Damage Control (33 page)

“I have an idea,” Dukas said.

Pilchard’s voice was wary. “I’m up to my ass in ideas.”

“I’d like to come in and tell you about it, sir.”

“It’s your nickel.”

“It might mean getting a few people out of bed.”

“Dukas, my people don’t
go
to bed. This place looks like the Zombie Navy. You want to come in at this hour, do it.”

Dukas looked across the bed at Leslie, who was more or less in a pajama top. “I’m on my way,” he said.

And so the night turned into a working day.

Soleck yelled, his adolescent triumph simultaneous with the embrace of Alan’s harness as the three wire slammed the plane to a halt on the deck.
Home.
Nothing like it in the world; the end to peril and the lure of a rack and a greasy hamburger.

“Three wire and okay!” Soleck shouted.

“Jeez, Soleck, it was a landing. You’re not supposed to be surprised.” Garcia was laughing.

“Mister Soleck, that was slick.” Alan was stripping his harness as he spoke. “Quite an improvement on last cruise.”

Soleck smiled ruefully.

Alan grinned back. “Stay with the plane and get gas and weapons. Ms Garcia, will you be kind enough to go down to the intel center and debrief the tape and all the data on the locations?”

“Roger that, sir.”

“Master Chief? Want to go down to the ASW module and get the latest and greatest? I’ll meet you all in CVIC, okay?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Alan tossed his empty thermos into his helmet bag, stripped his kneeboard off his leg and pushed it in on top. Under his feet, one of the deck crew popped the hatch in the belly of the plane and let the ladder down. Alan was the first one out.

The deck was empty. He looked around, lost because the island was damaged and there were no marks on the deck. A guy in a flight-deck jersey and a float coat grabbed his shoulder and led him forward, and as he turned he saw a helo turning on the bow. As he watched it, the plane rotated so that her tail showed and he read “USS
Fort Klock.”

Alan realized that Captain Lash was already aboard the
Jefferson.

His guide went down a ladder that had been cut in the deck and Alan followed, aware of the damage all around him and the repairs that covered it. He saw several bent bulkheads as he went down the ladder well; scorch marks, odd curves where the eye expected a straight line. Like coming home and finding your house had burned; loss, anxiety, anger.

Madje saw him from the passageway, knew he had to be Craik. Craik was thinner than he expected, gaunt. His hair was long for an officer, and his face looked—focused. Set on the next thing. Craik’s glance flicked over Madje, read his collar bars, and moved on. Came back and settled on Madje’s chicken guts.

“I’m Madje, the flag lieutenant. You need to know that Captain Lash is already aboard—”

“I saw his chopper. Madje? We talked?” Craik was clipped, direct.

“Yessir.”

“Let’s get this over with. Take me to Captain Lash.”

“The admiral wants to see you, sir.” Madje reached out to grab Craik’s elbow, anxious to convey how important that was to this focused man. He was surprised when Craik turned on him. It was a different look, as if some angry light had gone out of Craik’s eyes.

“Of course I want to see Rafe—the admiral. How’s he doing?”

Madje smiled. “He’s better. In fact, he’s mad as hell at Lash, and that’s kept him up all day. He tried to go to CIC about an hour ago.”

Craik grinned. “That’s the best—”

“Commander Craik?”

Craik turned. He and Madje were filling the passageway. The newcomer was a short man wearing a rumpled set of khakis with eagles, and he was standing outside the combat information center. Another O-6 ducked past him; the two captains glared at each other, and the taller man hurried forward without a word.

“Yes, sir?” Craik’s voice was gentle.

“What the fuck are you trying to pull, Craik?” The short captain waved a fistful of paper flimsies at him. “You’re trying to go over my fucking head? I’ll have your ass.”

Craik’s voice was quiet. “You’re Captain Lash, sir?”

“Don’t give me that shit, Commander.” Lash stepped forward, right into Craik’s space, nose to nose.

Craik didn’t retreat. “I’m not under your orders, sir. With respect.”

“Like fuck!” Lash said, the last word coming out with a shriek. He seemed to see Madje for the first time. “Get lost, Lieutenant.”

“Sir!” Madje backed away a step and froze; he was about to take the TAO watch and he needed to get past Lash. Very, very quietly he said, “I, uh, need to get—”

Lash ignored him. “I could arrest you,” he said to Craik.

Craik shook his head. Then he looked at his watch. Madje tried to get his hand on the door and failed when Lash pushed forward again.

“What the fuck are you looking at your watch for? You’re done, you hear me? You and your fucking plane aren’t going anywhere. I feel like I’m in the fucking Russian Navy. This is like a fucking mutiny. I’m not taking your shit, Commander. Now get off this deck.”

Craik had backed up this time. He had his back to a steam pipe and a red battle lantern and his face looked as if it was as red and gray as the paint on the bulkhead. A vein on his temple was pulsing. Madje thought that he was scarier than Lash.

“Sir. I don’t have time to argue priorities. There’s a sub out there with three nuclear warheads mounted in missiles. We have about four hours to find it and sink it. That’s our job, sir. Anything else is just ass-covering.”

“Listen to me, you pompous bastard—” Lash began.

Watching Lash sweat and swear, it suddenly came to Madje that it was
Lash
who was afraid, not Craik. It was a revelation.

“You listen, sir. I’m getting the sub. It’s my duty. It’s your duty too; you can ignore it and cover your ass, or you can do it.” Craik’s voice was still level; he looked at his watch again.

Spittle flew from Lash’s lips. “Jesus. You prick. That’s the end of your fucking career, so help me—”

Captain Hawkins appeared in the red gloom behind Craik. “Admiral Rafehausen would like to see you, gentlemen.”

“Fuck off, Hawkins.” Lash was turning back toward CIC. Madje tried not to meet his eye.

“Captain Lash, your immediate presence was required by the admiral. Shall I tell him you refused?”

Hawkins sounded like nothing would please him more, and his over-educated tones and exaggerated patience made every word an insult.

“The admiral is a medical—basket case,” Lash spat out, but Madje heard the minute hesitation.

Alan Craik was already walking forward to see his friend.

Rafe looked worse than Alan had expected. In fact, he looked worse than Alan could have imagined. His skin was dead white, his hair was a mass of sweat, and he looked very small
in a bed surrounded by support equipment. His head was raised a couple of inches by a pillow. His eyes glittered with life. That was all there was of him, there in the eyes.

“Sir,” Alan said.

“Where’s Lash?” Rafe whispered.

“He’s resisting arrest.”

“That—fucker,” Rafe sighed. “Wants—me medevaced.”

“Yeah. I’d say he was on a power trip.”

Rafe’s upper body trembled. For a second, Alan thought he was in pain, until he realized Rafe was laughing. Rafe’s hand reached out and touched his. “This is my battle,” he said clearly.

There was a commotion behind them, and then they all trooped in—Lash, an angry doctor, Hawkins, some junior lieutenant with SWO wings who was probably with Lash. “I want you to pronounce him medically unfit,” Lash was saying to the doctor.

“See how you feel when I wake
you
up at one in the morning, Lash.” Rafe’s voice was thin, but strong.

“I’m not dealing with his interference again.” Lash ignored the admiral, spoke only to the doctor.

“Lash, like it or not, I’m in command. TAO, I want Commander Craik’s plane armed and out of here before I can say ‘Tail Hook.’ Got me?” Rafe’s voice was still strong.

“Yessir!” Hawkins said.

“And, Hawkins? I want you in as Flag TAO until this is over. Clear?” Still strong.

Lash turned on Alan. “I’ve had enough of you and your asshole buddy, Craik. I am not taking orders from an admiral doped to the gills and whispering lines you taught him. You are under arrest—”

“Shut up, Lash! I’ve had it!” Rafe’s voice sounded like a pistol shot. There wasn’t a noise in the sick bay except the sound of Rafe’s heartbeat monitor. “That’s better,” he said more quietly. “Lash, go back to your ship. I’m ordering you,
and every man here, to see to it that my orders are obeyed. Commander Craik is to be afforded every support this goddam battle group has to offer. You know why, Lash? Because it’s our duty. That’s all.” He slumped.

The doctor looked at Lash. “That clear enough for you, sir?”

Lash looked at Rafe for the first time; intimidated and angry. “You could start a war, Admiral. You could start a war and lose the lives of every man in this battle group. For what? You’re doing a foolish thing for the wrong reason, Admiral.” Lash shook his head. “You’re going to start a war with India.”

Rafe’s eyes were on Alan’s now, and they had a bad glitter to them. “We’re—already—war,” he said. “Carry on!”

“You think he’s fit to command?” Lash asked the doctor.

“Yes!” said the doctor, who was also a captain.

“You people are fucking dangerous,” Lash said. He rubbed his hands together, as if washing them. And then he left.

When they had gone, Alan found that he was sitting with Rafe again; this time, he was holding Rafe’s hand.

“How—was I?” Rafe asked after a while.

“Scary,” Alan said.

Rafe choked a little and coughed. “Exc—ellent,” he whispered.

Alan found that he was crying. The tears started as a pain in his eyes and suddenly there were tears pouring down his face. “I might be wrong,” he blurted out. “What if I’m fucking wrong?”

Rafe squeezed his hand. “Not—my—problem, bud.”

Alan thought of Rafe, tall, arrogant Rafe, who had tormented him at his first squadron and taught him how to fly. Who lived to lead his men in the air. Who would spend the rest of his life in a bed like this one, far from the smell of the sea and JP-5 and the bark of the ready room and the
kick as the catapult puts you out on the edge. He couldn’t stop his tears. He couldn’t say anything.

Rafe squeezed his hand again, as if Alan was the one who needed the comfort. “Hey, Spy,” he said in a whisper, “go do your fucking job.”

Mike Dukas made himself uncomfortable in a borrowed office at Fifth Fleet HQ, not the environment he’d have chosen but all he could get under the circumstances—he’d had his chat with the admiral; he’d got an okay; he’d put things in motion. And here he was, in a borrowed office in the middle of the night, ready to be a sonofabitch.

He had a large coffee, a tape recorder, and a file labeled
Spinner, LCDR R. L.
He tried the desk chair, walked around, placed a straight chair across the desk and sat in it, then got up and pushed the desk a foot to the left and tilted a desk lamp toward it. When he sat again in the straight chair, he thought that the glare was now about as much as he could hope for.

He tried the tape recorder. He sipped coffee. He checked his watch. “Okay, send him in.”

Dukas folded his hands over the file and sat there, wishing he looked more like Hollywood’s idea of a Mexican drug lord.

Ray Spinner came in. He looked like hell despite his crisp uniform.

“Siddown.”

Spinner didn’t siddown. He slitted his eyes up as if he, too, wanted to look like Hollywood’s idea of a Mexican drug lord. “You’re the asshole at the phone booth.”

“You’re Lieutenant-Commander Raymond Laurence Spinner?”

“What the hell is this? I’m not going to be pushed around, you get me? I’m not some sailor!” But he was trembling.

Dukas flipped on the tape recorder and told it his own name, the date, and the time. “Location is office B314, Fifth Fleet Headquarters. Your name is Raymond Laurence Spinner?”

“Cut the crap. Who the fuck are you and what is this—a rerun of
Law and Order?”

Dukas turned off the tape recorder. “Commander, your security officer has been told of multiple security violations. I have fourteen other pending issues in this file. We can deal with all of them pretty quickly if you get off your high horse and cooperate.”

“You going to read me my rights next?”

“You’re not under arrest.” Dukas folded his hands again. “We read their rights to people who are under arrest.”

“Then what the fuck am I doing here?”

“I believe that Captain Lurgwitz ordered you to be here. Am I right? And you’re in the military, so you obey orders.”

Spinner sat in the straight chair. “I don’t want anything recorded.”

“I can understand that, but unfortunately for this interview to be of any use to anybody, and that includes you, we have to record it.” He turned the machine on.

“I want a lawyer.”

“You’re not under arrest, I told you.”

“I demand a lawyer.”

Dukas addressed the tape recorder. “Lieutenant-Commander Spinner has ‘demanded’ a lawyer. I have explained that he is not under arrest and that therefore, under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, he neither needs nor will get a lawyer.”

“I’m getting out of here.”

“I don’t advise that.”

“I know my rights!”

“I believe that Captain Lurgwitz ordered you not only to appear for this interview but to cooperate with it.”

“She can’t order me to incriminate myself!”

“In what?”

“The—” Spinner motioned with his hat at the desk. “Whatever you said.”

“Right. You can’t be ordered to incriminate yourself. If I did allow you to incriminate yourself, I’d be hurting my own case. That’s why it’s to your advantage to have this on tape.” Dukas gave him a little smile.

“All right, cut the bullshit. What’s going on?”

Dukas took out his badge wallet and handed it across the desk. “I’m Special Agent Michael Dukas, Special-Agent-inCharge of the Bahrain office of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.”

Spinner’s face showed increased concentration, interest—perhaps recognition. He put the wallet down. “Oka-a-a-y. So?”

“We have a telephone call on tape that you made last night to your father at his office in Washington. No, don’t say any-thing—I don’t want you to incriminate yourself. Just hear me out. In that call, you can be heard passing information that was given to you by Captain Lurgwitz. As you now know, that information was false and was told to you to test if, in fact, you’d pass it on.”