Final Flight

4

Captain Jake Grafton held his F-14 Tomcat level at six thousand feet in a steady left turn as his wingman came sliding in on a forty-five-degree line to rendezvous. The other plane crossed behind and under Jake and settled on his right wing. Jake leveled his wings and added power as he tweaked the nose up.

He keyed his radio mike and waited for the scrambler to synchronize. “Strike, Red Aces are joined and proceeding on course.”

“Roger, Red Ace Two Oh Five. Report entering patrol area Bravo.”

“Wilco.”

It was a cloudless night with a half moon, now just above the eastern horizon. To the west a layer of low haze over the sea limited visibility, but Jake knew that there was nothing to see in that direction anyway. The Lebanese coast was a mere thirty miles to the east, and as the two fighters climbed on a northerly heading toward their assigned altitude of 30,000 feet, Jake searched the blackness in that direction. Nothing. No lights. Jake scanned the night sky slowly in all quadrants for the lights of other aircraft. They seemed to be alone.

“Keep your eye peeled for other planes, Toad,” he told the RIO in the rear cockpit.

“Uh, yessir,” came the answer, sounding slightly puzzled. Normally the pilot performed routine lookout duties while the RIO worked the radar and computer. Well, thought Jake Grafton, let him wonder.

“What’s on the scope, anyway?”

“Not a daggone thing, CAG. Looks like one big empty sky to me.”

“When’s that El Al flight from Athens to Haifa scheduled to be along?”

In the back seat of the Tomcat, Lieutenant Tarkington consulted the notes on his kneeboard. “Not till twenty-five after the hour.” He slid back the sleeve of his flight suit and glanced at his luminous watch. He matched it with the clock on the panel in front of him. “About fifteen minutes from now.”

“When will we reach area Bravo?”

Tarkington checked the TACAN against the chart on his kneeboard. “About two minutes.”

“We’ll make a turn west then, and you see if you can pick up that airliner. Let me know when you see him.”

“Yessir.”

“In the meantime, let’s get some data link from the Hummer.” The Hummer was the slang nickname for the E-2 Hawk-eye radar reconnaissance plane that Jake knew was somewhere about.

Toad made the call as Jake checked the Tomcat on his right wing and noticed with satisfaction that Jelly Dolan was right where he should be, about a hundred feet away from Jake. Jelly was a lieutenant (junior grade) on his first cruise and flew with Lieutenant Commander Boomer Bronsky, the maintenance officer for the fighter squadron that owned these airplanes. Jake knew that Boomer liked to complain about the youth of the pilots he flew with—“Goddamn wet-nosed kids”—but that he had a very high opinion of their skills. He bragged on Jelly Dolan at every opportunity.

“Battlestar Strike,” Toad said over the radio, “Red Ace flight entering Bravo at assigned altitude.”

“Roger.”

Jake keyed the mike. “Left turn, Jelly.”

Two mike clicks was the reply.

One minute passed, then two. Jake stabilized the airspeed at 250 knots, max conserve. He scanned the instruments and resumed his visual search of the heavens.

“I’ve got him, CAG,” Toad said. “Looks like a hundred and twenty miles out. He’s headed southwest. Got the right squawk.” The squawk was the radar identification code. “He’s running about a mile or so above us.”

Jake flipped the secondary radio to the channel the E-2 Hawkeye used and listened to the crew report the airliner to the Combat Decision Center (CDC) aboard the carrier. He knew the radio transmissions merely backed up the data link that transmitted the Hawkeye’s radar picture for presentation on a scope in CDC. The watchstanders aboard ship would watch the airliner. If the course changed to come within fifty miles of the carrier, Jake’s flight or the flight in area Alpha would be vectored to intercept. They would close the airliner and check visually to ensure that it was what they thought and that it was alone. The fighters would stay well back out of view of the airliner’s cockpit and passenger windows and would follow until told to break off.

Jake yawned and flashed his exterior lights. Then he turned north. Jelly Dolan followed obediently. In a few moments he turned east to permit Toad and Boomer to use their radars to scan the skies toward Lebanon. If any terrorists or fanatics attempted a night aerial strike on the carrier task group, it would more than likely come from the east.

“Nothing, CAG. The sky’s as clean as a virgin’s conscience.”

“How come you’re always talking about women, Toad?”

“Am I?” Feigned shock.

“After three months at sea, I’d think your hormones would have achieved a level of dormancy that allowed your mind to dwell on other subjects.”

“I’m always horny. That’s why they call me Toad. When are we going into port, anyway?”

“Whenever the admiral says.”

“Yessir. But have you got any idea when he might say it?”

“Soon, I hope.” Jake was very much aware of the toll the constant day-and-night flight operations had taken on the ship’s crew and the men of the air wing. He thought about the stresses of constant work, work, work on the men as he guided the Tomcat through the sky.

“We’re approaching the eastern edge of the area,” Toad reminded him.

Jake glanced toward Jelly. The wingman was not there.

“Jelly?”

He looked on the other side. The sky was empty there, too. He rolled the aircraft and looked down. Far below he saw a set of lights.

“Red Ace Two Oh Seven, do you read?”

Jake rolled on his back and pulled the nose down. “Strike, Red Ace Two Oh Five, I’m leaving altitude.” The nose came down twenty degrees and Jake pointed it at the lights. “Jelly, this is CAG. Do you read me, over?”

“He’s going down,” Toad informed him.

“Boomer, talk to me.” Jake had the throttles full forward: 450 knots, now 500, passing 21,000 feet descending. The aircraft below was in a gentle right turn, and Jake hastened to cut the turn short and intercept.

“Red Ace Two Oh Five, Strike. Say your problem.”

“My wingman is apparently in an uncontrolled descent and I can’t raise him on the radio. Am trying to rendezvous. Have you got an emergency squawk?”

“Negative. Keep me advised.”

Now he throttled back and cracked the speed brakes. He was closing rapidly. Passing 15,000 feet. Goddamn, Jelly’s nose was way down. In the darkness Jake found it extremely difficult to judge the closure, and he finally realized he was too fast. He cross-controlled with the speed brakes full out and overshot slightly.

“Thirteen thousand feet,”

Jake slid in on Jelly’s left side as he thumbed the boards in. Toad shone his white flashlight on the front cockpit of the other fighter. The pilot’s helmeted head lolled from side to side. In the back cockpit Boomer also appeared to be unconscious. Both men had their oxygen masks on.

“We’re steepening up, CAG.” Toad said. “Twelve degrees nose down. Fifteen-degree right turn. Passing nine thousand.”

“Jelly, talk to me, you son of a bitch.” No good. “Wake up!” Jake screamed.

He crossed under the other plane and locked on the right wing. He moved forward as Toad kept the flashlight on Jelly’s helmet. He flipped the radio channel selector switch to the emergency channel and turned off the scrambler.

“Wake up, Jelly, or you’re going to sleep forever!”

“Six thousand.” Toad’s voice.

“Pull up!”

“Five thousand.”

“Eject, eject, eject! Get out Jelly! Get out Boomer!”

“Four thousand. Fifteen degrees nose down.”

Jake began to pull his nose up. As the descending Tomcat fell away he lost sight of the slumped figures in the cockpit. He rolled into a turn to keep the lights of the descending plane in sight.

“Pull up, pull up, pull up, pull up, pull …” He was still chanting over the radio when the lights disappeared.

“Sweet Jesus,” Toad whispered. “They went in.”

“Strike, Red Ace Two Oh Seven just went into the drink. Mark my position and get the angel out here buster.” The “angel” was the rescue helicopter. “Buster” meant to hurry, bust your ass.

“Red Ace, did the crew get out?”

“I doubt it,” Jake Grafton said, and removed his oxygen mask to wipe his face.

“How heavy are the weapons?” El Hakim asked.

“About two hundred kilos,” Colonel Qazi replied.

El Hakim stood in the apartment window and let the warm, dry wind play with the folds in his robe. Already the great summer heat had begun. Here in this retreat deep in the desert he did not wear the military uniform that he was obliged to wear in the capital before the Western diplomatic corps and press. He hated the uniform, but it gave him an air of authority that he felt essential. Soon, very soon, he would burn the uniform. He closed his eyes and faced the rising sun. He could feel it through his eyelids. The power of the sun would soon be his. Praise Allah, he would make the unbelievers kneel.

“So no matter how many weapons are there, we can only take a few.”

“Correct, Excellency. Our goal shall be to obtain six. Even half that many will make us a formidable political force to be reckoned with.”

El Hakim left the window reluctantly and returned to his seat on the carpet. “If you destroy the ship, the Americans will not know for sure how many we have.”

“True, but they will be able to estimate the number with accuracy. Destruction of the ship will merely ensure our escape. The Americans will undoubtedly leap to the proper conclusion without evidence.”

“No doubt.” The dictator snorted. “They have demonstrated their capacity for that aerial feat numerous times in the past.”

“So when the mission is complete, we must inform the world promptly in order to forestall any rash action on the part of the Americans. They are very sensitive to public opinion, even when goaded beyond endurance.”

El Hakim tilted his head back and narrowed his eyes. “The political and military exploitation of your mission is my concern, Colonel, not yours.”

“Of course.” Qazi lowered his gaze respectfully. “But still, Excellency, our mission will be for naught unless the Americans are sufficiently delayed to give us time to escape and alter the weapons.”

“Time? How much time?”

“The Americans have built numerous safety devices into each weapon. That information was part of the interrogation of the American sailor you did not hear. It was extremely technical. The only real danger from an unaltered weapon is that fire or an accident will split the skin of the weapon and cause nuclear material to be spilled. If one were handled carelessly enough, a conventional explosion of low magnitude could occur. But there can be no nuclear explosion unless and until a variety of sophisticated devices within the weapon have all had their parameters satisfied. For example, the devices must be initially stimulated by precisely the right amount of electrical current for precisely the proper length of time for the triggering process to begin. And that is only the first safeguard. But these safeguards must all be overcome or bypassed.”

“How will you do that?”

“We’ll need the cooperation of an American expert, one who helped design and construct the safeguards. Fortunately we are well on our way to obtaining the cooperation of just such an individual right now. We have identified him with the help of Henry Sakol.”

The left corner of El Hakim’s mouth rose slightly in a sneer. He knew Henry Sakol far too well. A former CIA agent, Sakol supplied weapons which El Hakim could obtain nowhere else, thanks to the American government, Mr. Sakol’s former employer. Sakol was a ruthless and greedy man, a godless man without scruple or loyalty. “When we have the nuclear weapons, we will have no further need of Sakol.”

“Truly.”

“Do you intend to use him for this operation?”

“Yes, Excellency. He knows much that will be useful.”

“He will betray you if given the slightest opportunity. The Americans would reward him well, perhaps even forgive his crimes.”

“He’ll have no opportunity. I’ll see to it.”

“And the weapons expert?”

“A fat fool with a very rich, very stupid wife and a fondness for small boys. He would serve the devil himself to preserve his filthy secret. I’m allowing him a quarter hour in the plan for him to alter just one weapon. But for our purposes, five or six hours must pass before the Americans are in a position to generate a military response to the incident. We need that time to escape. Then they must face the fact that we have also had sufficient time to alter the others. Of course, we don’t actually have to do it. The Americans must merely be delayed until they see that we have the personnel, the equipment, and the time to accomplish the task.”

Qazi searched El Hakim’s face. “The beauty of these weapons is that one never has to use them. They accomplish far more by simply existing, ready for use, than they could ever accomplish by exploding.”

The ruler smiled. “What course do you recommend?”

“An announcement by you to the world press immediately after the operation. This will cause alarm throughout the Western world and create confusion in Washington, where all the decisions will ultimately be made. The confusion will give us time while the Americans assess how they should react. We want a thoughtful reaction, not a knee-jerk lashing out by the American military. When they pause for thought, the Americans will realize the implications of our deed and will accept the new reality. The new reality will be that we are now a nuclear power. They will accept it! They have no alternative.”

They discussed it. The dictator prided himself on his understanding of the decision-making processes of the American government and his ability to predict its policies. The Americans would be greatly embarrassed, he thought, but the critical factor would be the hysterical fear of Western European governments that a military response to his acquisition of nuclear weapons would lead to a nuclear conflict on their soil or in their backyard. After all, they would scream at the Americans, “You are four thousand miles away from El Hakim, with an ocean between you. We are here.” So the Americans would wring their hands and suffer the humiliation. It would be a bitter pill, but they would swallow it. Finally El Hakim sighed. “Fortunately we are smarter and more determined than the Americans, praise Allah, even if we cannot match their technology. When can we proceed?”

“That we do not know, Excellency. The United States is now patrolling off the coast of Lebanon. How long she will be there no one can say. As you know, the Moslem factions, with Iran’s backing, will do all in their power to embarrass the Americans. And embarrassment is about all they can accomplish.”

El Hakim nodded his head a thirty-second of an inch and his jaw tightened. He did not appreciate being reminded of the limited options open to a group with few political assets and still fewer military ones. He had spent too many years in that position. “We must be ready when the ship enters port, whenever that is.”

“We’ll be ready, Excellency. We are monitoring the commercial hotels and airports at various possible ports of call. The longer the ship is at sea, the greater the likelihood that many wives will come from America to visit their husbands when the ship enters port. Advance hotel and airline reservations will give us ample warning.”

“We must not fail, Qazi. We cannot fail.” El Hakim’s voice was soft, yet hard, like a thin layer of sand over desert stone.

“I understand, Excellency.”

“The stakes are too high to allow my genuine personal affection for you to have any bearing on my decisions.”

It was Qazi’s turn to clench his teeth and nod.

“Keep me advised of the state of your preparations.” El Hakim rose and left the apartment, leaving the door open behind him.