USS RONALD REAGAN. INDIAN OCEAN
“So you don’t really know where he is, or even if he’s still alive?”
Harwich could see the commander’s point of view, of course. Why would he risk placing any of his men, or himself, in harm’s way when there was a damn good chance that Gorman and Maryam could have been killed in Karachi?
The CIA officer knew it was a long shot. No, scratch that. It was the long shot of all long shots.
But he still had to try.
“Look,” Demetrius said. He was sitting next to his WSO, Lieutenant Gonzales, in the rear of the mess hall, sipping coffee. “You didn’t see what we saw over there. Tell him, Speedy.”
Gonzales leaned forward and placed both arms on the table. He was a very wiry man with an even thinner face, wearing U.S. Navy shorts and a white T-shirt. “Our sortie was right on the tails of the B-2s from Guam. Part of their mission was to take out the military assets in Karachi and an IED factory. Well, we now think the IED factory had more than IEDs. Maybe Chinese 107s like the ones they used at Bagram. The video we saw showed rockets shooting in every direction, all over the damn place, and we think some hit a nearby refinery or something. Whatever it was, it triggered one hell of a chain reaction. I mean it was nuclear-level shit the way the sky lit up a hundred miles away.”
Demetrius was taller than his WSO, with a receding hairline and a face that appeared as haggard as Harwich felt.
He’d flown nonstop aboard three separate military transports to get here in a record twelve hours since speaking to Victoria and Lisa—including that gut-wrenching landing on the Reagan.
A controlled crash, the pilot had called it.
Controlled my ass, Harwich thought. The only thing he had managed to control had been his bladder as the pilot rammed the plane onto the deck before the arresting wire tugged it back with eye-popping force.
“We think,” Harwich said, “that the same EMP that fried his gear may have given him a warning to get the hell out of Dodge.” Then, almost under his breath, he added, “Which is more warning than he got from our own fucking people.”
Demetrius exchanged a glance with Gonzales.
“What do you think, Speedy?”
The officer rubbed his narrow chin while considering that for a moment before replying, “I mean, it’s possible, Jade … but only if they found a place to hide. That secondary blast covered almost five square miles.”
Turning back to Harwich, Demetrius said, “To put it in perspective, Mr. Harwich—”
“Glenn, please.”
“Okay … Glenn, look, the New York blast was just under a mile in radius. This was at least four times the size … but, you said your man is … resourceful?”
“If someone can survive that, it would be Gorman. And if there is a chance—even a very, very small one—that he may have gotten intel on the whereabouts of that runaway bomb … well, you see why the White House sent me halfway across the world to take a joyride on your ship.”
“Very well, Glenn,” Demetrius said. “What do you have in mind?”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Harwich found his way up to the ship’s main deck to watch the amazing navy show. Hornets and Super Hornets took off and landed to the rhythm of ground crews moving about the flight deck with the precision of a masterfully orchestrated ballet.
The sun slowly sank in the western skies, its dying burnt orange blaze giving way to a star-filled indigo sky.
His eyes shifted north, toward the unseen coast of Pakistan one hundred miles beyond the horizon.
He felt it in his bones that somewhere beyond the waves, the beach, and the mountains, Bill Gorman was running for his life.
Somewhere.