Flash Point (44 page)

“When you still have to finish it. Once we’ve finished it we can think about it more. He sure wouldn’t want us to stop now.”

“That’s what’s really ironic about it,” Kinkaid said. “The Assassins didn’t kill Ricketts. The Israelis did.”

Sami waited. “Would you like to see the other two locations?”

“Yeah.”

“The first one is in Lebanon. It’s about eighty-five miles northeast of Dar al Ahmar. It is not as high as Alamut, but it’s difficult to see — it’s built into the side of a mountain as opposed to sitting on top of the mountain. Very hard to find, according to the accounts I have read. In any case, it is right . . . here.” He pointed to an area in eastern Lebanon southeast of the Bekáa Valley.

Kinkaid studied the position. “Conveniently located under the SAM umbrella of the Bekáa Valley.”

“Exactly. The other one is in southeastern Syria, also in the mountains. There aren’t many references to it, even in the Isma’ili documents.”

Kinkaid knew what had to be done. “I’m going to get the best possible imagery of all three of these positions immediately. The two carrier battle groups are supposed to rendezvous today. We need to get imagery to them as soon as possible. The President wants this war under way. He’s scared to death of having declared war against one guy, not knowing where that guy is. According to the Director, it’s his one fear — we’ve declared war against one guy who then eludes us for years.

“Maybe we should declare war only against countries. At least you always know where they are.”

“Well, if this goes sideways, and Syria and Lebanon and” — he glanced down at the chart with Alamut marked on it — “Iran get as mad as I think they will, we may soon have a real war with real countries and we’ll know exactly where they are. And they’ll know exactly where we are too.”

Bark waited in his flight jacket at the front of the ready room. Woods sat in his chair going through the large metal drawer that was under his seat. It stuck out between his legs. He pushed aside various notes, Navy instructions, and copies of
Approach
and
Naval Aviation News
to find a blank writing pad. He finally found a mangled white one and pulled it out. He tried to bend the corner of the paper back so it looked slightly closer to a flat, respectable writing pad.

Bark spoke to Woods. “Trey, you ready?”

“Yes, sir. Just getting some paper.”

“You have the charts Pritch did with the SAM sites?”

“Big was going to bring those.”

“Where is Big?”

“He stopped by the stateroom to get his laptop.”

“We’re supposed to be at the helo in five minutes.”

“Yes, sir. I know.” Woods looked at his watch and glanced at the SDO’s desk to see if anyone was on the telephone. He walked quickly to the desk and dialed his stateroom. Big answered. “Big, you coming?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right there. I was just looking at something that made me have to go clean out my drawers.”

“What’s that?” Woods asked, trying to stay casual as he watched Bark for any sign of anger or suspicion.

“The photographs from Syria that claim to show the American missile that shot down one of their jets.”

“Really,” Woods said. Bark was growing impatient. “Bring it along.”

“Roger that.”

“Are we dead?”

“Not sure.”

“Okay. See you in a minute.” Woods hung up the phone.

“Dead about what?” The Squadron Duty Officer asked.

“He’s afraid we won’t get to go on the strike. He figures Lieutenant Commander and above only. Too much glory to be had.” Woods sat down and scribbled on his notepad. He hated the feeling of things closing in on him.

The ready room door flew open and Big strolled in with his laptop and notebook. “Sorry, Skipper.”

“Let’s go,” Bark said. The three of them left the ready room, heading to the flight deck inside the island. They donned cranial helmets and flotation vests and went out to the waiting SH-60 that was turning on the flight deck. The helicopter crewman directed them to their seats. They strapped in and immediately began looking for a way to escape if the helicopter went into the water. Some other pilots, in addition to Wink and Sedge, were already in the helicopter. They all knew what the others were thinking, because jet pilots always thought the same thing when they got in a helicopter — they had just increased their chances of being killed.

Jet pilots, as a rule, would rather walk than fly in a helicopter. The pilots who fly supersonic jets for a living and sit in ejection seats all day believe helicopters to be much more dangerous than their jets. One fact had settled deep into the psyche of jet aviators in the Navy: In one year in the nineties more jet pilots were killed as passengers in Navy helicopters than in jets. It was the kind of statistic that had been remembered and repeated for years because of its mythological significance. It was reinforced by the unpleasant training they all had endured — being strapped into a simulated helicopter, blindfolded, dropped into a deep swimming pool upside down, and told to escape from the sinking helicopter while holding their breath underwater.

Finally they heard the rotor blades bite more heavily into the air and the SH-60 rose from the flight deck of the
Washington
, climbing away quickly from the ship and heading toward the
Eisenhower
, sixty miles away. In World War II when aircraft carriers operated together, they generally stayed within sight of each other. It allowed for their antiaircraft guns to support each other. In the modern Navy, carriers operated within visual range of each other only for photographs.

This would be the first time since Desert Storm that carriers had worked together in combat. The aviators were excited. They would get to do their two favorite things: fly fast and blow things up. They could only hope that some country would get mad enough to send up its Air Force. If that happened, they would get to do what they all dreamed about — shoot down another fighter who didn’t want to be shot down. They yearned for the opportunity, usually unspoken, to prove themselves against an enemy.

The eastern Mediterranean was cloudy but still mostly sunny. The customary haze obscured the horizon though the visibility was six or seven miles. The SH-60 made it to the landing pattern of the
Eisenhower
in less than thirty minutes. During the transit the F-14 aircrew had been silent. They weren’t hooked up to the helicopter Internal Communication System and, other than yelling, had no way to talk. Nothing on this flight was important enough to lose one’s voice over. For the most part they’d sat quietly, bobbing in response to the helicopter’s movements, lost in their own thoughts.

Except Woods. He was fighting the urge to hyperventilate. He was thinking about the picture in Big’s flight suit pocket. Woods couldn’t see it, he couldn’t even bring it up or ask Big how he might have come into possession of such an interesting photograph when no one else seemed to be aware of it. What would he say if it was their missile and it could be traced? The photo might be virtually unanswerable proof. If so, not only would it show they did it, it would show they lied about it and constructed an elaborate scheme
with others
to hide the fact. Pritch would be at risk; so would Tiger, Big, Sedge, Wink, and the Gunner. Even the Ordnance Handling Officer. Woods knew the Gunner couldn’t gundeck the missile records by himself. They were kept on hardcopy and on the computer. The Gunner must have called in a big favor with the OHO. His neck would be in the noose too, and Woods hadn’t even met him. Going to Leavenworth had seemed so noble a risk to take to avenge Vialli, but as the actual possibility on the aura of reality, he found the idea shockingly unattractive. He forced himself to think of something more pleasant, like the helicopter losing power, banging off the flight deck, and landing upside down in the sea. That was something he could take action about, or sink his mind into for a few seconds.

He couldn’t help thinking of his Navy career. He used to wonder whether to retire in twenty years as a Captain, or in thirty years as an Admiral. Now he thought of his Navy career in terms of hours, or maybe minutes.

He felt the helicopter settle slowly onto the flight deck. He thought of the strike planning ahead, of the two carrier battle groups working together. Whatever came of his first adventure into Lebanon, this was invigorating. This was how it should be done. He almost smiled as he thought of his congressman’s speech asking for a declaration of war. Exactly what Woods had thought he should do. If it had been done a little earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have gone into Lebanon on the Israeli raid. Maybe the State Department guy and the Navy attaché and that Squadron Commander and the Officer of the Mess would still be alive. Maybe the Sheikh would already be dead. Never know now, Woods thought.

Their helicopter was the last one to arrive at the conference. They went quickly through the hatch into the island of the
Eisenhower
and down the passageway. Even though none of them had ever set foot on the
Eisenhower
they knew the way perfectly — it was identical to the
Washington
, both Nimitz-class carriers. They climbed quickly down the ladders to the wardroom on the second deck. It was set up for a presentation with an overhead projector, computer projector, charts, and a lectern with a microphone.

Woods and Big moved toward the rear of the large wardroom and sat down with other junior officers. Wink and Sedge followed Big and Woods. Bark went forward and sat at the table reserved for the Squadron Commanding Officers.

The excited conversations of aviators from both Air Wings filled the room with a buzz. They had been selected by their squadrons to be involved in the planning of the strikes. The best minds in the squadrons. The most experienced. Almost all were graduates of Topgun, or Strike University, where strike warfare and air combat were taught in the deserts of Nevada by Navy instructors.

The aviators, or Airedales as they were called in the Navy by nonfliers, were ready to go. They just wanted to know what the targets were. Not that they cared. Knowing that they were going after the terrorist who had taken it upon himself to attack Americans and kill their fellow Naval officers was enough for them. Each person in the wardroom thought declaring war against an individual was one of the greatest ideas they had ever heard of. No more dark, covert operations. This was using sharpened military instruments as they were intended to be used. The Navy pilots felt as if they had been asked to a prom.

The ship’s messmen had set up food in the wardroom. There were several stations, like salad bars. Many of the officers grabbed trays and went through the lines.

“Hey! Trey!” an officer called as Big, Sedge, Wink, and Woods made their way to the back of the line.

Woods looked around. It was Terrell Bond, a friend of his from flight training, who was now an F-18 pilot on the
Dwight D. Eisenhower
. “Tear! What’s happening?” he said, extending his hand.

“How’d you get stuck with this job?” Bond asked.

“Yeah, stuck. I
begged
for this. Our big chance to go after this Sheikh guy.” Woods introduced his squadron mates.

“Hi,” Tear said.

“How’s it going?” Big asked. “How’d you meet Woods? You guys in the brig together?”

Bond laughed. He was tall and good-looking with a perfect smile. His dark black skin looked like obsidian. “Seems like it. We were at Meridian together.” Meridian was the Navy jet training base in Mississippi.

Big replied, “At least you didn’t get stuck with him in the same squadron. I don’t know how I’m ever going to get rid of him.”

Tear looked at Woods. “It’ll be nice to turn this Sheikh into dust, but you already had the chance, didn’t you?”

Woods frowned. “Huh?”

“That foray into Lebanon that everybody in the world is talking about. Wasn’t that you?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Woods asked, chilled.

“Hell, it’s all over the fleet. I think one or two of our guys are in e-mail contact with your girlfriend.”

“Hey, bite me,” Woods replied.

“So,” Tear pushed. “How was it? You going to get your picture on the wall at Topgun for four kills?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, okay. Cool. One day?”

“If there were anything to tell you about, I would be happy to tell you about it. One day.”

“I hear you. Let’s hurry through this food shit so this killex can get started.” Killex, short for “killing exercise,” Navy lingo for an event. A screwed-up event is a flailex. A bombing exercise is a bombex. Waiting too long is a sitex.

They finished putting food on their plates and worked their way through the salad and sandwich bars. They nodded at other officers they knew, some well, some just as acquaintances. Navy Air was a big family, but a family nonetheless.

As they walked with their trays, Big said quietly, “Shit, Trey.
Everybody
knows.”

“Don’t say a word, Big. If we let on, even hint at it, we’re dead,” Woods admonished.

“
They know
!” Big said.

“Cool it. Don’t panic. They can smell panic.”

They took their food to a table closer to the front, where Tear had been sitting with four officers from his squadron. They set their trays down and sat facing the front of the wardroom. Tear addressed his buddies. “Guys, this is Sean Woods — we were at Meridian together — and some other guys from his squadron, Big McMack, Sedge, Wink.” The pilots greeted each other and Tear introduced the officers from the
Eisenhower
. “This is Dale Hoffer, known here as Dull, Stilt Wilkins, and Ted Lautter.”

They all shook hands, each checking out the other for patches, rank, and pecking order.

They discussed who was where in the fleet and who was going to what job ashore in the next year as they downed their food. Woods watched a Captain he didn’t know approach the podium. “Who’s the 0-6?” he asked.

“Our CAG. Bill Redmond, or Red Man as he is known.”

“I’ve heard of him. He’s legendary. F-18 guy. Didn’t he bag a MiG-29 over Yugoslavia?”

“That’s the one.”