Flash Point (47 page)

“Maybe. But the Raytheon guy said
all
of that lot was sent to Israel.”

“They probably just didn’t want people getting carried away. Syria may have faked the number anyway. Maybe they got hold of the list you’re looking at and picked that lot because it had the
fewest
shipped to Israel. They’re trying to make it look like the Navy did it.”

“And how the hell are they going to get this list?”

“Maybe a CIA analyst of Syrian descent sent it to them—”

“What the hell does that mean? That really
pisses
me off! If you’ve got something against me—”

“Whoa,” Cunningham said, smiling. “Just pulling your chain. Relax.”

“That was a cheap shot. You think it’s easy being an Arab in this place? Everybody thinks I’m a terrorist. I don’t need any shit from you—”

“Sorry. Look, I wouldn’t trust Syria to know a telephone number even if they got it out of the phone book. I’d
know
they were wrong. Everything they say is a lie. It’s just a matter of how big a lie it is. Everything comes through the government. Everything is calculated to deceive for a purpose. So I don’t know what’s going on with this number, but I’m sure as hell not worried about it. If we treat everything Syria says as a lie, we’re usually okay.”

Sami indicated the computer screen, angered by his friend’s generalization. “Looks like we’re the ones lying this time.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. There are plenty of people here who can worry about missile casings. We have a big enough problem trying to find the Sheikh.”

“But it all comes down to that. Kinkaid is relying on Israel to give us the inside information.
I
don’t trust
them
. I’m not buying this.”

“So don’t. But it’s not our job to follow the missile claims from Syria. What do you think, one of our planes went into Lebanon like some gunfighter and shot down a bunch of Syrians?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, come on. You probably believe in UFOs.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe?”

“Because things like that just don’t happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I hope it
did
happen! We should do it more often. I’m all for blurring the lines. I like the idea of the terrorists looking over their shoulders all the time. I’m happy as hell we’ve declared war against this Sheikh guy. It’s time to turn his lights out. I frankly don’t care whether our guy went up there illegally. They murdered one of our Navy officers—”

“He was in the wrong place at the wrong—”

“They shot him in the back!”

“I still think—”

“Keep your eye on the ball, Sami. We’ve got enough to worry about already.”

“I got a feeling there’s more here than meets the eye.”

Cunningham stood up. “Always is, Sami.”

Sami’s phone rang. Cunningham waved and left the cubicle as Sami picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

“Sami.”

“Father.”

“I am sorry to interrupt your day. You know I don’t like calling you during your work.”

“It’s okay. No problem. What’s up?”

“Something has happened that I wanted to tell you.”

“What?”

“Remember the man who was talking to you at the beginning of the meeting the other day?”

“Sure.”

“I didn’t introduce you. I apologize for that. His name is Hussein Gamal. He called me this morning.”

“What about?”

“He is one of the most influential men in the United States. He is from Lebanon originally, and now runs a large construction company. Biggest in Washington. He called me — just this morning — and said he was impressed by you.”

Sami knew how much it meant to his father to impress rich people. “Great.”

“And he said he wanted me to ask you if you would ever be willing to consider leaving your government job to come work for him. On his personal staff. Can you believe it? He said he didn’t want an answer now, he just wanted to tell you that he expected your salary would be at least double what you make now. At least. Could be more. What should I tell him?”

Sami actually allowed the thought to rest in his mind for a short time. It was not altogether unpleasant to consider being able to afford a new car, and maybe even a new house in the expensive Washington area. “That’s nice of him, but he doesn’t even know me.”

“He knew you enough to be impressed.”

“Tell him thank you, and someday in the future maybe I’ll consider it.”

“Excellent. I will tell him. I will call him back today and tell him that. I am proud of you, son.”

“Thanks,” Sami said.

“He also told me to remind you of your promise.”

“I figured.”

“Don’t take it lightly, Sami. Don’t disregard what your friends say.”

“I don’t, and I didn’t. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Dinner on the
Washington
had passed unremarkably, but the aircrew were growing restless. Bark called an AOM in the ready room for 1900. They were all there early for the first time in anyone’s memory. Bark’s expression spoke to them of pending action.

At exactly 1900 Bark got up from his chair. He glanced toward the back. “Petty Officer Griffin, would you please hang the sign on the rear door?”

Griffin crossed to the door and hung the do not disturb — meeting in progress sign on the outside.

Bark nodded, ready to begin. Woods noticed that Bark was wearing his “lucky” flight suit. It was the one he had been issued as a flight student in Pensacola. He had worn it in every airplane he flew and every squadron he had been in. It was getting frayed and faded, but that didn’t deter Bark. He knew a good thing when he saw it.

Bark’s voice was loud. “We’re going in. We’ve got the targets.”

Excitement was visible on the faces of the Jolly Rogers.

“Strike Ops is deciding what strike package to take right now. I’ve been lobbying for the only medium attack capability in the Navy. That would be us. I want them to have us as the go-to strike, and use the F-18s as bomb trucks directed by us. We’ll see. I think we’ll be on the first strike, but it’s not settled yet. The important thing to know is that we expect to go tonight.

“The Admiral tells us that additional forces are inbound to this area from all over the world. The Army will be sending an airborne division to Italy, the Air Force is sending several squadrons of fighters and light attack to Aviano, but we still don’t know if Italy will sign off on attacks from her territory. This isn’t a NATO deal, so I have my doubts. Plus some of the countries like Syria, and maybe Iraq, will whisper in Italy’s ear and tell them how unwise it would be for her to support this misguided war of America’s. So we’ll wait to see. So far though, Italy hasn’t tried to tell us what we can do from our own carriers.” Bark smiled. “The first stage of this war will be Navy strikes, and we’re it. We’ll be going after the fortress in Lebanon.”

“They expecting any opposition?” Lieutenant Commander Paulson asked.

Bark shook his head. “No way of knowing. But when Israel went north into Lebanon to go after this guy, who came to his defense? Syrian Air—”

“Bring them on—”

“That’s why the initial strikes — 2200 tonight — will be Tomahawk launches. First airplanes will launch immediately thereafter. The Tomahawk missiles are destined for certain structures, and certain SAM sites in the area—”

Big interrupted. “We’re going to attack Syrian and Lebanese SAM sights? They’re not
in
this fight, are they?”

“That’s one of the problems. Seems wise to assume that any SAM site in the area is going to be trained on our fighters. It’d be foolish in the extreme to fly over a hot SAM site and just figure they’re not going to shoot at us.”

“But won’t Syria and Lebanon say we’ve attacked
them
if we attack their SAM sites?”

“That’s been the decision. I am both surprised and pleased. I was afraid we’d head into these strikes and just hope they didn’t shoot at us. Now they almost certainly will, but we hope they won’t have much capability left to do it. Anyway, we can discuss the politics of it another time. The initial strike will be by Tomahawks against their Air Defense Command and Control, and some fixed SAM sites, then we’ll go in. That’s the plan, and that’s what I’m here to talk about.

“A lot of things can go wrong with this operation. Let’s concentrate on what we need to do. I’ve asked Pritch to get the latest intelligence photos of the targets.”

On cue she stood up and moved to the front of the room. Pritch’s briefings were well regarded and listened to carefully. It was obvious to everyone she took her job very seriously. She spent her off hours researching things she didn’t understand very well and deepening her knowledge of those things she did understand. It made her briefs much more reliable.

She nodded to Petty Officer Griffin, who turned down the lights. “We’re going to spend some time getting familiar with the target. I say ‘target’ because it is likely we will be participating on strikes on only one target. For the whole Air Wing.”

Sami stood before the clerk. He outranked her in terms of who had a higher GS number, but she had what he wanted and would give it to him only if she was satisfied he was entitled to it.

“It’s an old file,” he pleaded.

“It doesn’t matter, sir. It is still classified, and you’re not on the access list.”

Sami had to get the file. He couldn’t steal it — that would be impossible — and he could end up in prison just for trying. “What is the code word of the program?”

“Sir,” she said, in the prim tones of an old-fashioned schoolteacher, “you know I can’t tell you that.”

It suddenly struck him. “You’re aware of the Gaza Task Force?”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“I’m on it,” he replied.

“Okay.”

“Have you seen the order?”

“Yes, sir, I have it right here.”

“Read it,” he demanded.

“I don’t need to. I’ve already read it.”

His face glowed. “Then you’ll recall that it gives the members blanket clearance for all research and investigation files dealing with the Middle East, with a few exceptions that are in specific categories. Right?”

“Yes,” she said, not following.

“Well, this file deals with the Middle East. And it’s not in the category of excluded matters.”

“I don’t know that it deals with the Middle East—”

“Well, look at it!” he said, exasperated. It had better deal with the Middle East, he thought. He turned his back on her so she could examine the first page of the file.

“You’re right, sir,” she said. She slid the file across the counter to him. “Sign this,” she said, handing him a checkout card.

He signed the card quickly and gave it back to her. She studied it and smiled at him. “Have a nice day,” she said.

He turned quickly away, anxious beyond measure to read the file. He put it under his sweater vest and went straight to his cubicle. Glancing around to make sure no one was approaching or likely to interrupt him in the next fifteen minutes, he took the file out from under his sweater, opened it, and read the cover: mega investigation. top secret.

Woods pushed against the weights as he strained to beat his personal record of bench-press repetition. He tried to get to the weight room on the 03 level at least five times a week. It had been three days since he had been there, and he was itching to get back to his schedule. He often found himself at the weight room after midnight, when it was not only uncrowded, but unrushed. Sometimes sacrificing sleep for conditioning was not a good trade, especially when he had to fly, but he found lifting weights reduced his stress.

They had already planned the strike down to the last second, but he needed a forty-five minute workout before he got ready for the brief. The workout helped him keep his mind off all the things that could go wrong.

He wasn’t the only one. The weight room was crowded with sweaty men and two women, two S-3 pilots who worked out every night. Woods was slightly put out because he had to wait for each station.

As he finished his fifteenth bench press, he lowered the weights slowly so they didn’t drop. Sweat rolled down his cheeks as his red face relaxed. Grabbing his towel, he stood up and moved to the next station. He waited for the S-3 pilot to finish and then put the pin in the weights for the leg press.

“Lieutenant Woods?”

Woods hadn’t see the man come in, but he recognized the voice. Great, Woods thought. I am
not
up for this. Not turning around, he placed his feet on the metal plates to begin his first leg press. He pushed hard and the large column of weights moved upward. Finally, Woods nodded toward the chaplain, just one inch short of rudely ignoring him.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” the chaplain said, unfazed.

Woods didn’t say anything. He pushed the weights up with his legs, his hands solidly gripping the handles on either side of the seat. Straining against the weights, he held his breath and tried not to grunt.

“Your roommate, Mr. McMack, told me I could find you here.”

“What’s up?”

The chaplain stood awkwardly, watching Woods. “May I talk to you?”

“I’m going to keep going, if that’s okay. But say what you want to say.” He pushed against the weights again.

“I’ve been thinking about our last conversation.” He waited for Woods to reply, but Woods was silent. “I have some concerns I’d like to discuss with you.”

Woods let the weights he was holding up with his legs slam down. The sharp sound was like a rifle shot that sent a bolt of fear through the chaplain. “What?” Woods said.

The chaplain walked around the station so that he could look at Woods. “Do you remember what we talked about?”

“Look, Father, if you’ve got something to say, let’s hear it.”

“Yes. I’m sorry for the intrusion. I’ve been thinking about what has happened. I simply wanted to ask you one question.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m concerned about what we’re doing.”

“We who?” Woods said.

“The U.S. I’m concerned about how we got into this war.”

“Why?”