Sea of Fire

'There are two things in our favor,' FNO Loh observed. 'All the scarring on the sampan was from small arms fire. Our adversaries may not be equipped with anything stronger. Even if they were, they are apparently out here trying to sink the evidence. That would include weapons.'

Herbert nodded. That cinched it. He was in love with this woman.

The intelligence chief sat back and called Op-Center. He did not think Stephen Viens would be able to get useful satellite data in the next few minutes. However, he wanted Paul Hood to know what was going on. He also wanted to tell Hood exactly where they were.

Just in case they were wrong about the heavy artillery.

Chapter Sixty-One

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 1:00 P.M.

There was a point, about three years ago, when Paul Hood had identified a third component to his job. There was the quarterback role, there was the cheerleader function, and there was also the color commentator in the booth. The guy whose job was really to play devil's advocate.

Hood had assembled a team of professionals. Military experts. Intelligence strategists. Psychologists, diplomats, surveillance professionals. He was here to listen to what Mike Rodgers or Darrell McCaskey or Bob Herbert had to say. Whether he agreed or not, his answer had to be, 'Yeah, but…'

He did that when Bob Herbert called from the Bell. After sitting at his desk and listening to the intelligence chief's description of the scene, Hood went into his, 'Yeah, but…' routine. Only in this case his concern was genuine.

'How confident are you that the boat is not a decoy?' Hood asked.

'There wasn't time to pull that together,' Herbert insisted.

'He had enough time to call the president's special assistant for democratic elections and get him to gnaw on me,' Hood said.

'Bruce Perry?' Herbert asked.

'Yes.'

'What did he do, give you the 'Why are you bothering this wonderful philanthropist' routine?' Herbert asked.

'Pretty much,' Hood said. 'There was nothing specific. I wouldn't be surprised if Perry didn't know about the smuggling.'

'I agree. Though it's interesting,' Herbert replied.

'What is?'

'On a scale of executive influence, Perry is what? Two out of a possible ten?' Herbert asked.

'If you're breaking things down that way, I guess so,' Hood agreed.

'Darling is used to dealing with the top levels of government,' Herbert went on. 'Perry is not as high as he could have gone if he had been prepared. He wasn't. This was the best he could do on short notice. Paul, I think we caught Darling with his trousers around his ankles.'

Hood considered that for a moment. 'That's not the conclusion I would draw,' he replied.

'What then?' Herbert asked.

'I think that Perry may be as high as Darling dared to go,' Hood said. 'If he had called the Speaker of the House, and he could have — they've golfed together a number of times, according to the files — political survival instincts would have forced the Speaker to ask himself, 'What if Darling is guilty? Do I really want to go to bat for this guy?' '

'Okay,' Herbert said. 'That's another indication our boy Darling has something to hide.'

'Right. But that doesn't mean Darling was caught off guard,' Hood said. 'This could still be a diversion to keep you away from the real transport. Or worse. Have you got night vision?'

'No. Nor weapons.'

'Jesus,' Hood said.

'Him I've got. On a chain, right near my heart,' Herbert said.

It took a moment before Hood got the reference. He smiled.

'Look, Paul,' Herbert went on. 'We're almost at the site, and I haven't heard anything to make me want to turn back. If these guys do tag us with some kind of sucker punch, come back here in force. Dig up the boat, search it ass to chin, and find something to implicate Jervis Darling. Nothing is ever one hundred percent clean. Nothing.'

'Bob, we've charged into places before and paid a heavy price,' Hood reminded him. They lost Charlie Squires in Russia, and the bulk of the Striker team averting war between India and Pakistan.

'Yeah. And I paid a toll when I was just standing around an embassy minding my own business,' Herbert said.

'Beirut was a war zone,' Hood reminded him.

'Paul, these days, the world's a goddamn war zone,' Herbert said. 'Anyway, I have no right to turn back. Managing crises is part of the job description. If this is the boat the smugglers have been using, it certainly qualifies.'

Hood was fresh out of 'Yeah buts…' He had done that part of his job. Now it was time to do the next part. The secondary, more difficult part. To rein in his own natural conservatism. To refrain from overruling his field officer. To let him have his head.

To allow him to risk his life.

'All right. Just keep the phone line open, will you?' Hood asked.

'Sure,' Herbert said. 'You won't hear much, though. It's pretty damn noisy in here.'

'That's exactly what I hope to hear, Bob,' Hood replied.

'I don't follow,' Herbert said.

'I want to hear a very loud helicopter returning from a successful recon mission,' Hood said.

'Gotcha,' Herbert said. 'Thanks. We're getting ready to switch on the spotlight now. And Paul?'

'Yes?'

'If that bastard Perry calls again, put him on hold,' Herbert said.

'Sure. Why?'

'With luck,' Herbert said, 'we'll have some news for you real soon.'

Chapter Sixty-Two

The Coral Sea Sunday, 3:01 A.M.

The yacht had assumed a life of its own. It seemed like a legendary sea beast as it moved and turned in the dark sea. It became a participant in the struggle between the two men.

As though resenting their entrapment, the waters in the lower deck of the Hosannah shifted. That caused the prow of the vessel to drop suddenly, hurling Hawke back and Kannaday forward. The men collided amidships, then tumbled hard against the mainmast. Hawke lost his wommera, and both men lost their bearings. They continued to slide forward as the yacht's aft section rose. The arms of both men pinwheeled at their sides. They tried to grab at anything that might break their fall. At the same time, the vessel began sliding deeper into the water. The forward portholes cracked, and large air bubbles popped from the openings. Each one caused the yacht to hop slightly, as though muscles were contracting. They forced the yacht up slightly, but only for a moment. The final, downward slide had begun.

Kannaday lost sight of Hawke. His hands found a flopping halyard, and he held tight. But his body was weak from loss of blood. He hung there while the yacht slid further into the sea. His ear was pressed to the slanting deck. He heard the roar of water as it pounded against the hull.

It was strange, Kannaday thought. He probably had only a minute or two more to live. Yet he felt oddly