The skipper was peering at the new ship through a set of big binoculars. It seemed to be on a course parallel with that of the Earthpeace ship.
"American." The captain frowned. He lowered the binoculars.
"What is it?" Babcock asked worriedly. Even from that distance, the ship was huge.
"Aircraft carrier," the captain said. "Not many of them left these days."
The interior secretary allowed a flutter of fear to creep into the pit of his stomach.
"Let me see those," he hissed, holding out a hand for the captain's binoculars. Brow furrowing, the sailor handed them over.
They were as heavy as lead. Palms sweating, Babcock trained the glasses on the distant ship.
The binoculars enlarged the carrier to a frightening degree. As he ran the glasses along the ship, it seemed almost close enough to touch.
Sailors peppered the deck, their trousers flapping in the gentle breeze. There was no sense of urgency as far as the interior secretary could detect. No one was even looking in the direction of the Grappler.
As he followed the sharp contours of the dull gray hull, Secretary Babcock saw the ship's name. USS Ronald Reagan.
"Are you all right, sir?"
The voice rang hollow in his ears. Babcock pulled the binoculars away. The captain was staring at him, a concerned expression on his face.
"What?" Babcock asked, gulping. His heart was thudding like mad.
"That gasp you just made," the captain began, "it sounded- Are you okay?"
"Yes. Yes," Babcock snapped. He stabbed an anxious finger to the aircraft carrier. "Are they onto us?"
The captain shook his head. "They're in no hurry," he replied. "If they hold speed, we should begin to outpace them in the next ten minutes or so."
"So they're on routine maneuvers," Babcock suggested hopefully.
"That would be my guess," the captain nodded. Babcock exhaled relief, handing back the glasses. "Can you get us away from it any faster?"
"We're practically full out now, but I'll see what we can do." Turning to his men, he began to issue commands.
Bryce Babcock melted into a corner of the bridge until the Grappler pulled abreast of the aircraft carrier.
In spite of the intense heat, he'd felt an involuntary shudder the moment he laid eyes on the American warship. It was a bad omen. He hoped he'd feel better once the ship was in their wake. However, the chill remained even as he watched the aircraft carrier begin to fall slowly behind.
Even when they had outdistanced the U.S. Navy vessel, Bryce Babcock couldn't shake a feeling of intense unease.
A sense of dread weighing on his slight shoulders for the first time in days, the secretary of the interior quietly left the bridge.
Chapter 19
Terror hadn't worked.
He wished for all the world it had, but it had not. Nossur Aruch liked terror. Lived for terrorism. In his day, he had found it to be a mighty weapon. A sword that could be brandished from the dead of night against an unsuspecting enemy. An arrow that always struck its target. A bullet fired with unerring accuracy.
Of course, few in the so-called civilized world agreed with Nossur Aruch, leader of the Palestine Independence Organization and director and chairman of the Free Palestine Authority. In the soft capitals of the Western imperialist nations, terrorism was soundly condemned. Practitioners of the art of terror were even hunted down.
They thought it sloppy. A bomb lobbed onto a bus, a grenade tossed into a crowd, a foreign leader shot.
But Aruch knew better. These acts only seemed haphazard. Terrorism was a precise game. But, lamentably, the game had been lost. Practically before it got started.
"Timing is everything," Aruch said, sighing wistfully.
"Sir?"
On the vine-enclosed balcony of his Hebron office in Israel's West Bank, Nossur had thought he was alone. He had forgotten about Fatang, the young PIO soldier who was assigned to protect him. If Nossur Aruch's beloved terror campaign had worked, he would not need such a guard.
Aruch smiled sadly as he glanced at the young man.
"I am a man out of time," he said. "The great war of terror could have been fought a century ago. Two would have been even better." There was sadness in his voice. He sighed into the warm evening air. "Do you know why the Americans won their independence from the English, Fatang?"
"I do not, sir," the youthful soldier replied. His olive face was earnest, his eyes burning with the intensity only the very young and very idealistic could muster. That flame had long ago winked out for Nossur Aruch.
"They fought a terrorist campaign. The British soldiers of the time were used to fighting armies that lined up on one side of an open field. Obeying the laws of civility, the British would line up on the other. Once everyone was in place, each side would shoot and shoot until the last man standing was declared the winner."
"That is foolish," Fatang volunteered.
Aruch nodded sagely. "The Americans thought this, as well. That is why when the British formed their skirmish lines, the American colonists did not. They hid in trees and behind rocks. They used guerrilla tactics. They were most uncivilized in the way they fought their war. And because of this, they won their independence."
The soldier seemed surprised. "Is this true?" he asked.
"Oh, there were other factors to be sure-" Aruch waved "-but this contributed to their victory." The PIO leader's face took on a faraway look. "Of course, they did not go far enough. Had I been there to guide them, the Americans could have fought a real war of terror. With my knowledge, London would now be the capital of the United States. I could have been a colossus in another era, straddling the globe. But thanks to an accident of birth, I am a man out of time."
A morose expression on his face, Aruch turned away from the much younger man.
The FPA chairman wore the plain olive drab fatigues that had become his sartorial trademark. They were so wrinkled it looked as if he balled them up and stuffed them under his mattress every night.
A deep gray mustache scuttled from beneath his large nose, fading into a scruffy white beard.
His eyes bordered on psychotic. They were so wide they gave the impression of a man who didn't blink. Dark irises floated in circular seas of white.
A black-and-white-checked kaffiyeh adorned his head. To foreign observers, it seemed to get larger with each passing year. This was obviously a false impression. The fact was, Nossur Aruch had been shrinking for much of the past thirty years. By his calculations, if he lived longer than another decade, he would disappear into his black army boots.
Many people thought that he was an uglier, hairier, dumpier version of Beatles drummer Ringo Starr. Not Nossur Aruch, however. When he looked at himself in a mirror, he saw a Palestinian matinee idol. Although, granted, a depressed matinee idol.
Lost in thought, Aruch sighed deeply at the growing dusk. His forlorn exhalation of air seemed almost like a recrimination. Knotted hands rubbed the rough concrete of the balcony rail. Tangles of grapevines ensnared the railing. He stared off into the distant twilight.
Less than thirty miles to the north of his secluded balcony sat Jerusalem, a fat target waiting to be struck. Yet it was out of reach.
Actually, that was only true in the metaphorical sense. In point of fact, it was infinitely reachable. Nossur pushed away from the rail.