As a last defense against a shipborne nuclear attack, there were two old fortresses on both sides of The Narrows that once guarded the harbor with cannons, but now guarded it with radiation detectors. These detectors, like the ones at sea, would remain silent.
Petrov said to Gleb, “Apparently we are a step ahead of the opposing team. They are still playing on the field and have not organized their defense here at the goal.”
Gleb did not reply, and glanced at his radar screen.
They were in the huge harbor now, and within twenty minutes they would be close to the southern tip of Manhattan Island. But Petrov knew it was now impossible to anchor the ship and leave the timer set to 08:46 hours.
He wasn’t certain how the Americans had reached the conclusions that they had, and even if the American intelligence services could connect him and his compatriots to The Hana, it did not necessarily follow that Russia was complicit in the nuclear explosion; it would appear that he and Gorsky, and also Urmanov—whom he hoped they knew only as Fradkov—had boarded the prince’s yacht thinking they had been invited to a party, which was why they had brought the prostitutes. Prince Ali Faisel, however, unbeknownst to his Russian guests, planned to become a nuclear suicide bomber, and he had invited the Russians aboard so that the Americans would believe it was the Russians, not the Saudis, who were behind the attack. Which of course was true, but not obviously so.
As Petrov knew, almost any event could be interpreted in several ways—especially if one created a hall of mirrors, where truth and reality were distorted. And not only distorted, but vaporized, leaving no physical evidence so that even the Americans with their famous forensic science would be left with nothing to examine except radioactive ash and rubble.
Yes, he thought, the Americans would be filled with doubt. Who was responsible for the attack? The Russians? The Saudis? Or someone else? And that doubt would divide them and lead to dissention and inaction, which would be a terrible humiliation on top of the attack itself.
Gleb looked at his radar. “There are two small craft a kilometer ahead that could be police boats heading in our direction.”
Petrov stared at the radar screen. He knew he could order Gleb to make a high-speed run to Manhattan, ignoring any security craft in the area, and when they were close to the shore, he would send a radio signal to the nuclear device and advance the clock to detonate in minutes.
Gleb, however, might refuse to continue toward the security craft—or he might put on a life jacket and jump overboard. Or Gleb might even try to surrender the ship to the Americans, though Petrov would kill him before he could do that. In fact, Petrov would kill all of them by detonating the device. But he needed to get closer to Manhattan Island, so he needed another plan. And he had one.
He said to Gleb, “We will sail The Hana now to the pier that we will escape to later in the amphibious craft.”
Gleb did not reply.
Petrov continued, “The pier is a construction project—a new waterfront recycling facility with a boathouse.” He informed Gleb, “We will hide The Hana there until we can proceed to Manhattan.”
“It is not easy to hide an eighty-meter yacht, Colonel.”
“The boathouse is large enough to hold three ships of this size, and it has solar panels on its roof that will confuse infrared scanning devices.” He also informed Gleb, “The construction site is surrounded by a security fence and there are construction barges blocking the view from the harbor.” He assured Gleb, “I have chosen this site carefully.”
Again, Gleb did not reply, but turned starboard toward the Brooklyn waterfront and switched on his GPS, saying, “We cannot leave this on for more than five minutes.”
As they got closer to the shore, Gleb asked, “What is your plan?”
“The plan is the same. In a few hours we will sail to the tip of Manhattan and anchor The Hana with the timer set for eight forty-six. We then sail from The Hana aboard the amphibious craft back to the recycling pier where our car is parked on the street.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “A black Ford Mustang.”
Gleb looked at the keys, but had no reply.
Petrov continued, “We then drive to JFK Airport and board our private jet for Moscow.”
Gleb pointed out, “We would be very lucky to get The Hana all the way to Manhattan without being seen. We would be more lucky to get into the amphibious craft and sail to the pier. And even if we do, and we get as far as our car, you can be sure that the airport will be closed and there will be no private jet for us.” He looked at Petrov and said, “The mission has been compromised.”
“You are in command of the ship. But I am in command of the mission. Do as I tell you.”
“Yes, Colonel.” Gleb proceeded at ten knots toward the Brooklyn shore, dividing his attention between the GPS, his radar, and the windshield.
Petrov glanced at Gleb. The man was correct, of course. And by now Gleb was thinking that this could become a suicide mission. And he was also correct about that. But as long as Gleb believed there was an escape, he would follow orders. In fact, however, after they got underway again, and as they were approaching Manhattan Island, Petrov would detonate the nuclear device.
He understood now that there was no escape and that he would die here. But it would be a quick death. A nanosecond. And a million people would die with him. That was a far better fate than the one that awaited him in Moscow if he failed. And far better than spending his life in an American prison.
So, yes, the mission was compromised, but not fatally so. The mission just needed some adjustments. The goals had not changed: destroy Lower Manhattan and destroy all evidence of who had perpetrated the attack.
Gleb slowed the yacht to a few knots, and coming up on their right—less than six kilometers from the southern tip of Manhattan Island—was the huge construction project and the massive steel boathouse extending over the pier and into the water.
Gleb shut off his GPS, then brought The Hana around and reversed the propellers. He switched on his infrared camera and watched his aft video screen as he sailed in reverse between two construction barges, then maneuvered the yacht under the steel boathouse, a few meters away from the concrete pier.
He shut down the engines and lit a cigarette.
Petrov looked through the wraparound windshield. It was dark inside the boathouse, and they were a hundred meters from the entrance, so any passing security craft would not be able to see them unless they used a searchlight and also had a clear line of sight between the construction barges.
The boathouse had solid vertical walls on either side of the pier, and the roof provided overhead concealment from passing helicopters. Also, as he told Gleb, the entire construction site was surrounded by a security fence so Petrov knew that police cars could not enter.
Gleb drew on his cigarette, then asked, “Can you signal Moscow for instructions? To let them know the mission has developed problems?”
“Yes, I will do that.”
But of course he would not signal Moscow. Nor would Moscow signal to him. He always understood that he was not a guided missile—he was a ballistic missile; once fired, there was no further guidance from those who launched him on his mission. There was no fail-safe and no callback. The very least he was expected to do was to detonate the device—anywhere—and destroy all evidence of the murders onboard, and of his country’s involvement in the nuclear attack. And that now included destroying himself. And he had sworn to his superiors—and to his father—that he would do this, if necessary.
He put his hand in his pocket and felt the arming device.
If a boat appeared or if a police patrol got through the security fence and approached them from the land he could advance the timer clock and at least destroy a large area of the Brooklyn waterfront. The winds were from the southeast and the radioactive plume would pass over Manhattan Island. That was not what he had hoped for, but it was good enough. His superiors in Moscow and his father would understand that he had done his best, and he would receive his promotion posthumously.