Amerikan Eagle

There was a long moment, and then LaCouture spoke. “Barnes? LaCouture here. We have late information that our shooter may be somewhere on the harbor. Or the river. Uh-huh. I don’t care what you’ve already done or what’s out there on the water, triple your efforts. We’ve got just three hours. I want places on and around the docks searched and any moored watercraft… uh-huh… I know the harbor’s in lockdown, but this is what else you’re going to do.”

The FBI man paced back and forth. “Good… grab a pencil. You’re going to have gunboats out there, right? Fine. Latest order. Any unauthorized watercraft out there, you’re going to seize it. Don’t care if it’s MovieTone, Dad and the kids out for a sail, or some forgetful lobsterman, and if the gunboats can’t seize, they’re going to sink. One warning from you and that’s it—seize or sink and rescue the occupants. Don’t want the newsreels showing us shooting swimmers… the President wouldn’t like it, okay? Yeah, well, I know it’s a bitch, being bossed around by the FBI, but handle it.”

LaCouture slammed the receiver down. “We’ve got the joint covered. Inspector, you have a plan for today?”

“To do whatever I need to to get Sarah and Toby out. That’s my plan.”

The FBI man said, “That sounds fine. I’ve got just the place for you.” He reached over, grabbed a city map, and pulled it across the harbor map. “Bow Street generating station. You know it?”

“Of course.”

“Nice tall brick structure, directly across the river from the shipyard. Our main observation point is going to be there, with watchers and gunmen. That’s where I want you. You see anything out of the ordinary, you contact the duty communications officer and he’ll contact me. Me and Hans here, we’re gonna be at the shipyard.”

“You just remember your promises. Both of them.”

LaCouture said, “With you whining all the time, how can I fucking forget?”

* * *

The Bow Street generating station was a five-story brick building that held coal-fired generators for Public Service of New Hampshire, the state’s largest utility. After parking in a space between two army jeeps, Sam made his way through another set of checkpoints and guard stations. From one MP he got directions to the roof. There was no creaky elevator like the one from his visit to the shipyard, just a set of concrete steps going up and up and up. Along the way there was the sound of the generators, a constant hum that seemed to burrow into his ears. He felt out of time, out of place, wondering where his brother was, wondering how Sarah and Toby were doing, dreading what might happen on this supposedly historic day.

When he reached the roof, it felt as if his chest was going to explode, and he stopped to catch his breath as he took everything in. Amid piping and vent shafts, there was a group of men at the eastern side, closest to the river and the harbor. He walked across the tar-paper roof, his shoes making grinding noises among the tiny stones.

About a dozen men, mostly marines in fatigues and soft caps, kept watch over the harbor. A fat man with a sweaty face and a soft homburg pushed on the back of his head came over. His white shirt was sweated through, and his black tie fluttered weakly in the breeze. “You Inspector Miller?” he asked, his voice tired.

“That’s right,” Sam said, shaking the man’s moist hand.

“Name’s Morneau, Department of the Interior.” He motioned Sam to join him. “For the rest of this day, this stretch of overheated paradise belongs to me and these poor leathernecks.”

Binoculars on tripods were set up along the roof edge, and the marines were slowly transversing them, gazing out on the waters. Just about a hundred yards or so away was the Memorial Bridge, and from the rooftop, all of the shipyard and most of the harbor was visible. Nearby a metal table had been set up, and other marines sat in front of radio gear, headphones clasped over their ears. Two marines were sitting on the edge of the roof, chewing gum, scoped rifles in their arms. The rest of the squad sat a bit distant from them, as if they didn’t like being so close to the snipers, hunters waiting patiently for targets.

Morneau blew his nose into his soiled handkerchief as a marine with sergeant’s stripes broke away from the binocular stands and came over, his face friendly but bright pink, as though his blood pressure was twice that of a normal man.

“Sergeant Chesak,” he said, and another round of handshakes ensued.

Sam said, “Can one of you tell me what’s going on here?”