Acts of Vengeance

by Robert Gandt

CVBG INTEL OFFICER

  <>

  The instant Morse turned the corner in the passageway, he knew. They were already there. They’d gotten inside his room.

  A marine stood in the doorway, his back to him. How many were inside? Who was it? That FBI attack dog, Korchek?

  For sure it would be Korchek.

  Another minute and he would have gotten to the room before them. His pistol—the Beretta nine millimeter—was still in there. Now he was unarmed, no place to go, five hundred miles at sea.

  A hunted man.

  A spy.

  For a fleeting instant he considered hitting the marine from behind. He was a martial arts expert, skilled enough to drop a man with a blow to the base of his skull. Then he’d grab the carbine. Whoever was inside was probably searching the room. With the advantage of surprise, he’d be able to kill them with the M16.

  He dismissed the idea. Korchek was not a man to be taken by surprise. He was a cunning predator, waiting for him to do something stupid. Stupid ideas grew out of desperation. If he was to stay alive, he had to stop thinking like a desperate man.

  This was the moment that Spook Morse knew would come some day. In his conscious mind he had deceived himself in a dozen ways, rationalizing that he was too intelligent, too careful, too experienced to be found out and captured.

  Why had he taken such risks?

  When he became acquainted with the cultivated Emirate Air Force colonel, Jamal Al-Fasr, during his assignment to the Fifth Fleet staff, it had seemed a mutually useful association. Al-Fasr would sometimes slip to him items about the Arab countries’ defense initivatives and future weapons acquisitions. In turn, Morse would feed him innocuous tidbits about coalition force dispersal and fleet deployments. Never anything sensitive or highly classified. It was the sort of exchange intelligence officers practiced all the time.

  Then, while Morse was still assigned to the fleet post in Bahrain, two events changed his life. The first was his wife’s announcement that she was leaving him for a British R.A.F. Squadron Leader with whom she’d been having an affair for two years. The second, which occurred almost simultaneously, was the Navy’s decision to pass him over for promotion to captain.

  It was too much to accept. He, Spook Morse, who should have risen to flag rank and, at the least, to command of the National Security Agency, would be forever relegated to menial staff posts.

  Then Jamal Al-Fasr made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  He hadn’t done it just for the money. It was something far greater than that. Justice. Honor. Revenge, even. He had been wronged and—Damn them to hell!—they would pay.

  The marine was backing out of the doorway.

  For what seemed like an eternity, Morse and the marine stood in the passageway, twenty feet apart, exchanging gazes. The young man—he was white, about twenty years old—wore the standard Kevlar helmet, holding an M16 across his chest.

  Staring at him.

  Recognizing him.

  Run. The command came from somewhere in the back of his brain, a primal directive. Run! Run like an animal.

  Blindly, pell mell, without direction he sprinted down the passageway, around a corner to the left. Behind him he heard voices: “Mister Korchek, it’s him! He’s heading for the hangar deck!”

  The heavy clumping of boots echoed on steel bulkheads—Whump whump whump—pursuing him like beasts from hell.

  He collided with two men—junior officers engaged in conversation at the door before the ladder down to the hangar deck. One of the men, a lieutenant said, “Hey! What do you think—”

  He stiffarmed the man out of his way, shoving him against the bulkhead. He scrambled down the ladder. “Hey, you!” he heard the lieutenant yelling after him. “Come back here, asshole!”

  Morse had no idea where he was running to. In theory, it was possible to disappear aboard an aircraft carrier like the Reagan, which had as many enclosures and spaces as a medium-sized city.

  He reached the bottom of the ladder and bolted into the hangar bay. For a second he stood there, surveying the scene. The cavernous area was filled with aircraft, wings folded, fastened to the deck with tie-down chains. Tugs chugged across the deck, towing fifty-thousand-pound warplanes like semi-trailers.

  Again, the sound of boots. Coming from the ladder above.

  He darted across the hangar deck, then caught his shin on a tie-down chain and went tumbling across the rough, non-skid surface of the deck. The chain ripped into his leg. Blood spurted from his torn trousers. Painfully he climbed to his feet and hobbled aft, in the direction of the fantail.

  “Stop him!” someone yelled. “Stop that man! He’s a fugitive.”

  At this, a husky young sailor in blue chambray working clothes stepped from under the wing of an F/A-18, blocking his path. The sailor grabbed for his arm.

  He let the sailor set himself, allowing him to yank his arm. Suddenly he shot his right hand forward, heel extended with his full weight behind it, catching the sailor beneath the chin. The man’s head snapped backwards as if on a hinge, making a cracking sound. He toppled backward like a rag doll onto the hangar deck.

  The sound of his pursuers grew louder. Boots pounding on the steel deck.

  Run.

  Running was difficult. His injured leg throbbed, and his breath came in short, hard rasps. The Beretta. Why hadn’t he kept the pistol with him? He should have been ready for this. Where to run?

  That way. Across the deck he saw daylight, clouds, an opaque sky and ocean. The elevator bay was open. The giant deck-edge elevator was used to transport jets between the flight deck and the big interior hangar deck. The elevator was topside now, flush with the flight deck. The great cavity in the side of the ship was opened to the sea.

  He ran toward the elevator bay. An EA6-B Prowler was tied down at the aft side of the open elevator well, and an F/A-18 on the forward side. His heart pounded. He fought the mounting sense of desperation that was seizing control of him.

  At the deck edge Morse stopped, looking wildly around him. They were trotting toward him, thirty yards away. He recognized the burly, oily-faced Korchek, chuffing behind the two marines. He carried a pistol.

  Morse was cornered. No place to hide, no options, not even a weapon—

  He saw something—a locker mounted on the bulkhead behind him. Stenciled on the cover was a label: PYROTECHNIC SIGNALING DEVICES; EMERGENCY USE ONLY.

  He snatched the cover open. Inside the locker was a stack of night signaling flares, another stack of smoke flares, a box of pencil flares that deck crew wore in their flotation vests.

  A box was labeled VERY PISTOLS. He tore the box open. It contained three of the brass-colored pistols. Beside it was another box: STAR SHELLS.

  The Very pistol had been around for over a century. It was a short-barreled device that fired a single large-caliber signaling cartridge.

  He picked up one of the pistols. He snatched one of the star shell cartridges and shoved it into the pistol.

  Clutching the Very pistol close to him, he ran to the edge of the elevator bay. He stood at the deck edge, peering out at the open sea.

  “Hold it right there!”

  The voice came from behind him. That damned Korchek. The man was a slimy animal.

  He continued gazing toward the ocean. The dark rim of a land formation jutted from the distant horizon. The coast of Somalia? Perhaps the Yemeni island of Socotra, nestled in the Gulf of Aden. It meant the ship was heading eastward.

  “Turn around with your hands on your head,” he heard Korchek order. “The game’s over.”

  Morse didn’t respond. You’re wrong, he thought to himself. The game isn’t over. Not yet.

  A strange sense of calm had come over him. The urgent, cornered animal desperation was gone, replaced by a cool detachment. He was again in control. He was Spook Morse, master of espionage.

  He turned to face his enemies. His hands came up with the Very pistol.

  Boom! He was shocked at the heavy recoil of the
gun. For an instant he caught the look of disbelief on Korchek’s face. The star shell signaling charge exploded in a blinding flash where the FBI agent’s face had been.

  He was dimly aware of the muzzle flashes from the two M16 combat rifles as the 5.56 millimeter bullets tore into him.

  <>

  Within seconds, a crowd had gathered around the elevator bay.

  “Medic!” someone yelled. “Get the medics here on the double!”

  “No hurry,” someone else said. “These guys ain’t going nowhere.”

  The hangar deck officer, a lieutenant commander in a yellow jersey, charged across the hangar bay. He pushed his way into the crowd of sailors, wondering what was going on. From up in his control compartment he’d heard something that definitely sounded like gunfire. On his goddamned hangar deck.

  Two marines stood there, wearing their combat gear. On the deck lay a man’s body, some guy in civvies. Ten feet away, at the deck edge, was another body in officer’s khakis.

  The hangar deck officer pushed his way over to the civilian. He saw the guy’s feet, wearing wing tip cordovans. Someone had covered his head with a towel. A puddle of fluid was spreading on the deck around him.

  “What the hell’s going on?” the hangar deck officer demanded. Without waiting for a reply, he stooped over and removed the towel from the man’s head.

  His face was a molten mass of bloody protoplasm. The stench of incinerated hair and flesh hit the officer in the gut like a hammerblow.

  He recoiled from the sight. His hour-old lunch surged like lava from the depths of his stomach. He couldn’t hold it. He staggered to the deck edge and leaned out over the rail, heaving his guts out.

  After a minute of concentrated barfing, the officer turned from the rail and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. Weakly, he walked over to the marines, making a heroic effort not to look at the faceless corpse in civvies.

  “Okay, what happened?”

  The senior marine, a corporal, told him.

  The officer shook his head, his stomach still roiling.

  He looked at the other body, the one in the officer’s uniform. The dead man wore silver oak leaves on his collar. At least half a dozen rounds had been fired into him. He lay on his back, his eyes staring sightlessly out to sea.

  The hangar deck officer recognized him from the wardroom. He was an intelligence officer, one of those prissy staff guys who never wasted his time conversing with the working stiffs. The guy was a mess.

  Torpedoes, air strikes, now a shoot out on his deck. It had been a hell of a day. “Fucking incredible,” said the hangar deck officer.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Strait of Hormuz

  USS Ronald Reagan

  Arabian Sea

  1145, Friday, 21 June

  On the third ring, a voice answered. “Lieutenant Johnson.”

  “It’s Claire Phillips. Would you be available for some conversation?”

  A pause. Claire could sense the hostility over the phone. “The answer’s still no,” B.J. Johnson said. “No interview, no television exclusive of the amazing wounded girl pilot.”

  “That’s not what it’s about.”

  “What then?”

  “Some girl talk. No business, no Navy stuff.”

  “Look, Ms. Phillips, I have a lot to—”

  “Call me Claire. And I promise I won’t keep you long.”

  Another hesitation. “For a few minutes. Where do you want to meet?”

  “Your call.”

  “You know how to find the viewing gallery up behind the island? Vultures’ row, they call it.”

  “I know it. See you in ten minutes.”

  <>

  She’s very good looking, thought B.J., and the thought only made her more angry. Even in a shapeless jump suit and wearing minimum make up, Claire Phillips was one of those women who could look like a fashion model even in a twenty knot wind on the Reagan’s viewing deck.

  “Okay,” said B.J., “what did you want to talk about?”

  “Just some personal stuff. What it’s like being a woman in a man’s world.”

  “I told you before, no interview.”

  Claire held her hands up. “See? No notepad, no recorder. You have my word that whatever we talk about won’t go any further.”

  “I gather you don’t want me talking about what I saw this morning.”

  Claire tilted her head, looking at her. “What did you see this morning?”

  “You and Commander Maxwell, alone in his room.”

  Claire nodded. “I think I’m getting the picture. And what do you think we were doing in his room?”

  B.J. struggled to keep her voice neutral. “Seems obvious enough. I believe they call it shacking up.”

  “Would it make any difference if I told you we weren’t doing that?”

  For a moment, B.J. wasn’t sure how to answer. She folded her arms over her chest and turned to the rail. “I really don’t care, one way or the other.”

  “Yes, you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so angry.”

  “I am not angry,” she said, aware that the anger was spilling out of her like venom. “What you do together doesn’t interest me in the slightest.”

  “Look, B.J., you can believe what you want. But you ought to know that Sam Maxwell has more personal integrity than you’re giving him credit for. He happens to care very much about his squadron and the example he sets for his officers.”

  B.J gnawed on her lower lip while she digested this statement. Whether she believed Claire Phillips or not, she suspected that this part was true. Brick Maxwell might be a misguided buffoon whose taste in women was zip, but he was an ethical guy. Especially when it concerned his squadron.

  Still, the fury was bubbling up in her. As much as she hated it, she knew why. She was jealous, damn it.

  “Are we finished talking?”

  Claire nodded. “Sure, if you want. I’m sorry if I upset you. I just thought that. . . since we have so much in common, it would be nice if we could talk.”

  B.J. looked at her. “What is it we have in common?”

  “Our jobs, for one thing. We both work in what is mostly a man’s profession, and they don’t like us for it. For every woman in a foreign press bureau, there are a hundred guys who think she ought to be home mending their socks. I know it’s the same for you. Look around this ship. How many of you are there?”

  B.J. didn’t have to look around. Since the death of Spam Parker, she had been the only woman fighter pilot on the USS Reagan. Things might had gotten better lately, but she could still sense the same old women-aren’t-warriors resentment.

  “You know what they call us?” B.J. said.

  “What?”

  “Aliens.” She had to smile as she said it. “It was supposed to be an insult, but I’ve gotten over that. I even had a picture of a little green extra-terrestrial stenciled on my locker. Just to piss them off.”

  At this, Claire had a good laugh. “I love it. You’re a trailblazer, and they don’t know how to deal with it.”

  B.J. felt a tingle go through her. “Trailblazer?” She stared at Claire. “That’s what Brick once said about. . . his wife. Did you know her?”

  “I met her once, when I was doing a story at the cape. Now that I think about it, she was a lot like you. Same features, same size. She was smart, good-looking, and tough.”

  B.J. didn’t reply. Claire Phillips’s words were replaying in her mind. She was a lot like you. For a while she leaned against the rail, letting the warm sea wind blow through her hair. It explained a few things. Seven bullet holes, for example, in the body of the man who was holding the knife to her throat. Brick Maxwell was shooting the man who threatened his wife.

  A lot like you.

  She had come up here determined to dislike this woman. Claire Phillips was an adversary. One of those fluff-headed females whose looks and connections counted for more than talent and guts.

  Wrong again.

  “Look, Ms.
Phillips, I ought to tell you—”

  “Claire.”

  “Claire.” B.J. cleared her throat and started over. “What I meant to say was. . . I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “For being rude.” She knew she was blurting the words, but she wanted to get it over. “For behaving like a jerk. I apologize.”

  There, she said it. Now she would get the hell out of there.

  As she turned to leave, Claire touched her arm. “You’re not wearing your sling.”

  “It wasn’t much of a wound. Just a nick, really.”

  “I heard. It was a close thing.”

  B.J. had to grin, thinking about it. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Brick Maxwell—a really lousy shot.”

  <>

  The staccato beat of the whirling blades broke the morning stillness. The two helicopters—the AH-1W Whiskey Cobra in the lead, trailed by the UH-1N Huey—skimmed the floor of the canyon, pulling up over the natural bridge that spanned the canyon.

  Before them spread the valley. On the western slope rose a high ridge.

  In the raised, aft seat of the Cobra, the pilot glanced at his GPS coordinates again, then turned toward the ridge. Beyond the crest, he saw what they were looking for. The hillside was littered with debris, torn metal, destroyed machinery. In several places the slope was splotched with the black residue of an intense blaze.

  After the Cobra completed a sweep, meeting no opposition, both choppers settled onto the sloping brown terrain.

  A dozen men in combat gear spilled out of the Huey. A fire team armed with MP-5N submachine guns took the lead while the six men behind them fanned out, walking through the littered terrain, turning over and examining pieces of wreckage.

  Fragments of the destroyed MiG-29 were strewn for half a mile. The officer in charge, Marine Captain Barry Weaver, snapped pictures with a Nikon digital while the others turned over hunks of metal, looking for clues.

  “Over here, Captain,” yelled Gunnery Sergeant Chavez. “Looks like part of the cockpit.”

  It was. There wasn’t much left—the remnants of an instrument panel, part of a radio console. Weaver took several shots, then he turned the pieces over and took more. When he was finished, a Navy medical corpsman poked around, filling several plastic zip bags with samples and scrapings from the twisted metal.