Calibrisi looked at the plasma upper left. Greer Ambern was standing on the bridge of the Fort Worth, surrounded by his battle team.

"Greer?"

"I see it, Hector."

"Where's the nearest SDV?"

"A couple hundred yards away," said Ambern. "They'll be there in less than a minute."

Faqir placed the cardboard box on the table. He leaned against the table for stability. Carefully, he lifted the top of the box. Reaching inside, he took out a small square device made of stainless steel, with a small red button on top. The detonator.

Faqir looked at Naji.

"Naji," he said.

Naji's face was turned away from Faqir as he steered.

"Think quick," said Faqir.

He tossed the detonator through the air. Naji's face took on a look of horror as he removed his hands from the wheel then stabbed them out, catching the detonator before it tumbled to the ground.

He held the detonator gently as he studied Faqir's grinning face.

"What are you doing?" he asked, shocked that Faqir would be so reckless.

"It doesn't matter now. We're here. Go ahead. Do you want to press it?"

The SEAL Delivery Vehicle pushed silently through the water, a dozen feet below the surface. There were three SEALs now clutching the submersible. The pilot and copilot sat near the front of the minisub in tiny compartments open to the water. Burns, the combat swimmer, clutched a handle near the rear.

Above, the waterline was chaos. Each boat engine churned the surface of the water, creating eddies that blurred the view. There were so many hulls they seemed to blend together.

Burns listened to his SDV pilot over commo as they steered toward the target boat.

"Captain," said the pilot, "I need a hard GPS lock on that boat's position. There are too many boat hulls out here."

"Roger, that," said someone on the Fort Worth. "I'm going to take your nav over for a sec."

On the pilot's nav screen, illuminated dots, representing the boats directly above the SDV, suddenly started to flash. Then a green circle appeared around one, pulsed three times, and locked on. A bright green target symbol flashed.

"Got it."

The pilot locked the nav onto the target boat. The SDV hovered beneath it at precisely the same depth and speed. The SDV now moved in conjunction with the target boat, tracking it. The pilot let go of the controls. He and the copilot were now ready to join Burns in the attack.

The pilot turned back to Burns.

Over commo, he asked, "You ready, Burnsy?"

Burns put his free hand to the airtight pocket on his chest, feeling the bulge of his gun, a suppressed Beretta 9mm.

"Affirmative, Captain."

"Fort Worth," said the SDV pilot, "on your go."

"Hold until we get the surface sweep."

On Polk's screen, the boat's location flashed red.

Then the words appeared: 705 feet.

Polk steered toward the target boat. He weaved between vessels, all moving slowly, many distracted by Lady Liberty in the distance. Polk glanced at his watch: 10:28. There were, he knew, four fireworks displays scheduled for the day. The first, he knew, started at 10:30.

As he watched the screen, he heard a sudden yell.

"Watch it!"

Polk looked up just as the bow of the boat grazed a cigarette boat, its engine growling loudly.

"Sorry," Polk said.

A tall man with a potbelly was behind the wheel. Behind him was a woman, who came running to the side of the boat, looking to see if there was damage.

"If that left a scratch-" the man began.

"It did!" the woman exclaimed. "It left a big black mark, Rudy!"

The man ran to the side of the cigarette boat. Polk put his boat in reverse. As he started to back up, the man grabbed one of the boat's cleats, holding the vessel against his boat.

"Let go," said Polk, debating whether to accelerate, fearing that if he did he would bring the man overboard, resulting in his wife screaming.

Before Polk could do anything, the man threw a rope around the cleat.

"I want your insurance," he yelled.

"What's going on down there?" asked Calibrisi over commo. "Get to the Hinckley, now."

Tacoma moved from the back of the boat. He pulled out his combat blade, placed it under the rope, and sliced the line. The cigarette boat owner swung, but Tacoma ducked.

"Go," he barked to Polk.

Fearing the man might fall in, Tacoma punched him in the mouth, sending him backward, tumbling to the deck.

Katie sat on the transom, ignoring the commotion. Through her monocular, she studied the suspicious vessel, just a hundred feet away now. It was a green Talaria. There was a man steering. He had longish dark hair and was shirtless.

"I think that's it," she said over commo. "Hector, I think that's the boat."

"I'll be there in ten seconds," said Polk.

"No, you won't," said Calibrisi. "Greer, get those SEALs up there."

Burns let go of the handle in the same moment the other two SEALs leapt from their seats. Burns reached the bottom of the Talaria just ahead of his teammates. He placed his hand on a brass handle along the back, removed his flippers, unzipped his weapon pocket, and silently hoisted himself up onto the ski platform at the back of the boat.

The other two men soon joined him. Burns climbed onto the deck.

Burns signaled his teammates using his left hand: my shot.

A door opened. A teenage girl stepped from the cabin, saw Burns, and screamed.

The man behind the wheel turned, then held up his hands.

"Whatever you want," he whispered, trembling.

A scream abruptly rattled the air. It came from another boat, a sailboat just a few yards away, as a woman saw the three frogmen, all in black, clutching weapons on the Hinckley.

Naji's head turned as the scream echoed through the throng of boats. He stared, his eyes transfixed, at the three divers, all clad in black.

"Faqir," he said, pointing to the green yacht a hundred feet away from them.

Faqir quickly registered the men. SEALs or FBI. Then he saw the dark green of the boat's hull.

They're here.

"Where is it?" he asked, desperation in his voice.

"What?"

"The detonator!"

Naji pointed. The detonator sat on the table, its red button sticking up in the air.

Faqir stepped toward the table, his hand extended.

Polk stood at the wheel, watching from a distance as the three SEALs climbed aboard the boat. He waited to see the man fall. Then the long white-blond hair of a girl emerged onto the deck.

"Oh, my God," he whispered. "Hector-"

The scream cut across the water, interrupting Polk. He turned to see Katie. Their eyes met.

"Shut it down!" yelled Calibrisi. "Greer, tell your SEALs to stand down and identify themselves and calm those people down. If the terrorists see them, it's all over-"

"Roger," said Ambern.

"On our way," said Polk.

Polk pushed the throttle forward and sped toward the scene.

"Goddammit," he muttered, shaking his head. He glanced at Katie.

"That was my fault," she said.

"No, it wasn't. It was mine. I should've let Tacoma drive. Rob, you take over."

Polk turned around.

"Where's Rob?" he asked, looking at Katie.

Katie swiveled her head, looking for Tacoma, but he was gone.

108.

NEW YORK HARBOR.

Tacoma saw him just after Polk rammed the cigarette boat. The moment just before Calibrisi ordered in the SEALs.

He was standing on a different boat, a pretty white boat, behind the cigarette boat, far away from the boat that was about to be attacked by the SEALs.

He was bald. But it wasn't normal-looking. It was the unmistakable grayness of death, the sickly color of a person after he's been irradiated. It was the look his mother had just before she died.

In that second of recognition, Tacoma knew that the SEALs were approaching the wrong boat. And that once the bald man saw the frogmen, it would all be over. Everything.

Shielded momentarily by the cigarette boat, Tacoma ripped off his shirt and jeans. Beneath, he had on an Olympic-style tactical warm weather swimsuit, armless at the top, thin material down to midthigh, all black. He slipped into the water as Polk and Katie were turned in the opposite direction, watching the other boat just as the SEALs made their approach from below.

He dived down until he was safely beneath the hulls of boats overhead.

Tacoma navigated as he'd done as a kid-before he knew what UDT stood for, before Hell Week, before SEALs, before there were masks with digitally imposed maps, before he knew what commo was, when it was just the water at the lake and the moonlight.

He swam as fast as he'd ever done, arms lunging, legs kicking furiously, lungs burning, desperate for another breath of air. When he couldn't hold his breath any longer, he kept going, until he saw it: the dark green hull of the Talaria and, just above the waterline, the fresh white paint the terrorists had slapped on to cover it up.

He felt a rush of warmth as adrenaline flamed inside him. Time seemed to stand still. It was as if he'd been born to be here.

He grabbed the wooden ski platform and climbed up.

He slipped silently onto the transom at the same moment his hand pulled the SIG Sauer P226 from his weapons pocket, then raised the gun, its black suppressor targeted toward the two men.

He climbed onto the deck. He stood without moving, dripping wet, clutching the gun. He trained the muzzle on the driver, then waited in silence. And then a young girl's screams echoed across the water.

Both men turned.