Takedown (13 page)

T
he sudden movement of Amy’s fingers jolted Gavin from his light sleep. He had spent the night in a chair by her side, holding
her hand, occasionally using the edge of her hospital bed as his pillow.

“Gavin?” she whispered.

“I’m right here, baby,” he said, rising to his feet.

Her eyes opened slightly in his direction, then her gaze began to take in her surroundings—the intravenous tubes, the half-drawn
pink curtain, the beeping heart monitor. “What happened?” She cleared her throat and winced slightly.

Gavin had prepared himself for this very question. He wanted to tell her everything he knew. Who else could assure him he
wasn’t going insane? Who else could help him figure out what to do next? “There was an accident, baby. You ruptured your spleen
… they had to remove it. It’s a useless organ anyway. You’ll be fine. You just need to rest up for a bit.”

“Spleen?” she said, her eyes opening wider. “Where’s my baby?” She pulled her hand away from Gavin’s and grabbed for her abdomen.

Gavin drew her hand back. “Hey, hey, calm down. The baby’s going to be okay. The doctor will be in later to tell you she’ll
be fine as long as you relax and keep mostly horizontal. At first they were
afraid the placenta had detached, but now they say everything’s normal.”

Amy paused again. “She?”

Gavin smiled and nodded. He had suspected that Amy was hoping for a girl, and this bit of news was just what he needed to
distract her from the nightmare they were in. “Yeah, the doctor thought I knew and just blurted it out to me last night.”
The tear forming in the corner of Amy’s eye told Gavin his suspicions were correct. He squeezed her hand.

“A girl,” Amy said, as if to tell herself with her own words.

“That’s right, sweetie… and remember the most important thing for
her
is that
you
rest.” That part was true but was delivered with all the emotional deception Gavin could muster. What the doctor had actually
told him was that the baby had nearly died and would have little chance of surviving if Amy didn’t spend the rest of her pregnancy
like a mummy. The doctor had also ordered him not to tell her anything that would cause fear and anxiety.

Amy looked at him without a blink. “Are you sure the baby’s all right?”

“Perfectly. She’s got her mother’s stubbornness.”

“Tell me you’re not lying.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you at a time like this.”

Amy closed her eyes. “Yes, you would… if you thought you were protecting me.”

Gavin didn’t answer. He would quit while ahead and hope his expression wasn’t giving him away as it usually did.

“So what happened? My head hurts. My whole body hurts.”

“Like I said, there was an accident.”

“Where? How? I don’t remember anything.”

“You hit your head. The doctor said the facts might seem fuzzy to you at first.”

“Fuzzy would be an improvement. Hit my head where?”

“Right over—”

“Not where on my head, Gavin. Where
on earth?
”

“The house.”

“Our
house?
”

Gavin nodded.

“What did I do, fall down the stairs?”

“You didn’t do anything. A driver lost his brakes coming down the block, couldn’t make the turn, drove right through the front
door. Next time we buy a house we don’t buy one in the middle of a
T
,” Gavin said, wondering if he should be smiling or not. Amy was looking at him suspiciously, as if there was a lot missing
from his story… as if she knew what was missing from the story but wanted him to tell her anyway. Why did she have to be
so smart?

“And what was I doing when the car hit—answering the door?”

“Uh, no. I found you in the hall near the bathroom. You were almost… killed,” Gavin said, choking on the word. He hadn’t
planned on adding that last part, it just came out. He felt his eyes welling up. Great. “I’m sorry, but when I saw you on
the floor I thought the worst. As it turns out… I was wrong.”

“How bad is it?” she said, alarmed.

“It?”

“The house. Why do I get the feeling we’re having two different conversations?”

“Don’t worry. The house can be fixed.”

Amy’s eyes widened. “That bad?”

Gavin shrugged.
Don’t elaborate,
he told himself.

Her face paled. “
Larry.
I was with Larry Larson. Is Larry all right?”

“He got lucky. Didn’t even have to go the hospital.”

Amy sighed with relief and then had another disturbing thought. “And Cedar?”

“Fine. In fact, he’s the one who found you,” Gavin said, then immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Found me? You couldn’t find me? Didn’t Larry know where I was?”

Gavin shook his head, hoping to get out of this alive. “I mean Cedar was standing over you when I got there. He was concerned.
He loves his mommy.”

“Oh. And the driver?”

“Fine, fine. He didn’t go to the hospital either. Okay, no more questions,” he said, waving his hand. “You need your rest
and I need to check on a few things back at the house. The truck left quite a hole. I need to make sure the house is… secure.”

Amy frowned. “Truck? It was a truck?”

“Trucklike. You know cars today. They’re either small or like trucks.”

Amy nodded slowly. “Like mine.”

“Yours?”

She frowned. “Wasn’t my car parked—”

“Yes. That’s good… your memory’s coming back.”
No thanks to me,
he thought sarcastically. “The guy just missed it. That was a close one.”

“Hmm. Are you sure the driver’s not hurt? I mean, how could he hit the house enough to—”

“He didn’t voice any complaints and he’s not here in the hospital. Look, I was too focused on you to care about anyone else.”

“What am I, just unlucky? Everyone’s fine except me?”

“That’s enough, you need to stop talking and rest. You’re healthy and so is the baby. That’s all you need to know right now,
okay?”

“I don’t feel healthy, Gavin.”

“Well you are,” he said, angry and scared but determined not to show it.

Amy stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged her eyebrows
and resigned herself to her pillow. Gavin gave her a heartfelt kiss and told her he would see her soon. On his way out the
door, he told the nurse that Amy was awake but not to mention anything about the actual accident. He also made it clear to
her there were to be no newspapers or TV in Amy’s room. In the meantime, Gavin had a mental “to do” list he’d been waiting
to attack. First stop, the Bronx Zoo.

S
achacus:
9:41 AM.

Captain Rick, as his crew fondly called him, picked up the black telephone next to his plush control seat to address the passengers.
Though he couldn’t hear it from the bridge, he knew a bell had just sounded, alerting his guests to either pay attention or,
in the case of the regular customers, tune him out.

“Good morning. This is Captain Richard Crane. I’d like to welcome you all aboard the
Sachacus,
America’s fastest ferry. Please note that the life preservers are under each seat and that your seat cushion can also be
used as a floatation device in an emergency. As a courtesy to other smaller boats, we will motor through the harbor at no-wake
speed, but thereafter reach a cruising speed of fifty-two knots, or about sixty miles per hour. We’ve been blessed with clear,
friendly weather and anticipate our arrival in New London, Connecticut, to be on schedule. So make yourselves comfortable
and feel free to help yourselves to our complimentary continental breakfast at the concession stand.”

He returned the receiver to its cradle and inspected the monitor screens and indicator lights surrounding him and his first
mate. He made his routine check of the live-water-currents screen at his left, the depth monitor to his right, and the global-positioning-system
screen that would help keep the ship on the exact path it had
traveled every voyage since the ferry had begun shuttling casino customers from Long Island to New London, two hours away.

Behind Captain Rick was another control center manned by the navigator, who kept a constant read on another set of security-related
monitors and a special eye on a radar screen for lobster buoys and small floating debris that would escape the captain at
such high speeds.

With the effortless push of the “combinator,” a small joystick just larger than a Tootsie-Pop, the hundred-forty-eight-foot
jet ferry surged forward and rapidly but smoothly accelerated.

“Jet-Ski coming fast on the starboard,” said Mark Donovan, the twenty-seven-year-old first mate, craning his neck until he
was out of his seat and facing the stern. “Coming up on the wake there, Cap—ohhh, he lost it.”

Captain Rick smiled. “Maybe next time.”

“Maybe not,” Mark said, picking up his seven-by-fifty binoculars. “The wake never seems as big as it really is until you’re
on it. He’s getting back on. I think he wants another try.”

“You had your chance, son,” Captain Rick said, giving the combinator a final push. Another smooth surge forward. “He’ll just
have to be content with foam.”

The door behind opened and closed, allowing a momentary leak of passenger noise. The chief engineer, Randy Trayor, entered
the wheelhouse and began checking his gauges.

“How’s it going, Chief?” Mark asked.

“Not bad. Not bad at all,” he replied, giving Mark a wry smile. “Just thought I’d stop by to let you deck officers see who’s
really in control of this vessel.”

They all laughed while still keeping a close watch for other craft entering their space—a stressful chore, not unlike air-traffic
control. The actual maneuvering of the vessel could be accomplished with the strength of a single finger. What took work—indeed,
the
combined skills of a highly educated and focused crew—was operating the fastest ferry in the country without damaging other
vessels in the ship’s huge wake. Captain Rick and his crew were highly paid to keep their passengers on a tight schedule without
endangering other slower craft, and without inciting smaller boat owners to sue the giant ferry company for alleged damage.
A public-relations tightrope, to be sure.

“Small cluster of fishing boats over there, Cap. One of them tied to buoy thirty-two. Don’t they know that’s one of our landmarks?”

“The nerve,” Rick said as he watched his first mate record the landmark and the time in the ship’s log. The phone rang. “Bridge.”

“You guys care for anything up there?”

“Diet Pepsi sounds good for me. Anyone else? Chief?”

“I’m good.”

“Mark?”

“Coffee, black.”

“Heard that, Cap. One diet Pepsi and a black coffee coming up.”

“Tug and barge ahead, Cap,” Mark said, lowering his binoculars. “Looks like the
Earl Grey
.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Captain Rick said, checking his watch. 9:55. He unclipped the radio receiver and spoke. “
Earl Grey… Sachacus. Earl Grey… Sachacus
here.”

“
Earl Grey
here. I see you coming,
Sachacus,
” said an elderly voice.

“Uh, yeah, we’ll be coming by on two,” Rick said, meaning he wanted to pass by on the port, or right, side of the tug, rather
than on one, meaning starboard or left. “Want us to slow?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“That would be appreciated.”

“You got it,
Earl Grey,
” Rick said as courteously as he could, watching Mark roll his eyes. Most tugs would have told him to
bring it on full speed, knowing that a fast Tricat like the
Sachacus
puts out a smaller wake at full speed. But not the
Earl Grey
.

A diet Pepsi appeared next to him as the phone rang again. He nodded a thank you.

“Bridge.”

“One hundred eighty-two passengers, Cap.”

“Okay, thanks,” Rick said, making his log entry.

“One eighty-two? Not bad for a weekday,” Mark said as they passed the tug at half speed.

“Yeah,” Rick agreed. “Now all we have to do is get them to the blackjack table on time.”

A few minutes later they were past the
Earl Grey
and flying along at full speed.

W
alter Hess was startled out of sound sleep by the buzz of his alarm clock. He quickly shut it off. 10:08 A.M. He had fallen
asleep only four or five hours ago. As a precaution, he had set his alarm clock and was now very glad he did. The
Sachacus
would be by in a few minutes.

His boat was rocking gently. He sat up, stood, felt woozy, like a bad case of jet lag. Whatever. It would all be worth it.
He had done a good job and was about to see the fruit of his labors. He braced himself by grabbing a lightly pitted chrome
handrail and stepped into bright daylight. He yawned. “What a beautiful day for judgment.” He immediately thought of the Scripture
he’d written on the bottom of the hull and how he’d been reading it just the day before.
So appropriate,
he thought.
So… God.

He took a moment to look around. First south, in the direction of Long Island. About five hundred yards away, far enough so
as not to disturb the speed or path of the jet ferry, he had anchored the telephone pole, horizontally, with an anchor at
either end. Actually, not just an anchor but a mooring, cupped into the bottom and pointing east, the direction the
Sachacus
would be traveling, and the faster the better. According to his tide calculations, the forty-foot-long pole he’d borrowed
from the Army Corps of Engineers, who were building a dock near the shore, would be about a foot and a half below the surface
right now. Perfect height for the channel he’d
cut in the starboard hull and for the grappling hook that would rip open the bottom like a banana peel.

He could envision the water gushing into the gash. The object wasn’t to sink the boat. He knew better than to think he could
accomplish that. The vessel was virtually unsinkable unless blown apart. No, the gaping hole would snow-cone the water in,
driving the bow underwater while the jets, unlike a propeller drive, would continue propulsion even out of the water, driving
the bow even deeper. Like throwing a pipe into the spokes of a bicycle’s front wheel, the full-speed momentum would cartwheel
the vessel, flipping it onto its back. Survivors would be few if any, and he would deal with them personally.

He continued to survey his position. His boat, safely and strategically placed just north of the ferry’s path, looked like
any other boat out fishing for the day. The two fishing rods mounted on the rail were kept in place with weights on the ends
of the lines to keep them taut.

Hess saw boats in the west, but not the one he was waiting for. He looked at his watch, then west again. After a long moment
of squinting, he remembered his binoculars, shaking his head at his slow thinking. He fetched a pair of olive-green Steiners
he had last used for hunting and scanned the horizon. They weren’t marine glasses, but they would do the trick with the sun
still behind him. The rocking of the boat made it harder to still the images. He bent his knees to absorb the motion and—there,
he saw it.
Sachacus.
Five to ten times the size of any other boat. Without the glasses, a white dot on the horizon, but traveling forty to fifty
knots, it would be here soon.

Hess had been calm up to this point, but now he was getting nervous, just as he had when the train was bearing down on the
split rail. Only then he’d had the jock to occupy his mind. He looked east, then north for anyone that could interfere with
the
Sachacus’
path. A couple of potential candidates were in view, but none imminent. Just then a boat, named the
Grady White
—a twenty-four, maybe twenty-six-footer—appeared within fifty feet, seemingly from nowhere. Two men, one setting fishing rods,
the other, a guy with a gray beard and ponytail, walking back from the bow, apparently having just set the anchor. Before
joining his friend on the deck, he stared right at Hess and gave a friendly wave.

Hess slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses and waved back, then glanced to his left toward the cabin, where his twelve-gauge
Mossberg pistol-grip pump was loaded with double-aught buckshot. Economic but effective. How did they manage to sneak up on
him like that? Killing them could disrupt the
Sachacus.
They would be glassing him any minute, as well as the
Grady White
. But they, or at least one of them, had clearly seen his face. This would probably mean nothing, but he didn’t want to deal
with
probably
.

“Any luck?” the man with the beard called out.

Hess shook his head, said nothing.

“Got two stripers. No keepers.”

Hess nodded. He couldn’t tell the guy to leave and didn’t want to speak. He walked to one of his rods and reeled in the line,
as if checking it, then lowered it and picked up the second rod. Maybe the guy would take the hint that he wanted to be alone
and that the fishing was bad here. Hess glanced up toward the
Sachacus
. He could clearly make out the Tricat’s unique design. He glanced inconspicuously at his watch. Right on time.

“What kind of bait you using?”

Hess cursed. “Eels,” he said.

“Really? And no luck? Weird, this is a great spot. Caught a— whoa!” he yelled, grabbing for his singing rod, the tip bowing
and jerking frantically. His friend set his rod in a holder and found a net while the bearded guy fought with the reel.

Hess, hoping it would be a small bluefish, kept one eye on the approaching
Sachacus
.

“Oooo, baby,” the man hooted as the net slipped under the fish. Once it was aboard, he held up a huge striped bass with both
arms. “Now
that’s
a keeper!” he yelled.

Hess smiled nervously, cursed under his breath, gave the guy a thumb’s-up, and then feigned attention to his own rods again.
But his attention was focused on the view over the rim of his black glasses. The
Sachacus
. His hands shook with fear, anticipation, and excitement.

“Hey, buddy boy!” the bearded guy called out.

Hess turned, wondering if it might be worth shooting him just to shut him up.

“See that?” the guy said, pointing southwest.

Hess looked, as if he didn’t know he was pointing at the ferry, then looked back at the guy.

“That sleek-looking angel in white is the boat from hell.”

I know,
Hess thought.

“The wake from that thing will crash over the back of your transom. Seriously. You’re gonna need to reel in your lines and
swing your bow around. Caught me once; never again. I remember one time… there must have been…”

Hess heard the bearded guy babble on and on, but it was just background noise. The hundred-fifty-foot Tricat had arrived and
was blazing along at better than fifty knots. He unconsciously began a countdown in his mind.
Ten… nine… eight…

“… we all had eels, except for Fred, my brother-in-law. He had a fly rod. So we’re just…”

… six… five… four…

“… and Fred snags another one, this one bigger than the…”

… three… two…

“… next thing ya know, the eel bucket gets knocked over and— What the— Oh, my God!”

Hess could no longer hear the bearded guy, but didn’t know if it was because he was silent or if he himself didn’t have the
mental capacity to take in human words
and
what he was seeing before him. What transpired in less than ten seconds seemed to take much, much longer. All the research,
all the math, all the preparation, and still he could not believe what he was seeing. The nose of the
Sachacus
appeared to fall into the water as if it had just gone off a cliff. The momentum drove it in deep, heaving the rear up into
the air. The jets continued shooting water out like a giant fire hose as it rose higher, higher, sending the bow deeper until
the jets pointed straight into the air. The vessel, a geyser, a colossal fountain, trembled there for an instant, as if a
decision couldn’t easily be made.

“C’mon… c’mon,” Hess said through gritted teeth, feeling the need to combat the combined wills of the passengers for it to
settle back down.

“Noooo!” screamed the bearded old fisherman and his friend.

“Goooo!” Hess countered, praying with all his might for God’s kingdom to come through mightily and prevail against the forces
of darkness. He closed his eyes tightly, in his mind’s eye seeing the
Sachacus
give way and fall on its back. He held the vision as firmly as he could, remembering how strong faith could move a mountain.
When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t account for what he actually saw. The
Sachacus
was falling over, but much slower than he would have thought possible. Apparently, the crew had managed to maneuver the jets
in the direction of the fall. Gravity was winning the battle, but he had hoped the ferry would slam the water’s surface, not
settle into it as if a crane had lowered it. He wondered how the captain had been able to think and respond so quickly.

His awe of the crew was quickly followed by an awe of his own work. When the ferry finally came to rest, the exposed hull
revealed
the gash he had planned for. A moment of silence was followed by a clamor of activity from the
Grady White
. The bearded guy was pulling the anchor while his friend revved the engines. Their boat was quickly under way, flying toward
the capsized ship, fishing lines still out with bait skipping on the water’s surface, rods bending.

Hess reached for his binoculars and quickly focused. A couple of swimmers, a few more. Survivors. There shouldn’t have been
any. Why would God have allowed anyone to survive? Maybe some weren’t meant to die. Maybe it was just a test to see if he
would leave or stay to… help.

Hess threw his rods overboard, hoisted anchor, and took off to join the rescue. After all, the
Grady White
guys might think of him as suspicious if he simply left. On his way he encountered the ripple wake from the capsize. The
wave engulfed his bow, and water flooded back to the cabin area. If he had stayed where he was and been caught by it coming
over his transom, his boat might have been sunk.

Up close, the flipped catamaran looked like a pair of dead whales, their white bellies to the sun. More people in the water
now, most clinging to flotation devices. They all seemed to be getting out through the front and rear doors. Many of them
were bleeding from the head. The fishing guys were heroically hauling as many aboard as they could fit. Hess put his engine
in neutral and drifted toward the ferry.

“Help!” called a male voice to his right. He turned to see a survivor holding a bluish cushion, kicking his way toward him.

Hess took hold of his knife, slipping his fingers through the spiked rings that had subdued the jock at the train wreck. He
leaned over the beam and reached his left hand to the man. The man weakly stretched out his arm. They clasped and Hess drew
him near.

“What’s your name?” Hess asked, glancing around to see if anyone was looking his way. He couldn’t be certain he wasn’t being
watched, but the man was touching the boat now and on the side away from the ferry.

The man frowned, but finding his breath, answered, “Mark.”

“What’s your last name, Mark?”

“Levine.”

A moment later Hess was watching the man’s surprised expression slowly disappear in the murky darkness below. He watched the
face sink out of sight until other cries for help distracted him. He looked up and scanned the area. Maybe two dozen people
were thrashing about or floating with the aid of a life preserver. The fisherman heroes were still at it, hauling survivors
aboard their small vessel. Other boats were on their way; he saw only bows, no sterns. A helicopter… two helicopters.

A good soldier knows when it’s time to slowly back away and disappear.