Flash Point

25

Woods sat at one of the tables in the dirty-shirt wardroom with his squadron mates.

“What do you think?” asked Easy, holding the lasagne on his fork in mid-air, his elbows resting on the table. “We now have evidence CAG has lost his mind. Do we do the Caine Mutiny thing and have him removed, or what?” he said, smiling.

“How could he buy what the Syrians say?” asked Big. “Have they ever said anything that was true?”

“You think he really bought it?” Sedge asked.

“Did you see his face?” Big asked. “He looked like he was going to kill somebody. All because the Syrians claimed to have picked up an F-14 radar.”

“He was really intense,” Easy said. “I thought he was gonna explode.”

“Depends on that inventory, I guess,” Terry Blankenship, the Machine, said in his usual mechanical way. “Like they’re going to find a bunch of missiles missing,” he added. He glanced at Gunner Bailey, who was sitting quietly at the end of the table. “Gunner, you’d better hope to hell your brain-surgeon ordies haven’t lost seven or eight missiles on this cruise.”

Gunner Bailey drank slowly from his glass of red bug juice, then put it down. “We inventory all the time,” he said. “There aren’t any missiles missing. Could have told him that,” he added. He took another sip from his glass and looked knowingly at Woods, who found himself breathing easily again for the first time in an hour.

Sami held the paper in his hands and read it quickly. The Arabic flowed. It was printed neatly in the newspaper and was easy to read even though his was a fax copy. The others in the room waited for him to finish. When he finally looked up, Kinkaid spoke first. “Well?”

“We’re in deep shit—”

“Yeah? Maybe he is. What does it say?”

“Well, first, it’s in Al-Quds al-Arabi. That’s the most authoritative Arabic paper in Europe. Published in London. They printed the entire communiqué. Very nicely done.”

“What the hell does it say?” Kinkaid yelled impatiently.

“The title is: ‘Declaration of War’ — actually Jihad — ‘of the World Islamic Guardians against the Jews and the Crusaders.’ ” He read, then continued. “According to the newspaper it was faxed to them under the signature of Sheikh al-Jabal. The Arabic is incredible. Poetic… He starts off with a bunch of stuff from the Quran and the sayings of the Prophet Muhammad… then he says: ‘Since God laid down the Arabic Peninsula and created the Arabs for the land east of Europe, no calamity has befallen this land like the Crusades, which the Europeans brought here a thousand years ago and continue to this day, now carried on with their puppets, the Jews. The Crusader-Jewish alliance has ruined the verdure of the land, eating its fruits and destroying its people; this when the nations contend against the Muslims like diners around a table of food.’ “ Sami motioned with his hand, indicating he was skipping the totally unnecessary. “ ‘The facts are known to all… ’ Then he lists the three main grievances: ‘First, The United States is occupying the lands of Islam in the holiest of its territories, plundering its riches, overwhelming its rulers, humiliating its people, threatening its neighbors and using bases as a spearhead to fight against the neighboring Islamic peoples. The true nature of this occupation is now made clear by the continuing American aggression against the peoples of Syria, Lebanon, and Iran.

“ ‘Second, despite the immense destruction inflicted on the Iraqi people at the hands of the Crusader-Jewish alliance, and in spite of the appalling number of dead, now exceeding a million, the Americans — never satisfied — nevertheless tried to continue and repeat the dreadful slaughter against Iraq and now spread their death to other countries in the region.

“ ‘Third, while the purposes of the Americans in these wars are religious and economic, they also serve the petty state of the Jews, to divert attention from their occupation of Jerusalem and their killing of Muslims in it.

“ ‘These crimes amount to a clear declaration of war by the Americans against God, his Prophet, and the Muslims. This condition calls for Jihad, according to the Ulema and the Sharia.” Sami glanced at his listeners, explaining, “This is the fatwa — the ruling. It holds that: ‘It is the duty of every Muslim to kill Americans and their allies, both civil and military. It is an individual duty of every Muslim who is able, in any country where this is possible, until the Aqsa Mosque’ — that’s in Jerusalem,” he said, looking up at the now horrified faces of the task force members, “ ‘and the Haram Mosque’ — in Mecca — ‘are freed from their grip and until their armies, shattered and broken-winged, depart from all the lands of Islam, incapable of threatening any Muslim.’ ”

Sami, chilled by the language before him, forced himself to keep reading. “He cites some Quranic verses, then continues: ‘By God’s leave, we call on every Muslim who believes in God and hopes for reward to obey God’s command to kill the Americans and plunder their possessions wherever he finds them and whenever he can. Likewise we call on the Muslim Ulema and leaders and youth and soldiers to launch attacks against the armies of the American devils and against those who are allied with them from among the helpers of Satan… ’ And he goes on with more quotations from Muslim scripture.

“That’s about it. I could explain most of the Quran references if you want. He’s extreme, but I’ve got to say his beliefs are not that unusual in much of the Islamic world.”

“Who does this guy think he is?” Kinkaid whispered furiously. “How the hell can he declare war on the United States?”

“He must buy that Syrian bit about the U.S. Navy going into Lebanon with Israel. That was more effective than we expected.”

“How could he believe that? As if we’re going to send a couple of airplanes with the Israelis. We have never operated with them! What would we accomplish? Some people will believe anything. So,” he said to Sami, “what do you make of it?”

“Pretty simple. He wants a war with the United States.”

Kinkaid gritted his teeth. “Maybe we should give him one.”

Bark sat at the console in a small room on the Washington that controlled the PLAT cameras. It also had a station to replay tapes from previous landings since LSO’s occasionally reviewed the tapes. Once in a while the Air Boss came down and watched a tape. Whenever there was an accident the station got quite a workout. But this was the first time any of the Petty Officers had seen a Squadron Commander watch a normal landing of one of his squadron’s planes over and over again. Especially a three wire. They glanced at each other and shrugged. If a commander wanted to sit there all day and look at landings, it was fine with them.

Bark rolled the tape backward and forward. Regular speed, slow speed, stop action, every way he could. Woods’s plane was coming back from the first hop after they’d pulled out of Haifa. Bark leaned forward, easing the cramp in his lower back from the metal chair he had been sitting on for too long. The missile inventory had gone fine. There wasn’t one missile missing. That should have ended it. But Bark wanted to check everything. He had a feeling. Woods and Big had come back awfully sweaty.

He studied the images of Woods’s F-14 coming aboard the ship again. Suddenly he slapped a large button on the console and froze the image on the screen. He studied it. There was a dark area, perhaps a shadow, perhaps carbon, on the Sidewinder missile rail on the left side of the airplane. But the missile was still there. They couldn’t have shot any missiles, Bark thought to himself. Even if the Gunner has faked the missile records, that wouldn’t explain how Woods had missiles on his airplane when he landed. Can’t reload in the air. They sure weren’t reloaded on deck. He could see them. He slapped the button again and the film continued. He stood and stretched, checking his watch. Not time for chow yet. He debated inspecting Woods’s airplane. Might as well. “Thanks,” he said to the Petty Officers as he stepped out of the small room and headed to the hangar deck.

Commander Whip Sawyer had enjoyed his first month as the Naval attaché at the U.S. embassy in Paris, one of the choicest jobs in the entire world. There wasn’t a lot of intelligence gathering or analysis, but there was the opportunity to live in Paris. Sawyer had brought his entire family along with him on this choice assignment. His children, however, ages seven, nine, and eleven, had been nervous about the change. They had spent the last five years in Coronado, California, where Sawyer had been an Intelligence Officer on the staff of a SEAL team, and then for SPECWARCOM, Special Warfare Command. He spoke passable French, and had placed his children in French school. The children had come home teary-eyed for the first two weeks, but were now getting used to it. His wife was still unsure, but overall his family was settling in. They had found a wonderful small apartment in the fourth arrondisement, not too far from Notre Dame.

Sawyer was content. He had already discovered what he considered to be one of the best jogging paths in the world — from his apartment, down to the Seine riverbank, then along the river toward the Eiffel Tower. He could run along the Seine as far as he wanted, sometimes on the sidewalk above, where artists sold paintings and booksellers sold used books, sometimes down the stairs on the cobblestone quays along the river where the barges pulled up. It was quieter there, less traffic, and no intersections.

Sawyer had been starting his run earlier each morning so that he was now beginning in the semidarkness, although he could see well enough to keep from tripping. He dashed across the street onto the sidewalk that paralleled the river, keeping his running pace consistent, a moderate pace that would allow him to go five miles or so without overdoing it. Today he decided on the lower route and turned down one of the stone stairways to the cobblestones below. He took the stairs rapidly and headed toward the Eiffel Tower. He wanted to get in a good long run.

The Seine was beautiful in its quickly flowing darkness. Sawyer had been surprised at how clean the city was, and how few homeless people there were. He wondered how France had solved the homeless problem. But there were a few pathetic homeless winos who populated the underbelly of Paris by the river, usually under the bridges. It was one of the unfortunate realities of running on the quay.

Sawyer approached the second of many bridges. It was one of the prettier ones, although some thought it gaudy. It had gilded nudes on the side with Roman-looking soldiers beside them. There were black figures and gold ones, emphasizing the contrast, and the city obviously kept the bridge in good condition. It was a wide bridge and provided cover for several people beneath. Sawyer recognized all of them, except one. The person looked like a puddle of humanity in large clothes full of dust and leaves. An old woman’s head stuck out the top of the puddle of clothing, her arm protruding at an odd angle holding a cup out to him. Her witch-like voice called to him for money. As he got closer he glanced at her again. The woman was a big lump with no obvious spine, and seemed to have no legs at all. Sawyer tried not to show his revulsion. As he reached her, he accelerated just slightly. He never saw the leg come out from under the dark mass of clothing, the strong leg of a man. Timed perfectly, it caught him in the shins as momentum carried him forward. Sawyer slammed to the cobblestones, instinctively putting his hands out in front to catch himself but he was falling too hard. He smashed his cheekbone on one of the cobblestones, lights shooting through his head as he groaned and tried to get back up. The young man who had been hidden under the pile of clothes threw off the black cape and the woman’s face and jumped on Sawyer, still lying on the stones. He pulled out a knife, jerked Sawyer’s head back, and cut his throat. As the blood spurted onto the cobblestones, the man rolled Sawyer’s body into the Seine.

Woods and Big were surprised by the loud knock on their stateroom door. It was after midnight.

Bark stormed in, closing the door loudly behind him.

Woods stood up as Big jumped down from his rack.

“Hey, Skipper.”

Bark looked at them without speaking. Finally he said, “Can I sit?”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“So, I need to get the straight story.”

“What straight story?” Woods asked.

“You know exactly what story I’m talking about.”

“The Syria thing?”

“Right. Talk to me.”

Woods and Big eyed each other, wondering who was going to go first. Then Woods spoke. “What is there to say?”

Bark was not impressed. He wanted this to be easy, not something he would have to work for. “Guess what I’ve been doing?”

Woods felt a chill race through him. “What?”

“I’ve been watching the PLAT films from the day of the attack.”

Big tried to look casual. “What for?”

“One thing that has puzzled me. If anyone was involved in the attack, it had to be you, now that they’ve given us a time when this supposedly happened. But I couldn’t figure out how you could have returned to the ship with all your missiles. I was checking for that.”

“We had all our missiles.”

“That’s right.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You know how when you shoot a Sidewinder it leaves carbon deposits on the missile rails?”

Woods tried not to look away from Bark’s intrusive stare. “Sure.”

“Can you explain to me how it is that each of you had missile exhaust on your Sidewinder rails coming aboard the ship that day?”

Woods felt trapped. He wanted to confess, to brag, to tell Bark everything. He knew Bark would understand. But he also knew Bark would do his duty. And that meant Leavenworth. “That’s impossible, Skipper. Can’t have missiles and exhaust at the same time. Unless the exhaust is old.”

Bark shrugged. “That’s what I still can’t figure out… Well, I thought I’d just stop by and see if you guys had any ideas.” He had great respect for his two Lieutenants, but he knew they were capable of a lot of things. “Either of you have anything to say?”

“Not me,” Woods said.

“The exhaust could be from the missile shoot at Roosevelt Roads.” Big said. “We shot a lot of Sidewinders there.”

“You think so?” Bark asked.

“Sure,” Big said. “Probably was.”

Bark’s eyes focused on Big. “Except the two Sidewinder shooters at Rosy Roads were 200 and 201. I checked.”

“Oh,” Big said, feeling exposed.

“And I went down to the hangar bay and looked at your two airplanes. You know what? You can still see some faint missile exhaust marks on the rails. It’s still there.”

“How can that be?” Woods asked.

“I was hoping you two could tell me. Anything else you want to say?”

“About what?”

Bark frowned. “About anything.”

Woods couldn’t speak. Anything he would say could imply something. Finally he said, “Not really.”

Bark waited, then stood up, opening the door. “See you in the morning.” The door slammed behind him.

Woods waited and heard Bark’s footsteps on the tile as he strode quickly down the passageway toward the ready room.

Big said, “We’re busted.”

“If we were busted, he would have said so. He’s not sure.”

“He may be very sure. He might have just been giving us the opportunity to prove we’re honest… I guess we aren’t.”

“We didn’t lie.”

“That wasn’t a lie?”

“Not really—”

“Shit, Sean! What do you think we’re doing here? We just deceived our Squadron Commander!”

Woods eyes were darkening. “Did you really think we’d go into Lebanon, or Syria, or wherever, and kill some people and not lie about it?”

“I don’t know. It just feels so dirty. Lying to your CO is just so unbelievable.”

“You’d better get used to it, Big, unless you want to go to Leavenworth.”

“You’re okay with all this?”

Woods wasn’t okay with it at all. He had never felt worse in his life. He had broken laws, serious laws, and he had killed for the first time. Now he was falling down the laundry chute of lies and covering. “No. I’m not okay with it. I feel like shit, and I’m yelling at you because I don’t know what else to do. I want to just go on with my life and be a Naval officer. I want to get back to complaining about Navy paperwork, or the night’s movie. Or Bernie the Breather… What can we do about it now, Big? We can’t undo it.”

“Nope.”

“If we confess, we’ll just go right to Leavenworth.”

“We never should have done it.”

“So what now?”

“I don’t know.”

“I guess we repent and go straight. We don’t rob any more banks, and we don’t go on any more air strikes into Lebanon.”

“I’m not sure that’s enough.”

“It’s all we’ve got.”

Ronald Pope enjoyed his work as the Assistant Secretary of State for Middle Eastern Affairs. It was very interesting, and allowed him to travel, but he was growing tired of his job. He wanted to move back into academia where the demands were substantially less, and he could write to his heart’s content. He thought a life of writing would be just the thing. His mind was full of book ideas and articles. Even driving to work with the radio on, he was thinking of what he could write about the Middle East. There was so much to say, the area was so complex and difficult. Maybe one day.

He shifted his briefcase to his left hand as he put his key in his car door to lock it. It jammed slightly and he grew annoyed. He had chosen not to get an alarm or keyless entry on his new Taurus, and now regretted it. He was sick of having to lock the door with a key. He knew he could just push the button on the inside of the door to lock all the doors at once, and then just close the driver’s door, but he didn’t want to take the risk of locking his keys in the car. So every day he shifted his briefcase to his left hand and put the key into the door.

“Excuse me,” a man said, who suddenly appeared next to him.

“Yes?”

“Are you Ronald Pope?”

“Yes. Who are you?” His eyes darted around for help, in case he needed it. But no one else was there. He always arrived before his peers.

“It doesn’t matter.” The man pulled a gun with a long silencer on it out of his jacket. Pope stared at the gun. He had never even seen a silencer, but he knew what it was.

“What are you—”

The gun jerked as the man shot Pope in the stomach. He fell, his blood spilling out onto the ground. The man moved closer to Pope, now writhing and groaning. The gun barked quietly as the man shot him again in the chest. Pope lay still. The killer put his gun back in his jacket and leaned down next to Pope, shoving his body underneath the Taurus.

The club in Naples had often been used for squadron functions. The F-18 squadron had reserved it long ahead, knowing that it booked up early when the carrier was in port. The Mediterranean usually contained at least one American aircraft carrier, sometimes two. One was almost always at sea. The George Washington was in the eastern Mediterranean and the Dwight D. Eisenhower (CVN-69) was in port in Naples. VFA-136, an F/A-18 squadron, had decided to have a Dining-In, an officers-only party, where the officers wore their dress white uniforms and enjoyed the Naval traditions of roast beef, port, and toasts. It was a highly regimented, scripted event. The officers had been anticipating the night for a month, dreading it because they had to wear their dress uniforms, but looking forward to it because of the Navy mythology that rose around the dinners. Stories of great excesses and drunkenness, toasts given and regretted, food fights, general mayhem and craziness. Few had seen such things, and the legends went back several decades, even centuries, but there was always great anticipation of legends in the making.

Commander Gary Witt, the F-18 Squadron Commanding Officer, was by definition the president of the mess. He was, therefore, required to do certain things and behave in a certain way. Very savvy, he knew what was expected of him and so far he had been doing his job beautifully. He caught the signal from the Lieutenant who was acting as the Officer of the Mess with a sword on his side that it was time to parade the beef. Witt stood and asked for attention. “As you all know, it is now time for that great moment where we begin our feast by bringing in the main course for all the red-blooded Americans seated at these tables. I call your attention to the parading of the beef!”

With that the doors opened in the back of the banquet room and two large Italian waiters entered. Walking solemnly, they carried an enormous platter between them on their shoulders. A bagpiper followed them, odd moaning sounds coming from his instrument as he puffed up the bladder in preparation for playing. Finally, in keeping with the tradition, “Scotland the Brave” screamed out of the pipes. The waiters and the piper made their way slowly around the room, allowing each officer to gaze longingly at the beautiful side of beef as their eardrums were pierced by the deafening bagpipes.

Suddenly the doors on the side of the room flew open. A man in a hood and black clothing appeared with an assault rifle with a scope at his shoulder. He glanced around quickly, saw Witt standing at the head table, and sighted through his scope. Several officers cried out at the same moment so that the Officer of the Mess reached to his side for his sword, but it happened too fast; no one could stop the shooter. He fired and Witt fell forward, his head slapping against the lectern as he dropped to the floor, dead. Some of the men jumped to their feet, ready to rush the gunman. The Officer of the Mess had pulled out his sword and was moving toward the gunman when the man saw him and immediately fired three bullets into him, killing him instantly. The gunman stood quietly, waiting for anyone else to move. No one did. The pilots wanted to charge out and attack the gunman but they all had seen what happened. The man began backing up slowly, moving toward the door where he had entered. Two other gunmen, also wearing hoods and carrying assault rifles with scopes appeared, opening the two doors for the killer, and he backed out unmolested. As the room erupted in shrieks of horror, revenge, and anger, the three gunmen disappeared.