Final Flight

19

Qazi and Ali sat in the front seat of the van and stared through binoculars at the gate in the chain-link fence and the helicopter pad beyond. Nothing moved under the lights on the corner of the hangars. Qazi aimed his binoculars through his open window at the guard shack. The old man was inside. He still had a two-day growth of beard.

The colonel turned in his seat and examined the tops of the warehouses across the street. No heads or suspicious objects in evidence. He scanned the windows.

“What do you think?” Ali asked.

Colonel Qazi laid the binoculars in his lap and sat watching the scene. “Go,” he said at last.

Ali stepped from the van and eased the door shut. He walked past the edge of the nearest warehouse and on across the street, where he was limned by a streetlight. Qazi could hear his footsteps fading. He raised his binoculars and scanned the warehouses again, trying to detect movement. There was none. He swung the glasses to the guard shack and watched Ali walk up to the window. The guard opened it. Ali reached through the window. Qazi knew he was cutting the telephone wire. Then Ali walked on toward the hangar.

“Sentries out.” Qazi told the people in the back of the van. He heard the rear door open and saw, in the rearview mirror, a man in black clothing with a submachine gun post himself against the large metal trash box on the edge of the alley. Another man dressed similarly trotted past the front of the van and disappeared around the corner; his post was opposite the gate.

“Anything on the scanner?” Qazi asked over his shoulder.

“No.” It was Noora. She was monitoring the police and carabinieri frequencies.

Through his binoculars Qazi could see Ali working on the doorknob to the office of the helicopter company. The hangar windows were all dark. Then Ali opened the door and disappeared inside. In a moment the lights in the office shone through the windows. Since this was normal when the company was waiting for a late-night passenger, it should arouse no comment. One of the two hangar doors slowly slid open.

Qazi raised a hand-held radio to his lips. “Van two, go.”

In a few seconds he heard the engine of the other van. It came down the street past the alley and turned in at the gate. Qazi had instructed the driver to pause at the guard shack, and he did so. Then he drove past two parked helicopters and through the open hangar door.

“Van three, go.”

Almost a minute lapsed before this van passed the alley where Qazi sat. It also came to a brief halt at the gate, then threaded between the helicopters and entered the hangar. Now the door slid shut.

They waited.

“Nothing on the scanner,” Noora told him.

At last the door to the office opened and a man appeared. Qazi could see that he wore the same uniform as the gate guard. This man walked the hundred feet across the tarmac to the guard shack.

Qazi turned in his seat. “Noora, it’s time,”

She took off the earphones and gathered her shoulder bag.

“Don’t kill any Italians unless absolutely necessary. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Shoot any Palestinian the instant he disobeys. And watch Ali’s back for him.”

She nodded.

“Go.”

She stepped between the feet of the men sitting in the back of the vehicle and exited out the rear door. Qazi watched her. The man behind the wheel of the sedan parked behind the van got out and Noora took his place. The engine of the sedan came to life and the car eased past the van, stopping at the sidewalk as Noora looked both ways. Qazi could see the black outline of Jarvis’s head above the top of the backseat. Then Noora accelerated into the street and turned left toward the gate. Behind him Qazi could hear the rear door of the van being closed.

In a few minutes five men emerged from the hangar and walked to the helicopter furthest from the guard shack. They began to preflight it with flashlights.

A small two-door sedan came down the street. As it went by Qazi could see a man and woman in the front seat. It passed the entrance to the airfield without slackening its pace and disappeared around the far corner.

Sound carried and echoed through the alleys. He could faintly hear a man and woman shouting at each other, and through some fluke of acoustics, snatches of television audio.

The gentle breeze felt good after the sticky heat of the day. Qazi sat and watched the flashlights move around the helicopter, erratically and haphazardly.

The five men on the other side of the fence spent five minutes examining the first helicopter. When they left it and moved to the next one, a voice came over Qazi’s radio. “It’s okay. Fuel sample satisfactory.”

“Roger.”

A small pickup truck came down the street from the north, its headlights almost lost in the black evening. It shot down the street at full throttle, slowing slightly as it passed Qazi so it could make the next corner, which it tore around. He could hear the sound of its engine fading for half a minute after it had passed. A moment later he heard the engine of a large truck. Thirty seconds later it came into view, engine laboring, and drove up the street with its diesel engine snorting.

“This one’s okay.”

“Roger.”

What had he forgotten? What was left undone? As he sat there behind the wheel of the van Colonel Qazi reviewed the operation yet again. He glanced at his watch from time to time, and turned once to check on the men sitting patiently behind him. They looked scruffy in their worn, dirty jeans and short-sleeve knit and pullover shirts. Most of the shirts were filthy. Some of them were torn. Most of the men wore dirty tennis shoes. Satisfied, Qazi resumed scanning the warehouses with his binoculars.

The camel thieves were two young boys, about eleven and twelve years of age. Orphans. His uncle had forced them to deepen the water holes and fill the bags for the camels, which were let out on hobbles to graze. When the work was done, the boys were fed. They had no food of their own. Then the men had lain in the shade as the sun scorched the earth. The two thieves huddled together against a stone below where Qazi and his cousin sat with their rifles across their knees. The old man found a place further away, where he could keep an eye on the camels. Qazi wandered over in late afternoon and found him reading the Koran.

They tied up the thieves for the night. At dawn the next day the animals were watered again and the last of the dried dates and bread were shared.

“Who is the eldest?” the old man asked.

One of the thieves acknowledged that he was.

The old man looked at his son and Qazi. “Seize him. Put his right hand against that rock.” He pointed at a large stone.

“No! Allah be praised, have mercy. No! Kill me instead.” Qazi had helped drag the sobbing boy to the indicated stone.

The old man took his sword from the saddle of his camel. “You have violated Allah’s law. And you know the law.”

The sword made a sickening sound as it bit into the boy’s wrist. It took the old man three chops to sever the hand. He bound the wrist with a tourniquet and his own undershirt.

They set the two on their own camel a beast suffering so badly with the mange that it had only half its hair. The old man jammed their rifle into its scabbard and slapped the beast into motion. The young boy held his brother in the saddle as the animal climbed slowly out of the wadi and disappeared over the rim.

“Uncle …”

The old man’s face was like chiseled stone. He gathered the camels that had been taken and roped them together.

The three had ridden for several miles when they heard the faint echo of a shot.

The old man reined his camel in and looked about wildly. He turned in the saddle and looked toward the west, where the shot must have been fired. Then he dropped the lead rope and beat his mount into a gallop.

Qazi and the cousin followed. They found the lone camel standing amid a patch of lava stones and thorn bushes in a shallow depression. The boy with the missing hand lay on the ground, the barrel of the rifle in his mouth, his toe on the trigger. His brains lay in the sand above the body.

His younger brother sat at his feet.

The old man prostrated himself toward the rising sun.

The sun rose higher and higher into the cloudless sky.

“Allah, I have believed in the words of your Prophet all my days. I have read the book and followed the book. I have kept the faith of my fathers. I have obeyed the law. I have raised my sons to obey the law. But it is not enough.”

“Uncle,” Qazi said. “Do not blaspheme. He hears everything.”

The old man rose from the ground. His face was lined and his beard was gray. “The book is not enough for a simple man like me. Allah knows.” He had looked about him at the stones and sand and the merciless sky and the twisted body. “Not enough.”

They buried the dead boy. They took the other boy home with them and he was taken in by the old man’s eldest son.

Three years later the old man sent Qazi north to the city to join the army.

The small radio crackled to life. “This one is okay.”

“Roger.”

Qazi started the engine and put the van in gear. As he drove away he looked in the driver’s mirror at the hangar lights and the ungainly machines. The rotors were spread now, and they flapped gently in the rising breeze. The wind was gusting.

The book is not enough. His uncle had been right about that. But perhaps, Qazi thought, the Prophet was right and paradise will be better than this life. Perhaps not. Wherever the old man was, that was where Qazi wished to be. If tonight’s scheme went awry, he well knew, he would join the old man very soon. Ah well, perhaps it was time.

“You’re really serious about adopting?”

Jake and Callie were walking past the Royal Palace, under the white marble statues of the medieval kings of Naples. They looked, Jake thought, appropriately hairy and fierce, clad in their armor with swords in hand. Across the street, around the fountain in the Piazza del Plebiscito, clusters of teenage girls were flirting with the swarms of boys cruising on their Vespas and motocross bikes. Every now and then a girl hiked her skirt up, swung onto the back of the seat, and the boy blasted off into traffic. Apparently this was the place if you were young and growing up in Napoli.

“I went to see the agency about four months ago. We would have to wait years for a baby. And these older children who need special love and care, they spend their lives bouncing from foster home to foster home.”

“So if we ask for a baby, we really won’t be helping.”

“Oh, Jake.” She squeezed his hand. “That’s precisely it. I’ve met Amy Carol about five times, and she needs a family. And we can be that family for her.”

“Tell me about her.”

Callie began with a physical description. They rounded the corner of the castle and picked their way through the parking lot, past the entrance to the Galleria Umberto, and around the scaffolding on the front of the opera house. Jake noticed several prostitutes standing on the steps to the Galleria, but Callie was describing the little girl’s emotional problems and paid no attention.

A hundred feet further on he saw a tall, willowy woman in spike heels and a black dress standing under the light on the corner across the street. Her low-cut, strapless dress clung to her figure like cellophane and only came down to midthigh. She was busy adjusting her bosom. Callie was reciting Amy Carol’s family history.

Callie stopped dead on the sidewalk, in midsentence, and Jake jerked his head from the far corner. Directly in front of them on the sidewalk a woman with exposed breasts stood talking to a man leaning from a car. She wore high heels and some type of black lingerie, but her breasts were completely bare. A transparent robe was draped around her shoulders.

“Keep walking,” Jake urged.

Callie looked the woman up and down and gave the man in the car a piercing glance, which he ignored.

Ten paces further on three motor scooters drew to the curb. The young male drivers each had a teenage girl behind him. They chatted excitedly, looking back at the working hooker. Jake and Callie kept walking. The boys eased the scooters into motion and made a U-turn. Jake looked back over his shoulder. The scooters made another U-turn and swung into the curb where the car had been. The woman surveyed the teenagers with disdain and the Italian came loud and fast, audible even above the traffic.

“Stop gawking, Grafton,” Callie ordered. “She’s a 36 C-cup and needs dental work.”

She’s lying about the teeth, Jake told himself. Not even Callie had been looking at her mouth. “I wonder where we could get you an outfit like that?”

“Oooh, you men! You like that, huh?” She began to sashay along, rolling her shoulders and hips.

“Just admiring the local color.” Callie was still doing it. Pedestrians were staring. “Stop that!”

“Twenty thousand lire.”

“What?” If she kept on, she was going to need a chiropractor.

“Twenty thousand lire, sailor, and I no givva da kisses.”

“How much for kisses too?”

“More than you gotta, sailor boy. Only da real men get da kisses.”

A loafer on the grass whistled at her and she dropped the charade, grasping Jake’s arm tightly and laughing.

“Amy Carol’s gonna have a real fireball for a mom,” Jake said, and led her toward the promenade around the Castel Nuovo.

They stood against the rail of the moat and watched the vendors roasting food in makeshift barbecues on the sidewalk. Working-class families out for the evening sat on the grass and ate roasted ears of corn and pieces of chicken. Dogs with noses to the ground charged through the crowd searching for abandoned delicacies. Jake counted five young couples, three on the promenade and two on the grass, locked in passionate embraces. In front of Jake and Callie three small boys were kicking a ball. With every other boot, the ball bounced off lovers and picnickers, startled the dogs, or caromed ominously toward the busy avenue. Someone always rescued it and kicked it back to the boys. The tinny beeping cacophony of motor scooter and car horns was the perfect accompaniment. Napkins and food wrappers were swept away by the rising wind.

“Saturday night in Naples.”

“You enjoy Naples, don’t you?” Callie asked, and brushed back the blowing hair from her face.

Jake grinned broadly and led her on. They crossed the boulevard that led down to fleet landing and strolled down the Via Depretis, which paralleled the Via Medina, a block to the west. Sailor bars and pizza shops lined the east side of the street. Jake and Callie dropped into an empty table at a sidewalk bar and sipped wine as pairs, threesomes, and foursomes of American sailors in civilian clothes wandered by, noisy tourists in search of “action.”

The Graftons were walking hand in hand when a young man shot out of an alley, collided with Jake, and went sprawling. Jake almost fell, but Callie steadied him.

“Sorry.” The man scrambled to his feet.

“What’s the rush?” Jake demanded.

The man was four steps down the street when he pulled up and turned to stare at Jake. “CAG? Captain Grafton?”

“That’s me.”

“Jesus, sir.” He came rushing back. “Sorry I about flattened ya. But our cat captain is in there,” he gestured up the alley, “and he’s loaded and there’s gonna be a fight.”

“Who are you?”

“Airman Gardner, sir. Cat Four.”

“Kowalski your cat captain?”

“Yessir, and he’s one drunk motherfucker…. Excuse me, ma’am.” The sailor nodded at Callie and flushed. “He’s pretty drunk, sir, and I can’t get him outta there and the barkeep is callin’ the shore patrol and I was goin’ for help.” Gardner didn’t look a day over eighteen.

“Callie, you go back to the hotel. I’ll see you there after a while.”

She pecked him on the cheek. “Okay.” She winked and began walking back toward the piazza. Jake watched her go, her skirt swirling.

“Com’on, sir,” Gardner urged. “Them shore patrollers will be along any minute.” He tugged at Jake’s sleeve.

The bar was a red-light dive that catered to sailors. Several dozen were there when Jake walked through the door. Kowalski was in one corner with his legs splayed out and his shirt ripped, a bar stool in his hands. If he were left alone, gravity would soon conquer his fireplug body. “Alright, you cocksuckers, who’s gonna be first?”

Another man wearing a red-and-yellow shirt stood facing Ski and wagging his finger at the cat captain’s face. He looked almost as drunk as Kowalski. Behind the bar an Italian in a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up was screaming, “Out out out. They are coming. No fighting, no fighting. Out out out!”

“Excuse me,” Jake said to the drunk facing Kowalski, and stepped by him. Jake stood up straight. “Ski, do you recognize me?”

Kowalski stared. The bartender was roaring, “Out out out out …”

Ski shook his head.

“I’m Captain Grafton.” Jake grasped the stool and pried it gently from Kowalski’s grasp. He set it on the floor, then shook Ski’s right hand and held it while he grasped his elbow and began to move him toward the door. “I want you to come with me.”

“Yessir,” the petty officer mumbled, and shuffled in the direction he was pointed.

“So long, you windbag motherfucker,” the man with the red-and-yellow shirt jeered.

Kowalski roared and tried to turn. Gardner punched him squarely in the jaw and his knees buckled.

“Ooowww,” Gardner moaned, and shook his hand.

“I like your style, son,” Grafton said, “but that’s a good way to break your hand. Now help me get this tub of lard outta here.” Gardner grabbed Ski’s other arm and they dragged him out the door.

In the alley Gardner said, “I think I busted it.”

“They never do in the movies, do they? Come on, Ski, start walking, goddammit, or we’ll leave you for the shore patrol.”

The petty officer’s feet began to move. Jake steadied him on one side while Gardner held him up on the other, his forearm jammed under Ski’s armpit with his injured hand sticking out.

“He’s a great cat captain, sir. You won’t regret this.”

“He’s a fuckin’ drunk. If we get him back to the ship without someone writing him up, he’s going straight to rehab.”

“Yessir. Come on, Ski, walk.”

The cat captain was trying. They came out of the alley and turned for fleet landing just as the Shore Patrol van pulled up. A lieutenant in whites with a Shore Patrol brassard on his left sleeve stepped out and saluted. Jake recognized him. He was a Hornet pilot on the United States.

“Want me to take him down to fleet landing, sir?”

“That means you have to write him up, right?”

“I’m supposed to, CAG.”

“I’ll get him down there, and this sailor here can get him back to the ship. I’ll talk to the XO about him tomorrow.”

“Yessir.”

“Thanks anyway.”

The lieutenant nodded.

“But while you’re here, there’s a bar up the alley you’d better visit. The bozo in the red-and-yellow shirt should go back to the ship in the van.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer turned and motioned to his men, who got out of the van and followed him up the alley.

Gardner and Jake managed to get Ski back to his feet. After much prodding, he staggered along with one of them on each side.

“Thanks, sir. He’s really a fine petty officer and a helluva guy.”

“Yeah.”

They had to pause several times for Ski to be sick. Some of it splashed on Jake’s shoes and trousers. A few drops of rain began to splatter on the pavement.

Just before they reached the boulevard by the Castel Nuovo, another Shore Patrol van pulled up. A chief in whites was driving. He leaned across the petty officer in the passenger seat. “Want us to take him on down to the landing?”

“That’s okay, Chief. We’ll manage.” The van’s wipers were smearing the water and dirt on the windshield.

“Bad night for booze, sir. Already got a half dozen drunks in here.” The chief jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Naw,” Jake said. “I appreciate it. But we’ll get him there.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The chief let out the clutch and the van accelerated away.

“Com’on Ski. Walk! I hope to hell you’re worth our trouble.”

In the van one of the men spoke to the chief. “They took us for Americans, Colonel. We are going to succeed.”

Maybe, Qazi thought. If Allah wills it.

The carabinieri on the gate to the quay didn’t even look at Jake and Gardner as they marched Kowalski through. They followed the fence around to the right toward the area used by the carrier’s boats. The intermittent raindrops were falling steadily now. The Shore Patrol van was parked by the little duty shack and the chief was talking to the embarkation officer. Six drunks in civilian clothes lay facedown in casualty litters under the awning and two Shore Patrolmen were strapping them in.

“Got another basket?” Jake asked, holding Kowalski semi-erect with one hand and wiping the water from his hair with the other.

“Yessir. We have plenty,” said the embarkation officer, a lieutenant (junior grade) named Rhodes. He jerked his head at the chief, who stepped over to the pile of baskets behind the shack and helped Gardner lift one off. The chief helped Jake lower Kowalski into it.

“Mr. Rhodes,” Jake sighed as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve and watched Gardner struggle with the litter straps with his one good hand. The chief bent down to help. “There’s no report chit on this man. Just take him back to the ship and have him escorted to his bunk. I’ll see the XO about him in the morning.”

“Aye aye, sir. Oh, I have a message for you. Lieutenant Tarkington left it.”

“He showed up, huh?”

“Wandered in about two hours ago and I told him his liberty had been secured. He just nodded and asked for some paper. After he wrote this, he went back to the ship.” The duty officer passed Jake a folded square of paper, apparently a sheet from a notebook. On the outside was written “CAPT Grafton.”

Jake walked away, unfolding the paper. “Thanks, Chief.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Jake glanced back at the name tag. “Dustin.” The chief was in his early forties, dark hair flecked with gray, tanned and fit. No fat on that frame. “Aye aye, sir?” He should have said, “Yes, sir” or “You’re welcome, sir.” “Aye aye” was used only to respond to an order.

“Where do you work …”he started to ask Dustin, but the chief had already turned away as another Shore Patrol van pulled up. The lieutenant that Jake had talked to earlier stepped out and watched two of his men escort the drunk in the multicolored shirt over to the litters. What is that lieutenant’s name, Jake wondered. Oh yes, Flynn.

Flynn and Dustin were having a conversation. Jake stepped close enough to hear.

“Chief, where were you this evening when we mustered? I didn’t even know you and your guys were out here tonight.”

“We got off the ship late, Mr. Flynn. And they sent us out to pick up drunks.” The chief shrugged.

“Who is they? I’m in charge of detachment tonight, and I didn’t even know you were going to be here.”

“Someone screwed up, sir. I’m obviously here.”

Jake turned to observe. Flynn was referring to a sheet of paper on a clipboard.

“I don’t even see you on this list.”

“Sir, they told me to come ashore and bring two men and go look for drunks.”

“Who the hell is they?”

“My division officer.”

“He may have sent you ashore, but he didn’t tell you to go pick up drunks. Who did?”

“Some officer down in the Shore Patrol office. He was there when I arrived on the beach a couple hours ago.”

“Lieutenant Commander Harrison?”

“He was a lieutenant commander, sir. But I didn’t notice his name.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have told you that. I didn’t even know he was going to be in the office this evening. And with that shooting over at the Vittorio, I can think up better things for you to do than taxi drunks around. Let’s walk down to the office and get this straightened out.”

“Mr. Flynn,” Jake called. “What shooting?”

The lieutenant came over to him, the chief behind him. “There was an assassination tonight over at the Vittorio, CAG. Two guys wasted with submachine guns.”

“Americans?”

“Not navy, sir. A couple civilians. I hear one of them looks like he could be an Arab. Maybe terrorists.”

“When?”

“About eight.” The lieutenant glanced at his watch. “Three hours or so ago, sir.”

Jake nodded, and the officer and chief walked away, down the pier toward the terminal building. The Shore Patrol office was at the far end, on the second deck. Jake opened the note from Toad.

“Sir,” it read. “The duty officer says you are looking for me. I am going back to the ship. I tried to call you at the hotel but got no answer. I need to talk to you URGENTLY on a very IMPORTANT matter. V/R, Tarkington. 20:50.” The “V/R” meant “very respectfully” and 20:50 was the time Toad wrote the note. Jake folded the paper and put it into his pocket.

He leaned against a pole. Seven drunks in litters was unusual. But it’s Saturday night, and they’ve been at sea for four months. Captain James was going to be busy with this lot next week. And some of them are probably air wing men, so he’ll send them to me. Jake sighed.

About fifty sailors in civilian clothes were standing, squatting, and sitting under the awning, watching the rain come down. Most had been drinking and they were in a cheerful mood. The banter was loud and light. The mike boat came sliding, toward the quay, its diesel engine falling silent as it coasted the last few yards to the early float.

The boat officer came ashore and went over to the duty officer. Jake followed him. Water glistened on his raincoat and the lower portion of his trouser legs were soaked.

“It’s getting bad out there, Rhodes. This may be the last boat tonight.”

“How bad?” Jake asked.

The boat officer turned to him. “Lots of swell. We damn near didn’t get against the fantail float this last trip. I guess four or five feet of sea. Wind’s picking up too. Maybe twenty-five knots out there.”

Jake nodded.

“Pretty early in the year for it to get this bad.”

The duty officer’s assistant, a first-class petty officer, was commandeering sailors to help get the drunks aboard. First they had to be released from the litters, which were used only to prevent unruly behavior on the pier, and placed into orange kapok life jackets for the boat ride, just in case they fell overboard. Then two men had to escort each drunk aboard the mike boat.

“You two guys, you have this man. Get over here and get with it.”

The two reluctant men at whom the first-class was pointing rose slowly and walked over. Transporting drunks was a nasty business. “For the love of Christ,” one of them complained as they turned their charge over. “This turd has really been drinking, man. Jesus, he smells like he spent the night in a bottle.”

They jacked the drunk into a sitting position. He snorted and tried halfheartedly to cooperate. “Hey look! This dude has blood on him.”

One of the two stepped back. “Hey man,” he called to the first-class. “This guy’s bloody. Maybe he’s got that anally injected death serum.”

The first-class, a corpsman, stepped over and made a quick examination for wounds. He stood and struck a thoughtful pose, both arms crossed on his chest. “He looks the type, don’t he?”

“Yeah, man. He does. And who knows—”

“Shut up and grab him. You, too, clown,” he snarled at the companion. “Let’s go,” he roared to his working party. “Get ’em aboard.”

The two draftees rolled their eyes, glanced at Jake to see how he was taking all this, and finished strapping the life jacket to their shipmate.

Jake read Toad’s note again. He folded it slowly and eased it into his pocket.

“Mr. Rhodes, call my wife at the Vittorio and tell her I’m going out to the ship. And I may have to spend the night aboard.”

“Yessir.”

Jake waited for all the sailors to get aboard the mike boat before he walked down the gangway onto the float and stepped carefully up onto the stern — the quarterdeck. The only light came from the pier and he couldn’t see much. He stopped by the boat officer and squinted down into the well of the boat. The last of the drunks were being shoved against the rail and held there, just in case.

“If you’re going to stand up here, sir,” the coxswain said, “you’ll have to wear a life jacket.” He handed Jake an orange one and Jake donned it. The coxswain helped him tighten the straps between his legs.

Chief Dustin came striding down the pier from the terminal building. He gestured toward the two Shore Patrolmen from his van, and they preceded him down the gangway and across the float. The Shore Patrolmen went down in the well of the boat. Dustin snapped a salute to Jake.

“Get it straightened out, Chief?”

“Yes, sir. We did.” The chief slid down the ladder to join his men in the welldeck.

Lieutenant (j.g.) Rhodes called from the pier, “Shove off.”

The boat officer nodded to the coxswain, who called for the lines. The stern line came off first, and as the stern drifted away from the float the bow line came aboard and the coxswain gunned the engine. The boat backed smartly out onto the dark water.

Passing the terminal building and the frigate moored end-on to the top of the quay, Jake could see a halo around each of the lights. The rain drops came into the halos at an angle, driven by the wind. The lights of Naples reflected on the oily black surface of the harbor.

The boat officer fastened the top button of his raincoat and turned the collar up. He wore his life jacket under the raincoat. He loosened the gold strap on his hat and slipped it under his chin. Everyone on this open boat without foul-weather gear would soon be soaked. The boat officer, a lieutenant (junior grade) from a fighter squadron, grinned when he saw Jake watching him. “Great navy night, sir.”

Jake Grafton nodded and filled his lungs with the sweet salt wind.

Proceeding down the harbor, they were swept periodically by the circling beam from the lighthouse at the harbor mouth. The boat began to wallow as it entered the turbulent water flowing into the harbor from the sea. The coxswain played with the throttle and helm and coaxed the flat-bottomed landing craft to the right, toward the open sea. Now the square bow rose and fell to meet the incoming swells.

The pitching motion worsened when they cleared the breakwater. As the stern rose, the bow smashed down into the next trough, throwing water out to the sides. But before the boat could rise to meet the oncoming swell, the moving ridge of water smacked into the bow door with a thud and threw a sheet of water aloft, to be sprayed aft by the wind. The men in the welldeck hunched against the sides of the boat in a vain attempt to stay dry. Jake could hear the sounds of retching from the welldeck.

The carrier was several miles ahead, hidden by the rain. Jake watched the coxswain handle the boat. A little red light shone on the compass and RPM indicator. The boat officer held onto a stanchion with one hand and aimed the boat’s spotlight with the other. He swept the welldeck and the miserable humanity huddled there. Wet and shivering, Jake tightened his grip on the stanchion in front of him. The wind was quartering from starboard and roared in his ears.

The puny light played on the oncoming swells. The water was black with streaks of white. The swells were at least six feet from crest to trough, and the wind was ripping spindrift from the tops. The view was the same in all directions. Apparently satisfied, the boat officer doused the light.

Over his shoulder Jake watched the glow of Naples fade into the gloom. They were in total darkness. The assault boat plowed on, away from the land, into the heart of the stormy night sea.