"And you saved mine and I love you, too."
Abbey wiped away a tear herself. "Aw, fuck it, we'll get through this."
As the docks loomed into view, Abbey could see at least a dozen cop cars had converged in the parking lot, parked willy-nilly, their light bars going. And behind them, on the lawn of the Anchor Inn, it seemed like half the town had turned out to watch them come in. Along with news crews and television cameras.
"Oh my God, will you look at all those people?" said Jackie, wiping her face and blowing her nose. "I look like shit."
"Get ready for your fifteen minutes of fame."
She could now hear the hubbub coming over the water, the murmuring crowd, the shouting cops, the hiss of police radios. Even the volunteer fire department was there, Samoset No. 1, with their brand-new fire truck. They were all decked out in slickers and carrying Pulaskis. Everyone was having a grand old time.
"RBM Fitch to Old Salt, come in," the officious voice hissed over the VHF.
"Old Salt here." It made Abbey almost sick to even speak the name of Worth's shit-can of a boat.
"Old Salt, the state police have requested you berth in position one at the commercial dock and immediately leave the boat, taking nothing. Don't shut off the engine or tie up. Law enforcement will board and take over."
"Got it."
"RBM Fitch over."
The Fitch eased up to the public dock, the Coast Guard fellows hopping out in their crisp uniforms and tying up with drill-like efficiency. Abbey brought the Old Salt up behind it. The state police were swarming the dock and they immediately hopped aboard, securing the boat. Abbey stepped off, Jackie by her side. An officer came up, holding a clipboard. "Miss Abbey Straw and Miss Jacqueline Spann?"
"That's us."
Abbey glanced across the parking lot. It seemed like the entire town was staring down at her from behind a cordon of police. And to one side, cameras were rolling. She heard a shout, a struggle. "That's my daughter, you idiot! Abbey! Abbey!"
It was her father. Home early.
"Let go of me!"
He came running down the grassy hill, checked shirt untucked, beard flapping, pounded down the wooden stairs, past the bait shed, and down the pier. He got to the top of the ramp and, gripping both rails, came charging down at her, hair wild.
"Dad--"
The officer stepped back as he ran to her. He wrapped her in his arms, a big sob wrenched from his broad chest. "Abbey! They say he tried to kill you!"
"Dad . . ." She wiggled a little but he wasn't letting go. He hugged her again, and then again, while she stood there, feeling awkward, mortified. What a show in front of the whole town.
He held her by her shoulders and stood back. "I was so worried. Look--your tooth! And your lip is cut. Did that scumbag--?"
"Dad . . . Forget the tooth . . . Your boat sank."
He stared at her, thunderstruck.
She hung her head and began to cry. "I'm sorry."
A long silence, and then he swallowed, or at least tried to, his Adam's apple bobbing. After a moment he put his arms around her again. "Ah, well. A boat's just a boat."
A ragged cheer went up from the town.
PART 2
37
Ford entered the office to find Lockwood seated at his desk. A brigadier general with grizzled hair in a rumpled field uniform stood next to him, whom Ford recognized as the Pentagon liaison to the Office of Science and Technology Policy.
"Wyman," Lockwood said rising, "you know Lieutenant General Jack Mickelson, USAF, deputy director of the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. He's in charge of all GEOINT."
Ford extended his hand to the general, who rose as well. "Good to see you again, sir," he said, with a certain amount of coldness.
"Very good to see you, too, Mr. Ford."
He shook the general's hand, which was soft, not the usual rock-hard grip of the military man forever seeking to prove his manhood. Ford remembered liking that about Mickelson. He wasn't so sure he liked the man now.
Lockwood came around his desk and gestured toward the sitting area of his office. "Shall we?"
Ford sat down; the general took the seat opposite and Lockwood took the sofa.
"I asked General Mickelson to join us because I know you respect him, Wyman, and I was hoping we could resolve these issues quickly."
"Good. Then let's cut to the chase," said Ford, facing Lockwood. "You lied to me, Stanton. You sent me on a dangerous mission, you misled me as to the purpose of that mission, and you withheld information."
"What we're about to discuss is classified," said Lockwood.
"You know damn well you don't need to tell me that."
Mickelson leaned forward on his elbows. "Wyman . . . if I may? You can call me Jack."
"With all due respect, General, no apologies and no chitchat. Just explanations."
"Very well." His voice had just the right note of gravel, his blue eyes friendly, his excellent sense of self-possession softened by the casual uniform and easy manner. Ford felt a rising irritation at the snow job to come.
"As you may know, we maintain a network of seismic sensors around the world for the purpose of detecting clandestine nuclear tests. On April fourteenth, at nine-forty-four P.M., our network detected a possible underground nuclear test in the mountains of Cambodia. So we investigated. We quickly proved the event was a meteoroid impact, and we found the crater. At about the same time, a meteor was seen over the coast of Maine, falling in the ocean. Two simultaneous strikes. Our scientists explained that it was most likely a small asteroid that had broken into two pieces in space and drifted far enough apart that they landed in widely separate locations. I'm told it's a common occurrence."
He stopped as a soft alarm chime went off on Lockwood's desk, and a moment later the coffee came in, the steward pushing the little coffee cart with the silver pot, tiny cups, and sugar lumps in a blue glass dish. Ford poured a cup and drank it black. Dark, powerful, fresh-brewed. Mickelson abstained.
When the steward left, Mickelson went on. "Meteoroid strikes aren't part of our mission, so we simply filed away the information. That would have been the end of it. But--"
At this the general took a slim blue folder out of his briefcase, laid it down, and opened it. Inside was an image from space of what Ford immediately recognized as the honey mine in Cambodia.
"Then the radioactive gemstones began appearing on the market. This became a top concern of our antiterrorist people, who worried they might become source material for a dirty bomb. Anyone with a high school chemistry lab setup could concentrate the Americium-241 from these stones."
"What about the impact in Maine? Did you investigate that?"
"Yes, but the meteorite fell into the Atlantic half a dozen miles offshore. Unrecoverable, and impossible to pinpoint the impact location."
"I see."
"Anyway, we knew about the impact crater in Cambodia, we knew the gemstones were coming from that general area, but we couldn't confirm the link. That could only be proven on the ground."
"And that's where I came in."
Mickelson nodded. "You were told all you needed to know."
"General, with all due respect, you should have given me more backup, I should have been briefed, shown the satellite images. That's what you would have done for a CIA operative."
"Frankly, that's why we reached beyond the CIA for this mission. All we wanted was a pair of eyes on-site. On the ground. Independent confirmation. We didn't expect. . . ." He cleared his throat and leaned back, "that you would actually destroy the mine."