Phillips's body was exuding absolute rage. "I can't believe it," she finally said.
"I can. It's been the ultimate goal of the jihad for over ten years."
"Is there any way it might have been prevented?" she asked, fighting back tears.
"No. When you've dealt with these religious zealots like I have, nothing surprises you. They would literally fight to the last man to achieve their warped objectives. It's like a cancer. The only thing to do is cut it out, eradicate it — and that, Darlene, is exactly what we are going to do."
"How?"
"By doing what we do best, one step at a time, and not losing focus. I don't mean to sound cold here. Just try to understand this is how I've lived for twenty years."
Phillips only nodded.
Twenty-five minutes later, all four convened in Starr's room at the Holiday Inn. They sat at the dining table in the suite, silent.
Finally, Starr spoke. "J. C., you know the basics, right?"
"Yeah."
"Marv and I already talked about this, but I want your and Phillips's feedback. I firmly believe that the president would want us to continue on finding and stopping this new toxic threat. I have no doubt about that."
They both nodded in agreement.
"J. C., how long would it take for us to get back to the Ranch and then back here? There's a specific reason why I ask."
"Around seven hours, maybe a bit more, round trip for the plane. Then the chopper flight back to and from the Ranch, call that ninety minutes. Total flight time would be about eight and a half hours. Plus the time we spend at the Ranch. Why?"
"There's something there. That's all I want to say right now."
Styles glanced at Starr with a quizzical look. He said nothing.
Starr looked at Phillips. "You can do your research from the air, right?"
Phillips was quite shaken as she answered, "Yes, you know that, but would it be prudent for maybe one or two to stay here, continue with the investigation?"
"Normally, I'd say yes, but not this time. I want to get there and back as fast as possible. I believe it is that important."
Styles stood. "Normally, I'd grill you hard about this because it's not making logical sense. I also know you've got your reason, and that's good enough for me. Let's get the hell back."
Christman said, "Everybody meet at the plane."
Without even a glance, everybody went about their business.
18
Nazir al-Hadid guided his underwater scooter straight and true on a predetermined course at a depth of thirty feet. He glanced slightly rearward and saw his cohort Sirhan al-Razar following approximately eight feet behind him. He smiled as he thought back three hours earlier to when they had shot down the two decoy helicopters and the real Marine One from the old fishing trawler. Less than a minute later, he and al-Razar had slid into the water, untied their scooters affixed with spare scuba tanks from the dock pilings, and were traveling to rendezvous with a large ocean-traversing yacht. A waterproof GPS enabled al-Hadid to follow the track. They were about halfway through their journey. The water was chilly, but the wet suit was keeping him warm.
Al-Hadid was pleased that the sunny day provided good visibility. He looked around at al-Razar, as he often did, just to check. He had just turned back when he heard, and saw, a good-size boat pass overhead. He thought nothing about it. He never saw the fishing line that followed behind, and below, the boat. Suddenly, he saw al Razar being dragged through the water, passing him by less than five feet away. He saw the look of terror on al-Razar's face as his face mask had been ripped off. He just got a glimpse of a bright flash, and he could have sworn he saw a small fish just below his shoulder blade. Then it dawned on him. Sirhan al-Razar had been caught by a large fishing hook, and was helplessly being pulled away. Within seconds, al-Hadid had lost sight of him. He looked back and saw the empty underwater scooter slowing and starting to turn in a tight circle.
"Fuck!" he screamed underwater. There was nothing he could do, so he continued his journey, shaking his head in complete disbelief.
Bob yelled out, "Guys, I think I've got something already, and it feels big!" A fishing addict all his life, he was definitely the happiest aboard the forty-seven-foot sport-fishing boat that three couples had chartered and whose five-day fishing adventure was just beginning. It was a trip three years in the planning, and the party had already started. A twenty-thousand-watt stereo system rocking with the band Y's Factor was managing to drown out the twin diesel engines powering the boat. With drinks in hand, everyone was enjoying themselves.
The Baltimore Police Department Marine Unit was responding to a "body recovered" call when the two officers noticed something in the water ahead of them. The officer piloting the boat slowed, circled around, and came up beside it as it was bobbing up and down in the waves, yet obviously moving under its own power.
"What the hell is that?" said Sergeant Tom Rollins.
Officer James Wood responded, "Looks like one of those underwater scooters. Come up alongside, and I'll try to get a line on it." After several attempts, he managed to secure a rope around the guard of the propeller. He started to bring it aboard. He found he couldn't overcome the propulsion of the little craft. "Give me a hand. This thing's strong."
Sergeant Rollins placed the boat's shifter controls in neutral and joined his partner. "Shit, you weren't kidding," Rollins said as they both strained to reel in the scooter.
Finally, they were able to haul the rear out of the water, and the propeller immediately picked up speed without the liquid resistance.
"What in the hell is that doing out here?" wondered Rollins.
"Maybe some diver lost it. I don't see any diving flags anywhere. We'd better check with the glasses," suggested Wood, turning off the electric motor.
For the next ten minutes, both police officers scanned the horizon for any sign of a scuba diver. No boats anchored, no dive flags, nothing. They gave up.
Rollins and Wood might have been the only two law enforcement personnel in the Baltimore area not involved with the explosion of the helicopters a couple of hours before. Both were incensed about having to respond to their current call.
"Well, let's go check on this damned body," said Rollins.
Twenty minutes later, they were tied up to a chartered sport-fishing boat.
Sergeant Rollins hopped aboard and asked a man in white pants and shirt, "You the captain?"
"Yes, sir. The body is at the rear fishing platform. We covered it with a blanket. We haven't touched it."
"Good. Thank you."
Both officers proceeded to the platform and saw a shape under a bright blue blanket. Sergeant Rollins removed it, and there lay a scuba diver with a large hook clean through the lower part of his shoulder.
"How'd he die?" asked Officer Wood.
"It's hard to say. Probably drowned, but could have been trauma. I think we solved the underwater scooter mystery, though," answered Sergeant Rollins.
Miraculously, the swim mask was still in place. "Do we dare take it off?' asked Wood.
"Yeah, go get us gloves and evidence bags. We'll just be careful. I want to get a look at his face."
Wood was back in ninety seconds with the items.
Gently, Sergeant Rollins removed the mask. Staring at them through sightless eyes was a man of obvious Middle Eastern descent. Rollins looked at the man for a few moments and then bolted for his own boat. He was instantly on his radio. "Harbor Patrol, this is Rollins, on that body recovery call. Get everybody out here now."