Flash Point

28

Sami strode into Kinkaid’s office and looked at his boss anxiously. Kinkaid glanced up from a pile of papers he was leafing through. “Right in the middle of this crisis, I have to do paperwork. What you got?”

“I’ve been searching every library I can find. Every historical reference I know, anything else that would help. I found some histories of the Isma’ili sect, the one these Assassins came from. I think I found something.”

Sami walked over to the table and spread out an Operational Navigational Chart of the Middle East. Then he laid several reference pages he had copied on the corner of the table. “Check this out,” he said, handing a copy of a photograph to Kinkaid, who took the picture and studied it. “What’s this?”

“Alamut. The very place we talked about. The fortress of the Old Man of the Mountains, where these guys have operated for centuries, off and on. The same place referred to by Marco Polo, of all people. This is the actual place.”

“Where’d you get this?”

“It was in a book I found. Looks to me like the fortress has been improved since it was last abandoned. I think we have to consider the possibility that he went back to the place where his namesake originated.”

“When was this photo taken?” Kinkaid asked, his curiosity aroused.

Sami brought the photo close to his face to study the unusual numbers at the bottom. “It doesn’t say. But I think it was taken in the 1930s.”

“There’s no photograph of this fortress after 1930?”

“I sure haven’t found one.”

“Maybe it’s time to get some new imagery,” Kinkaid said. “Where is this place?”

Sami leaned over the chart and studied the northwestern part of Iran. He checked the piece of paper on which he had written the latitude and longitude. “Right… here,” he said, putting his finger on the brownish area on the chart, some of the highest mountains in Iran.

“Shit, Sami. Talk about inaccessible. We could never get anyone in there. And worse than that, it’s in Iran.” Kinkaid pondered the problem. “We’ve declared war against this guy, but we haven’t declared war against Iran. Ever since that declaration of war went out, they’ve been yelling about how they are going to go ballistic if we set one foot on their land or do anything contrary to their sovereignty. Typical Iranian bluster, but still…”

“We can at least get some imagery. If he’s there, maybe we’ll be able to figure it out. If he isn’t there, we’ll know to look elsewhere.”

“Like where? Could he be somewhere else?”

“Yes. Those were even harder to locate than Alamut. According to the stuff I found, this guy, or the ones who came before him, went everywhere. Egypt, India, Pakistan, Syria, Lebanon, even Jerusalem. Everywhere. But it’s still a small group that is generally thought of as political, even in Islamic circles. There are several other mountain fortresses that may be tied to this guy. Left over from the Crusades. Some were built to stave off attacks that were sure to come from their Muslim neighbors. I finally came up with two others that I think are candidates. I could only dig up a picture of one of them, and we’ll need to track the others.”

Kinkaid was pleased. Although it wasn’t hard information, it was a good start. It certainly gave them something to work toward, and at least a place to focus intelligence gathering. “Let’s find the two. You can keep looking for more in the meantime. What do we know about them?”

Sami picked up the stack of papers on the table corner. “The first one isn’t too far from where Ricketts got it.”

“Dar al Ahmar?”

“Yeah.” Sami recalled the laser sight dancing on his eyes. “Sure would have made things easier if he had just kidnapped the Sheikh.”

“And he’d still be alive… I had forgotten he was even there. How could I have forgotten that?” he asked Sami, but more to himself. “That guy gave his life for his country, and nobody’ll ever know. Except us.” He paused.

Sami thought maybe it was time for him to leave when Kinkaid spoke again. “We should have known about the Israeli air strike. We could have coordinated with them to take out this Sheikh guy before he did more damage. Not only did we not coordinate, we didn’t even know about their plan. So we took a risk, sent one of our best men to snatch this guy, and he gets obliterated by a bomb that we should have known was on its way. Just three weeks ago, I was sitting in this same room with Ricketts planning his operation. And now he’s dead. And I had forgotten about it.” Kinkaid sat down heavily. “How do you get to the point, Sami, where the immediate takes away your friends and their memories?”

“When you still have to finish it. Once we’ve finished it we can think about it more. He sure wouldn’t want us to stop now.”

“That’s what’s really ironic about it,” Kinkaid said. “The Assassins didn’t kill Ricketts. The Israelis did.”

Sami waited. “Would you like to see the other two locations?”

“Yeah.”

“The first one is in Lebanon. It’s about eighty-five miles northeast of Dar al Ahmar. It is not as high as Alamut, but it’s difficult to see — it’s built into the side of a mountain as opposed to sitting on top of the mountain. Very hard to find, according to the accounts I have read. In any case, it is right… here.” He pointed to an area in eastern Lebanon southeast of the Bekáa Valley.

Kinkaid studied the position. “Conveniently located under the SAM umbrella of the Bekáa Valley.”

“Exactly. The other one is in southeastern Syria, also in the mountains. There aren’t many references to it, even in the Isma’ili documents.”

Kinkaid knew what had to be done. “I’m going to get the best possible imagery of all three of these positions immediately. The two carrier battle groups are supposed to rendezvous today. We need to get imagery to them as soon as possible. The President wants this war under way. He’s scared to death of having declared war against one guy, not knowing where that guy is. According to the Director, it’s his one fear — we’ve declared war against one guy who then eludes us for years.

“Maybe we should declare war only against countries. At least you always know where they are.”

“Well, if this goes sideways, and Syria and Lebanon and” — he glanced down at the chart with Alamut marked on it — “Iran get as mad as I think they will, we may soon have a real war with real countries and we’ll know exactly where they are. And they’ll know exactly where we are too.”

Bark waited in his flight jacket at the front of the ready room. Woods sat in his chair going through the large metal drawer that was under his seat. It stuck out between his legs. He pushed aside various notes, Navy instructions, and copies of Approach and Naval Aviation News to find a blank writing pad. He finally found a mangled white one and pulled it out. He tried to bend the corner of the paper back so it looked slightly closer to a flat, respectable writing pad.

Bark spoke to Woods. “Trey, you ready?”

“Yes, sir. Just getting some paper.”

“You have the charts Pritch did with the SAM sites?”

“Big was going to bring those.”

“Where is Big?”

“He stopped by the stateroom to get his laptop.”

“We’re supposed to be at the helo in five minutes.”

“Yes, sir. I know.” Woods looked at his watch and glanced at the SDO’s desk to see if anyone was on the telephone. He walked quickly to the desk and dialed his stateroom. Big answered. “Big, you coming?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right there. I was just looking at something that made me have to go clean out my drawers.”

“What’s that?” Woods asked, trying to stay casual as he watched Bark for any sign of anger or suspicion.

“The photographs from Syria that claim to show the American missile that shot down one of their jets.”

“Really,” Woods said. Bark was growing impatient. “Bring it along.”

“Roger that.”

“Are we dead?”

“Not sure.”

“Okay. See you in a minute.” Woods hung up the phone.

“Dead about what?” The Squadron Duty Officer asked.

“He’s afraid we won’t get to go on the strike. He figures Lieutenant Commander and above only. Too much glory to be had.” Woods sat down and scribbled on his notepad. He hated the feeling of things closing in on him.

The ready room door flew open and Big strolled in with his laptop and notebook. “Sorry, Skipper.”

“Let’s go,” Bark said. The three of them left the ready room, heading to the flight deck inside the island. They donned cranial helmets and flotation vests and went out to the waiting SH-60 that was turning on the flight deck. The helicopter crewman directed them to their seats. They strapped in and immediately began looking for a way to escape if the helicopter went into the water. Some other pilots, in addition to Wink and Sedge, were already in the helicopter. They all knew what the others were thinking, because jet pilots always thought the same thing when they got in a helicopter — they had just increased their chances of being killed.

Jet pilots, as a rule, would rather walk than fly in a helicopter. The pilots who fly supersonic jets for a living and sit in ejection seats all day believe helicopters to be much more dangerous than their jets. One fact had settled deep into the psyche of jet aviators in the Navy: In one year in the nineties more jet pilots were killed as passengers in Navy helicopters than in jets. It was the kind of statistic that had been remembered and repeated for years because of its mythological significance. It was reinforced by the unpleasant training they all had endured — being strapped into a simulated helicopter, blindfolded, dropped into a deep swimming pool upside down, and told to escape from the sinking helicopter while holding their breath underwater.

Finally they heard the rotor blades bite more heavily into the air and the SH-60 rose from the flight deck of the Washington, climbing away quickly from the ship and heading toward the Eisenhower, sixty miles away. In World War II when aircraft carriers operated together, they generally stayed within sight of each other. It allowed for their antiaircraft guns to support each other. In the modern Navy, carriers operated within visual range of each other only for photographs.

This would be the first time since Desert Storm that carriers had worked together in combat. The aviators were excited. They would get to do their two favorite things: fly fast and blow things up. They could only hope that some country would get mad enough to send up its Air Force. If that happened, they would get to do what they all dreamed about — shoot down another fighter who didn’t want to be shot down. They yearned for the opportunity, usually unspoken, to prove themselves against an enemy.

The eastern Mediterranean was cloudy but still mostly sunny. The customary haze obscured the horizon though the visibility was six or seven miles. The SH-60 made it to the landing pattern of the Eisenhower in less than thirty minutes. During the transit the F-14 aircrew had been silent. They weren’t hooked up to the helicopter Internal Communication System and, other than yelling, had no way to talk. Nothing on this flight was important enough to lose one’s voice over. For the most part they’d sat quietly, bobbing in response to the helicopter’s movements, lost in their own thoughts.

Except Woods. He was fighting the urge to hyperventilate. He was thinking about the picture in Big’s flight suit pocket. Woods couldn’t see it, he couldn’t even bring it up or ask Big how he might have come into possession of such an interesting photograph when no one else seemed to be aware of it. What would he say if it was their missile and it could be traced? The photo might be virtually unanswerable proof. If so, not only would it show they did it, it would show they lied about it and constructed an elaborate scheme with others to hide the fact. Pritch would be at risk; so would Tiger, Big, Sedge, Wink, and the Gunner. Even the Ordnance Handling Officer. Woods knew the Gunner couldn’t gundeck the missile records by himself. They were kept on hardcopy and on the computer. The Gunner must have called in a big favor with the OHO. His neck would be in the noose too, and Woods hadn’t even met him. Going to Leavenworth had seemed so noble a risk to take to avenge Vialli, but as the actual possibility on the aura of reality, he found the idea shockingly unattractive. He forced himself to think of something more pleasant, like the helicopter losing power, banging off the flight deck, and landing upside down in the sea. That was something he could take action about, or sink his mind into for a few seconds.

He couldn’t help thinking of his Navy career. He used to wonder whether to retire in twenty years as a Captain, or in thirty years as an Admiral. Now he thought of his Navy career in terms of hours, or maybe minutes.

He felt the helicopter settle slowly onto the flight deck. He thought of the strike planning ahead, of the two carrier battle groups working together. Whatever came of his first adventure into Lebanon, this was invigorating. This was how it should be done. He almost smiled as he thought of his congressman’s speech asking for a declaration of war. Exactly what Woods had thought he should do. If it had been done a little earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have gone into Lebanon on the Israeli raid. Maybe the State Department guy and the Navy attaché and that Squadron Commander and the Officer of the Mess would still be alive. Maybe the Sheikh would already be dead. Never know now, Woods thought.

Their helicopter was the last one to arrive at the conference. They went quickly through the hatch into the island of the Eisenhower and down the passageway. Even though none of them had ever set foot on the Eisenhower they knew the way perfectly — it was identical to the Washington, both Nimitz-class carriers. They climbed quickly down the ladders to the wardroom on the second deck. It was set up for a presentation with an overhead projector, computer projector, charts, and a lectern with a microphone.

Woods and Big moved toward the rear of the large wardroom and sat down with other junior officers. Wink and Sedge followed Big and Woods. Bark went forward and sat at the table reserved for the Squadron Commanding Officers.

The excited conversations of aviators from both Air Wings filled the room with a buzz. They had been selected by their squadrons to be involved in the planning of the strikes. The best minds in the squadrons. The most experienced. Almost all were graduates of Topgun, or Strike University, where strike warfare and air combat were taught in the deserts of Nevada by Navy instructors.

The aviators, or Airedales as they were called in the Navy by nonfliers, were ready to go. They just wanted to know what the targets were. Not that they cared. Knowing that they were going after the terrorist who had taken it upon himself to attack Americans and kill their fellow Naval officers was enough for them. Each person in the wardroom thought declaring war against an individual was one of the greatest ideas they had ever heard of. No more dark, covert operations. This was using sharpened military instruments as they were intended to be used. The Navy pilots felt as if they had been asked to a prom.

The ship’s messmen had set up food in the wardroom. There were several stations, like salad bars. Many of the officers grabbed trays and went through the lines.

“Hey! Trey!” an officer called as Big, Sedge, Wink, and Woods made their way to the back of the line.

Woods looked around. It was Terrell Bond, a friend of his from flight training, who was now an F-18 pilot on the Dwight D. Eisenhower. “Tear! What’s happening?” he said, extending his hand.

“How’d you get stuck with this job?” Bond asked.

“Yeah, stuck. I begged for this. Our big chance to go after this Sheikh guy.” Woods introduced his squadron mates.

“Hi,” Tear said.

“How’s it going?” Big asked. “How’d you meet Woods? You guys in the brig together?”

Bond laughed. He was tall and good-looking with a perfect smile. His dark black skin looked like obsidian. “Seems like it. We were at Meridian together.” Meridian was the Navy jet training base in Mississippi.

Big replied, “At least you didn’t get stuck with him in the same squadron. I don’t know how I’m ever going to get rid of him.”

Tear looked at Woods. “It’ll be nice to turn this Sheikh into dust, but you already had the chance, didn’t you?”

Woods frowned. “Huh?”

“That foray into Lebanon that everybody in the world is talking about. Wasn’t that you?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Woods asked, chilled.

“Hell, it’s all over the fleet. I think one or two of our guys are in e-mail contact with your girlfriend.”

“Hey, bite me,” Woods replied.

“So,” Tear pushed. “How was it? You going to get your picture on the wall at Topgun for four kills?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, okay. Cool. One day?”

“If there were anything to tell you about, I would be happy to tell you about it. One day.”

“I hear you. Let’s hurry through this food shit so this killex can get started.” Killex, short for “killing exercise,” Navy lingo for an event. A screwed-up event is a flailex. A bombing exercise is a bombex. Waiting too long is a sitex.

They finished putting food on their plates and worked their way through the salad and sandwich bars. They nodded at other officers they knew, some well, some just as acquaintances. Navy Air was a big family, but a family nonetheless.

As they walked with their trays, Big said quietly, “Shit, Trey. Everybody knows.”

“Don’t say a word, Big. If we let on, even hint at it, we’re dead,” Woods admonished.

“They know!” Big said.

“Cool it. Don’t panic. They can smell panic.”

They took their food to a table closer to the front, where Tear had been sitting with four officers from his squadron. They set their trays down and sat facing the front of the wardroom. Tear addressed his buddies. “Guys, this is Sean Woods — we were at Meridian together — and some other guys from his squadron, Big McMack, Sedge, Wink.” The pilots greeted each other and Tear introduced the officers from the Eisenhower. “This is Dale Hoffer, known here as Dull, Stilt Wilkins, and Ted Lautter.”

They all shook hands, each checking out the other for patches, rank, and pecking order.

They discussed who was where in the fleet and who was going to what job ashore in the next year as they downed their food. Woods watched a Captain he didn’t know approach the podium. “Who’s the 0–6?” he asked.

“Our CAG. Bill Redmond, or Red Man as he is known.”

“I’ve heard of him. He’s legendary. F-18 guy. Didn’t he bag a MiG-29 over Yugoslavia?”

“That’s the one.”

“Good guy?”

Tear shrugged. “Typical Captain. More interested in making Admiral than making us safe, or even getting to know us. Kind of an asshole. Rep in his squadron was that he was a screamer.”

“Hold on,” Woods interrupted. “Here we go.”

The overhead lights dimmed as Captain Redmond looked out over the audience and waited for complete silence. Between the two Air Wing Commanders, he had been picked to lead the strike planning effort because of the primary criteria in the Navy for deciding who is best qualified. His lineal number. His name was higher on the captain’s list than the Air Wing Commander from the Washington. So he was in charge, and the brief took place on his carrier. No one thought anything of it. That was always the way it was done. Admiral Sweat, who was truly in charge, wanted to go to the Eisenhower anyway. The Captain of the ship was his former Chief of Staff.

Red Man reviewed his notes and began his presentation. Very tall, he was thin, almost bony, with square shoulders, a large head, and graying blond hair. “Good morning,” Redmond said. “For those of you who don’t know me my name is Bill Redmond. I’m the Commander of Air Wing Seven. I want to welcome those of you who came over from the Washington strike team and from Air Wing Seventeen. I’m not sure we had to do it this way, but I’m glad we did. We need to make sure we’re all operating off the same sheet of music so we can support each other and not run into each other at the wrong time. There’s already enough room to screw this up and I don’t want that to happen because we don’t understand each other.”

He touched the space bar on a computer on the lectern and a large chart of the Mediterranean came up on the screen behind him. “Let me get right to the point. We will be planning a series of strikes that I hope we can launch within the next twenty-four hours. As I said, I hope we can. As you know, the United States has declared war for the first time since December 8, 1941. Some people think that this act is out of proportion, like hitting a fly with a sledgehammer.” There was some snickering from the audience. “Why that is bad if your objective is a dead fly escapes me. I, for one, believe that some flies deserve to be hit with sledgehammers. So let’s not worry about that. Our job is to be the sledgehammer, and make sure it hits the right spot.

“As you can see, I have a chart of the Med here. Our current location is at 33° 51’ N, 86° 45’ E. Right about” — he turned to look at the screen and touched a spot with the pointer — “here.” He placed the pointer on the table next to him. “The real issue though, is where are we going to strike?

“What is our target? We’re not attacking Syria, or Lebanon, or Jordan, or Iran, or Iraq, as countries, but our targets may be in any one of those countries. It makes our mission doubly sensitive with far-reaching political implications. Especially if our target decides to hide out in a city. We can’t control all the political impact, but we can do some things. We must do everything that we can to minimize damage to any person or property other than that belonging to Sheikh al-Jabal.”

“Here we go,” Woods whispered to Tear. “Right after they tell us what a tough, butch sledgehammer we are, they start telling us not to hit anything too hard. Typical.”

The Air Wing Commander touched the space bar on his computer again and a chart of the Middle East came up. “Most of you are familiar with the countries in the Middle East. Many of you have been ashore in Israel, but I doubt if many of you have been ashore in Syria or Lebanon. I know I haven’t. We will be having extensive briefs on each country from our intelligence people this afternoon. We will be discussing their orders of battle, their political responses to our declaration of war, and the best guess of their responses if we in fact strike a target on their territory. But at the end of the day, it will be a crapshoot. We’ll be told either to go, or not. And if we are told to go, we will go, regardless of whether it will make someone mad or not. They should have thought about how good an idea it was to allow the Sheikh to operate out of their territory before now. In any case, before we get into the countries, I’ve asked Commander Glenn Healy to give you an overall intel update.” He looked to his side and Commander Healy took the cue and came forward.

He was the Air Wing Seven Intelligence Officer. “Good morning.” His audience replied in kind.

“I wish I could stand up here and give you the latitude and longitude for every place where Sheikh al-Jabal is likely to be. We could just strike them all simultaneously and be assured of success. But this is a war unlike any war before it. We are after one man and his organization. That, by definition, is not a geographic war. It means that we’re not after SAM sites, ships, ports, cities, military bases, or roads — the usual targets of wars. In some ways, that makes it almost impossible. In other ways, it makes it somewhat easier. We do not have to destroy an entire country to accomplish our objective. We must simply find our target and destroy it. Or him, I should say.

“I want to show you the most recent intelligence that we have, and one additional point of interest. According to the CIA, as of one hour ago, these are the three targets that they believe to be the most likely.” He hit the space bar on the same computer Red Man had used and a closeup map of eastern Syria and northern Lebanon came up.

Woods and Tear sat up, suddenly aware that there might actually be content to this brief. “Shit hot,” Tear said as he watched the screen in the front of the wardroom intently.

“Two of them are on this map, the third is east of here, in Iran,” Healy continued.

Woods and Tear glanced at each other. Iran? Too far. No fun.

“The way that these sites have been determined is admitted by the CIA to be extremely speculative at this time. In fact, they didn’t want to give me this information at all until I insisted. They said it was preliminary, uncertain, and as likely to be wrong as right at this stage. It is based on a historical analysis of the group of Assassins back over several hundred years and the fortress from which they were known to operate. The CIA apparently has some hot young analyst who thinks he understands how these Assassins operate. He believes they are duplicating the historical model — to perpetuate the mystique — and may be operating not only out of the same areas but the exact same fortresses. I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but until we get more imagery or other confirmation, we can use these at least as a starting point.

“Let me show you the first one. It’s in northwestern Iran, and is called Alamut. I don’t know whether we in fact will go into Iran. I have my doubts, but until we know for sure, we have to at least list it as a target. It may be a target for a B-2 — it’s a long way from the Mediterranean for us…”

“Why should Iran get a free pass?” Tear asked Woods in an angry whisper. “Seems to me like they may deserve it more than anybody else on that map. They’ve been jabbing us in the eye since I was born… Pisses me off…”

“This is an old picture, but you can see the castle of Alamut, which was built in the eleventh century and is still there. We’re obtaining imagery on this castle today and should receive the photo within the hour.

“The other two sites are more intriguing, although less historic. One is in Lebanon, southeast of the Bekáa Valley.” He brought up another slide in his PowerPoint presentation, which showed the location on the chart very specifically. It was surrounded by rings of various sizes. They represented the effective ranges of the SAM sites in the area, most of them overlapping. “As you can see, if this were to be a target, it is under the SAM umbrella that protects the Bekáa Valley. That could be a very nasty place to go, if those who control the SAMs decide to shoot them at U.S. planes and I think we should assume that they will. This one is called Teru’im. What I find particularly intriguing is that it is near Dar al Ahmar, which both the United States and Israel identified as where the Sheikh was supposed to have been on the day that the Israeli attack took place. That attack, as everyone knows, is the one by Israel — and someone from the F-14 squadron from the Washington actually participated in!” Healy smiled at Woods and Big, who wore their Jolly Rogers patches on their shoulders. Every eye in the wardroom was on them. Woods couldn’t believe he had been confronted in such a public way. Fear and a conspicuous bafflement froze him. All he could think of was the photograph in Big’s pocket. The Commander probably had a copy too. “Isn’t that right Lieutenant?” he asked Woods.

Woods finally realized that the Intelligence Officer was smiling and got himself under control. His reply was loud enough for everyone in the wardroom to hear. “It was a great flight. There we were inverted, supersonic—”

When he went into “there we were,” everyone in the wardroom knew Woods was signaling the beginning of a “war story” generally divorced from the truth. They laughed, stopped listening — as he had hoped — and turned their attention back to Commander Healy. He brought up the next slide, which was a copy of the photograph that Big had folded up in his flight suit. Big gasped and shifted in his seat to cover the sound. The photograph showed the curving side of a missile. “As you can see, this is a copy of a photograph provided to the world press this morning by Syria. It shows the United States missile that was used to shoot down one of the Syrian MiGs. This was offered by Syria as proof that our friends from VF-103 were in fact leading the strike into Lebanon and shot down one of their planes with an AIM-7M Sparrow missile. They got it right. This is a casing from a Sparrow missile.” He waited as the officers leaned forward to get a better look at the casing. It was white, and was from a missile about six inches in diameter. Woods could clearly make out some English letters on the casing and a part of a number. The Intelligence Officer surveyed the wardroom. “Do we have any of the Ordnance Gunners here?” He waited. “I was hopeful someone could tell me which one of VF-103’s missiles this is. I’m sure we have enough of a serial number here to trace it back. Right, Lieutenant?” He smiled at Woods again.

Woods found that he could barely breathe. “Yes, sir. No problem. I’ll get our Gunner right on it so we can find out which one of our missiles landed in Lebanon.”

Commander Healy went on. “I think the Syrians have forgotten that the AIM-7 missiles we use are identical to the Israelis’. What do they expect to find on the ground? A missile casing with Hebrew on it?” He turned again to the screen. “Let me show you the next potential target. It’s in the southern part of Syria, east of Lebanon, and is also in the mountains. We don’t have a picture of this site because there aren’t any. According to the CIA, the likely position of that fortress is here.” He brought up the next slide, a close-up of southeastern Syria. It was covered with SAM site range circles. He studied it with the rest of the wardroom for a moment. “If we do go after this target, and Syria fires on us, it would be as bad as the Lebanon site southeast of the Bekáa Valley. We’ll have to work hard at SAM suppression.

“Keep in mind, if we go into Syria, they may very well consider it an act of war. They may respond militarily, not just with their diplomats yelling at us. Those are the considerations that I’m sure are being evaluated in Washington, but I want you to be aware of them as well. What could that mean? Well, what would our first move usually be? To go after the SAM sites, right? SEAD, your favorite mission — Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses. Well, who’s the enemy? The Sheikh? What air defenses does he have? What if he’s in Syria, and the air defenses belong to Syria? We’re not at war with Syria. Do we hit the SAMs of a country with which we are not at war? Do we let the SAM sites sit there and lock us up, and just hope they don’t actually shoot at us?”

Red Man couldn’t resist. “The President warned Syria to stay out of the way.”

“True enough, sir, but we have to consider the possibilities—”

“Just tell them not to lift a finger to defend this guy.”

“That’s exactly what they have been told, sir. But what will they do?”

“Don’t know.”

“Me neither. So we need to be aware of the SAM sites even though we’ll probably not be able to hit them — unless, of course, they shoot at us. Just a heads-up, sir.”

There was a murmur of discontent from the aviators in the wardroom. Red Man stood up next to Healy. “I understand your concerns,” he said, facing the two Air Wings. “They’re the same as mine. It puts us at risk. However, as is often the case, political concerns outweigh safety. I know what you’re thinking — someone else’s politics, and our safety. But that’s how it is. Get used to it. Our objective is to conduct precise, effective strikes and get this thing over with. That’s why we’re here. I want to have potential routes planned into and out of each country in such a way that we can keep our exposure to a minimum. Don’t get me wrong. I’m going to ask for permission to strike the air defenses first, I just don’t expect to get that permission.

“Thank you, Commander. Later this morning Commander Healy will be going over the Order of Battle for Syria, Jordan, Iraq, Iran, Israel, everybody. You need to have in mind what all their capabilities are in case any of that comes into play. As I said in my message yesterday, I want to do some group planning. We’ll go to CVIC, and break into the three groups that I have already outlined. I am confident that you brought your charts with you and have already begun thinking along these lines. The PFPS and TAMPS,” the two flight planning programs commonly used on the carriers, “are up and we’ve had extra computers loaded and moved into CVIC so several of you can work at the same time. I want numerous potential routes for each potential target before we leave here at four o’clock today. Everyone understand?” He waited. “Very well. Any questions?”

A Lieutenant Commander toward the front raised his hand. “CAG, do you have any idea when we might launch?”

“Could be within eight hours, could be a week. Depends on how good and how quick our intel is on locating this guy. Once we know, or even suspect, we will launch. And it will almost certainly be at night.” He looked around. “Any other questions?”

No one said a word. They wanted to do something: plan, figure routes, calculate fuel consumption for various weapons load-outs, anything — anything except sit around and wonder where the Sheikh was. If they didn’t find him, this was going to get embarrassing quickly.

“Very well. Let’s get to work.”

“Sir, what about the Air Force?” Tear asked.

Red Man replied immediately. “Good call. They’re trying to make this into an Air Force event. As always, if there is something going on, they offer to preposition their forces and fly the rest of them around the world, refueling them twenty-four hours a day. But so far, this is going to be a Navy war. The President is doing what I think is the smart thing, saying that the war is narrow and short, against one man, and will be over as soon as that man is finished or surrenders. We don’t need the entire United States Air Force to go after one man. In fact, it looks like overkill and says we may have some alternative objectives in mind. If we leave it as a carrier battle, with the strikes going from here, it will appear like a very minor skirmish against a terrorist. That gives the President great comfort, although it may give the rest of the world only minor comfort. In any case, so far at least, this is a Navy war.”

“Oorah,” someone said from the back.

Red Man smiled. “We’re going to go after a very bad person and kill him dead if I have anything to say about it. We will be sending as many strikes as we need. Maybe even more than we need. But we will get this guy. I promise you that.”