Flash Point

13

Kinkaid had been alarmed by Ricketts’s call in the middle of the night. Most of the alarm though came from the fact that Kinkaid had complete faith in Ricketts’s judgment. If he called in the middle of the night, it was for a reason. He was wily, brilliant, a master of languages and disguises, and someone who never failed in a mission. But there was a dark side as well — no respect for authority. He was known to think that those not in the Directorate of Operations, the DO, were just weak-tit parasites. He was unimpressed with electronic intelligence and “analysis,” a word he used only when forced.

Kinkaid pulled up into his reserved parking spot at 4:37 a.m. His hair was still matted in the back. He had taken the time to get dressed for the day, since it was sure to be another long, frustrating day anyway.

He walked toward CIA Headquarters and shifted his travel coffee mug to his left hand with his briefcase while he put his car keys in his suit coat pocket. He nearly dropped everything he was carrying when a voice called his name from right behind him, no more than a foot away. He swallowed. “Trying to give me a damned heart attack? What the hell are you doing?” he said, turning around.

Ricketts stared at him with his hands in his pockets unsmiling.

Kinkaid growled, “Let’s go inside where it’s warmer. I’m freezing my ass off.”

“Out here,” Ricketts said.

“What for?”

“I don’t want any of the other parasites listening.”

“To what?”

“Our conversation.”

Kinkaid put his briefcase down and took a long drink from his coffee. “Okay, what?”

Ricketts looked around the mostly empty parking lot. There wasn’t anything but asphalt for seventy-five yards in any direction. “What do you want to do with this Sheikh?”

“Do with him? I want to find him. Then I want to get him.”

“Meaning…”

“I don’t know.” Kinkaid frowned. “Grab him. Bring him back for trial. Put his ass in prison for a few lifetimes.”

Ricketts stared down at his feet. “I may have some information on his whereabouts.”

“What? You’re shitting me? Where is he?”

Ricketts shook his head. “I know where he will be. Not where he is.”

“Where? How do you know—”

“I cannot disclose—”

“I’m in charge of the task force,” Kinkaid said gruffly. “You’ll tell me whatever I need to know—”

“No, I won’t,” Ricketts said icily. “Not if it will endanger my agents.”

“How would telling me endanger your—”

“I got an agreement from the Director himself when I started running agents that I didn’t need to tell anyone anything I didn’t want to. It’s my judgment alone—”

“That’s bullshit. We have to share information—”

“That’s why I’m here,” Ricketts replied. “But I will tell you only what is necessary, and to the others, nothing. They can do their analysis, and stare at their photographs, and drink Starbucks—”

“We are on the same team—”

“We walk to the same destination, but not together.”

“What do you have in mind?” Kinkaid asked.

“I don’t think we should waste our time trying to capture him. We should take him out—”

“That would require a finding—”

“I know. That’s what we should do.”

“No,” Kinkaid said. “The Director wants him here. He wants a nice big trial the whole world can see.”

Ricketts understood, even though he disagreed. “I can grab the Sheikh. I need only your approval.”

“How would you get him?”

“You do not need to know that.”

“The hell I don’t—”

“You may ask the Director. He won’t tell you, but you may ask him.”

Kinkaid fought back his frustration. “When?”

“Soon.”

“Do you think you can do it?”

“I’m sure I can.”

“How much risk?”

Ricketts pondered, as if doing a calculation. “Much.”

“Do you want to do this?”

Ricketts nodded in the darkness. “Yes.”

“Do you need any help, any support from us?”

“No.”

Kinkaid wasn’t sure what to say. It was all very irregular. He also had served in the DO long enough to know that some of the best officers were the quirkiest. “I don’t like it. I have to know.”

Ricketts said nothing. He just stared at Kinkaid. The distant light in the parking lot at the top of a pole was behind him and showed only his silhouette. “You can tell me not to do it. Or you can let me put this guy out of our misery, but I can’t tell you how or when.”

“How about where?”

“Sorry.”

“You got a plan?”

“Start of one.”

Kinkaid debated with himself. He finally had to admit that results were what he wanted, and Ricketts brought results. “Do it.”

“Want to get a slider?” Woods asked Wink and Big at the back of the ready room as the SDO set up the video projector in the aisle between the seats and aimed it at the enormous screen suspended from the overhead in the front. Movies in the Navy had long been a grand tradition. The movie would be shown at an announced time and all the officers would show up to watch it. The SDO was responsible for selecting the movie from the hundreds of videotapes available from the ship’s video library and ensuring the projector was set up. He had to roll the movie exactly at the specified time. To the second. Or the Executive Officer would rail on him and he would be held in general contempt by the squadron for some unspecified period.

“Sure,” they replied together. “We can get back in time for the movie. How many stars is it?”

“I’m not sure. Three, I think.” The star system was legendary within the squadron. Every SDO tried to get a five-star movie. If the CO agreed that it was five stars, that SDO was taken off the SDO watch bill for an entire month. But it was hard to find a five-star movie. The categories were clear enough: a train, an Indian, female nudity, a mort (someone killed by other than natural causes), and a snake. The snake and the Indian were the toughest. One movie had a hat trick in one scene — a naked female Indian riding a horse when confronted by a snake. There was a mort, but a train never showed up so it stalled at four stars.

In the forward wardroom, several aircrew in their flight suits were spread out among the long tables. Woods, Wink, and Big stood in front of the grill expectantly. After a few seconds the messmen asked them what they would like.

“Double slider,” Woods said.

“Triple cheeseburger,” Big said enthusiastically.

“Single for me,” Wink said, looking at Big. “Geez, Big, you’re going to weigh three hundred pounds.”

“I already do.” Big smiled.

Wink glanced at him skeptically. “Are you kidding?”

Big leaned against the bulkhead behind him while he watched his triple cheese slider sizzle on the large flat grill. “Wink, you’re amazing. If I weighed three hundred pounds I wouldn’t even fit through the door. I am a svelte two-forty.”

“Wow,” Woods said. “Athlete.”

“You going to start on me?” Big said.

One of the EA-6B Prowler pilots joined them in line. “Hey, Wink, was that you on button seventeen in marshall this last recovery?”

“Yep.”

“Did you have that cloud layer right at marshall?”

“We were below it. Darker than a witch’s heart.”

“We were in the goo the whole time. Unbelievable.”

Pritch appeared in the room, moving to the end of the line.

Three plates magically appeared on the counter. The men grabbed their food and sat down at a table.

After taking a large bite from his burger, Big looked across at Woods. “How you doing? About Boomer and all.”

Pritch sat down on the other side of Big. Woods looked at her, slightly annoyed she was there, and annoyed at himself for being annoyed. “I don’t know,” Woods replied. “I was really bent. Nothing seems to be happening. I try to act normal, do my job, be myself, but it’s like it’s all in slow motion, or something. Then the XO…”

“I know what you mean,” Big replied.

“Mind if I join you?” asked Father Maloney, standing next to Woods, a cup of tea in his hand.

Woods rolled his eyes as he looked at Big and Wink across the table. “No, please,” he said, motioning to the chair next to Wink.

“I gotta go,” said Big, getting up as the chaplain sat down. “Gotta go debrief.”

“What?” asked Pritch. “I debriefed you an hour ago.”

“Maintenance. I’ve got to talk to maintenance about the FM radio.”

“You’ve got FM in your airplane?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know, Pritch,” Big said as he bounced quickly on the balls of his feet to get his flight suit to unrumple and straighten down his legs over his flight boots.

“Me, too,” said Wink, standing.

Woods was stuck. He wanted to catch the movie in the ready room, but it was obvious that the chaplain had sat down to talk to him. He didn’t know the other officers at all, and he’d met Woods at Vialli’s funeral service.

The chaplain sipped his cup of tea. His round, kind face was slightly red, as it usually was, as if life on the carrier was too much of an effort. He seemed very out of place in a uniform. He had a Lieutenant Commander’s gold oak leaf on one collar and a cross on the other — the insignia worn by a chaplain.

Woods had always thought crosses looked incongruous on uniforms. He found the whole chaplain thing almost offensive. They tried so hard to be everyone’s friend it was as if their lives didn’t have any content. He was sure his opinions were stereotypical, especially since he had never had a conversation of any length with any chaplain, but he wasn’t in any hurry to change that.

Woods finished his burger without knowing what to say. To talk shop, or ridicule Pritch — the thing he wanted to do most — just didn’t seem right with the chaplain sitting there.

“How have you been, Lieutenant Woods?” Father Maloney finally asked.

“Pretty good, thanks, just trying to figure out where to spend all the money I make.”

Maloney smiled at Pritch. “Hello. I’m Father Maloney, the Catholic chaplain aboard. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No, sir, I’m Ensign Charlene Pritchard.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“Does Lieutenant Woods always joke with others the way he does with me?” he asked Pritch.

“He doesn’t take much very seriously.”

Maloney looked at Woods. “Is that true?”

Woods shrugged, waiting for the right time to make his exit.

“Have I made you angry somehow?”

“No, sir,” Woods replied.

“It seems like my presence makes you uncomfortable,” Maloney said.

Pritch sneaked a glance at Woods.

“Not really. Seeing you just reminds me of Vialli, and that aggravates me.”

“Why does it aggravate you?”

Woods stared at Maloney. “Is there something about being a chaplain that makes you ask such dumb questions?” he said, his face reddening. He hesitated for a minute, then went on. “Sorry. He was my roommate, and my friend. He was murdered. Here we sit on the most lethal weapon ever designed, his murderers are a couple of hundred miles away, and we’re eating hamburgers. The whole thing just pisses me off.”

Maloney nodded his head understandingly. “I know what you mean. But we don’t know that nothing is being done about it.”

“You know something I don’t know?”

“No, I certainly wouldn’t know. I just meant that the government might be doing things we don’t know about.”

“Like what? Sending the crack CIA to find some terrorist and put a stick in his eye? Come on.”

“All I was saying is we shouldn’t assume we know everything when we don’t.”

“What’s probably happening is that we know more about it than anyone, and nothing is being done at all. That’s the most likely.”

“Perhaps you’re right. But we can’t do much about it.”

“The hell we can’t. Sorry. Yes we can.”

“What would you suggest?” Maloney asked, sipping his tea.

Woods’s words were direct. “I think we should announce to the world that we’re going after the terrorists. Launch an attack on their headquarters. They’ve already claimed responsibility for it. Let’s take them at their word.”

“We can’t do that, can we?”

“Why not?”

“That would be an act of war.”

“So what?” Woods replied. “What are we here for, Father? Why are we in the Mediterranean?”

“To defend NATO,” said Pritch.

“From what?” said Woods.

“Whatever threat develops.”

“Isn’t attacking a Navy officer a threat?”

“Not to peace, not really,” the chaplain said.

“It’s a threat to every American. Terrorism is intended to make us afraid. To make us change our plans, our attitudes, and live in fear. That is a threat to peace. I think we should go after them. Quit waiting around for the politicos to test the wind. Let’s go now.”

“That would be vengeance,” said Maloney.

“What’s wrong with a little vengeance now and then?” asked Woods, angry.

“ ‘Vengeance is mine, says the Lord,’ “ said Maloney. “It’s not up to us to exact revenge against an enemy, it’s God’s decision.”

Woods frowned. “What does that mean?” he asked. “Was it wrong to take vengeance on Japan for attacking us at Pearl Harbor? Should we have left that up to God? Should we wait for a storm or an earthquake or something? I remember a lot of attacks directly ordered by God in the Old Testament. Maybe we should just be listening for his order.”

Maloney realized he was in much deeper than he’d intended to get in the conversation. He also realized he had to answer. “Of course the country can respond. That’s legitimate warfare. But the ship, or the Captain of the ship, can’t do it on his own — that’s revenge.”

“I don’t see the difference,” Woods said. “The country acts through us. Through people. That’s all we can do.”

Maloney considered his words. “It is a question of authority. The country can act, individuals cannot.”

“Doesn’t it matter what they’re doing or why? If the U.S. can attack, why can’t we? We are the U.S.”

“We can, if instructed to by the government. Even you would agree that we can’t act on our own.”

“I don’t care who does it, as long as someone does!” Woods said, his voice loud, drawing looks from other pilots on the wardroom. “It’s only the police that can stop the guy who breaks in to rape your wife? You have to stand there and watch. Call 911. ‘Hello, police, there’s a guy here in my bedroom. He’s raping my wife, but I know I can’t act on my own. Only the state has the authority to protect me… I think he’s almost done… Do hurry… ‘ That’s how it’s supposed to go? That’s your idea of authority?”

Father Maloney didn’t respond. He breathed deeply and looked down at the table. Then he said, “The use of force by an individual in an emergency is different than an act of war.” He smiled a small smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean to get into this. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Woods showed his annoyance. “I’m pretty tired of people telling me why we can’t do anything about murder,” he snapped. “I for one am not going to just live with it. I’m not going to stop until they regret having killed Vialli. Not until they’ve paid for it.”

Maloney shrugged. “What can you do? You have to let it go.”

“Why do I have to let it go? Why does everybody keep telling me that?” Woods said, his voice rising again.

“Because you can’t change it. You can’t do anything about it. It isn’t profitable to strain at things you can’t change. It only causes frustration and pain.”

Woods spoke slowly, deliberately. “I will never forget, and I will never quit. Ever.”

Pritch slid her chair back, sensing an opening. “I’ve got to go debrief the last recovery in CVIC. See you later, Trey. Nice to meet you, Father Maloney.”

Maloney rose and extended his hand to Pritch. “I enjoyed meeting you. Are you Catholic?”

“Used to be. See you later,” she said uncomfortably.

“What do you have in mind?” Maloney asked, sitting down again and sliding his chair directly across from Woods.

“Nothing.”

“I miss Tony a lot.”

Woods was amazed. “Father Maloney, you didn’t even know him. All you did was preside over his funeral.”

“You perhaps think you know more than you do. You should be careful. Tony was a Catholic—”

“I know that. But I also know he didn’t buy it. He was a regular guy—”

“Are you Catholic?”

“No.”

“What church did you grow up in?”

“Presbyterian.”

“Do you buy it, as you have put it?”

Woods shrugged and nodded.

“Well, Tony did buy it. All of it. He came to our Wednesday morning mass every week. Never missed once. We talked weekly.”

Woods stared at the priest, dumbfounded. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t say that to embarrass you, but so you could understand that there are others who feel his loss as deeply as you do.”

“I know that. I’ve just been a little careless lately.” Woods stood up, pushing his chair back under the table. “I’ve got to hit the rack. It’s been a long day. See you again sometime.”

“Yes. Good night, Lieutenant Woods. Have a good evening.”

“Thanks,” Woods said as he headed toward his stateroom, knowing he’d missed the start of the movie and not really caring. He was no longer in the mood.

He closed the flimsy steel stateroom door behind him, sat down heavily in his desk chair and unlaced his boots. He dropped them on the tiled deck, standing up to take off his flight suit. He slung it over his chair and removed his yellow T-shirt. He turned on the small neon light over the steel sink, feeling the coolness of the metal through his cotton boxer shorts as he leaned against it.

He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked tired. He felt tired. He had been up almost nineteen hours. Nothing unusual about that though, he told himself. Eighteen was the norm. No, it was weariness. He couldn’t do anything about Vialli and he knew it. Every time someone reminded him of it, he felt the frustration more deeply. He shook his head vigorously, and splashed cold water on his face.

He switched off the light and brushed his teeth in the dark. He couldn’t hear Big breathing in the top bunk — he was probably at the movie — but Bernie was there — guush, cuh cuh cuh. At least the catapults were quiet. The last launch was over. He could hear the recovery aft, as an S-3, distinctive by sound of its relatively quiet but deep turbofan engines, strained futilely against the arresting cable.

He pulled back the white cotton sheet and gray USN blanket on the lower bunk and crawled in. He listened to the familiar sounds of the ship, as he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and prepared for his usual instantaneous unconsciousness.

His eyes snapped open as his heart raced. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He jumped out of bed and pulled on his flight suit, socks, and boots, zipping up his flight suit all the way to hide the fact he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt. He threw open the door to the stateroom and slammed it behind him. He turned outboard, went through a hatch, and grabbed the railings on the ladder as he slid down feet first. Down another, and another, and another, until he was on the mess deck.

He stopped in front of a door and tried the handle. It was locked. Shaking the handle, he finally let go with a grunt. He looked up and down the passageway, but no one was around. He was about to walk away when he saw the sign in the middle of the door: in case of emergency, contact Lieutenant Rayburn at 4765.

Woods walked aft and grabbed the closest phone. He dialed the number, letting it ring and ring. Finally someone answered. “Hello,” a voice said, obviously having awakened from a deep sleep.

“Is this Lieutenant Rayburn?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“This is Lieutenant Sean Woods, VF-103. I need to talk to you.”

“Why?” Rayburn said testily. “Can’t it wait?”

“No. I have to see you tonight.”

Rayburn sighed. “I’ll meet you in my office in five minutes. Can you be there by then?”

“I’m already there,” he said. The line went dead. He hurried back down the passageway to the office door to wait.

Five minutes went by, no Lieutenant Rayburn. Then ten. Woods paced in front of the door, waiting. He looked at his watch again, and finally heard the clanging of a nearby ladder as Lieutenant Rayburn slid to the deck.

Glancing curiously at Woods, he opened the door to his office and switched on the lights. Rayburn was short, about five six, with clipped straight brown hair. In his late twenties, he had obviously taken the time to comb his hair and put on a clean uniform. He was wearing gold wire-rimmed glasses. “Now,” he asked, “what can I do for you?”

Woods offered his hand and said, “I’m Sean Woods. Thanks for coming in the middle of the night.”

“What’s up?” said Rayburn impatiently.

“I was lying in my rack, and I couldn’t sleep.” He saw Rayburn’s face — he was getting angry — and decided to change his approach. “You remember the guy who was killed in the attack in Israel?”

“Sure. He was there illegally. Faked his leave papers. I had to review the JAG investigation to determine whether he was in the line of duty and all that.”

“Then you know what happened.”

“Probably better than you do.”

Woods looked at Rayburn, trying to read his tone of voice. Rayburn was impressed with himself. Great, Woods thought. Just when I need some help I get an arrogant attorney.

“You’re the JAG officer on the ship, right?”

“Obviously.”

“So you’re supposed to know the law.”

Rayburn shrugged. “Some of it. The rest I have to look up, but I have a good set of law books aboard. Why, what do you want to know?”

“Mind if I sit?” he said, pointing to a chair and sitting down without waiting for a reply. Rayburn took the desk chair behind a Navy-issue steel-gray desk.

“I’ve been trying to think of some way to hit back for Vialli. Some way to go after the terrorists who murdered him.”

“Like what?” Rayburn asked, putting his feet up on the desk.

“I’ve already talked to the Admiral about us attacking them, but he isn’t going to do that… I was thinking that we should declare war.”

Rayburn realized Woods had finished. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“Against who?” Rayburn asked, narrowing his eyes.

“The guy who was in charge of the attack, and planned it. The Sheikh.” Woods’s eagerness showed on his face. “We should declare war against him, as an individual, and maybe his group of terrorists. We wouldn’t have to just issue statements about how horrible it all was and do nothing. I say declare war, tell the whole world the full force of the U.S. military is going after them, and then do it. If some country is hiding them, or letting them train there, they should know it won’t matter to us. We’ll go after them wherever we can find them. If someone is protecting them, they’d better get the hell out of the way.”

Rayburn’s expression was one of disbelief. “You got me up in the middle of the night to ask me about declaring war against terrorists?”

“Yeah. What do you think?” Woods said enthusiastically.

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“The Admiral can’t declare war, only—”

“I know that. I’m not saying we should declare war, I’m saying the country should declare war.”

“Only Congress—”

“I know. But that’s it. That’s what I want to know. Where does it say that Congress can declare war?”

“In the Constitution,” Rayburn said sharply.

“Then here’s the question,” said Woods, leaning on the gray desk. “Is there anything there, in the Constitution, that says we can’t declare war against one man? Or a terrorist group?”

Rayburn shook his head. “You’re nuts. I have no idea. You don’t need a JAG officer, you need a psychiatrist. I’ll call him in the morning and set up an appointment for you,” he said, starting to get up.

“Come on, think about it! What’s so wrong with it? It could be the very thing Congress has been looking for all these years to combat terrorism. Leave a standing declaration of war against every terrorist who attacks us. Then wherever we find them, we can go after them with the full force of the military and hammer them. We don’t need to worry about arresting them, or playing international police. We treat them like any other soldier of any country that we’re at war against. They’re fair game.”

Rayburn put his hands on his desk, and pushed himself up. “Good night,” he said.

Woods was confused. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t know how else to say it,” Rayburn replied. “We’re done. And next time,” he added with a bite, “spare me the late-night harebrained schemes, will you?” He motioned to Woods to leave the office as he turned off the lights, one after the other. Rayburn locked the JAG office behind them and started down the passageway.

“At least think about it, won’t you?” Woods asked of his back.

“Good night,” Rayburn said without slowing or turning.