alone.”
“But that documentary—it kept talking about these rifts in the ground. Weak spots.”
Steve hesitated. “Ally, I can’t really talk about—”
“Fine, forget it. I’ll just stop worrying. How’s that?”
Allison could feel him standing there, staring at the back of her head. He would be wearing that scolded-puppy-dog look and have his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. She let the silence hang in the air. After thirty seconds, he said, “Okay, if it’s that important to you—”
“It’s not that that’s important to me. It’s you.”
Arms still folded, she turned to face him. She forced some tears into her eyes. He held out his hand to her. “Come here.”
“Why?”
“Just come here.”
She stepped over to him, to his hand. He said, “Just don’t tell anybody I talked about this stuff, okay? They’d throw me in jail.”
She smiled and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Promise.”
The Panamax cargo ship Losan was three days from its destination, having made the bulk of the Atlantic crossing on calm seas and under clear skies. Losan’s captain, a forty-seven-year-old German named Hans Groder, had been the box ship’s master for eight years, having spent ten months out of every one of those years at sea. A tougher schedule than his previous job—captain of a German Navy Type 702 Berlin-class replenishment oiler—but the pay was much better and the stresses much fewer. Better still, Losan was a blue-water ship, a nice change for Groder after twenty-two years of navigating the labyrinthian waters around Eckendorf and Kiel Naval Bases. Such a pleasure to simply point one’s bow into the Atlantic and steam away with hundreds and thousands of feet beneath your keel and not a speck of land on your radar. Of course, on his more introspective days Groder indulged that sense of melancholy all sailors and soldiers felt once they’ve left military life behind, but on balance he enjoyed his life and the autonomy it allowed. He answered to only one man, the owner, not a chain of stuffed-shirt flag officers who wouldn’t know the difference between a chock and a cleat.
Groder strolled across the bridge and glanced at the radar. There wasn’t another vessel within twenty miles. Their nav radar wasn’t the most powerful in the world but was sufficient for their purposes. For a watchful captain and crew, twenty miles was plenty of time to adjust course and give fellow travelers a wide berth. Groder walked to the windows and stared out across the foredeck, going through his instinctive scan of the stacked bulktainers. They’d experienced some shifting, most of the time due to those damned propane tanks. Packed four to a container, they were secure enough, but their shape lacked the user-friendly geometry of crates and pallets. It could be worse, Groder knew. At least the damned things were empty.
71
LATER, GERRY HENDLEY would reflect that the hardest part of the whole damned affair—aside from the event that prompted it, that was—was simply finding a private place to bring them in. Former President Ryan had finally stepped in, making one phone call to the chief of staff of the Air Force, CSAF, who in turn called the commander of the 316th Wing, the host unit at Andrews Air Force Base.
They arrived in two black Chevy Tahoes, Hendley, Jerry Rounds, Tom Davis, Rick Bell, Pete Alexander, and Sam Granger in the first; Clark, Chavez, and Jack Ryan Jr. in the second. Both vehicles turned left onto C Street and coasted to a stop beside a hangar at the edge of the tarmac. Former President Ryan arrived five minutes later in a Town Car flanked by the Secret Service detail in two Suburbans.
The Gulfstream V touched down eleven minutes later, three minutes behind schedule, and taxied to a stop fifty yards away. The engines spooled down, and the scaffold stairs were rolled out and locked onto the plane’s main door.
Jack Ryan Jr. climbed out of the Tahoe, followed by the rest, who stood a few feet behind him.
The Gulfstream’s door opened, and thirty seconds later Dominic Caruso appeared at the threshold. He blinked at the sunlight, then started down the stairs. His face was drawn and showed five days’ worth of stubble. Jack walked out and met him halfway. They embraced.
“I’m so sorry, man,” Jack whispered.
Dominic didn’t respond but broke the hug and nodded. “Yeah” was all he said.
“Where is he?”
“Cargo hold. They wouldn’t let me take him in the cabin.”
After leaving the quarry, Bari had driven as fast as possible with the Opel’s headlights off, making