Acts of Vengeance

CHAPTER TWENTY METAMORPHOSIS

Something has changed.

Boyce couldn’t put his finger on it, but he sensed it the moment the marine sentry let them onto the flag bridge. It wasn’t the same Rear Adm. Langhorne Fletcher.

Boyce brought Maxwell with him, not only as a current authority about the ground situation in Yemen, but for a backup. For sure, there would be another of these tedious goddamned arguments with Fletcher and Babcock.

He felt the tension in the flag compartment. Babcock was standing in the corner, wearing a petulant look. Fletcher was in his high padded leather chair that afforded a panoramic view of the flight deck and the sea beyond.

“Who are we at war with, Admiral?” asked Boyce.

“Al-Fasr for one, and now with the owner of the submarine who torpedoed us.”

“Do we know who that is?”

“SUBLANT’s running a check on every diesel/electric in service. Ruling out the Brits and Israelis, it comes down to only a few possible players. The Russians are already screaming innocence, although they won’t deny that it could be one of their export boats, maybe even a Russian crew.”

“I suppose you’ve considered the possibility that it’s the same guy we’ve been fighting in Yemen.”

Fletcher nodded. “It’s been considered, and that’s why I sent for you. How soon can the air wing launch a strike in support of an amphibious assault?”

At this, a spluttering sound came from Whitney Babcock. He strode across the room. “Admiral, this hasn’t been discussed with me yet. There are national security implications here, and you don’t have the authority to initiate a military strike without consulting me.”

Fletcher picked up a sheet of paper from his console. “Remember this? These are my orders from the Commander of the Fifth Fleet, endorsed by the Commander in Chief, Atlantic, authorizing the local commander — that’s me, by the way — to use the all the forces in my command to ensure the recovery of our personnel in Yemen.”

“Those are contingency orders. I’ll remind you, Admiral, that more is at stake here than the immediate rescue of the marines.”

Fascinated, Boyce watched the exchange. This wasn’t the same Fletcher. The old Fletcher was a spineless toady who had sucked his way up the promotional ladder.

The admiral swiveled his chair away from Babcock and faced Boyce. “Captain Stickney reports that the Reagan has only the bow catapults available. He also says that he can only give us about twenty knots forward. How much of a problem does that give you?”

Boyce thought a second, then deferred to Maxwell.

“The forward speed is no problem for the Hornets as long we have wind,” said Maxwell. “Ten knots will do. With only two cats, it’ll take longer to get the jets launched. We can do it.”

“I concur,” said Boyce.

Fletcher said, “The senior marine commander on the Saipan says he can have his assault force ready to lift in ninety minutes. How long will it take to do the load-out for the strike package, CAG?”

“We’re ready. I gave the go-ahead this morning.”

Fletcher raised an eyebrow. “Without getting a tasking order from the battle group commander?”

“I was, ah, anticipating the order, sir. The jets are fueled, ordnance loaded, crews assigned and briefed. All we need is a final weather and intel update.”

Babcock looked like he was choking on something. “Admiral, we need to speak in private.”

“Later.” Fletcher waved him away and turned to Vitale. “Signal COMFIVE and all CVBG commands that the Reagan battle group will maintain station. We’ll activate the Bravo op plan at” — he glanced at his watch — “twelve-thirty. It’s now T minus ninety-eight minutes.”

“Admiral Fletcher!” Babcock’s voice was swelling with indignation. “I’m giving you an order. You will defer the strike until I’ve had a chance to consult with Washington.”

Fletcher swiveled in his chair to face Babcock. “About what, Mr. Babcock? About the marines we abandoned while you negotiated with Al-Fasr? About the hundred and ten Navy men who perished on the Baywater while we cruised out here like a sitting duck? About how your negotiating partner lured us into Yemen so he could shoot down our jets and kill our people? It’s time I talked to Washington also.”

Babcock glowered at Fletcher. “You are now several levels out of your depth. I’ll remind you that this is a complicated and sensitive diplomatic situation. This has implications that your puny little military mind obviously does not understand.”

“The one thing my puny mind understands is that we have to get our people out of Yemen. While we’re doing it, I don’t mind if Boyce and Maxwell here bomb the living shit out of your friend Al-Fasr.”

“This is preposterous. You are violating the President’s explicit instructions.” Babcock headed for the door. “I’ll put a stop to this. You’ll be removed from command of the Reagan battle group.”

Fletcher raised a hand and motioned for one of the marines stationed inside the flag bridge. The sergeant strode briskly to the admiral’s chair, carrying his M16A2 combat rifle.

“Take that man into custody, Sergeant.”

The marine gave him a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Keep him confined in a space with no phone, no computer, no communication devices.”

“What?” spluttered Babcock. “You’re going to lose those stars, Admiral.”

The sergeant was joined by another marine, a burly African-American corporal. They seized each of Babcock’s arms.

“You can’t do this!” Babcock yelled back at Fletcher as the marines led him out of the compartment.

“Looks like he just did,” observed Maxwell.

The watertight door clunked shut behind them. For several seconds no one spoke. The flag bridge was silent as a tomb. Every man in the compartment was staring at Fletcher.

He glanced at his watch. “T minus ninety-four,” he said. “What the hell are you all standing around for?”

For another few seconds, Boyce studied Fletcher, seeing something in the man’s lean, aristocratic features that he hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps, he thought, because it hadn’t been there.

“Aye, aye, sir,” He gave the admiral a smart salute.

B. J. Johnson stormed though the front door of the ready room. Heels hammering on the steel deck, she marched directly to the coffee mess at the back of the room where Claire was talking to Maxwell. She was no longer wearing the sling on her left arm.

“Someone’s made a mistake,” she said to Maxwell, ignoring Claire. “I’ve been assigned as squadron duty officer.”

“What’s the problem?” said Maxwell.

“I should be on the schedule for the air strike.”

“You’re still medically grounded.”

“The flight surgeon says I’m okay. I don’t have to be grounded.”

“The flight surgeon is not the commanding officer. I say you’re still grounded.”

B.J.’s face reddened. “Why?”

“Because you’ve been shot down once.” Maxwell kept his voice low. “What do you think they’ll do if you’re shot down again?”

Her eyes flashed. “You were shot down. What will they do to you?”

“I’m a man. It’s different.”

It was the wrong thing to say. B.J. turned livid. “So that’s it. I’m not flying this strike because I’m a woman?”

Maxwell looked like he was suffering a migraine. “This is not a gender thing. I need eight fully capable pilots for the strike, no more. You’re not one of them for a simple reason: You’ve been wounded.”

“It was you who wounded me!”

Maxwell’s headache was worsening. B.J. had the attention of everyone in the room.

He leaned close to her and said in a low voice, “Listen up, Lieutenant. I am the commanding officer. I have decided that you will not be on the schedule. Period. Knock off the bitching and do your job.”

B.J. started to protest again, then caught herself. “Yes, sir.” She gave Maxwell and Claire one last baleful look, then stomped back toward the duty officer’s desk.

Claire waited until she was out of range. “I think she’s angry.”

“She wants to fly.”

Claire shook her head, still watching B.J. at the far end of the room. “No. It’s more than that.”

Maxwell was giving her a wary look. “What are you talking about?”

“No wonder they call you Brick. It’s perfectly obvious,” she said. “The girl is in love with you.”