclear” look. Now, only the ship’s captain and a couple of other guys remained on board, far as he knew.
Pretty exciting stuff for a Sunday night in June. You never know, right?
All Chief Tynan was sure of, he wasn’t supposed to let anybody get on or off this ship, period, and that’s just what he was doing. So far, it had been pretty easy. People didn’t generally mess with him. Before he’d trimmed down to meet the Coast Guard regs, he weighed two-fifty, two-sixty; this was when he’d been on the U.S. wrestling team that had gone to Athens. One match, he’d dislocated his wrist seven times. He’d won anyway. “You go for my wrist again, I’m going to go for your head,” he’d told King Kong, Russia’s thirteen-year undefeated legend, Alexander Karelin.
“Tynan!” he heard somebody shout at him. He turned around and saw his boss Mariucci and another guy heading toward him. Ken saluted and said, “Yes, Captain?”
“We’re going aboard,” Mariucci said. “Everybody get off?”
“All the crew was evacuated, sir. About an hour ago.”
“Anybody try to leave or get on this thing since then?”
“No, sir,” Tynan said. “Nobody.”
“Good. If they do, arrest ’em. If they resist arrest, shoot ’em.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m putting the Coast Guard, namely you, in charge of this NYPD Marine Unit, Tynan. Here’s a packet of sealed instructions to be opened on my verbal order. Stay tuned, you’ll hear from me on your headset. I’m wearing a mike.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You hear me say the word ‘Moran,’ you and the Marine Unit captain open the envelope together. Got it, Tynan?”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“Where’s the captain of this vessel now?”
“In the owner’s private stateroom, sir, talking to the builder. Big two-story penthouse flanking the bridge on the right side. I’ve got two of my men outside the door and one more by his private elevator. They’re not going anywhere, sir.”
2:06 A.M., EST
Hawke and Mariucci found Captain Dechevereux and von Draxis sitting in the baron’s movie set Art Deco living room. Everything was done in black and white. A wall of windows rose two stories high and gave a breathtaking view of Manhattan. They were sitting on a sofa beneath a scale model of Leviathan, the model itself more than fifteen feet long. A third man, huge, with a shaved skull, sat in a chair opposite. He wore white duck trousers and a black T-shirt that said VDI Security. On the floor near his feet was a dog, size large, a Doberman pinscher.
“Nice view from up here,” Mariucci said. “Too bad you got to leave.”
Von Draxis got to his feet.
“Ah, Captain Mariucci,” he said, “won’t you join us? You, too, uh…George. Please, sit. Have a drink. I was just telling the captain here about the time my hero Onassis was ordered to change the Olympic logo on all his airliners. You’ve heard this one?”
“No,” Mariucci said, looking at Hawke.
“Olympic Airways had the same logo as the Olympics, five inter-locking rings, you know? The Olympic
