Time. Once initiated, the detonation sequence is immutable and irreversible without his code. Can’t change it. Can’t stop it.”
“What time is it now? Damn it. Two-oh-nine.”
“Yes, sir. We have less than two hours.”
“Christ. We’re already working on something here. You need to get that boat into deep water in a hurry. Can you manage that, Alex?”
“I think we have to, Mr. President.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. He said unless he receives certifiable confirmation that Wild Card has been neutralized, you can kiss New York City good-bye.”
Chapter Sixty-two
New York Harbor
2:16 A.M., EST
HAWKE, STANDING AT THE STERN RAIL ON THE LINER’S uppermost deck, watched the tugboat operation with mounting dread. If ever he’d had a time-critical mission, this one was it. The tug Karen Moran, one of six tugs assigned by the U.S. Coast Guard, had moved into position off the great liner’s stern. The hawser, a thick towing cable, looped down from a bollard on Leviathan’s stern out to the tug’s bow. Suddenly, the slack snapped out; the tug began to pull mightily. Against her will, Leviathan was about to back out of the berth. It was a painfully slow process.
Every passing minute darkened his thoughts.
Still, New York City slept, ten million dreamers blissfully unaware of the deadly drama unfolding in her harbor. Imagining the lives behind every dark window along the river, Hawke had a sudden, stinging thought. Ambrose Congreve across town in his hospital bed. Perhaps the bedside lamp was lit. And Diana Mars was sitting quietly by his bedside reading Yeats to him.
As for himself? He’d always felt he’d been born with one foot in the grave. He’d lost his wife to a sniper’s bullet. The bullet that found her heart had been meant for him. Living on borrowed time has a numbing effect; any thoughts of death Hawke had now were centered on others. Ambrose and Diana, at this late date, had finally found love. Mariucci was a true New York hero. That Coast Guard kid, Tynan, who’d won a gold medal for America in Athens. None of these people deserved this. To vanish like—
He looked at the radio in his hand.
He had an open line to the president. But calling him again so quickly with such sketchy information would serve no good purpose. There were a lot of anxious people holding their breath in the Sit Room, dealing simultaneously with two potential catastrophes. The U.S. Pacific Fleet and the Chinese fleet were now eyeball to eyeball in the Straits. Here, the clock was ticking relentlessly. Over the next few minutes, Hawke would have to parse out unfolding information carefully. Avoid false hopes or unrealistic expectations.
To be honest, he dreaded telling them what he was thinking at this very moment.
Another tug, the Diane Moran, was positioned amidships on the starboard side. The swiftly running tidal current complicated her mission. The tug skipper’s job was to keep the ship backing straight out. Once the liner’s stern had cleared the berth, the pier itself would be used as a pivot. A tug pushing against the side would shove the stern upriver. That would swing the bow out into open water so that she was headed south toward the Statue of Liberty and the Ambrose Channel.
At that point, according to Hawke’s hastily thrown together plan, there would be six of the bright red tugs pushing and pulling Leviathan out to sea. Two up front with hawsers, towing. Two angled on either side, steering. And two at the stern, pushing. A book Hawke had read as a child popped into his brain. Little Toot. It was about a little tugboat with a big heart. He hoped like hell he had six little Toots on his side right now.
Karen Moran had dropped off two pilots. Bob Stuart, the Moran harbor pilot, was assigned to steer Leviathan out to the 20-Alpha buoy. At that point, he’d relinquish the helm to a New York state pilot, the “hooker,” he was called. The Sandy Hook pilot was responsible for the ship’s safe passage through the Ambrose Channel. Once they’d safely left the Ambrose Light astern, Leviathan would be in open ocean. There, they might have a chance. A slim one, maybe, but a chance all the same.
They were just now passing the Statue of Liberty to starboard. Hawke checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. He estimated they were doing six knots if they were lucky. Maybe five. He was suddenly aware of Mariucci standing by his side at the rail.
“I don’t like this,” Mariucci said. “At all.”
“It’s not going to work,” Hawke replied, admitting the truth for the first time. “We’ve got to go to evacuation. Give me the radio.”
“Fuck’s sake. You can’t evacuate fifteen million people, Alex! You got any idea how many people would die in that kind of panic? Don’t even think about it.”
Hawke’s eyes flashed with anger. “Where the hell is von Draxis?”
“Locked him up in his stateroom. We cut off his phone, took away his cell. Don’t worry, he ain’t calling anybody about this. And if he gets a call from his Chinese friends, we’ll make sure he makes all the right noises.”
“Any luck down below?” Alex asked. “The divers?”
“Hell, no. The damn thing is encased in solid lead. No way to get to it. Or even X-ray it! We did insert probes. It’s hot all right. And it’s got live wires. It’s the real deal, Alex. A live nuclear fission bomb.”
“What about my idea of cutting out that whole section of keel and just making an offshore run with that? Hell, we could airlift it out of here with a big Sikorsky. Drop it in the trench and be done with it.”
“The divers and arc welders tried, Alex. Couldn’t cut through. Too thick. Not anywhere near enough time. This is our shot right here, Alex. Tow her out beyond the Continental Shelf where the land drops off and scuttle her. What’s the White House say?”
“Hurry.”
“Yeah. What are we doing, six knots? That French captain is all right. He was never in on this goddamn thing, Alex. He’d like to get his hands on von Draxis right now—and Bonaparte. He’s on the bridge now with the harbor pilots, trying to help. When I left him, Dechevereux was on the radio, coordinating a rendezvous with the sub.”
“Sub?”
“A nuclear attack sub the president ordered up to meet us out at the Shelf. The USS Seawolf.”
“Where’s Seawolf now?”
“She was conducting an ‘emergency blow’ training exercise just off Block Island. She’s steaming toward the ‘Wall’ at flank speed. Hey! Where are you—”
“Alaska.”
“What? What about Alaska?”
“Let’s go see the captain,” Hawke said. “I’ve got an idea.”
2:37 A.M., EST
Captain Dechevereux and the two harbor pilots were at the helm when Hawke and Mariucci entered the bridge. Hawke went first to the two pilots. “I want to thank both you guys for all your help. And your bravery. I know you volunteered. As soon as we get to the Ambrose Channel, call one of the tugs alongside and hop off. All right? Go home to your families. And put in for hazard duty. You deserve it.”
“Yes, sir,” they said, practically in unison. “Thanks a lot.”
“Captain Dechevereux,” Hawke said. “Just curious. Did your great hero Bonaparte include nuclear terrorism in your job description?”
“He is no longer my hero, monsieur. If that monster knew about this, he should be shot.”
