Flash Point

33

Those in CVIC turned their attention to the television, which was tuned to CNN. They watched the Syrian Ambassador to the United Nations read his prepared statement.

“Yesterday, as night fell on the peace-loving people of Syria, the United States launched an unprovoked attack into the sovereign territories of Syria and Lebanon. These attacks killed innocent civilian women and children. Syria defended itself with surface to air missiles and AAA, shooting down three American warplanes.”

“Bullshit!” Wink said. “They cannot utter one friggin’ sentence, without some bullshit lie falling out of their mouths—”

The Ambassador continued. “These attacks cannot go on. The United States may not conduct war on a country with which it is not at war without retaliation. Syria will respond, and will respond in kind. We will not tolerate American aggression. We will not tolerate our people being killed in cold blood. We expect apologies from United States, reparations, and promises not to intrude into our airspace or our territory.

“The Americans are becoming bullies of the Middle East, where they do not even belong. They have not been invited by anyone, they have not taken reasonable steps, and now they have killed innocent people. Now of course we know the true facts.”

He stared into the camera. “Even before these latest attacks the Americans had shown their contempt for Syrian and international law by attacking Lebanese and Syrian positions, by shooting down Syrian pilots, and bombing a Lebanese town in cooperation with the Israeli Air Force. This was because an American Navy officer was with an Israeli Intelligence Officer when she was attacked and killed.

“The Americans know this. Now the world does. The American Naval officer was acting in cooperation with an Israeli intelligence agent. He was in Israel to plan attacks on Lebanon and Syria by the United States Navy, the attacks we are now seeing. They were conspiring to do the very thing that they later did — the U.S. Navy joining with the Israeli Air Force and secretly flying into Lebanon and attacking innocent civilians. Perhaps America has been cooperating with Israel and flying its airplanes on these strikes for a long time. Perhaps we were the stupid ones and simply did not know it. We will have to review the reports of our pilots and those who operated in Lebanon and Syria to see if they have spotted American forces before. We, of course, know that the Israelis operate American equipment. They fly American jets, and drop American bombs, and shoot American missiles. All given to them by the Americans. It is said that the Israelis buy their equipment, but the Americans give the Israelis three billion dollars in foreign aid every year, just enough money to buy all the military equipment that they need. From America of course.

“So America sells its own equipment, or gives it, to Israel, then conspires with Israeli intelligence to ensure that American Naval forces fly off their aircraft carriers and into Lebanon and Syria to attack our people. But when called to task, when called to account, they lie, say they weren’t there, and then use it as an excuse to do more of the same.”

A few of the journalists were becoming impatient and wanted to ask questions. But the Ambassador was not slowing down even for a second. He had things to get off his chest and he was determined to do so. Unlike most diplomats who made speeches at times such as this, this Ambassador seemed truly to believe what he was saying.

“So the Americans claim that there is a new terrorist organization operating out of Syria, Sheikh al-Jabar. They of course have no evidence that he has ever even been to Syria. They claim he is operating out of Lebanon. Once again, they have no such evidence. They then, without provocation, use these excuses to attack the self-defense capability of Syria and Lebanon.

“Perhaps we now understand. This is the big chance that America has yearned for for so long to come into the Middle East in force. CNN shows us that the Marines are coming. It looks like the Sheikh is right. The Americans are the next Crusaders.

“I want to make the Syrian position extremely clear: If one American sets foot on Syrian soil, or Lebanese soil, we will respond with force. If the Americans think they have a fight now, they haven’t seen anything yet.”

The journalists were lining up for questions. The Ambassador’s dark countenance served him well in discouraging people from asking the obvious questions.

“That is all. I will not take any questions. Go ask the Americans all the questions. Ask them why they are attacking innocent people and when it is going to stop.” He turned quickly and walked away from the shouting journalists.

“There it is,” Pritch said.

“They can ask me those questions,” Woods said, dead serious. “We will never stop until the Sheikh is dead. Simple as that. At least I won’t.”

If the Washington had a Main Street, it was the main deck. Post office, barbershop, ship’s store, cafeteria-like ship’s mess, chiefs’ mess, berthing compartments, XO’s office, ship’s admin offices, legal office, supply office — where you could get paid — just about everything you could want.

Woods walked forward to the chiefs’ mess. He looked around at the sea of khaki. All men in their thirties or forties. The red ordnance shirt stood out among the khaki ones. “Gunner!” he called. He had thought he might find the Gunner here. As a former chief, he still identified more closely with the chiefs he had left behind than the officers he had joined in the wardroom.

The Gunner looked up from his table, surprised to see Woods. “Yes, sir,” he replied. He stood up slowly, reluctantly, from the table and crossed over to the door. Woods could go into the chiefs’ mess if he chose to, but he knew better than to go in unless invited. “Figured you’d be here.”

“Yes, sir,” the Gunner said in his unique, disinterested way. He was clearly unhappy about being interrupted.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Yes, sir,” the Gunner said. He put his hands on his hips and waited for Woods to talk. The chiefs around the mess watched the conversation with mild interest. They knew Woods was one of the good officers. He didn’t lord it over his chiefs, which was the main test of a good officer from their perspective. Let your chiefs do their job and yours will be easier.

“Let’s go to your shop,” Woods said, almost in the tone of an order.

The Gunner heard the tone and realized something was up. He gave a quick head movement to his friends to let them know he was leaving, turned out the hatch, and headed aft on the starboard side of the carrier. They went up two levels to the 02. The ordnance door was painted black and yellow in squadron colors and had a drawing — painted ordnance red — of a falling bomb on the door. A laser-guided bomb, for those who cared to examine the painting — and a good rendition, for those who really looked, with the fins, laser guidance system, and a good trajectory.

They stepped inside the shop and closed the steel door with a slam. Two ordnancemen, Petty Officers in their red long-sleeved cotton shirts, their cranial helmets up on top of their heads, ear protectors off their ears, stood quietly in the shop looking tired and worn. Their shirts had the cast of three days of dirt and grime. They had been up all night preparing the Tomcats for the night strikes about to start. So far, they were very pleased with performance of the F-14’s of VF-103. All the bombs had come off the racks when they were supposed to, and had been placed on target with no casualties. They were keeping a running tally of how many pounds of bombs were being dropped.

Gunner sat down at his desk. As the Warrant Officer of the Ordnance Division, he was in charge of all the weapons for the Jolly Rogers: the 20-millimeter cartridges that went into the Gatling gun in the nose of the Tomcat; the Sidewinder, Sparrow, and Phoenix missiles that went on the aircraft for air to air combat; and all the bombs that were loaded on the belly. He pushed his dark brown hair from the side where it grew across his shiny head to the other side where it lay. It looked ridiculous, but no one would ever even think of telling him that. He was far too serious to ever be ready to hear that his comb-over hair look was silly. He regarded Woods with skepticism.

Woods sat in the metal and vinyl chair and glanced around the shop. Woods was envious. The idea of having a tight group of men and women working for you in a small shop with a narrow focus, where you could measure success on an hourly basis, where you knew exactly where you stood all the time, was attractive to him. It was an oasis from the world of ambiguity.

Woods watched the ordnancemen eat candy bars as they studied the air-plan ordnance loads for the night launches. The Air Wing commander had decided to fly all the strikes at night so that some fool with an AK-47 didn’t connect with a wild shot on one of the Air Wing’s jets.

The calendar on the wall above the steel desk was the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar. The more lurid calendars had been taken down long before under protest because of the addition of women to the ordnance shop. It had changed everything but women were now so commonplace that no one commented. If people felt unhappy about their presence, they kept that opinion to themselves. They all knew what they were supposed to think, and that’s what they said whenever asked.

“We’re not getting these guys,” Woods finally said.

“The Sheikh’s guys?”

“Right.”

“Bombs aren’t doing the job?”

“Not even close.”

“That figures though, don’t it? You can’t blow up a whole mountain. You got to have a target that you can hit. They can probably blow up the building, his fort or whatever, but not the whole damn mountain. I guess he’s buried. I just wish we knew where his headquarters were.”

“We do.”

The Petty Officers glanced at him, eavesdropping. Interested.

“Got the message this morning. They know where he’s hiding.”

“That shit-head. I’d like to just pinch his little neck with a big set of tweezers.” He touched his hair to see if it was falling. “So where is he?”

“In their fortress in Iran.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve seen the BDA photos, right? Two-thousand-pounders are hitting exactly where we’re aiming. All we’re doing is turning big rocks into little rocks. We’re bombing the hell out of the sides of couple of mountains, but I don’t think we’re getting through. Maybe ten or twenty feet deep, but not deep enough.”

The Gunner shrugged. “Don’t know what they expected. Those things can’t penetrate granite, or even dirt. At least not very far.”

“Exactly. But it’s worse.”

“What’s worse?”

“The place where he is hiding is the fortress in northwestern Iran. Called Alamut. They think he’s buried in that mountain seventy-five to a hundred feet.”

The Gunner turned down the corners of his mouth in disapproval. “Can’t get down there with what we got. Never happen.”

“Exactly. That’s why I came to you.”

“I just said we can’t—”

“I think I’ve got a solution,” Woods said. His eyes were intense in the dim light. “We need to get ahold of a couple of GBU-28s.”

The Gunner sat back. He looked at the overhead as he called up the picture of the massive weapon. “Designed for another one of our pals, Saddam Hussein. Made out of an eight-inch howitzer barrel packed full of explosives or some shit. Never seen one, but sure would like to.”

“That’s it. That’s the one.”

The Gunner smiled, showing his uneven teeth. “That ought to do it. Who’d carry them?”

“I would.”

The Gunner felt another felony coming. “How? The F-14’s never been certified.”

Woods said, leaning forward, “Can we get one of them?”

“Air Force bought a hundred fifty of them in 1995 or ’96. I think two F-111s dropped a couple in Desert Storm and blew Saddam’s bunkers to hell. But he wasn’t there. After that, the Air Force convinced somebody they needed a warehouse full of these things.” He smiled. “We ought to be able to get a couple.”

“Where are they?”

“I think Eglin, but I’ll find out. But nobody’ll let us drop ’em if they haven’t done the flight tests on it.”

“They did do the flight testing. When I was an instructor at Topgun they did some flight tests at the Pax River. A couple of us were allowed to observe. I flew on the wing of the guys who did the drop.”

The Gunner wasn’t impressed. “It’s not in the confidential supplement.” The supplement was the big yellow F-14 manual that contained the weapons information on the F-14. It was the bible for the operation of the Tomcat with various weapons systems.

“The Air Force said it was going to be an Air Force weapon. They didn’t even want us doing the flight tests. They said the Navy didn’t need to pollute their system carrying around the GBU-28. But it passed the flight tests. Trust me.” Woods watched the Gunner’s face. The Gunner was deciding whether to believe him. Woods hadn’t expected the Gunner to think he was lying about it. He had never even considered he might be losing credibility with those who knew him best because of what he had been willing to do to get the Sheikh.

The Gunner stood. “I know the guy who runs the ordnance shop at Eglin. You know what this means, don’t you?”

“What?”

“The Air Force is already pissed. They feel like they’ve been cut out of the pattern. An air war is under way without them being in the lead. They don’t let that happen. They’ve got more PR guys than we have sailors. They’ve got more videotape recorders then we have airplanes. Any time anything is going to happen, they want to lead. You know that.”

“Right—”

“So I call this guy at Air Force ordnance. If I ask him to get a couple of 28’s ready for immediate shipment to the carrier Battle Group, what will go out is that the Navy is about to do a surgical strike. Everyone knows what the only important surgical strike would be in this war. They know we’re going after the Sheikh. They would also know that we’ve found him — which they may know already. I don’t know. Anyway, they will immediately load two, or three, or fifty GBU-28s aboard a B-2, fly it halfway around the world by refueling it thirty times, and say that this is a routine Air Force mission. You know that’s what will happen.”

“So how do we get around it?”

The Gunner put his Jolly Rogers navy blue baseball cap on and pulled it down over his forehead to accentuate his hard look. “I think we plan the mission, and then execute it. If something stops us that’s just the way it goes. If they don’t stop us, then we’ll get our shot.”

“Are you going to help me?”

The Gunner hesitated. He looked at the two Petty Officers hovering nearby. “Give us a minute,” he said loudly.

The Petty Officers put the air plan on the counter and walked out of the ordnance shop, closing the door behind them.

Gunner Bailey stood there looking at Woods. “You’ve already asked me to help you once. I did something I never should have done. I faked some missile records. Which wasn’t easy. The ship’s records are kept by the OHO. I had to call in a couple of big markers. Way big. He was not pleased, especially after the fact when CAG’s hair is on fire and it looks like the biggest damn international incident any of us has ever seen—”

“Look, Gunner, let me—”

“Let me finish,” he said. “I did that, because I thought Lieutenant Vialli got a shitty deal. I was willing to help you. But I don’t like this one bit. I love the Navy. The Navy is my life. More than my family. And I don’t want anyone shitting all over my career for his own reasons. I helped you once, but I’m not sticking my head in another noose. If this is another scam of yours, count me out.”

Woods was stunned. “Gunner, I appreciate what you did. It was risky, and we pulled it off. But this isn’t a scam. It’s totally legit. If we can locate some of these bombs, we’ll put in an emergency requisition request, all aboveboard, all with the Skipper’s approval.”

The Gunner looked into Woods’s eyes for any sign of games. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll get on the e-mail right away.” The Gunner’s demeanor changed. “You need to get on the horn and keep the Air Force’s fat assess out of this. This is our fight. If you got any strings, pull them now.”

Woods immediately thought of Jaime.

President Garrett looked every bit as serious as the Syrian Ambassador did. He began speaking slowly, “I generally do not comment on remarks by diplomats of foreign countries. However, this time I could not let the Syrian Ambassador to the UN’s comments pass unnoticed. He has accused us of conspiracies and evil intentions. I will not allow him to slander our country. We are currently at war. True, it is only against one man and the group that follows him. One man and his group of terrorists, Assassins, and murderers. A group whose objective is to kill Americans. Doesn’t matter whether these people are armed, combatants, military, or even Department of Defense. It is despicable to attack unarmed civilians as they have. But more significantly, the Sheikh declared war against the United States. Unlike many times in the past, we decided to respond directly to this challenge to our country. It was the right decision and we will see it home.

“But Syria is a different question altogether. The implication by the Syrian Ambassador is that we have no business responding to terrorism with a declaration of war. The second implication is that they can harbor and protect the terrorists that they feel like protecting with impunity. Even one who has declared war against the United States. They are very wrong about that. They may try to protect him, but they will be unsuccessful. We will come to wherever Sheikh al-Jabar is hiding, with whatever force is necessary to get him. It doesn’t matter to me whether the result is capturing him, or killing him. What does matter is that we seek justice for the people of this country that he has attacked. If Syria stands between us and him that is not our problem. It is not a condition of our making.

“The Ambassador pretended not to know that Sheikh al-Jabar has been operating out of Syria. Such a position is disingenuous in the extreme. The Sheikh is the current head of the Isma’ili sect of the Muslim religion that has been operating in eastern Syria for hundreds of years. The Assassins, as they are known, have been known to reside in Syria for hundreds of years. To now claim that this particular group of Assassins is unknown to Syria is ridiculous.

“He also knows that the Syrian government has done nothing to limit or stop Sheikh al-Jabar from operating from Syrian territory.

“For Syria to assert these positions on the argument that a U.S. Naval officer was meeting with an Israeli intelligence agent to concoct a scheme for joint operations is outrageous. Navy Lieutenant Tony Vialli had simply fallen for a pretty woman, and had gone to visit her in Israel. That is well known. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. If she was an Israeli intelligence agent, that is news to me, and I’m sure would have been news to him as well.

“He was told, and other officers aboard the ship from which he operated were told, that she was a schoolteacher. It is my understanding that she was going to Tel Aviv to interview with El Al airlines. That has been confirmed to us by the airline itself.

“Syria still claims that United States Navy fighters off the USS George Washington accompanied the Israeli Air Force on a strike into Lebanon. That is false. It is wrong, malicious, and false. The missile they showed to the world as proof was in fact sold to Israel years ago. They know that.”

President Garrett paused and looked at the camera with an intense stare. “What matters now is that terrorists operating from Syria continue to murder Americans. In fact, he seems to have raised the ante with his most recent bloody attacks on innocent civilians. We will raise the ante too. If it means sending American ground troops into Syria or Lebanon, or wherever he is to be found, we will do that. If countries are concerned about American troops landing in their territory, then they should get Sheikh al-Jabar out of their country. It’s as simple as that.”

The President looked at his audience, and said coldly, “If that makes Syria unhappy, that’s fine. This war is not about happiness, it’s about justice and retribution. We will not be stopped.”

Woods didn’t have much time to do what he wanted to do. He also wasn’t sure how to do it. He first had to convince his Squadron Commander, then the Air Wing Commander, then the Admiral, then the Chief of Naval Operations in the Joint Chiefs, that an F-14 off the Washington should be the one to drive a knife through the Sheikh’s heart. All in due time. First he had to figure out if it could be done. The Gunner was working on getting the bomb. Woods didn’t think he’d pull that off, but on the off chance that he did, they had to hit the target. Dead on. No near misses. This was one shot only.

The thing that worried him, other than going into Iran itself and the distance involved, was how to laser designate the hit point. He knew Wink would be fine and that they would hit whatever they had their laser designator on. But to penetrate into the Sheikh’s quarters they would have to hit the sweet spot. And they didn’t know where that was. Woods had reread the message about locating the Sheikh. The message had hidden implications. There was only one way they could know for a fact that the Sheikh was there. Someone was there. On the ground. Woods turned back and headed directly toward CVIC. He had to find out.

He looked around for Pritch. He saw her in the corner studying the charts. “How do we know he’s there?”

Pritch looked up from her work and smiled at him. “Nice to see you too, Lieutenant. I’m fine, thanks.”

“How do we know?” Woods repeated.

Pritch wanted to help. She had begun to identify with Woods. She wanted to tell him everything she knew, but she couldn’t. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s classified.”

“I’m cleared.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’ve had a Secret clearance since I joined the Navy.”

“You and every other officer in the Navy, sir.”

“I had Top Secret at Topgun.”

“Top Secret doesn’t do anything, Trey. This is code word. SCI.”

Special Compartmentalized Information. A clearance wasn’t good enough. You had to have a need to know, and only then were you “read-in” to the project and given the code word of the program. He pressed on, calculating other directions through which to get the same information. He lowered his voice. “Do we have somebody on the ground? Some snake-eater?”

Pritch resisted. “Even if we did, if it’s compartmentalized, I couldn’t tell you about it.”

Woods’s frustration got the better of him. “How the hell am I supposed to fly a mission into Iran if you won’t tell me the source of our information? How do I know whether to trust the information or not?”

“You’re supposed to trust me.”

Woods paused. He realized he actually did trust her. It was the rest of the world of intelligence he didn’t trust. “You have any idea how many people have been killed by relying on intelligence reports? You realize what a total failure intelligence usually represents?”

Pritch winced. “No. Maybe you shouldn’t worry about it.”

“I’m not going to be one more sad memory who relied on intelligence and was killed for it.”

Pritch remembered his notebook. “How do you see yourself being killed because I won’t tell you the source of the information?”

“Because I’m going after the Sheikh, either by myself or with a small strike force. If I don’t know whether your information on his location is any good, I may be doing something too dangerous to be worth the risk. Maybe I’ll let somebody else be the hero.” He was torn. “He may not be there at all.”

“He’s there.”

“How do we know?”

“We just do.” She could see his frustration.

“So why don’t I get to know how we know that?”

“Because you might get shot down.”

Woods hesitated. That was why he and every other Naval aviator had gone to SERE school — Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. There they’d taught you how to be a prisoner of war, how to resist giving away any information, but always knowing that if in fact you encountered dedicated torturers, they would get the information from you at some point. He lowered his voice and looked directly into her eyes. “I still have to know. It’s critical to the mission.”

She was startled. “Why?” she asked as an aircraft flew down the catapult over CVIC, causing the ship to shudder. Neither of them noticed.

“The best way to penetrate this target… would be to have someone on the ground designating the exact impact point with a handheld laser designator. Otherwise, we are more likely to miss the impact point then hit it, because it won’t be obvious from IR. Just another point in the dirt.” He studied her face for any sign of the answer. “So do we?”

“I can’t say.”

“This is ridiculous!”

“I just can’t.”

Her answer caused him more concern. “What do you mean, can’t?”

“That’s all I’m going to say.” She considered. “You want someone on the ground to lase the target.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“I’ll ask.”

“Ask who?”

“The people that I have to ask.”

“This is nuts! Speak English! Can it be done?”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“By sending a back channel message.”

“One of those Top Secret messages. The ones I don’t get to see.”

“You make it sound sinister.”

“No, it’s just stupid.” He was growing tired of the resistance he met at every turn. What was supposed to be a team too often felt like a series of bureaucracies. “I need a yes or no.”

“I’ll find out, Trey. Trust me, for a change.”