Final Flight (16 page)

When the latch clicked shut, the captain
leaned back and stared over the top of the glasses at
the gray metal door. At length he shook his
head slowly, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and
picked up the report.

Ali held the door open for Colonel Qazi.
Ali wore a chauffeur’s uniform, and after Qazi
had passed into the real estate office, he went
back to the limousine, took a rag from the trunk, and
began to wipe off the few flecks of dust that had
accumulated on the car in the ten-minute drive from the
agency where he had just rented it.

Inside the real estate office, Qazi stood
impassively as the receptionist whispered
hurriedly into her telephone, then gave a barely
perceptible nod to the office manager when he came
rushing out. He was a breathless, corpulent man with
only a fringe of hair remaining, one lock of which
had been carefully placed so as to run back and forth
across his shiny pate. The manager guided him into his
office while the receptionist stared after him.

As Qazi sat on the overstuffed sofa and removed
his sunglasses, the manager settled behind his desk.
The manager saw the visitor staring at his overflowing
ashtray, so he whisked it away. He
placed it in a bottom drawer of the desk, then
crossed his hands and beamed at his visitor.

Qazi wore a white caftan and burnoose.
Black whiskers flecked with gray adorned his chin.
He looked, he hoped, like a young King Faisal.

“I wish to rent a villa, Signor
Livora,” Qazi said in very British English.

“Ah, you know my name.”

“You are highly recommended, sir.”

“You have come to the right place,” Livora beamed.
“We have several fine villas to rent, from … how you
say? … modest? To quite large. What are your
requirements, Signor . .

“Mister Also-Sabah. The villa is not for me,
you understand. I am merely an executive
secretary.” He flicked his right hand, on which he
had three rings with rather large, conspicuous stones. The
real estate man’s shiny, decorated head bobbed
knowingly. Ah, yes. He had heard all about those
filthy-rich Arab sheiks and all the money they
threw around. No doubt he even dreamed of them,
sitting here in Naples surrounded by poor
Italians and vacationing Europeans and Americans
who watched every lira.

Qazi outlined his needs. His master
needed ample quarters. Perhaps an estate. Something
with grass and gardens. Of course he had his own
staff of servants, including a gardener. Something in
the country, available for at least three months,
beginning next week.

“What are you going to say to these congressmen and
reporters?” Vice-Admiral Morton Lewis
asked.

Jake fought the impulse to squirm in his chair.
Admiral Lewis was the commander of the U.s. Sixth
Fleet and had flown out to the carrier with the congressional
delegation. He and Jake sat in the flag offices
beneath the flight deck. The Public Affairs
Officer from Lewis” staff had earlier provided
Jake with a list of probable press questions and
suggested, “sterile” answers.

“I’m just going to tell it like it was, sir.”

“They’re going to grill you on policy.” With
even, regular features, perfect teeth, and a
trim stomach he maintained with a forty-five minute
ride on a stationary bicycle every morning, the
admiral looked every inch the professional sea dog,
1980’s edition. His three stars gleamed on each
collar. It was no secret that he wanted
a fourth star.

“Yes sir. But I plan to refer them
to Washington for questions about policy.”

“Don’t be evasive. We’ve nothing to hide and
we don’t want these people inputting that we do. Don’t
reference them anywhere.”

“I understand.”

“The distance the task force maintains from the
Lebanese shore, that’s a policy matter. It will
be questioned. As the air wing commander and as a professional
aviator, your opinion as to the wisdom of the
employment of this task group will be asked. There is
just no way to avoid the fact that if this task group
was two hundred miles away from Lebanon, that
boat attack would have been impossible. Or at
least highly impractical.”

“Yes sir.” Jake grasped the arms of his
chair with both hands and kept both feet on the
floor. “But isn’t that a matter for Washington
to comment upon?”

The admiral rubbed his lips with his forefinger. “I
recommend the location of this task group in light of the
results Washington expected, and Washington
concurred. The reasons for the recommendation don’t
concern you.

“If I’m going to have to give an opinion, I
should know your thinking, Admiral.”

The admiral’s forefinger tracked back and forth
along his chin.

“I think that what you are going to say is that Navy
ships have an absolute right to navigate freely in
international waters, and they will defend themselves against
attack in international waters, attack from anyone,
any time.”"

“Yes sir.” Jake couldn’t object to saying
it, since it was true. “But that isn’t going
to satisfy the reporters. They’ll want to know why
we chose to navigate where we did.”

“And you will repeat your answer.”

“Yes sir.” Because if Jake told them to ask
Washington, someone there just might say that the ships were
where they were because the navy recommended it. Which would put Vice-Admiral Lewis rather firmly on the
spot. Of course, the folks in Washington had
approved the recommendation-they could have ordered the
ships to any location on the map-but Admiral
Lewis well knew the games that could be played when
Important People did not wish to publicly defend
their policies, the very same Important People that he
had tried to please-or impress-with his
recommendation. There were sure a lot of ins and outs
to the admiral business, Jake reflected.

“By the way, you handled that boat attack well.”

“Someone on that boat got trigger-happy.
Lady Luck won’t spread her legs like that for us
again.

A look of distaste flickered across the distinguished
face above the admiral’s stars. Jake felt
grubby. “Is the accident report finished on that
F-14 loss?”

“It’s about finished, sir.”

“Hmmm. Pilot error?”

“Probably an oxygen system failure. The
crew obviously didn’t recognize it, if that was
what it was.”

“Have someone transcribe your press conference.
I’ll chop the transcript, then forward it
to Washington.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“My PAO has a statement about the boat
incident that was just released in Washington. You
interface with”

“I understand.”

“Don’t contradict anything in the press
release.” The admiral’s gaze held
him pinned. “And don’t go beyond it except for
personal data that these reporters always want, like
hometown, names of children, etc. Use the PAO’S
prepared answers whenever you can. The less the bad
guys intel our operation, the better off we’ll be.
Read the press release and strategize your
conformity.”

Jake nodded.

The admiral traced a pattern on the desk with a
forefinger. “Senator Cavel fancies himself as
something of an expert on naval affairs.” He
made a steeple with his fingertips. “He’s on the
Senate Armed Services Committee and wants
to be president.” His top front teeth came
to rest on his fingertips. He looked at Jake
speculatively.

“I’ve read about Senator Cavel.”

The admiral snorted. “Don’t contradict
Cavel unless you have to. He’s an egotistical,
self-righteous bastard who would walk five miles
without his trousers to even a score. Right now he’s
fulminating against the way the administration is using this
task group here in the Med. One of his allies
who’ll be with him on this trip is a
representative from a conservative
district in the Deep South. His name is Victor
Gilbert.

He’s on the House Armed Services
Committee. He’s also unhappy about the Middle
East, but he votes right on most defense
issues. The other two are big-city congressmen
looking for ways to chop the military budget.

I wouldn’t turn my back on any of them.”

“Yes sir.”

“You’re the pilot who just sent a boatload of
fanatics to Paradise and you’re the air wing commander,
so you’re getting a turn on the hot seat.

Don’t forget you may be worth more to them dead than
you are alive.

That’s all.” Which meant Jake was dismissed.

Senator Cavel was fiftyish, graying at the
temples. His fluffed, teased hair was coifed
tightly over ears hidden from sight, and when viewed from
the front, he looked, Jake thought, like a man of
distinction in a whiskey ad. In profile, the
hairdo looked like a football helmet two
sizes too small. His slightly sagging abdomen
and rounded shoulders were expertly encased in a
dark-gray wool suit with flecks of red and blue
that Jake suspected had set him back the
better part of a grand.

The senator was tall, about six-three, and had a
booming voice that dominated the congressional
delegation and the group of officers in the flag lounge.
He treated everyone as voters,
hail-fellow-well-met, and even shook hands with the
admirals” aides. His handshake had the polish of
years of practice. It wasn’t crushing and it
wasn’t wimpish, just dry and quick with a hint of
firmness.

“Damned nice ship you fellows have here,
Admiral. Damned nice. Great to see what all
those taxpayers’ dollars bought. Three billion and
some change, I seem to recall.”

Parker nodded. “Yes sir. She’s ..

But Senator Cavel wasn’t listening. “Just why
do these things have to be so damn big? I never did
understand that.” He shook his head ruefully, as if he
had never seen the engineering and design justifications
on Nimitz-class carriers that the navy had spent
a year and several million dollars completing, at
his insistence. “I get letters from all over, wondering
why we can’t build these things cheaper. Are you aware
that 95 percent of the American public has never
even laid eyes on an aircraft
carrier? Lots of letters … Ah, so you’re
Grafton?”

He had finally zeroed in on Jake’s name tag.
He had apparently ignored the introductions.
Jake was shaking hands with a stout, florid
congressman, but the senator put his hand on the
representative’s shoulder and addressed Jake as
if the other man weren’t there. “You’re the air wing
commander?”

Jake admitted he was as the senator glanced at
the four rows of ribbons on the left breast of his
white uniform shirt, under his wings.

“I see you’ve been shot at before, Captain,”
he said, then turned back to the admirals.

“Yes sir,” Jake Grafton told
Cavel’s back. But only by guns and missiles,
he added to himself, then tried to pay attention to whatever
it was this representative was telling him about
sailors from Ohio.

With the pleasantries over, the delegation surrounded
the admirals and tossed questions about the use of the task
group in the waters off Lebanon. Jake eased
toward the door. A glance from Admiral Parker
froze him in his tracks.

In addition to the senator, Congressman
Victor Gilbert also considered himself a
heavyweight. It was quickly evident Gilbert was
looking for ammunition to take back to Washington and
fire at his colleagues in the never-ending
political battle over Mideast policy. It
was equally apparent that the admirals had no desire
to give aid and comfort to either Gilbert or his
opponents. Lewis” answers didn’t satisfy
the vociferous congressman, but the senator said little.
Perhaps he’s saving himself, Jake mused.

The tour of the ship began in the waist catapult
control cab, known as the waist bubble. A similar
control cab was on the bow, situated between the cats.
Here on the waist the bubble sat on the catwalk
outboard of Cat Four. The cabs were unique
to Nimitz-class carriers.

This innovation removed the launching officers from the
flight deck and placed them in actual control of
their giant steam-powered slingshots.

The bubbles also provided a terrific place for
tourists to view the launch.

Jake led the congressmen into the waist bubble from the
0-3 level, the deck just below the flight deck. The
catapult officer triggered the hydraulic system
which raised the bubble into position for the upcoming
launch. Now the top of the armored cab, which consisted of
windows of bulletproof glass, extended eighteen
inches above the flight deck. The visitors stood
packed into the only open area, their eyes exactly
at flight deck level. The launching officer sat
in a raised chair in the aft end of the cab in front
of the control panels for both the Number Three and
Number Four catapults.

The cat officer muttered greetings. He was a
lieutenant aviator assigned to the ship’s air
department for a two-year tour. After he had shaken
hands all around, he ignored the visitors and
devoted his attention to the yellow- and green-shirted
crewmen on deck who were hooking planes to both
cats.

Jake explained the launching evolution to the
congressmen. The first plane to be launched would be the
KA-6Do Intruder tanker on Cat Three.

The First A- 18 Hornet, a twin-engine,
single seat fighter-bomber sitting on Cat Four,
would be shot next while another plane taxied
onto Cat Three.

Up on the bow a similar bang-bang sequence
would be occurring on the two catapults there.

The launching officer gave a thumbs-up
to the yellow-shirt director on Cat Three.
He signaled the pilot to release his brakes and
add power.

The engines began to roar as the green-shirted
hookup man checked the fittings, then tumbled out from
under the plane with his thumb in the air. He joined his
comrades squatting in the safety area between the
catapults. The Intruder pilot saluted the
bubble. He was ready to go.

He put his helmeted head back into the headrest
on his seat, bracing himself for the acceleration of the coming
shot.

Jake pointed out the signal light on the ship’s
island that the air boss used to initiate the launch.
It turned green.

The launching officer glanced down the catapult
to ensure it was clear, then back to the Intruder at
full power. He lifted the safety tab covering the
fire button and pushed it. The Intruder leapt
forward, its left wing sweeping over the heads of the men
squatting in the safety area, and raced for the edge of the
angled deck three hundred feet away.

The plane covered the distance in less than three
seconds and shot out over the sea, flying.

When the visitors’ gaze came back
to the Hornet on Cat Four, it was already at full
power. They were looking at this plane almost head-on.

The catapult track ran parallel to the edge
of the angled deck, so the Hornet’s left main
wheel was almost against the deck edge, its left wing
extending out over the side of the ship. Upon launch it
would pass right in front of the bubble with its wing
sweeping over the top. Now the river of hot gases
blasting from the plane’s twin exhaust pipes and
flowing up over the jet blast deflector shimmered
as the blast-furnace heat distorted the light. The
fighter appeared stark and crisp against this mirage
backdrop.

The cat officer lifted the protective safety
cover and pushed the fire button on the Cat Four
console. The Hornet seemed to shimmy slightly
under the terrific acceleration as it raced toward the
bubble. In a heartbeat it went by in a thundering
crescendo that shook the control cab.

The congressmen laughed nervously and shouted comments
to each other above the background noise.
“Impressive,” Senator Cavel told
Jake, who grinned and nodded.

But as spectacular as the planes were, the
visitors’ attention was soon on the
catapult crewmen. One of them crawled under each
jet as it taxied onto the cats, lowered the
nose-tow bar and installed the hold-back fitting.
He waited under the plane until the engines were
accelerating to full power before he scanned its
belly, checked the fittings one last time, then
tumbled out from under. These men reminded Jake of
circus roustabouts tending angry elephants.

“That job looks damned dangerous,” one of the
congressmen remarked.

“It’s that,” Jake agreed. “It’s dirty and
dangerous for not enough pay.” He recognized
Kowalski, the Cat Four cat captain, in his
filthy yellow shirt and radio headset. Each
cat crew had a captain, a ringmaster who ensured
each man understood his job and performed it perfectly.

When the launch was over, the congressmen shook hands
again with the cat officer and his engineer, who sat at an
instrument panel at the forward end of the bubble. Then
Jake led them through the hatch and down the short ladder
into the 0-3 level. The four junior officers who
had been volunteered for escort duty were waiting in
the passageway, since there hadn’t been room for
them in the bubble. The air here was cooler, and calm.

Senator Cavel got down to cases that
evening after dinner in the flag mess. The admiral’s
chief of staff’ operations officer, and aide left
after dessert. Vice-Admiral Lewis had flown
from the ship that afternoon, telling the congressman he had
to get back to Naples.

Now just Admiral Parker, Jake, and the four
congressmen were sitting around the table. One of the
representatives lit a cigar, and Jake
greedily inhaled some smoke. It made him
slightly dizzy. With a wry grimace, he pushed
his chair further away from the table to avoid the
fumes.

The senator played with the spoon beside his coffee
cup. It was real silver, and under the cup was a real
white linen tablecloth. Admirals rated the good
stuff.

“How come, Admiral, you people had to sink that
boat?”

“It was running without lights and closing the task
group in a suspicious manner. It refused
to identify itself or change course. It shot at one
of our planes.”

“Would you have sunk it if it hadn’t opened fire
on Captain Grafton’s plane?”

He reed the faces gathered around the
table. “Has everyone here got a clearance?”

“Yes sir,” Senator Cavel boomed. “We
all do. Top Secret. And we’ve read the
classified action report. We know Captain
Grafton turned on his aircraft’s
lights-apparently no one in the eastern
Mediterranean is very fond of lights-and pointed his
plane directly at that boat. At a very low
altitude. Only then did the crew of the boat
open fire. Now what we are trying to find out is
whether or not his actions caused the captain of that
boat to feel he was under attack.” The senator
looked at his colleagues. None of them spoke.
He resumed, “You do think the men in that boat had the
right to defend themselves in international waters, don’t
you?”

“Yes, Senator, they had that right.” Parker
picked his words carefully.

“But only if they were under attack or had reason
to believe an attack was imminent. We know that
boat wasn’t under attack, and the appearance of a
low-flying plane with its position lights on is not
what I would call an indicator of an imminent,
forthcoming attack.”

“We’ll be the judge of that, Admiral.”

“I’m sure,” Parker said. “You people can debate
it for weeks. I didn’t have weeks. I’m
responsible for a lot of lives and ships out here,
Senator. You gentlemen have read the Rules of
Engagement we operate under. You know that at some
point I have to use my own judgment.”

The representative with the cigar spoke up. This
was Victor Gilbert, from a dirt-poor
conservative district in the Deep South. He was the
same one that found Admiral Lewis a tad too
slippery earlier in the day.

“Admiral Parker, we don’t want you people
to start a war out here.” He pronounced “here” as
“hyah.”

“I understand that the navy is just obeying orders from the
administration. I think the orders are
misconceived, not in the national interest, but I’m not
the president. However, I am a congressman.
My constituents don’t want a war. I can’t
make it any plainer, Admiral.”

“Sir,” Parker said. “I agree
wholeheartedly with your constituents. I don’t want
a war, either. I’m doing everything I can to prevent one
from happening. On the other hand, I have
to protect these ships.”

“Captain,” the senator said, looking at
Jake, “why did you turn on your lights and fly
right at that boat?”

Every eye in the place was on Jake Grafton.
“I was trying to spook him.

If he was hostile, we wanted to know it sooner
rather than later. We can’t sit here like bumps…”
Senator Cavel gestured angrily. “In my
twenty years in the senate, I’ve found that a man
who goes looking for a fight usually finds one.
That’s the problem.”

“The men on that boat were looking for the fight,”
Jake shot back. “We can’t wait until they
pop a cruise missile against a ship before we
decide what we’re going to do about it.”

“Admiral, you never answered my question. Would you have
sunk that boat if it hadn’t opened fire on
Captain Grafton?”

Parker sipped his coffee and took his time before he
spoke. “If they had continued on course toward the
task group, I would have had the nearest screening ship
fire warning shots. Yes, I’d have been forced to the
conclusion that attack was imminent if they had ignored
the warning shots, and I’d have defended this
task group.”

“Do your superiors know what you would have done?”
Cavel pressed.

Parker set his cup firmly in its saucer.
“My superiors sent me here with written
guidelines, called Rules of Engagement. I
follow them. If anybody threatens to kill my people
or sink my ships, I’ll shoot first.

That’s in the ROE.”

“But it all hinges on whether or not there is a
threat. You alone determine that, and nobody elected
you to anything. If you’re wrong, we may be in a
war.”

Parker turned his hand over and inclined his head an
inch. “Pretty goddamn convenient if you ask me,
Admiral, that your air wing commander just happened to be
flying the plane that needed to zap somebody,”
Senator Cavel said. “That doesn’t look so
good. You can bet your pension that the pundits in the
States are pointing to that as proof positive that you
and the administration are up to something sleazy.”

Parker explained that the air wing commander routinely
flies missions with his crews. He concluded, “I
can’t worry about how this looks on the front pages
back in the States on Monday morning.
My problems are here and now.”

“It strikes me, Admiral,” Victor
Gilbert said, “that you’ve got a damn tough job.”
He puffed his cigar three or four times quickly, then
took a deep drag and blew the smoke down the
table, toward Jake. “You fuck this up and the navy will
hang you by the balls. If they don’t, we will.”

A trace of a smile flickered on Parker’s
lips. “I think we understand each other, gentlemen.”

After Jake finished answering questions at the press
conference in the wardroom, the congressional delegation
trooped into the lights of the television cameras. They
spoke as a group, then individually.

Representative Gilbert, sans cigar, was
mouthing a string of one-liners for the evening news shows when
Jake joined Farnsworth at the door and opened it
as quietly as he could. Farnsworth had operated the
tape recorder. In the lounge Farnsworth told
Jake, “You did fine, sir.”

“I strategized my conformity,” Jake
Grafton muttered. Farnsworth nodded sagely.
“Why couldn’t you have woven my name in there someplace?
I always like to see my name in the paper.

“I want to read that transcript before it goes
anywhere.” Two can play this game, Jake
thought.

“Should I put in all the “uhs” and “ands” and
sentence fragments, or should I clean it up so that it
reads like English?”

“Farnsworth ..

“An excellent choice, sir. It’ll be on
your desk in two hours.”

IT WAS FIVE MINUTES to four in the morning
when Jake Grafton walked into the Carrier Air
Traffic Control Center (tCATCC) space and
dropped onto the vinyl-covered couch beside the air
operations officer, Commander Ken Walker. As
usual, he surveyed the plexiglas status
boards that lined the front of the compartment and listed all
the aircraft waiting on deck to be launched and
all the aircraft airborne awaiting recovery
while he bantered with several of the squadron
skippers and executive officers who were trailing
in. The launch was scheduled to go on the hour, and as
soon as the launch was complete, the recovery would
follow.

CATCC, pronounced “cat-see,” was the nerve
center of carrier operations at night. Two
monitors suspended near the overhead displayed the
video from the island and flight deck
cameras continuously. Enlisted “talkers” wearing
sound-powered telephone headsets stood behind the
status boards and updated the information with yellow
grease pencils.