Flash Point

17

Woods stood next to Big, anxious for the officer boat to touch shore at Piraeus. He knew they should be excited about a new port, liberty, all the things that were supposed to make his job fun. But it wasn’t like that. Other thoughts clouded his mind. Vialli, the XO and Brillo, and now Gator, whom he hardly knew.

“Aw shit, Trey,” Big said.

“What?” Woods replied.

“Look who’s standing on the pier.”

Woods looked at a woman who was carefully watching the officer boat approach the pier. “Who is she?” he asked.

“Gator’s wife,” Big replied. “She was at the Air Wing party before we left on cruise. Look at her,” Big said, studying her body language. “She hasn’t heard.”

“Oh, no,” Woods said. He checked the officer boat for anyone from Gator’s squadron. “I’m sure not going to tell her.”

“I’m not going to tell her,” Big said, searching desperately for some way to dump the unpleasant job on someone else. He spotted the Air Wing Maintenance Officer coming out onto the deck. “Greebs,” he said, calling to him. “Gator’s wife is on the pier. Someone’s got to tell her.”

Greebs looked at them both. “Not me,” he said. “Didn’t even know the man.”

The boat touched the pier as the coxswain reversed the engines to stop its forward progress.

Woods and Big watched in fascination as Gator’s wife smiled and waited anxiously for the officers to get off the boat. She had flown all the way from the States for this port call to see her husband for the first time in three months. She was wearing a silk blouse, tight white pants, and heels. Her freshly washed black hair glistened in the Greek sunshine. She had something in her hand that Woods couldn’t make out. “This has the makings of a disaster, Big,” Woods said.

A Petty Officer jumped off the bow onto the pier and tied the boat off. He hurried to the stern and tied off the other line. The coxswain killed the engine and the boat settled into its place next to the pier.

Woods and Big held back, hoping someone else would recognize Gator’s wife and beat them to the pier to take the poor woman aside. The officers streamed right by her and headed toward the waiting taxicabs fifty yards away at the head of the pier.

Finally, Woods and Big stepped ashore. “Hi,” Woods said to her. “I’m Sean Woods.” Big stood behind him, pretending to look for someone or something down the pier. “You remember Big,” he said. “I think you met at the Air Wing party.”

“Hi,” she replied. “I’m Susan Gomez—”

“Right, Gator’s wife.”

“Right.” She smiled. “Have you seen him? He promised he’d be on the very first O-boat ashore,” she said. “Is this it? Did I miss it?”

“No,” Woods said. “This is it.” Woods hated this. He wished he had just kept walking. “Let’s go over there for a minute,” he said, pointing down the pier away from the taxis and the activity. He put his sunglasses in his pocket and moved away slowly.

Susan followed, but with a growing sense of foreboding.

Finally, Woods stopped. Turning to her, he met her eyes. She was stunningly pretty, but her face was full of fear. She couldn’t speak.

Woods held her shoulders. “Last night, Gator was on the last recovery. He was on final approach, and got into a descent that he never pulled out of. His F-18 hit the water and he didn’t eject. He was killed, about ten o’clock. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but that’s why he’s not on the boat. Someone from his squadron should have been here to tell you, but they were trying to find you. I don’t think they knew how to get in touch with you.”

She stared at him with no comprehension, her mind refusing to accept what he had just said. “What?” she said finally.

“Gator’s dead,” he said. “His airplane went down.”

Woods put his arm around Susan’s shoulder. Susan’s thin body began to shake, as she fought back the truth that would change her life forever. Tears erupted from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “Are you sure? Could there be some mistake?”

“No, they’re sure.”

“Where is he? Did they find his body?”

“No,” Woods replied. “They’re still looking for him. They’ll have people out there all day, looking for wreckage, trying to figure out what went wrong.”

She covered her eyes with her hand, her diamond wedding band glimmering in the sunshine. She shuddered. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “He was…” She couldn’t finish.

At the pier, another officer boat was tying up. “Big, go see if there’s someone from Gator’s squadron on that boat.”

“Rog,” Big said. He hurried down the pier and waited for the officer boat to unload.

Woods reached for Susan and held her close to him. “I’m sorry,” Woods said. Her mouth pressed into his shoulder, muffling her sobs. He stroked her hair, trying to comfort her. He didn’t know what else to say or do.

Big came back with another officer in tow. “Susan, here’s the XO,” Big said, relieved.

Gator’s XO looked at the scene and knew he had blown it. He was the one who was supposed to tell Gator’s wife about her husband. He had taken the Chief’s word for it as to when the first O-boat would leave. He hadn’t anticipated a bunch of anxious officers talking the coxswain into going early. “Hello, Susan,” he began. “I’m sorry about Gator. We don’t—”

“Is he really dead?” she asked, searching his face for any glimmer of hope.

“I’m afraid so.”

“But you haven’t found his body. He might still be out there.”

“We saw his airplane hit the water, Susan. He didn’t even punch out.”

“Aren’t you still looking for him?”

“Yes, we are, but he isn’t alive. Maybe we’ll find his body, but probably not. Don’t get your hopes up because we’re out there looking for his body. Look,” he said, wanting to comfort her, but not having any idea how to, “I’d like you to come with me. I have a place arranged. There are some things we need to do.”

The XO turned to Woods and Big. “Thanks. I missed the first boat. I owe you one.”

Woods spoke. “You need us for anything else?”

“No. I’ve got it from here. Thanks for stepping in.”

“Sure,” Woods said.

The two of them watched Susan and the XO walk slowly down the pier in the beautiful sunshine.

“You did good, Trey,” Big said.

“We didn’t have any choice.”

Big hitched up his jeans and tucked in his shirt. “Oh yes we did. If I’d been by myself I’d have walked right by her. No doubt about it.”

“So now we set off to go get your flokati rugs.”

“Yeah,” Big replied. “But I don’t feel much like shopping. That sure took the fun out of the morning. Nothing like staring mortality in the face.”

“How ’bout a cup of coffee?” Woods asked.

“Yeah. That sounds good.” They began to walk. “You ever come close to just buying it? Flying into the water or something?”

“Once. Scared the hell out of me.”

“Dangerous business, Trey.”

“Keeping the world safe for democracy.”

“I’m saying.”

Congressman Lionel Brown liked to have his staff meetings every day at 0730. Not 7:30, 0730, just like he was still in the Navy. Admiral Brown wasn’t like other members of Congress. He was a Naval Academy graduate and a retired Vice Admiral. His last job in the Navy as AIRPAC had taken him to North Island Naval Air Station in Coronado, California, the peninsula that forms San Diego Bay and sits across the water from the city. After retirement, Brown had moved to Washington, D.C., and worked in the defense industry. A beltway bandit, as they were called.

While in Washington he had been able to observe how the government operated. He had seen how military policy was made by people who had never served a day in the military. It had distressed him so much he’d decided to move back to Coronado, where he had kept a home, and run for Congress. Prior to his election there hadn’t been a single former flag officer or general in Congress. He had come to Washington with one agenda item — to make sure Congress knew what it was doing in the decisions it made about the military. Nothing else mattered to him. Just defense. The Speaker had wisely placed him on the House Armed Services Committee, and through attrition and retirement, he was now the senior member and the chairman. Considered defense-oriented, but rational, he was well regarded on both sides of the aisle.

He sat at the head of the conference table on the edge of his seat as he always did. He believed in daily staff meetings of thirty minutes to make sure everyone was on the same page. His schedule was passed around and problems that had come up the day before were identified and someone was assigned to solve each one. The meeting was over at 0800 whether all business was completed or not.

This meeting had been short, with all business completed at 0750. The Admiral was in a good mood. He pushed his thick, graying brown hair away from his forehead and put his reading glasses into his suit coat pocket. “Anything else for the good of the cause?” he asked his staff.

Jaime Rodriguez hadn’t planned on saying anything, but there was time. “We received an interesting letter the other day,” he began tentatively.

“Why didn’t you bring it up in constituent correspondence?” the Admiral asked absently.

Jaime knew he should have. That was why he was bringing it up now. “It didn’t strike me as being that important then, but it keeps coming to mind.”

“What was it?”

“From a Navy Lieutenant—”

“Constituent?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s his command?”

“Excuse me?”

“Where is he? Where is he currently stationed?”

“A carrier.”

“Ship’s company or an aviator?”

“Um… I’m not really sure.”

“What ship?”

“I don’t really remember, sir. Sorry, I hadn’t intended to bring it up. Since we had some time…”

“What’s so interesting about it?”

“It was about this Sheikh guy. The new terrorist?”

The Admiral nodded.

“He thought he had a way of hitting back at this guy.”

“What’s that?”

“He thought we should declare war.”

“Against whom?” the Admiral asked, amused.

“Against the Sheikh himself.”

Admiral Brown looked confused. “How could we do that?”

“It’s pretty interesting. He did his homework. He sent it by e-mail. He attached a memo from a priest—”

“A priest?”

“Yes, sir — claimed he had some expertise in ethics. It’s an analysis of whether it would be a just war, mentions Aquinas, and Grotius—”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, sir, but he also talked to a JAG officer about the legality of declaring war against one man. The JAG guy looked at it and said it could be done. Nothing that would keep us from declaring war against one man, a terrorist, or his whole organization for that matter. Then we could send the entire military after him. Wherever he is. And if someone is protecting him, or guarding him, then international law would allow us to go through them too.”

Admiral Brown looked at Jaime, his legislative director, carefully. He was clearly pleased. He loved new ideas. “A Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A very clever Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Admiral Brown glanced around the room. “What do you think about this idea?” he said to no one in particular.

Nobody said anything. Jaime finally replied, “I think it’s incredible.”

Brown nodded and checked his watch — 0800. He stood. “Tim?”

“Vacation.”

“Have him research it. This is the kind of thing that might respond to some good thinking.” To Jaime he said, “You’ll need to do a reply.”

Sheepishly Jaime said, “Sir, I already sent a reply back to him. I sent him a form letter about terrorism.”

The Admiral frowned but then he said briskly, “All right… Let’s get on with the business of the day.” Then he had another thought. “Jaime, why this Lieutenant?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Why did he care about it enough to write?”

“You know that bus attack? Where the Navy officer was killed?”

“Sure.”

“It was his roommate.”

“Want me to get your mail too?” Woods asked as he changed into his uniform in his stateroom.

Big nodded, lying there with his eyes closed.

“You should have let me help you carry those rugs. I thought that was the whole idea.”

Woods locked the stateroom door behind him and headed aft toward the ready room. It was deserted except for the duty officer. Woods leaned over and looked in his mailbox. He pulled out two news magazines, a post card, a sports weekly, and two letters, one from his mother and… his heart skipped, one from the House of Representatives. He looked at the envelope, not sure whether to open it or bring it back to the stateroom. He decided to take it where he could find some privacy and not have somebody looking over his shoulder. He hurried back to his stateroom, slamming the door behind him. “Big! Look!” he said breathlessly.

Big rolled over and peered at Woods sideways, examining the envelope. “I can’t read it.”

“It’s from Congressman Brown,” Woods said excitedly. “I just e-mailed him!”

“Doesn’t take long to print a form letter.”

“You’re missing this one, Big.”

“Open the letter.”

Woods stuck his finger under the flap and tore the top of the envelope. He opened the single sheet. “It’s on his letterhead, and signed by him personally.”

“Read it.”

Woods stared at the page after he had finished reading the letter.

“He didn’t even mention what I said. How can he write a letter like that and not even mention it? He didn’t even say anything about Father Maloney’s memo or the law stuff. Nothing.”

“It’s a form letter, Trey, just like I told you it would be.”

“It can’t be,” Woods said. “This must just be the first letter, there’s probably another one coming that will answer mine.”

“You’re dreaming,” Big said.

“But it is the perfect solution!”

“That’s got nothing to do with it. You’ve bought into the myth that we live in a representative democracy that is actually responsive. That’s rubbish. Congressmen exist for one purpose only — to stay in office. That’s why they start running for office as soon as they get in. That’s all they do. Shoot, Trey, during the cold war there was more turnover in the politburo than in Congress.”

“Bullshit—”

“It’s true.”

Woods wasn’t even listening. “It’s one thing to tell me my idea is stupid, or wrong. But to treat me like some Rube from Brawley writing about his check for farm subsidies…”

Big sat up. “You really think a congressman saw your letter? What have you been smoking? Some flunkie gets the letters, sorts them by issues, and cranks out whatever form letter is closest. Then they mark down your issue, which side you’re on, and count them up. All you’ll get out of your letter is that somewhere in your congressman’s office, your letter caused some bright young college graduate with unlimited ambition to put a mark on a list that shows one of the congressman’s constituents is in favor of a stronger response to terrorism. That’s it.”

“That sucks.”

“Yep.”

“Don’t they want to do anything about it?”

Big chuckled. “You don’t understand. You don’t get the critical difference between the ability to do something and the will to do it. They don’t have the political will. They don’t ever step out in front — they’re afraid of taking the wrong position.”

Woods laid the letter on the desk and stared at it as if it bore a disease. Then he picked it up and tore it in half, then in half again, and again, until he had ripped the letter to shreds, slamming it into the steel trash can.

Big rolled over and moaned. “Anything else in the mail?”

Woods picked up the rest of the mail and went through it again. “No. Just the usual.” He stopped. “Who would send me a postcard?” He examined it, then recognized the writing.

“What?” Big asked. “What is it?”

Woods whispered, “It’s from Boomer. From Israel.”

“You’re shitting me,” Big said, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. “What does it say?”

Woods read it with an odd feeling, as if he were doing something somehow improper. “He’s in Nahariya. He’s in love. Irit is great… they’re going to Tel Aviv tomorrow where she is going to interview for a job with E1 A1 as a flight attendant. They’re going to take the bus down the coastal highway… should be beautiful… very upbeat.”

“That’s kind of spooky.”

Woods was sad, remembering the last time he had seen Vialli.

Big interrupted his thoughts. “Hey.”

“What?”

“I thought she was a schoolteacher. What’s she doing interviewing for E1 A1?”

“I don’t know. I think the schoolteacher bit was when she told him she was from Italy.”

Big squinted. “So what did she really do?”

Woods and Wink orbited twenty miles out from the Washington, waiting. Finally the Air Boss transmitted, “Victory 200, you’re cleared in.”

“You ready, Wink?”

“Hit it,” he said to Woods, then to the Air Boss: “Roger.”

Woods lowered the nose of the Tomcat and pushed the throttles to the stops.

“Passing through ten.”

“Roger.”

Woods checked his instruments and made sure the TACAN needle was on the nose pointing to the Washington straight ahead, sixteen miles away. He glanced over his shoulder and watched the wings begin sweeping back as the Tomcat passed through.7 Mach, seven-tenths the speed of sound.

“Passing five.”

“Roger,” Woods replied. Ten miles. He pulled the nose over farther toward the water, pushing the throttles into afterburner. He felt the burners kick in and shoved the throttle to the end.

“Passing two.” The needle on the airspeed indicator moved steadily through Mach 9. “Home base, Victory 200, 6 miles out for supersonic pass.”

“Roger, 200. Cleared in supersonic.”

“I can’t believe they pay us for this,” Woods said. “Passing one thousand feet, going hot mike.” Woods remained amazed that Bark had let him do the supersonic pass. They had done air shows for dignitaries often, and the supersonic pass was the most fun of the entire event, but it was always the Commanders or Lieutenant Commanders who got the job. This time for some reason, Bark had let him do it. The ship had offered to perform the show for Israeli dignitaries, and they had eagerly accepted. The COD had made two trips to Haifa, and the dignitaries from Israel now stood on the flight deck, watching the demonstration of the capabilities of an aircraft carrier. One weapon system they wished they had and knew they would never get.

“I’m hot,” Wink said, flicking the switch on his ICS.

The F-14 slipped through the sonic barrier imperceptibly, its wings swept full aft, like a horse with its ears pinned back.

“Radar altimeter set at fifty feet.”

“Cool,” Wink said, leaning forward to look for the carrier so plainly visible on the radar. He saw the big gray hulk on the beautiful blue sea. The sky was lighter blue and equally smooth. They continued to accelerate through Mach 1.1.

“Home base, see you,” Wink transmitted.

“No tally on you, continue… tallyho. You’re awfully low,” the Air Boss transmitted, corrective concern in voice.

“Roger that,” Wink said, smiling.

In an instant they were on the carrier. They flew down the port side of the Washington, like a blurred image in a photograph, with no sound.

Big McMack, standing on the flight deck, was always amazed at the sight of a supersonic airplane. He had done it countless times, but seeing it from the flight deck was another experience entirely. He scanned the faces of the Israeli dignitaries as they watched the passing Tomcat. He knew the look. He knew what they were saying: “It’s so quiet…” Just wait he said to himself, putting his fingers in his ears.

Woods and Wink looked up at the figures standing on the flight deck as the Tomcat flew like an arrow at fifty feet over the water, twenty feet below the flight deck. They passed the entire length of the flight deck in less than a second.

“You ready?” Woods asked Wink.

“Pull it,” he replied, leaning back in his seat.

Woods pulled on the stick as they passed the ramp of the flight deck and pegged the accelerometer on 6.5 Gs. The silent Tomcat pulled up from the horizon and pointed straight up from the earth with no apparent effort.

Big, gritting his teeth, kept his eyes on the watching dignitaries. They were smiling. Then, just when they had forgotten it might ever be coming, BOOM! Their knees buckled and their hands went to their ears. “Too late,” Big said to himself as he removed his hands from his ears and chuckled.

The Jolly Roger F-14 left thick white vapors behind it from the G forces acting on the wings. It screamed away from earth, still supersonic, climbing like a bandit. In five seconds it was passing through ten thousand feet and growing smaller.

Woods held the stick against his left thigh as he took the Tomcat spun through one aileron roll after another. The nose was exactly straight up, ninety degrees away from the horizon, the earth spinning around and around beneath them, as if suspended on a string. “Passing fifteen,” Wink reported.

“Roger,” Woods replied. “Who was on the flight deck anyway?”

“Passing twenty. I’m not sure. I think the Israeli Secretary of Defense and a couple of other politicians.”

“Prime Minister?”

“Passing twenty-five. Yeah, he was supposed to come. Don’t think he did though.”

“We’ll level off at thirty.”

“Okay.”

As they passed through thirty thousand feet, no longer supersonic but still rocketing away from earth, Woods steadied the Tomcat in level flight, upside down, then rolled upright, his throttle reduced to four hundred knots.

“Victory 200, RTB.”

“Roger, 200. Air show complete, green deck. Cleared into the break.”

“Roger that,” Wink said. “Let’s do it.”

Woods rolled upside down and pulled the nose down toward the horizon. The plane quickly descended through twenty thousand feet and headed back toward the ship. Woods glanced to his right as they straightened from their left turn. “Check it out,” he said, looking over at Israel. “Sure is pretty.”

“I’ll say.”

“You ever been there?”

“No. Passing through five thousand feet. You?”

“Once. Wings coming back. Last cruise I was on.”

“What did you think? Victory 200, five miles for the break, see you.”

“Roger, 200, cleared for the break. Say speed.”

Wink glanced at his airspeed indicator. “Five hundred.”

“Roger.”

The carrier was passing underneath them and to their left. Woods banked the plane slightly to see the deck clearly. “Check that out,” he said. “They’ve got the dignitaries standing on the flight deck just forward of the island.”

“We ought to bolter just to give them something to see.”

“Not today. I’m too hungry.”

They waited until they had passed in front of the carrier. Wink braced and Woods snapped the Tomcat into a left bank, pulling back hard on the stick. At eight hundred feet they headed downwind, the opposite direction of the ship. Leveling out, they went through the landing checklist quickly and started their approach turn toward the carrier, the only airplane in the air.

Big watched his roommate bank toward the flight deck onto final approach. The LSOs were in place, ready to receive the big fighter. Woods rolled into the groove and steadied on his heading and rate of descent. He was on rails. The Tomcat descended steadily and quickly toward the landing area as the dignitaries stared, openmouthed.

Wink transmitted, “Victory 200, Tomcat, ball, 7.0.”

The LSO replied, “Roger, ball.”

Woods watched the ball, the landing reference lens on the port side of the ship. It was perfectly centered. He glanced again at his rate of descent, his lineup, and his angle of attack. The deck rushed up and stopped the Tomcat’s descent and the wire grabbed the tailhook. Woods put the throttles full forward and tried to pull away from the wire. The Tomcat rolled to a short stop on the deck. A perfect landing.

The Israeli dignitaries were stunned. They had been around the military all their lives, but had never seen anything remotely like this. They looked at the Tomcat and the carrier with envy.