Final Flight

27

Laird James was in a coma when Jake checked on him in sick bay. An IV bottle of whole blood hung on a hook beside the bed, and two corpsmen were preparing him for the operating room. The blue oxygen mask over his nose and mouth made the rest of his face look white as chalk.

“Is he going to make it?” Jake asked the corpsmen, who didn’t look up.

“He’s lost a lot of blood. Bullet through his liver. His heart stopped once and we gave it a kick-start.”

Jake turned and went back through the ward, looking at the burn, gunshot, and smoke victims. There were more patients than beds and some of the men lay on blankets on the deck. Most were conscious, a few were sleeping, and here and there several were delirious.

One man was handcuffed to his bed. A marine wearing a duty belt with a pistol sat on a molded plastic chair near the bed, facing the prisoner. The man in the bed looked at Jake, then looked away. Jake picked up the clipboard from a hook on the bottom of the bed and read it. Name unknown, no ID. “Can’t or won’t speak English.”

“He’s one of the terrorists, sir,” the marine said. “He fell overboard from the liberty boat earlier this evening.”

Jake nodded, replaced the clipboard on the bed, then moved on. Chaplain Berkowitz was moving through the ward, taking his time, pausing for a short conversation at every bed.

The second-deck passageways outside sick bay were still crowded with men sitting and standing, but the crowd was thinning as the chiefs and division officers got people sorted into working parties and led them off. The 1-MC blared continually with muster information for the various divisions and squadrons.

Jake climbed a ladder to the hangar deck. Foam still covered the wreckage of aircraft and lay several inches deep on the deck. The bulkheads and overhead were charred black. The glow of emergency lights was almost lost in the dark cavern.

In Flight Deck Control the handler was roaring orders over the radio system he used to talk to his key people on the flight deck. Will Cohen, the air wing maintenance officer, turned to Jake when he saw him enter the space.

Every airplane on the flight deck had shrapnel or bullet damage. “All of them?” Jake asked, stunned. “Even the ones clear up on the bow?” Cohen showed him a list he was compiling. They went over it, plane by plane. Jake wanted every fighter and tanker available airborne as soon as possible. He had Harvey Schultz briefing a dozen F-14 crews and a dozen F/A-18 Hornet pilots. But he had to get them some airplanes.

It quickly became apparent that the E-2s parked next to the island would not be flying tonight. One of them had absorbed so much shrapnel from the disintegrating rotors of the upended helicopter that Cohen thought it would never fly again. The others would require rework at an intermediate maintenance facility back in the States. Three of the tactical jets had caught fire, and the fires had damaged two other machines before they were extinguished. All the planes had bullet holes in them, and maintenance crews were checking right now to determine the extent of the damage. “We can’t take them to the hangar, and the wind makes opening the radomes and engine-bay doors hazardous,” Cohen said. “We’re going to damage some planes just inspecting them unless you slow the ship down or run with the wind over the stern.”

Jake had the ship heading due south at twenty-five knots, straight at the island of Sicily. Gettysburg was a mile away on the starboard beam. Her captain had requested this slower speed to enable his ship to ride easier.

The bullet hole in the plexiglas status board caught Jake’s eye. Someone had drawn a yellow circle around it. It looked obscene. “One hour,” Jake told the maintenance officer. “We launch in one hour. Get me some planes.”

On the bridge Jake ordered the ship slowed to fifteen knots. The reduced wind would also help the crash crews who were trying to clean up the nuclear contamination from the wreckage of the chopper immediately in front of number-four JBD. When the helicopter had turned upside down, the ensuing fuel fire had ruptured one of the weapons, causing the conventional explosive inside to cook off and scatter nuclear material. Most of it had been carried over the port side of the ship, but the wreckage and flight deck were still hot. The crash crew was using high-pressure hoses to wash the radioactive contamination into the sea, where it would soon disperse to harmless concentrations.

Now Jake stood beside the captain’s chair and tried to absorb the avalanche of information flowing at him from all over the ship. The information came faster than Jake could assimilate it. The navigator came over to help.

Several long messages were handed to him to approve before they were sent by flashing light to Gettysburg for electronic transmission. The first one he looked at was a Top Secret flash message giving the bare bones of the incident. The second one was ten pages long and covered the incident in detail. Jake took exactly one minute to read them both as he listened to someone give him an estimate of how soon various radio circuits could be repaired. Jake handed the short message to the signalman for transmission and used a borrowed pencil to draft a final paragraph for the longer one: “Intentions: Will launch all available fighters ASAP to pursue, find, and destroy helicopter that escaped. Gettysburg radar tracked it toward Sicily. Contact now lost. Believe helicopter will land and refuel vicinity of Palermo. Urgently request assistance.”

He stared at the paragraph and chewed on the pencil. The landing near Palermo was only likely because of the chopper’s fuel state. There was no way it could fly the width of the Mediterranean without refueling. Perhaps Qazi intended to transfer the bombs in Sicily to another aircraft, a faster one. “All available fighters”—that was a joke: right now he didn’t have any. And what assistance could anyone give? Never hurts to ask, he told himself and handed the message to the waiting signalman. Then he pursued the sailor, took the message back, and added one more sentence. “While in hot pursuit, intend to enter foreign airspace without clearance.”

The squawk box again. “Bridge, Handler.”

“Bridge, aye.”

“We have three aircraft on deck with strike damage, CAG. I need room. Request permission to jettison these three aircraft.”

“Push ’em over the side?”

“Yessir.”

“Have someone take the classified boxes out of them and do it.”

For some reason the squawk boxes and telephones fell momentarily silent. The navigator and several of the officers from the flag staff were having a discussion behind him, the OOD and the quartermaster were hard at it, and the junior officer-of-the-deck was briefing the lookouts, yet for the first time since Qazi escaped, no one was talking to Jake. He eyed the captain’s chair. He was so tired, exhausted physically and emotionally, and it was tempting. Why not? He heaved himself into it.

Cowboy Parker dead, Ray Reynolds, over a dozen marines and nearly fifty sailors. Major damage to the ship, enough to put her into a yard for a year or so. And forty-some planes lost. That list would grow as the machines were inspected. Any way you cut it, a major debacle. And to top it off, Qazi got away with two nuclear weapons. But this was not the time to dissect the disaster; worry now about winning the next battle. Win the next one and you will win the war. But can we win? So far Qazi has had all the cards; he has prepared and planned and plays a trump at every turn. What has he prepared in the event he is followed? What are his options?

“CAG.” Someone was standing beside him.

It was his deputy air wing commander, Harry March. Will Cohen stood beside him with a paper cup full of coffee, which he offered to Jake along with a cigarette. Jake gratefully accepted both and got down from Laird James’s chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harvey Schultz come onto the bridge in his flight gear, with his helmet bag in his hand. He was the senior fighter squadron skipper and would lead the planes after Qazi.

As Cohen lit the cigarette for him, Jake listened to March. “We have three turkeys that can fly, CAG,” March said. “Turkey” was the slang name for the F-14 Tomcat. “One KA-6 tanker and two Hornets. We’re putting our most experienced people in them and launching in thirty minutes.” March spread out a chart of the Mediterranean. “When they get airborne, they’ll be talking to the Gettysburg. All our radars and radios are out and will be for some hours.”

Out the window Jake could see airplanes being towed around the flight deck by low, yellow tractors. The respot for launch was almost complete. March was still speaking: “Gettysburg has told us via flashing light that the chopper is headed for Sicily. There is a U.S. frigate that cleared the Strait of Messina twelve hours ago and is now off the eastern coast of Sicily. Gettysburg is trying to notify the Italian authorities, but that’s all going to take time. Probably too much. They’ll be gone by the time Rome tells the local constabulary to drive out to the airport and make an arrest, if possible.”

“Can anybody get close enough to shoot down the chopper with missiles?”

“Nope. Not enough time. After we launch, I recommend we take the carrier as far south as we can get her to shorten the flight home for the planes. Fuel is going to be tight. They’ll take our one tanker with them, but everyone is going to be watching their gauges pretty close. At least we have Sigonella for a possible fuel divert if necessary.” Sigonella was a U.S. Naval Air Station on the eastern end of the island of Sicily.

“That would violate Italian sovereignty,” objected an officer from the flag staff who had eased over to listen. He was referring to the fact that bases in foreign nations could not be used for takeoffs or landings of planes on combat missions without the host nation’s approval, which they certainly didn’t have.

“We’re going to violate Italian sovereignty anyway,” Jake said wearily. “And if they’re pissed they can squawk about it later. That Qazi guy certainly didn’t sweat it. I suspect the Italians will have more serious things to holler about when this all comes out in the wash.”

“How are we going to do this, CAG?” Harvey Schultz asked. “We talk to the Gettysburg and the frigate south of Messina and try to sort out the traffic with their help. Then we arrive over Palermo. Then what?”

“Have someone make a low pass. He can call in an air strike if he sees that chopper on the ground.” Jake smote the arm of the captain’s chair. “Jesus …” It was so weak. It would never work. “You’re going to have to use your head, Harve, and do the best you can with what you’ve got.”

“What if they’ve loaded the weapons on a truck and driven away?”

“Then we’re screwed,” Jake roared. He swallowed hard and lowered his voice. “It’s going to be up to you, Harve. You’re going to be the man on the spot. You make the call on the spot and I’ll back you up. For whatever that’s worth. I’m probably going to get court-martialed anyway. Parker’s dead and I’m glad. I’m glad! He doesn’t deserve to be pilloried for this. Laird James is going to wish he were dead by the time the admirals and congressmen get through with him. Now it’s up to you. Don’t let those assholes get away with those bombs.”

Harvey Schultz kept his eyes on Jake. “I understand.”

“Harve, if those people use those weapons on anybody, the United States is finished as a power in the Mediterranean. This ocean will become a Soviet lake. The nations of Europe will be forced to come to terms with Soviet ambitions or face up to another world war, one they can’t win. This is for all the marbles, Harve.”

Schultz’s head bobbed nervously.

“Now get the hell outta here and get those planes into the air. Every minute that passes makes it less and less likely you’ll find those people. Get going!” As the officers departed Jake said, “OOD, when those guys start engines gimme thirty knots of wind right down the deck for launch.”

Jake slugged off the rest of the coffee and dropped the cigarette butt into the cup. A young enlisted man approached him. “Sir, I’m Wallace, signalman. The chief said to tell you we’ve established radio contact with Sixth Fleet on the MARS unit. The admiral wants to talk to the senior officer aboard.” MARS stood for Military Auxiliary Radio System. The radio set was in a cubbyhole in the signal shack behind the bridge. The sailors used it to talk to their families back in the States with the assistance of volunteer ham radio operators. Jake followed the signalman across the bridge and out the door that Gunnery Sergeant Garcia had worked so hard to get through earlier in the evening.

Jake settled into one of the two chairs in front of the radio. The chief perched in the other and pointed out the switch on the panel that had to be pushed up to receive and down to transmit. “This is a non-secure radio, sir. And people all over the world are probably listening.” He pushed the pedestal microphone over in front of Jake, who picked it up.

Jake pushed the switch down. “What’s their call sign?” The call sign for this set was written in black Magic Marker on the panel in front of him.

“W6FT, sir,” the chief said.

“W6FT, this is W74Y, over.” Jake flipped the switch to receive.

“W74Y, W6FT, say your rank and name, over.”

“Captain Jake Grafton, over.”

“This is Vice-Admiral Lewis. What in hell is going on out there, Captain?”

“I sent you a flash message via USS Gettysburg, sir. Have you got it yet?”

“No, and I want to know what the hell is going on. Why did you people sail?” He sounded furious.

“Admiral, this is a non-secure radio link. I’d rather you waited and read the message.”

“I want to know now, Captain.”

Jake stared at the radio. What the hell. The world would probably read all about it in tomorrow’s papers anyway, if Qazi’s bunch hasn’t already issued their own press release. Jake flipped the switch to transmit, held the mike several inches from his lips, and began to talk. It took him three minutes to describe the situation and his intentions. Finally he said, “Over,” and toggled the switch to receive.

“Wait.”

Jake set the microphone down on the desk and looked at the chief, who averted his eyes. Yeah. Well, I wish I could too, Jake thought.

“Grafton, this is Lewis. I don’t want you to do anything. Don’t launch. We just received the message from Gettysburg and are talking with Washington on the satellite net. This is something the National Security Council needs to make the decision on.” You ass, Jake thought, and bit his lip. “Clean up the ship, tend your wounded, and await further instructions. Over.”

Jake jabbed the switch to transmit. “Admiral, you don’t seem to understand the situation. We have a terrorist on his way God knows where with two nuclear weapons stolen from this ship — stolen from the United States Navy. And he has devices that he can use to trigger them. This man is capable, he’s committed, and he’s absolutely ruthless. We don’t have much of a chance to stop him, but we do have a chance and we had better take it. We may not get another. His attack on this ship was an act of war. We have the right and authority under existing Rules of Engagement to use as much force as necessary to thwart him. We have a duty to do so, sir.”

Jake set the microphone on the table and leaned over it. How to say it? “We have a moral obligation to stop this man before he murders innocent people. A lot of innocent people — hundreds of thousands. The world will judge us by our efforts to meet that obligation.” The future of the free world is at stake here, Admiral. Can’t you see that? “Over to you.”

Lewis’s voice dripped with fury. He was not used to officers arguing with him. “My orders to you are to wait, Captain. Do nothing! Do not launch aircraft! The president will have to meet with the National Security Council and decide how to handle this incident, which you people let happen. Outrageous incompetence and stupidity. Never have I seen the like. You have fucked this up from end to end, and there’s no chance you’ll do any better if you keep trying. Just keep that ship afloat until we get someone out there who is capable of bringing it into port. Over to you for a hearty ‘Aye aye, sir.’”

Jake reached for the transmit-receive switch. His thumb hovered an inch above it but then backed off.

Okay, so Lewis is a paper-pusher who instinctively covers his ass rather than stick his neck out on a hard decision. You knew all along he was a pygmy. Okay. What are you going to do?

“I said, ‘Over to you,’ Captain,” Lewis snarled.

So you did, Admiral. And Colonel Qazi still has two bombs and he’s still taking them somewhere. Jake’s eye fell on the on-off switch. He threw it and the static from the speaker stopped.

Jake stood. “Chief, this radio is out of order. Don’t turn it on again.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The chief looked sick.

Jake Grafton stalked out.

The lights on the hangar were off when Qazi’s helicopter settled onto the tarmac at the Palermo airport. A group of men came out of the darkness under two high-winged transports parked nearby and walked quickly toward the helicopter as the rotors spun down.

“Where are the other helicopters?” a major asked Qazi.

“The others were destroyed on the ship. This is the only one.”

The major stuck his head into the machine for a look. He grinned at Qazi and motioned his men forward. They began unstrapping the restraints that held the dollies on which the weapons rode. The three men who had gone to the ship with Qazi climbed around them and wandered off toward the transports. Noora and Jarvis followed them, arm in arm.

Ten men lifted each dolly from the helicopter to the pavement. Qazi walked behind the weapons as they were pushed the two hundred feet across the tarmac. The rear access doors of both aircraft were open. These were hinged portions of the after fuselage and consisted of two longitudinal doors that folded upward into the fuselage. A ramp led upward into the interior of the plane on the left, which was a Soviet-built II-76 Candid. In the dim light Qazi could just make out the jet engine nacelles on the wing. The other plane was smaller, a four-engine turboprop, an An-12 Cub.

El Hakim was standing at the rear of the Ilyushin. Two bodyguards with Uzis stood behind him. “How did it go, Colonel?” he asked as he returned Qazi’s salute.

“We managed to get the six weapons to the flight deck, Your Excellency, and put two weapons in each helicopter. But the Americans destroyed two of the helicopters before they could take off.”

“So we have only these two weapons?”

“Only these two.”

“Where is Ali?”

“He was on one of the machines that was destroyed.”

El Hakim stood in silence and watched the first weapon go up the ramp and disappear into the interior of the plane.

“And the ship?”

“The weapon we left on deck failed to explode.” No doubt El Hakim already knew that. The electromagnetic pulse from a nuclear explosion would announce itself on every radio receiver for hundreds of miles. The pilots of these transports would have reported such an event instantly to El Hakim.

“Why?”

El Hakim was entirely too calm, Qazi thought. He began to feel uneasy. “I suspect the Americans disarmed the weapon before we were far enough away to trigger it. They have weapons experts aboard. That was always a possibility.”

The second weapon was going up the ramp. El Hakim said, “We have staked our national survival on your mission, Qazi, and you have succeeded. We didn’t gain as much as we hoped for, but we have succeeded. The nation owes you a debt. The Arab people owe you a debt, and it will be paid.”

Qazi started to reply, but El Hakim gestured impatiently. “No one else could have done it, Colonel. No one.” He sighed audibly. “For twenty years we have struggled to obtain a hammer to strike the chains from our people. Twenty years! Twenty years of frustration and humiliation.” His voice cracked. “And now we have it,” he whispered, “praise Allah, now we have it.”

The second weapon was inside the plane. The engines on the other plane were already turning and the rear door was coming down into place. The three gunmen who had survived the ship had boarded that plane along with the helicopter pilots. Qazi glanced back at the helicopter sitting near the hangar. It would be abandoned here. Not a customs or immigration official was in sight; he had paid Pagliacci a hundred thousand American dollars for the privacy.

“Come,” El Hakim said. “We have much to do. History is waiting to be written.”

In the transport’s interior along the bulkheads was a contraption of ropes and pulleys. Five triggers sat along the walls, and Jarvis was fitting a trigger to one of the weapons. Noora was crouched beside him. Qazi stopped and stared. Two khaki bundles sat behind the rearmost dolly and there were straps flaked out on the floor. These were parachutes, the type used to drop military equipment to troops in the field. The men who had loaded the dollies were busy rigging the straps to the rear dolly. The first dolly, parked as far forward as possible, had been chained to the deck. A hard object dug into Qazi’s back.

“Don’t move, Colonel.” An arm reached around him and removed the Browning Hi-Power from his waistband. El Hakim paused halfway through the compartment and turned to face him.

“What did you plan to do, Colonel? Kill me?” A smile slowly spread across the face of El Hakim. “Don’t look so surprised. Come, Colonel. Come up here so we can close the door and depart.” He turned and marched forward. The guard prodded Qazi in the back and he followed.

A seating module occupied the forward third of the cabin. The guard motioned Qazi into a seat against the outer fuselage. He was directed to buckle his seat belt, and he complied. With his Uzi against Qazi’s neck, the guard snapped handcuffs on his wrists, then used a second pair to fasten the first pair to the armrest of the seat. The guard seated himself across from Qazi, beside El Hakim, and leveled the Uzi at Qazi. Those two had their backs to the radio compartment, beside which was the short stair that led up onto the flight deck.

As the engines started El Hakim chuckled. “You have served us well, Qazi, but your task is complete. You have our gratitude. I express it now.” His smile faded. “But that is all the thanks a traitor like you will ever receive.” He leaned forward and raised his voice, to be heard above the engine noise. “We are going to Israel now, Colonel, to strike with our hammer. Zionism will not survive the blow. And the debt we owe you for your treason will be paid in full.” El Hakim showed his teeth.

Qazi leaned his head back into the seat and closed his eyes. He listened to the creaks and thumps of the taxiing plane, just audible over the whine of the turbojet engines. He heard Jarvis and Noora slipping into seats behind him. He heard Noora speaking to Jarvis, fastening his buckle for him, fussing over him. After a few minutes the transport creaked to a stop, then the engines spooled up. The plane rolled and in a few moments left the earth.

When at last Qazi opened his eyes, El Hakim had reclined his seat and was watching him with a satisfied, contented expression.

Jake Grafton strode across the flight deck toward the F-14 Tomcat sitting behind Cat Three. The boarding ladder was still down and he mounted it. “Get out, Harvey. I’m going in your place.”

“What about the ship?” Schultz asked when he found his tongue, his voice bitter.

“The navigator can handle it. Unstrap and get out and give me your gear. You can brief me.” Jake lowered himself back down the ladder.

“CAG,” came a voice from the backseat. “Do you want me in here?” Jake looked into the rear cockpit. Toad Tarkington was looking back. Jake nodded yes and motioned for him to stay put.

When Harvey Schultz reached the flight deck, he began taking off his flight gear. “None of this stuff will fit you,” he muttered.

“No time to wait for my stuff.” Jake paused, then continued, “It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Harve, but I’m the senior man and I’m the one who should take the shit when the fan starts turning.”

“I could handle it, CAG.”

“I know that, Harve. But I’m not taking you up on the gallows with me. I want you to get with my staff and get as many of these planes ready to fly as possible. Cannibalize if you have to. If Qazi gets away, those weapons are going to crop up somewhere, and whoever ends up with them will have bought a lot of trouble. You get this air wing ready to give them all the trouble it can dish out. Get this ship ready to fight.” Jake zipped Schultz’s G-suit around his legs. The fit was terrible. Schultz’s calves and thighs were much thicker than his; it was as if he wasn’t wearing a G-suit at all. He unzipped it. He would just go without one.

Farnsworth came hurrying across the deck carrying a load of flight gear. “I heard you were going flying, CAG.”

“Thanks, Farnsworth.” Jake pulled his own G-suit from the pile Farnsworth laid on the deck and zipped it around his stomach and legs. Then he wriggled into his torso harness. All this was going on over his khakis, since Farnsworth hadn’t brought his flight suit.

“Ask the waist catapult officer,” Jake said to Farnsworth as he pulled on his survival vest, “to come over here and talk to me.”

Schultz briefed Jake as he completed donning his flight gear. They discussed rendezvous altitudes and frequencies. “Toad knows all this stuff,” Schultz said. “You have two Phoenix missiles and two Sidewinders. We had to download the Sparrows — they had shrapnel damage.”

Jake nodded. The Phoenix missiles were the big guns and were mounted on a missile pallet on the Tomcat’s belly. Weighing almost a thousand pounds each, they could knock down a plane over sixty nautical miles away with a 132-pound warhead when fired from any angle. They were expensive, too, costing over a million dollars each. Although the F-14 could carry six of them, because of their size, weight, and cost, Sparrows and Sidewinders were the usual load. Phoenix was loaded only when you were going hunting for bear — like now. The Sidewinders were heat-seekers and had a limited head-on capability with a much shorter range. They were also a lot smaller and cheaper than Phoenix, weighing only 190 pounds each. Sidewinder was a simple, reliable weapon.

Farnsworth came back with Kowalski and a chief. “Morning, CAG,” the chief said. He was in khaki trousers and a yellow shirt, but Kowalski was still wearing grimy civilian trousers. His once-white T-shirt had spots of vomit on it.

“Where’s the cat officer, chief?”

“The only one we had aboard is dead, killed in that hangardeck fire, and the rest of them are on the beach. I’m all the khaki the catapults have aboard.”

“Who’s going to launch us?”

Kowalski looked around the deck and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I am,” he said sheepishly. “But I’m sober, sir.” The chief nodded at both comments, then added, “He knows more about launching procedure than I do, CAG.”

“Whose bright idea was it to flip that chopper upside down with the JBD?” Jake climbed the ladder into the cockpit. The plane captain followed him up to help him strap in.

“Mine, sir,” Kowalski said, looking up at Jake.

“Didn’t you hear my orders on the 1-MC not to interfere with those people?”

“I didn’t hear any announcement, sir,” Kowalski said.

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“No, sir,” Kowalski said, louder.

“Did you know that there was an armed nuclear weapon sitting on deck over there by the island, and the leader of that bunch had threatened to detonate it if anybody interfered with him?”

Kowalski pressed both hands against the sides of his head.

The plane captain finished strapping Jake in and went down the ladder. “I didn’t hear your answer, Ski.”

“No, sir. I didn’t know that.”

Jake motioned at the catapult captain. “Come up here.” When the man’s face was a foot from his, Jake said, “Do you know enough to launch these planes?”

“I’ve seen the shooters do it lots of times, CAG.”

“You can practice on me first.” Jake grabbed a handful of Kowalski’s filthy T-shirt. “Son, you’re a drunk. We need you sober or not at all. Promise me here and now, if you ever take another drink, you’ll ask for an administrative discharge as an alcoholic.”

Tears filled Kowalski’s eyes. His head bobbed.

“Okay,” said Jake Grafton. “Now give everybody a good shot. Take your time and be sure you know what you’re doing.”

“You can trust me, sir,” Kowalski said and disappeared down the ladder.