Flash Point

12

Pritch searched under her seat in the ready room for something. Bark watched her struggle. “Need some help?”

She looked up. “No, sir. Thanks. Just looking for my notepad.”

Bark sat down and studied the message board. Suddenly Pritch sat down next to him. “Sir,” she said, “can I ask you something?”

He looked at her skeptically. “You don’t like going to sea and you want to go home?”

“No, sir, nothing like that. I may be off base, so let me know if I shouldn’t be asking.”

He frowned in expectation. “What?”

“It’s about Trey.”

“What about him?”

She didn’t know how to begin. “He’s… I don’t know. So upset about Boomer. I understand being upset, everyone is. But Trey is over the top. He seems so intense about it. Angry. At the government. What’s going on with him?”

“You are off base.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s okay. We’re like a family. We see each other every day, and we wonder what’s going on with someone if they’re acting odd. Well, he is. And I know it. And I’ve taken steps to reel him back in. We’ll see.”

“What’s it about? Anything more than meets the eye?”

Bark lowered his voice. “I take it he’s never shown you the notebook.”

“Notebook?” she asked. “What notebook?”

“Pan Am Flight 103.”

“What about it?”

“He has a notebook with every scrap of news or evidence or speculation in it. News reports, book excerpts, photographs, his own notes trying to figure it out, you name it.”

“Why?”

“He wants to know what happened, and why the U.S. didn’t do anything about it. He’s got all kinds of theories—”

“Like what?”

Bark thought. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I got the speech. He doesn’t talk about it much. He’s afraid people will take him for a fanatic or something, like one of those people who’ve obsessed about the Kennedy assassination for decades.”

“Is he obsessing?”

“Probably.”

“What theories?”

“Oh, let’s see. I remember he said that the Libyan thing might be a red herring. Israel started planting stories about Libya being responsible hours after it happened, and the press swallowed it. Some group. L-A-T, or something—”

“LAP?”

“Yeah, I think so—”

“That’s Israeli. Department of Psychological Warfare.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do.”

“If you say so. Anyway, they started accusing Libya — calling journalists all over the world to plant the story — then spread rumors Syria and Iran were involved, and then that Iran did it as revenge for the shoot-down of the Iranian airliner by the USS Vincennes a few months earlier. But then it gets real complex. He loses me, but he says there was some illegal CIA group dealing drugs in the Middle East, and it was tied in to the Iran-Contra thing for funding the Contras, and that that group was on board the plane. They were called KOREA, or something like that. No, COREA, that’s it. And there was an American Army hostage rescue team on board that had been in the Middle East and one of the guy’s suitcases disappeared from the accident scene and was suddenly returned empty. That the COREA group had been tipped off by German intelligence that a bomb was aboard the plane, but didn’t do anything about it… I can’t remember it. I couldn’t really follow it when he was telling me about it.”

“He has information on all that?”

“Oh, yeah, and more. He has stuff from the attorney who represented Pan Am in all the suits from the accident. Trey wrote to him. The attorney got on the scent of all this stuff about the cause of the accident and subpoenaed the CIA, the FBI, the FAA, the NSC, and NSA. The government wouldn’t give him anything. Claimed it invaded national security.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. It’s all very mysterious. Then those two Libyans were sent to trial in Scotland for the thing. He just scoffs at all that. The thing that really got him though was reading in some book that Israel sent one of its Mossad case officers from London—”

“A Katsa?”

“I don’t know what they’re called, anyway, sent him to Lockerbie hours after the crash. Why would you send an intelligence agent to the site of an airplane crash?”

“I don’t know.”

“Anyway, he’s got a lot of skepticism. He distrusts the Israelis, the CIA, and the general approach of the U.S. to terrorism. He thinks it’s all a game to them.”

“Incredible,” Pritch said. “Why does he care so much about Pan Am 103?”

“His father was on it.”

Pritch gasped. “Truly?”

“Yeah. He was in London on business. Coming home for Christmas.”

“That must have killed Trey.”

“He was sixteen.”

“I had no idea.” She sat quietly. “Does everyone in the squadron know this?”

“A few.”

“Thanks for telling me. I wish I could help him somehow.”

“There’s nothing anyone can do. He’s a big boy now. He just has to deal with it.”

As soon as Woods turned on the overhead light Lieutenant Big McMack rolled over in his rack and pulled the Navy gray wool blanket over his large head. “What are you doing?” he asked, offended.

“Getting dressed,” Woods replied. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“Do you have to do it with the overhead light on?”

“It’s six-thirty, Big. Time for all good Navy pilots to be out of the rack. Didn’t they teach you that as a Golden Bear Cub in Junior NROTC at UCLA?”

“I didn’t get in until one this morning when you were getting your academy-puke beauty sleep.”

“What can I say?” Woods replied, lacing up his black leather flying boots. “I was in HAQ for three long days, but now I’m back in the good graces of the Skipper, I’m back on the flight schedule, and I’ve got the second brief this morning. Not the first brief mind you, not the one that would have required that I be there at 0630; no, I’ve got the brief for the second event, which briefs at 0800. Which has allowed me to take a shower, to go now and get some breakfast — a five-egg omelet with bacon, ham, and cheese should do it — and then I’ll stroll down to the ready room and brief for a hop in which I will intercept numerous Air Farce F-15Es trying to sink our home and get our stereos wet, and properly kick their asses.” He stood up and looked at Big’s general outline underneath his blanket. “Who wrote this incredible flight schedule?”

“You’re making me sick,” Big replied.

“Well, I’m off. Don’t wait up,” Woods said as he opened the steel door to the passageway. “Do you want me to turn out the light?” he asked. He answered his own question before Big could. “Nah, you’re getting up anyway,” he said, closing the door and leaving the light on.

“Trey!” Big yelled helplessly.

Woods stood outside the door for five seconds, then reached in and turned off the light before locking it behind him.

Woods and Wink walked out to their airplane at 0830. It was as clear and beautiful a day as either could remember. Blue everywhere, the sparkling ocean, and the crystal clear sky, divided only by the razor-thin horizon that was visible only because of the color difference between the water and the sky.

They handed their helmet bags and knee boards to Airman Benson and stared at the ocean. Woods noticed that Wink was looking up. “What you got?”

“Intercept of an F-15,” Wink replied, pointing and smiling.

Woods saw them immediately. He could hear the distinctive sound of the Tomcat’s engines. “The sound of freedom! I love it!” The F-15 was heading straight for the ship and descending on the way. It was about three miles out and hard to see. Woods saw the F-14 to its right running an intercept on the F-15.

“Who’s up?” Wink asked.

“XO and Brillo,” Woods replied, naming the crew he had written into the flight schedule last night for the first hop of the day.

They watched as the F-14 lowered its nose to cut across the circle and get to the F-15 before he reached the ship. “He’s doing a low yo-yo,” Wink observed.

“He’s a little low to try that.”

They stood in their flight gear and watched the F-14 approach the F-15. Others on the flight deck were staring. It was rare for them to see an F-14 flying that fast after another airplane so close to the carrier. The sky was completely clear except for the two fighters.

The F-14’s nose continued to drop toward the ocean.

“He must be doing five hundred knots,” Woods remarked, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the steepness of the F-14’s dive.

“At least.”

“He’s going to be in some deep shit if he doesn’t pull up,” Wink said, watching with building terror.

The F-15 was within a mile of the carrier and continuing to increase speed and move lower toward the ocean. The Tomcat’s nose continued down and was now pointed directly at the water a thousand feet above the carrier and right in front of it.

“He doesn’t know where he is!” Woods exclaimed; he and everyone else on the flight deck knew what the Tomcat pilot didn’t.

“Pull up!” Wink screamed.

“Get out! Get out!” Woods joined in, watching helplessly.

Others on the flight deck were yelling futile instructions at the Tomcat.

The F-14 couldn’t hear them. It made the sound of a breaking baseball bat as it plunged straight into the sea at six hundred knots and vanished beneath the surface.

Woods and Wink dashed madly to the bow of the carrier as the Captain tried to stop the Washington’s forward momentum.

The F-15 screamed overhead and banked to see the point of impact in the water. The Eagle pilot pulled up and headed back to Italy.

The sea boiled with white foam from air and jet fuel and energy where the Tomcat had just buried itself. Woods could feel the deck of the carrier shuddering as the enormous screws reversed themselves to slow the ninety-five-thousand-ton behemoth to a stop. Woods and Wink searched the water for any sign of life or of hope. All they saw were small pieces of honeycombed airplane parts floating quietly to the surface.

“They bought it,” Wink said.

Woods nodded, fighting back the desire to scream, or throw up, or quit flying. “Let’s go tell the Skipper,” he said. They found the nearest ladder down to the 03 level from the flight deck and worked their way back quickly to the ready room. Word had somehow already spread through the ship. All the sailors in the passageway could tell the officers needed to get by and made a hole allowing them to pass.

They turned into Ready Room Eight. They knew by the long faces that word of what had happened had preceded them.

Woods looked at Bark. “The XO?”

Bark nodded, his face dark with sadness. “I need you to head up the on-scene accident investigation team.”

“Yes, sir,” Woods replied automatically.

“There’s a helo turning on deck. It’ll take you over to the David Reynolds. They have a motor whaleboat in the water. They’re waiting for you. Recover what you can. Check for signs of malfunction or fire.”

“Yes, sir,” Woods said.

“Any questions?”

Woods spoke quietly. “There wasn’t any fire, sir. They just flew into the water. I saw it.”

“I know. We’re just going to do this by the numbers… How am I going to tell his wife? Three daughters.”

Woods put his helmet on a chair, then wondered where his knee board was. Still in the plane, he recalled. Then what Bark had just said hit him. He remembered the XO’s daughters. They had come to the last squadron party before their father left on cruise. “How old?”

“Eight, ten, and twelve.”

Woods hated the senselessness of it. “It’s not worth it.” His frustration boiled over. “What are we doing out here, Skipper?”

Bark thought about it. “Brillo. All he wanted was to get married and have a family. Never even got the chance. He didn’t even have a girlfriend.” He forcibly shifted his focus. “Get up to the flight deck.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Woods walked quickly out of the ready room and hurried down the passageway to his stateroom, grabbing his flight jacket. He slipped it on while running toward the island and the waiting helicopter. He reached the office on the flight deck and looked around for the transportation officer.

A First Class Petty Officer approached. “You the one going to the David Reynolds, sir?” At Woods’s nod, he handed him a cranial helmet and flotation rest and opened the hatch to the flight deck.

“Follow me, sir,” he said.

Woods walked quickly after the man, heading for the SH-60, which was on the aft-most helo spot. Its rotors were turning.

The Washington was dead in the water, trying to stay as close to the accident scene as it could, hoping to find at least one of the crew alive. But everyone knew they were dead. The Tomcat had plunged into the ocean like a lawn dart less than a mile in front of the carrier. Everyone on the flight deck had seen it.

The sea and sky were still bright blue. There were no clouds or whitecaps in sight. The helicopter’s turning blades and screaming jet engines were the only noises on the deck.

Woods stepped through the cargo door of the helicopter and grabbed the arm of the crew chief, who hauled him in effortlessly pointed to a forward-facing seat and instructing him to secure himself by the straps. The helicopter lifted off into a low hover, steadied itself, and flew off toward the west at two hundred feet.

The flight to the destroyer took less than ten minutes. Woods saw the small flight deck on the fantail of the ship and wondered if the pilot was going to set down or just dump him out somehow. He watched as they slid sideways until they were directly over the flight deck of the ship, the helicopter inching down carefully until it was hovering three feet above the flight deck. The crew chief motioned Woods to the hatch and held his arm across the opening while he watched the deck. A cord from his helmet was plugged into the bulkhead of the helicopter so he could talk to the pilots on the Internal Communication System and listen to the radio talk. He waited, pointed for Woods to sit down on the deck of the plane, and then jump down to the ship.

Woods sat and jumped the three feet to the deck, where he was immediately met by two of the ship’s crew. He followed them forward as the deafening helicopter lifted away from the destroyer.

He climbed the ladder to the next deck, looking around for any signs of the wreckage on the water. It was finally quiet, the SH-60 heading back toward the carrier. A commander approached Woods and extended his hand.

“Good morning, Lieutenant. I’m Commander Bill LaGrou, the Commanding Officer. Welcome aboard the David Reynolds.” He was accompanied by another Commander, and two Lieutenants. “This is Gary Carlton, my XO.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Woods said, evaluating him. His ball cap, with the name of his ship on it and gold braid on the bill, was pulled down almost to his eyebrows. Shorter than Woods, he had to turn his head up substantially to look into Woods’s eyes. His hair was completely gray, almost white, and his belly strained against the web belt holding up his khaki trousers. His brown eyes searched Woods’s face.

“I don’t want you to waste any time. You’ve got to get to the accident scene right away,” LaGrou said, pulling his eyes away from Woods to look toward the port side of the ship. “The motor whaleboat is ready to go. I’m not really sure what you need, but I’ve got a good coxswain, our corpsman, and three boatswains to go with you. If you want anything else, let me know.”

“Yes, sir, sure will. Is there a radio? Some way to contact you?”

“Oh, yeah, we’ll make sure you take the handheld. They told me you’re supposed to bring any major wreckage you can recover back to the ship, so we can carry it to Sicily where some accident types are going to look at it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if you find anything from the pilots, the corpsman has a body bag—”

“Okay. Fine.”

LaGrou hesitated. “We were supposed to drive to the point of entry, which is right” — LaGrou looked around — “over there,” he said pointing to a spot aft of the ship and a few hundred yards off the port side, “and stay there. When we got here we saw some debris. We held our position but the currents and waves have moved the wreckage away from here, probably a mile or so by now. It’s probably over there,” he said, pointing past the bow on the port side. He lowered his voice. “Those guys from your squadron?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Inexperienced?”

“No, sir. Our XO and a very good, although young, RIO.”

LaGrou looked shocked, then scanned the sky. “What could have happened on a beautiful day like today?”

“That’s what we’re going to try to find out. I’d better get at it.”

LaGrou nodded and scratched his pale face. “They just flew into the water, going straight down. They must have been going five hundred knots.” He looked at Woods again.

“Yes, sir, I saw it.”

“Well. Then you know how fast they were going. What would you estimate?”

“Probably about that. Maybe six hundred.”

LaGrou shook his head. “I guess when it’s your time, it’s your time.”

Woods looked into LaGrou’s face. “What do you mean?”

LaGrou immediately saw that his words had carried more meaning than he had intended. “Oh, nothing, really. Just a figure of speech,” he said, shrugging. “If we’re scheduled to check out today, or tomorrow, there’s not much we can do about it.”

“I think if these guys had been paying attention, they wouldn’t have bought it.”

LaGrou squinted at Woods. “I’m sure you’re right… Let me know if you need anything, Lieutenant,” he said again.

“Will do, sir.” A First Class Boatswain’s Mate indicated that Woods was to follow him. “This way, sir. We’re ready to go.” He hurried down a ladder and then another, finally descending the Jacob’s ladder on the side of the destroyer to the motor whaleboat. Woods was right behind him.

“Good morning, sir,” said the coxswain standing in the rear of the boat. “You ready?”

“Yep. I’m Lieutenant Woods,” he said. “Let’s get underway, and we can talk about what we’re going to do as we head out there.”

“Roger that,” said the coxswain, increasing power on the diesel motor as one of the boatswain’s mates cast off from the destroyer. Half the ship’s company was on deck looking on curiously.

Woods sat back against the side of the boat, air moving across his face as they worked away from the ship. “Where’s the wreckage?” Woods asked.

“Out about 310, sir,” the Coxswain replied, pushing the tiller slightly away from him. “I don’t see it right now, but I’m sure we will soon.”

Woods couldn’t think of what else to say. He knew he had to move quickly and speak with authority as if he knew what he was doing to give them confidence in him; but in reality, he had no idea how to proceed. He had never had any training in accident investigations. He hadn’t even been briefed on what he was to look for other than signs of fire — charred bits of airplane, he guessed. He concluded this was simply one of those times when someone had to do something or everyone would feel more helpless than they already did. That instinct to “do something” seemed to dominate the thinking after someone has died. Sometimes knowing why or how something happened made the fact less painful, especially if blame could be placed on some mechanical defect or malfunction. Then you wouldn’t have to believe your shipmate screwed up. Whatever the reason, he had to do something to make this effort worthwhile.

“There it is, sir!” one of the boatswain’s mates in the bow cried out, leaning forward like a harpoonist. He pointed toward the starboard side and the coxswain steered in that direction. Woods stood up carefully and looked where the boatswain was pointing. Squinting, he covered his eyes to get a better look. He saw two dark shapes jutting out of the water, floating. Instinctively, he put his hand out to get the coxswain to slow down. The boat slowed to a crawl as they entered the area where the remains of the F-14 were. They approached the two shapes cautiously, not knowing what they were looking at or whether more might be floating under water, unseen. The coxswain turned toward the two shapes and slowed even more, to two knots. They were within one hundred yards before Woods recognized the shapes as the twin tails of the Tomcat, floating perfectly upright in the sea like shark’s fins. The air and water moved quietly around the tails, touching them ever so slightly.

The coxswain inched the boat forward until he was right next to the black monsters. The boatswain in the bow grabbed the rudder of the starboard tail and pulled the boat to it. Woods moved forward and stared.

Small pieces of honeycombed metal — all sizes and shapes — floated around the tails. Woods was surprised by how intact the tails were, the white skull and crossbones staring back at them defiantly from the middle of each tail. He peered into the blue water underneath the tails for more of the airplane, but the way they were bobbing meant there wasn’t much attached below the surface.

There was something odd about the top of the left tail where the red anticollision light should have been. Woods walked aft in the boat and examined the light, holding his hand over his eyes to block the sun and squinting slightly to focus. “What in the world…” Woods said out loud.

The corpsman stood up next to him and looked where Woods’s eyes were focused. He stared for a few seconds, then said, “It’s a scalp.”

Woods lowered his hand, fighting the nausea in his stomach. “What?”

“It’s a scalp, sir. Sure as hell,” the corpsman said.

Woods raised his eyes and examined the light once more. It was Brillo’s scalp, all right, sitting on the anticollision light just as if it were sitting on Brillo’s head. He recognized the uncontrollable wiry brown hair. The horrific image was searing itself into his brain and he turned his eyes away. “How could his scalp be on the tail?” he asked.

The corpsman replied, “He stopped before the tail did. Took him clean out of his helmet. Shitty way to go. At least it was fast.” The corpsman sat down quickly and pulled something out from under his seat. A body bag. He unzipped it and stood up again by the port side. “Slow down,” he said to the coxswain, who couldn’t have been going more than one knot. The corpsman leaned over the side.

Woods saw a large white piece of meat floating next to the boat, undulating gently and heading for them. “What is that?” Woods asked, not wanting to know.

“A back,” the corpsman said matter-of-factly. “See the indentation for the spine?”

Woods felt his mind at work again, searing this new image into his memory. He couldn’t stop it.

The corpsman reached down and picked up the flesh with his latex-glove-covered hand and hauled it into the boat. He put the back into the body bag and zipped it partway up. He held it at the top in his fist, like a trash bag with potting soil in the bottom. “Here comes some more,” the corpsman announced. “Help me out here,” he ordered.

Woods looked the other way, pretending to be interested in various pieces of wreckage until the body collection was completed.

After much effort and boatswain cursing they secured the tails to the boat as well as they could. The boat headed slowly toward the destroyer, towing the tails behind it.

Commander LaGrou was waiting when Woods came up the ladder. “How’d it go, Lieutenant?” he asked anxiously.

Woods couldn’t say anything. The images tore through his brain.

“Any signs of what caused it?”

Woods shook his head and forced his mouth into an inverted crescent, as if he had no real expectation of finding anything that would give a reason for the crash.

“We’ll have to detach soon and head for Sicily — they’re going to set up an accident wreckage inspection sight at Sigonella.”

Woods nodded absently, barely hearing the Commander.

“The bad news for you, Lieutenant,” LaGrou said, “is that the helo that was supposed to pick you up would have had to get you five minutes ago to work you into the air plan.” LaGrou waited for some reaction. Seeing none he continued, “So, you’ll be with us until tomorrow morning at 0700. They’ll send a helo back to retrieve you. You can sleep in my in-port cabin. It’s very comfortable.”

“Thanks,” Woods said absently.

“No problem. I’m sure the wardroom will treat you very nicely. I think you’ll enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate it.”

The wardroom did treat him nicely. The men were even deferential. They weren’t sure how to console Woods over the loss of two of his squadron mates. They wanted to ask the questions that would tell them how close he’d been to the dead men so they could know exactly how bad he was feeling, but they didn’t want to be morose. So they avoided the questions, and didn’t know how deeply he was affected. They all knew about the scalp though. Everybody on the ship knew about the scalp. It was one of those details that was too good not to tell someone else about, usually starting with “Can you believe it?” to set the tone of disgust and amazement.

Woods excused himself from the wardroom early, skipping the movie and free popcorn in spite of the guarantee that it was just what he needed. He went to the Captain’s in-port cabin and sat on the rack. He was exhausted. He pulled his flight suit down around his waist and washed his face in the steel sink. He looked as tired as he felt. He took off his flight boots and flight suit and lay on the top of the Navy blanket in his boxers and T-shirt. The ship was moving too much for him to sleep on his side. He stared at the overhead that he couldn’t see in the blackness and thought of the XO and his three beautiful daughters. All blond with curly hair. He wondered if they knew about their father yet.

Suddenly there was a quiet knock on the door. He wasn’t sure he had even heard it. There it was again. “Yes?” he said loudly.

“Commander LaGrou.”

He swung his legs over and pulled his flight suit on quickly. He crossed to the door in his stocking feet and opened it. “Yes, sir?”

“Mind if I come in?” LaGrou asked.

“No, sir,” he lied, turning on the light.

LaGrou closed the door behind him. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. I was afraid you’d be asleep.”

“No, sir, just resting a little. Kind of hard to sleep.”

“I’m sure,” LaGrou said. He stood awkwardly. “I… I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. They were your friends.”

Woods didn’t want to talk about it. Talk wasn’t going to do anything. “Yeah. Yes, sir.”

“Look, these things happen. People are killed every day in the Navy, just doing their jobs—”

Woods had heard that enough. “And why? Not why did he crash — we’ll figure that out — but why are we here where he could crash? Why do we fly off carriers every day?”

“It’s what we do—”

“So we’re ready when we need to use force. So we stay sharp — “ He stopped. “Do you have a chart that shows our position?”

LaGrou was taken aback by Woods’s intensity. “Sure, in Combat—”

“I want to show you something,” Woods said as he quickly sat down on the single chair in the stateroom and pulled on his flight boots. He laced them halfway, wrapped the laces around the ankles, and tied them hurriedly. “Show me.”

LaGrou opened the door and headed down the passageway. Woods followed. They walked into Combat Information Center, the nerve center of the ship. It was almost completely dark. Three large screens were in front of several consoles, where officers and enlisted men sat, monitoring the huge volume of information that flooded in from innumerable sources.

“Over here,” LaGrou said. They crossed to a large flat table that had a chart on top of it. “I have our navigator keep a paper chart with our position just in case all the electronics crap out at the same time,” LaGrou smiled.

Woods studied it quickly. He saw the mark that showed their current position. He spread his hand out along a longitude line, then used it to measure their distance to Lebanon. “Two hundred nautical miles to Beirut,” he said. He stared at LaGrou. “Two hundred miles.”

“I’m not following you, Lieutenant.”

“That Sheikh who killed Tony Vialli, my best friend, is eating grapes in Beirut while we’re out here, two hundred miles away, picking up the pieces of two others. What were they doing? Trying to stay sharp. To stay ready. For what?” he said, raising his voice. He stared at the chart. “We keep sharpening our sword, showing everybody how sharp and shiny it is. We use it sometimes. Kosovo? Sure. Iraq? Sure. For an American Naval officer murdered by a terrorist?” He could see LaGrou was trying to control his surprise. “I guess not. We just sharpen our sword, and cut ourselves with it.”