Acts of Vengeance

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT STRAIT OF HORMUZ

On the third ring, a voice answered. “Lieutenant Johnson.”

“It’s Claire Phillips. Would you be available for some conversation?”

A pause. Claire could sense the hostility over the phone. “The answer’s still no,” B. J. Johnson said. “No interview, no television exclusive of the amazing wounded girl pilot.”

“That’s not what it’s about.”

“What then?”

“Some girl talk. No business, no Navy stuff.”

“Look, Ms. Phillips, I have a lot to—”

“Call me Claire. And I promise I won’t keep you long.”

Another hesitation. “For a few minutes. Where do you want to meet?”

“Your call.”

“You know how to find the viewing gallery up behind the island? Vultures’ row, they call it.”

“I know it. See you in ten minutes.”

She’s very good looking, thought B.J., and the thought only made her angrier. Even in a shapeless jumpsuit and wearing minimal makeup, Claire Phillips was one of those women who could look like a fashion model even in a twenty-knot wind on the Reagan’s viewing deck.

“Okay,” said B.J., “what did you want to talk about?”

“Just some personal stuff. What it’s like being a woman in a man’s world.”

“I told you before, no interview.”

Claire held her hands up. “See? No notepad, no recorder. You have my word that whatever we talk about won’t go any farther.”

“I gather you don’t want me talking about what I saw this morning.”

Claire tilted her head, looking at her. “What did you see this morning?”

“You and Commander Maxwell, alone in his room.”

Claire nodded. “I think I’m getting the picture. And what do you think we were doing in his room?”

B.J. struggled to keep her voice neutral. “Seems obvious enough. I believe they call it shacking up.”

“Would it make any difference if I told you we weren’t doing that?”

For a moment, B.J. wasn’t sure how to answer. She folded her arms over her chest and turned to the rail. “I really don’t care, one way or the other.”

“Yes, you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so angry.”

“I am not angry,” she said, aware that the anger was spilling out of her like venom. “What you do together doesn’t interest me in the slightest.”

“Look, B.J., you can believe what you want. But you ought to know that Sam Maxwell has more personal integrity than you’re giving him credit for. He happens to care very much about his squadron and the example he sets for his officers.”

B.J gnawed on her lower lip while she digested this statement. Whether she believed Claire Phillips or not, she suspected that this part was true. Brick Maxwell might be a misguided buffoon whose taste in women was zip, but he was an ethical guy. Especially when it concerned his squadron.

Still, the fury was bubbling up in her. As much as she hated it, she knew why. She was jealous, damn it.

“Are we finished talking?”

Claire nodded. “Sure, if you want. I’m sorry if I upset you. I just thought that… since we have so much in common, it would be nice if we could talk.”

B.J. looked at her. “What is it we have in common?”

“Our jobs, for one thing. We both work in what is mostly a man’s profession, and they don’t like us for it. For every woman in a foreign press bureau, there are a hundred guys who think she ought to be home mending their socks. I know it’s the same for you. Look around this ship. How many of you are there?”

B.J. didn’t have to look around. Since the death of Spam Parker, she had been the only woman fighter pilot on the USS Reagan. Things might have gotten better lately, but she could still sense the same old women-aren’t-warriors resentment.

“You know what they call us?” B.J. said.

“What?”

“Aliens.” She had to smile as she said it. “It was supposed to be an insult, but I’ve gotten over that. I even had a picture of a little green extraterrestrial stenciled on my locker. Just to piss them off.”

At this, Claire had a good laugh. “I love it. You’re a trailblazer, and they don’t know how to deal with it.”

B.J. felt a tingle go through her. “Trailblazer?” She stared at Claire. “That’s what Brick once said about… his wife. Did you know her?”

“I met her once, when I was doing a story at the cape. Now that I think about it, she was a lot like you. Same features, same size. She was smart, good-looking, and tough.”

B.J. didn’t reply. Claire Phillips’s words were replaying in her mind. She was a lot like you. For a while she leaned against the rail, letting the warm sea wind blow through her hair. It explained a few things. Seven bullet holes, for example, in the body of the man who was holding the knife to her throat. Brick Maxwell was shooting the man who threatened his wife.

A lot like you.

She had come up here determined to dislike this woman. Claire Phillips was an adversary. One of those fluff-headed females whose looks and connections counted for more than talent and guts.

Wrong again.

“Look, Ms. Phillips, I ought to tell you—”

“Claire.”

“Claire.” B.J. cleared her throat and started over. “What I meant to say was… I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“For being rude.” She knew she was blurting the words, but she wanted to get it over. “For behaving like a jerk. I apologize.”

There, she said it. Now she would get the hell out of there.

As she turned to leave, Claire touched her arm. “You’re not wearing your sling.”

“It wasn’t much of a wound. Just a nick, really.”

“I heard it was a close thing.”

B.J. had to grin, thinking about it. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Brick Maxwell — a great pilot, but a really lousy shot.”

The staccato beat of the whirling blades broke the morning stillness. The two helicopters — the AH-1W Whiskey Cobra in the lead, trailed by the UH-1N Super Huey — skimmed the floor of the canyon, pulling up over the natural bridge that spanned the canyon.

Before them spread the valley. On the western slope rose a high ridge.

In the raised aft seat of the Cobra, the pilot glanced at his GPS coordinates again, then turned toward the ridge. Beyond the crest, he saw what they were looking for. The hillside was littered with debris, torn metal, destroyed machinery. In several places the slope was splotched with the black residue of an intense blaze.

After the Cobra completed a sweep, meeting no opposition, both choppers settled onto the sloping brown terrain.

A dozen men in combat gear spilled out of the Huey. A fire team armed with MP-5N submachine guns took the lead while the six men behind them fanned out, walking through the littered terrain, turning over and examining pieces of wreckage.

Fragments of the destroyed MiG-29 were strewn for half a mile. The officer in charge, marine Capt. Barry Weaver, snapped pictures with a Nikon digital while the others turned over hunks of metal, looking for clues.

“Over here, Captain,” yelled Gunnery Sergeant Chavez. “Looks like part of the cockpit.”

It was. There wasn’t much left — the remnants of an instrument panel, part of a radio console. Weaver took several shots; then he turned the pieces over and took more. When he was finished, a Navy medical corpsman poked around, filling several plastic zip bags with samples and scrapings from the twisted metal.

They continued searching. The corpsman took more samples from likely hunks of wreckage. After half an hour, Weaver said, “That’s it. We’ve seen enough of this place.”

After the Whiskey Cobra did another periphery search, the Huey lifted off. The helicopters skimmed the ridge, heading eastward before making the turn toward the coast.

Weaver, standing between the two pilots in the Huey, saw it first — something metallic, glinting in the sand.

“There.” He pointed down and to the right. “Check it out.”

The pilot nodded and slewed the Huey around into a turn. While the Huey hovered fifteen feet over the spot, Weaver and two marine riflemen fast-roped down.

Even before he reached the object, Weaver knew what he was seeing. He pulled out the Nikon and began clicking.

It was evening, and they were taking one of their walks — promenades, Claire used to call them — on the flight deck. the Reagan’s warplanes looked like museum exhibits, all tied down, intakes and tailpipes plugged with protective covers.

“Sam, do you think we’ll get married?”

He stopped and looked at her in surprise. It was another of those questions out of the blue. She’d been doing that a lot lately.

“What kind of a question is that?”

“A perfectly simple one.” She kept his hand clasped in hers. “Do you or do you not think we’ll get married?”

“I don’t… I guess I really haven’t given it that much thought…”

“That is impossible to believe. You say you love me, but you haven’t thought about whether you want to marry me?”

“I didn’t mean that.” He sounded flustered, and he hated it. “Where’d this come from? Do you want to get married?”

She smiled. “Is that a proposal?”

“No. I mean… it’s a question. It sounds like you’re asking me if I want to get married.”

“Well, do you?”

“I don’t know. I mean, yes, but not yet.”

“You mean yes, you want to get married, but no, you haven’t made up your mind to do it.”

He stopped and looked at her. “Did I say that?”

“More or less. I’m just helping you out.”

“Is this how you interview people on your television reports?”

“No. Sometimes I have to get pushy.” Then she laughed, which was his clue that she was yanking him around again.

For a while neither spoke, watching the brown coastline of Oman slide past the carrier’s port side. A pair of Seahawk helicopters skimmed the water between the Reagan and the shoreline.

She took his arm. “How long will the Reagan be in Bahrain?”

“Long enough to patch the hull. Two or three weeks; then we’ll head to the States so the ship can get a major refitting.”

She seemed to be mulling over this information. “That means, if we’re going to be together, I’ll have to be in the United States.”

“Until the Reagan deploys again. Wherever that might be.”

“Sam, have you ever thought of another line of work?”

“No. Have you?”

“No.” She waited a moment. “But I’m open to suggestions.”

“Bandar Abbas,” said Gritti, “on the starboard side.”

Maxwell looked through the thick panes of the flag bridge. the Reagan was transiting the narrow Strait of Hormuz, returning to the Persian Gulf. He could make out shadowed outlines on the Iranian shore — buildings, cranes, docks.

“Do you think they’ve figured out what happened to their missing submarine?”

“I hope they paid cash for it,” said Gritti.

It was five past eleven, and they were waiting for the admiral to appear for the 1100 meeting he had called. On the opposite side of the compartment, Red Boyce was staring thoughtfully in the direction of Iran, a half-gnawed cigar jutting from his jaw. Guido Vitale was on the phone with Stickney, who had promised to drop into the briefing as soon as they’d passed the strait. Cmdr. Ed Mulvaney, the Reagan’s XO, was standing in for Stickney.

Two of Boyce’s other squadron skippers were there — Rico Flores of the VFA-34 Bluetails, and Gordo Gray, who had taken over the Tomcat squadron after the skipper, Burner Crump, was killed in Yemen. The two commanders were talking quietly by the coffeepot in the corner of the compartment.

Admiral Fletcher burst into the room, trailed by his aide, a baby-faced lieutenant named Wenck. “Sorry, gentlemen.” He tossed his hat onto the plotting table. “I just got off the line with SECNAV and CNO.” He went to the head of the conference table. “Seats, please.”

Maxwell was struck again by the change in Fletcher. Even after the calamitous events in Yemen and the Gulf of Aden, he still managed to exude command authority. Perhaps, he mused, Fletcher was one of those officers like Grant or Eisenhower who metamorphosed into leaders in the heat of war.

“I’ve been instructed to warn all of you, and each of your subordinates, that everything that happened during this campaign is classified. We will have selective memories about the events of the past week.”

The officers all nodded.

For your information,” Fletcher went on, “when the Reagan drops anchor in Bahrain, I’ll be immediately relieved of command. Until my successor shows up, Captain Stickney will be the acting Battle Group Commander.”

This caused murmurs around the table. No one was surprised, especially after Fletcher had assumed full responsibility for the action in Yemen.

“I’m informed that there will not be a court-martial.” He paused and looked around the table. “The truth is, I was rather looking forward to testifying about what happened out here. About who was taking orders from whom.”

Fletcher let this sink in. The unwelcome presence of Whitney Babcock still pervaded the room.

“As it turns out, no one — not the Joint Chiefs, the Secretary of the Navy, certainly not the White House — wants the world to hear how our chain of command was short-circuited. So I will be let off with a letter of reprimand — and a peremptory retirement.”

Boyce spoke up. “That’s a coverup, Admiral. They just want to suppress the truth about the deal between Babcock and Al-Fasr.”

“You said it, not me. There are other things they’d like to suppress. The spy on our battle group staff, for one.”

At this, everyone’s eyes went to the empty chair next to Fletcher — the seat usually occupied by Spook Morse.

Mulvaney asked, “Has anyone figured why Morse sold out to Al-Fasr?”

Guido Vitale spoke up. “The FBI is working on it. Morse became acquainted with Al-Fasr about four years ago, when he was on Fifth Fleet staff in Manama. I was there, and I remember that Spook was going through a bad time. His wife had left him, run off with some Brit she met playing tennis. About then he was passed over for promotion to captain, and he was bitter. More than bitter, as I remember. Spook had a dark side to him. That was probably when Al-Fasr got to him.”

“He got his revenge,” said Boyce. “Sucked us into Al-Fasr’s trap.”

“We still don’t know how much damage Morse did,” said Vitale. “We know that he gave our op plans away, and it was he who relayed our points of intended movement, which enabled Al-Fasr to position the submarine.”

“Another lesson learned the hard way,” Fletcher said. “We spent forty years learning how to beat Russian nuclear attack submarines. Then an obsolete diesel/electric boat sneaks into our battle group and damned near sinks us.”

“What was the point?” asked Commander Mulvaney. “What was Al-Fasr trying to accomplish?”

“The same thing terrorists all want to accomplish,” said Fletcher. “Revenge. An eye for an eye.”

“This time it bit him in the ass,” said Boyce. “Brick scraped him off on that ridge in Yemen.”

Fletcher and Vitale exchanged glances. Fletcher nodded, and Vitale picked up a file folder. “Early this morning we inserted a marine recon team into the crash site of the MiG. They determined from the serial number that it was definitely the same one Al-Fasr was flying. They also searched the wreckage, looking for human remains that might be identifiable from the DNA. They didn’t find anything — until they were airborne and egressing the area.”

Vitale withdrew an eight-by-ten color photograph from the folder. “Then they found this.”

He passed the photo around the table.

Maxwell peered at the object in the photo. A chill passed through him. He handed the photo to Boyce.

Boyce removed his cigar and stared at the photo. “Oh, shit.”

“The ejection seat,” said Admiral Fletcher. “Notice that it’s been used. Successfully, according to the experts who analyzed this photo. It was found about a mile from the main crash site.”

Maxwell’s thoughts were already back in the late afternoon sky over Yemen. He could see the canyon, the eye of the needle, the shadow flitting over his canopy that saved his life. In his mind he relived the vertical scissors engagement, the energy-depleting maneuver that brought both their fighters perilously close to the earth. Pulling out of the dive, the older Fulcrum was unable to match the pullout radius of the F/A-18.

Al-Fasr’s jet struck the ground. The wreckage was scattered over a square mile.

He couldn’t have survived.

Or could he? Maxwell had not seen the final impact. His own jet had been pointed away, turning back to counter the scissoring MiG.

At the instant the Fulcrum scraped the ridge, the pilot, if his reactions were quick enough, might have realized his jet was doomed and pulled the ejection handle.

The Zvezda K-36 ejection seat was good, better perhaps than anyone else’s. At the 1989 Paris Air Show, a Russian demo pilot ejected at 250 feet while his jet was in a vertical dive. He survived.

Maxwell placed the photograph back on the table. For a moment he stared out the window at the dark coastline passing on the starboard side.

“He’s still out there,” he said to no one in particular.

Claire needed a nap. The stress and fatigue of the past week were weighing on her like a leaden mantle.

When she let herself in the stateroom she noticed the thick manila envelope atop the foldout desk. She wondered who had placed it there. The room steward? He had a key for all the staterooms.

She kicked off her shoes, noticing again the gray sterility of the stateroom. If she had to spend any more time aboard Navy warships, she would decorate. Oriental carpets, some decent prints on the bulkheads, photographs for the desk. And she’d have music, not that stuff they played on the ship’s entertainment channel for the teenage sailors. She would bring CDs of light classical and soft jazz like Sam had in his stateroom.

She popped open a warm Diet Coke and settled into the straight-backed desk chair. That was another thing she hated — this damned spartan furniture. She’d get a decent padded chair, one with a little fashion to it that she could get comfortable in and do some serious reading.

The manila envelope lay in front her. It was sealed, no address, no marking.

She ran her fingernail under the flap and opened it. The stack of paper was half an inch thick. Each page bore a copy of a stamp: SECRET.RESTRICTED DISTRIBUTION. She found nothing to indicate the source of the document.

Not until she was through the second page did she realize what she was reading. It was a transcription of some kind of message traffic. By the conversational dialogue, she guessed that the parties were communicating via a telephone or radio. She also guessed the identity of the speakers.

Claire felt her skin prickle. The document in her hand was potent enough to destroy a political career. Perhaps an administration.

She read on.

She lowered the sheaf of papers for a moment. Vince Maloney’s words came back to her: We protect his new government from all his resentful Arab neighbors, and Yemen becomes an American colony. Does that make sense?

Yes, it made sense now. Vince had it right, and it had cost him his life.

Al-Fasr wanted Yemen, and someone in a high office was helping him get it. None of the material was date-stamped, which meant that authentication would be impossible. She couldn’t prove anything. All she had was paper, copies of documents without attribution, nothing verifiable.

On a yellow legal pad, she drew a time line, beginning with the killings of Admiral Dunn and Admiral Mellon and Ambassador Halaby, connecting them with all the events in Yemen. Then she began overlaying them with the transcribed conversations.

When she was finished, she was sure. The connection was unmistakable. Even if the documents did not provide legal proof, the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming. The sequence of transcriptions matched the events perfectly.

An anonymous donor had just delivered to her the most explosive news story of her career.

Why?

As she thought more about it, the answer came to her, like the pieces of a mosaic. She knew who had sent the documents, and she understood what she was supposed to do with them.

Thank you, Admiral, Claire thought.