Combat

by Stephen Coonts

  Still on his knees, he started to say something, then tried again, shouting. “What did this?”

  I pointed a thumb at my breast. “Gas in a pipe. Boom,” I shouted. He looked around and saw the long shallow trench that now ran along the pavement. The entire length of the shed wall nearest the pipe rail had been cut as if by some enormous jagged saw, and of course the pipe itself was nowhere. Or rather, it was everywhere, in little chunks, evidence of a fragmentation grenade fifty feet long.

  He looked up at me with the beginnings of understanding. “How?”

  I could hear him a little better now. “Acetylene is an explosive all by itself,” I shouted. “Can you hear me?” He nodded. “You store it under pressure by dissolving it in acetone. Pump it into a dry tank and it doesn’t need any prompting. As soon as it gets up to fifteen or twenty pounds pressure—like I said: boom,” I finished, with gestures.

  He showed his teeth and closed his eyes; tears began to flow afresh. “Primitive stuff, but you would know that,” he accused in a voice hoarse with exhaustion.

  I nodded. “The new model of Islamic warrior,” I accused back, “so all you know is plastique. Ternary agent. The murder of a million innocents.”

  “There are no innocents,” said the man who had been, however briefly, my friend. Why argue with a man who says such things? I just looked at him. “There are many more like me, more than there are of men like you,” he said, the words rekindling something fervid in his eyes. “The new model, you said. Wait for us. We are coming.”

  My eyes stung from the tons of flammable liquid around us. When I reached out to help him up, he shook his torso, fumbling in his pockets. “Get away,” he said. “Run.”

  Only when I saw that he had pulled a lighter from his pocket did I realize what he meant. I scrambled away. An instant later, the whole area was ablaze, and for all I knew the tanks on the trailer might explode. Daud-al-Sadiq, alias Norm Goldman, knelt deeply and prostrated himself in the inferno as though facing east in prayer as the flames climbed toward his warrior’s heaven.

  The metro cops got to the scene before anyone else, and after that came the paramedic van. Aside from cuts on my face and arms and the fact that the whistle would remain in my head for hours, I had lucked out. I could even hear ordinary speech, though it sounded thin and lacked resonance.

  Captain Hassan al-Nadwi and several of his crew weren’t so lucky in my view but, in their own view, I suppose they found the ultimate good luck. Using automatic weapons, they had tried to prevent a boarding party. One competence the Feds do have is marksmanship. No wonder the remaining crew were so hyperactive that morning; they were going to heaven, and they were going now.

  Dana Martin pointed out to me after I handed over her cracked, useless Loc-8 gadget an hour later, that there had probably never been any intention on the part of the holy warriors to sail beyond the Golden Gate again. Their intent was evidently to start up their enormous doomsday machine and, if possible, set it in motion toward San Francisco’s crowded Fisherman’s Wharf. The crew would all be dead by the time the Ras Ormara grounded; dead, and attended by compliant lovelies in Islamic heaven while men, women, kids, pets, and birds in flight died by the millions around San Francisco Bay.

  Dana said, “We came to that conclusion after we found that all the Korean crew members but one had reservations of one kind or another to clear out of the area,” she told me. “They knew what was coming. Once we realized how much of the major component they must have to react with all that stuff on the trailer, we knew they were using the ship itself as a tank. An external hull inspection wouldn’t pick that up.”

  “You lost me,” I said.

  “You know that most ships are double-hulled? Well, the Ras Ormara is triple-hulled, thanks to a rebuild by the Pakistanis. The main component of the ternary agent was brought in using the volume between the hulls as a huge cargo tank. I think Park Soon must have found the transfer pipes, and they couldn’t take a chance on him.”

  “Three hulls,” I muttered. “Talk about your basic inside job. You think the entire crew knew?”

  “Hard to say, but they wouldn’t have to. It doesn’t take but a few crewman to pull away from the slip. The North Koreans helped set the stage, but most of them don’t believe Allah is going to snatch them up to the highest heaven,” she said wryly.

  “I don’t get it. Which one of them did,” I prompted.

  “The one who was an Indonesian Moslem,” she said. “He was on the truck crew with the perp who passed himself off as Norman Goldman.”

  “Then he’s a clinker over there.” I nodded across the boulevard toward the still smoking ruin. “Really keen of you people, assuring me what a great guy Norm Goldman was. Who did your background checks: Frank and Ernest?”

  She didn’t want to talk about that. Journalists had a field day later, second-guessing the Feds who failed to penetrate the “legends,” the false bona fides, of men who had inserted themselves into mythical backgrounds twenty years before. And in twenty years a smart terrorist can make his legend damned near perfect.

  Dana Martin preferred to concentrate on what I had done. I had already set her straight on the carnage at the chemical plant. She had it in her noggin that I had started the fire. The truth was, that’s exactly what I would have done first thing off, if I’d had the chance. I didn’t say that.

  “I still don’t see exactly how you detonated your bomb,” she said. I responded, a bit tersely, by telling her I didn’t have to detonate the damned thing. Acetylene doesn’t like to be crowded in a dry tank, and when you try, a little bit of pressure makes it disassociate like TNT.

  “I’m no chemist,” she said, “but that sounds like you’re, ah, prevaricating.”

  “Ask a welder, if the FBI has any. If he doesn’t know, don’t let him do any gas welding. End of discussion.”

  Her big beautiful eyes widened, not even remotely friendly. I knew she thought I’d been carrying some kind of incendiary device, which has been a sore point with Feds for many years, ever since the Waco screwup. She kept looking hard at me. Well, the hell with her—and that’s what I said next.

  “You’re under contract to us,” she reminded me.

  “You offered to cut me loose early today,” replied. “I accepted, whether you heard me or not. Keep your effing money if you don’t believe me. Oh, don’t worry about sweeping up,” I said into her astonished frown. “I’ll testify in all this; I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  And while she was still talking, I walked away from there with as much dignity as a man can muster when his clothes are in tatters and his only vehicle lies in smoking shreds.

  Actually I did have something to hide: gratitude. I didn’t want to try explaining to Dana Martin how I felt about the brilliant, savage, personable, murderous Daud. I wasn’t sure I could if I tried.

  There was only one reason why he would’ve made me promise to drive the miles to San Rafael for lunch: to make certain I wouldn’t be a victim of that enormous, lethal cloud of nerve gas that would be boiling up from the Ras Ormara. And while he could have grabbed my ankles when he set himself alight, he didn’t. He told me to run for it.

  He would kill millions of people he had never seen, yet he felt something special for a guy who had befriended him for only a few hours. I didn’t understand that kind of thinking then, and I still don’t.

  I do understand this: A man must never trust his buns to anyone, however intelligent and friendly, who believes there’s a bright future in suicide. And as long as I live, I will be haunted by what Daud said, moments before he died. There are more of us, he said. Wait for us. We are coming.

  Well, I believe they’ll come, so I’m waiting. But I’m not waiting in a population center with folded hands. I’m recounting the last words of Daud al-Sadiq to everyone who’ll listen. I’m also erecting a cyclone fence around my acreage, and I’m in the process of obtaining a captive breeding permit. That’s the prerequisite for a guard animal no dog can ever match.


  DEAN ING has been an interceptor crew chief, construction worker on high Sierra dams, solid-rocket designer, builder-driver of sports racers—his prototype Magnum was a Road & Track feature—and after a doctorate from the University of Oregon, a professor. For years, as one of the cadre of survival writers, he built and tested backpack hardware on Sierra solos. His technothriller, The Ransom of Black Stealth One, was a New York Times best-seller, and he has been finalist for both the Nebula and Hugo awards. His more humorous works have been characterized as “fast, furious, and funny.” Slower and heavier now with two hip replacements and titanium abutments in his jaw, he pursues his hobbies, which include testing models of his fictional vehicles, fly fishing, ergonomic design, and container gardening. His daughters comprise a minister, a longhorn rancher, an Alaskan tour guide, and an architect. He and his wife, Gina, a fund-raiser for the Eugene Symphony, live in Oregon, where he is currently building a mountainside library/shop.

  Harve Rackham and Dana Martin have appeared in two previous novellas, “Pulling Through” from the collection of the same name, and “Vital Signs” which appeared in the science fiction series Destinies.

  SKYHAWKS FOREVER

  BY BARRETT TILLMAN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Wynn Foster, Rick Morgan, George Olmsted, Larry and Janet Pearson, Robert Powell, Dwight Van Horn, Phil Wood, Jack Woodul, Lucy Young, the Skyhawk Association, and Training Squadron Seven.

  One

  The Boat

  “Well, now I almost believe it,” exclaimed Michael Ostrewski to his fellow flight instructor from Advanced Training Associates.

  “Believe what?” Eric “Psycho” Thaler stood beside him on the flight deck of the former USS Santa Cruz.

  Ostrewski pointed about him. “That we’re really going to carqual on this boat. I mean, as long as she was mothballed in Bremerton, she was just an old Forrestal-class carrier. But now that she’s an active ship, here in Long Beach, it looks like we’re in business.”

  Thaler, who with “Ozzie” Ostrewski had gone to war aboard one of Santa Cruz’s sisters, envisioned this flight deck in its glory years: when aircraft carriers were named for battles or historic ships rather than mere politicians. He visualized thirty knots of wind over the deck, steam roiling from the catapults, and dozens of sailors milling in organized chaos as twenty-ton aircraft slammed onto the deck at 130 knots. He asked his colleague, “Did you talk to the navy yard guys yet? I mean, about the old girl’s condition?”

  Ostrewski nodded. “Yeah, just a little. One of the engineers was still aboard after the cruise from Bremerton. He says they worked up to twenty-four knots, but they expect to make thirty by the time we start trapping.”

  “What about the jobs that weren’t finished there?”

  “Well, they concentrated on what we’d need to operate six jets. Besides main plant and electrical, we have two good catapults, the arresting gear, and fuel systems. The condensers aren’t up to speed, so there’ll be limited water, and some of the radars aren’t operational. But the mirror system checks out so the LSOs will be happy.” He flashed two thumbs up.

  Thaler looked around the 328-foot-wide deck where American and Chinese military personnel and civilians were busily engaged. “I guess the chinks will have a smaller crew and air wing, huh?”

  Ostrewski nodded. “Smaller air wing fershure, dude. They plan on two Flanker squadrons plus a couple of helo outfits for starters. I don’t know how many bodies that means, but a lot less than one of our wings. Probably about two thousand for ship’s company, to start.”

  “Oz, I don’t really understand something. This isn’t a commissioned naval vessel yet, and far as I know the Chinese haven’t paid for it in full. Who’s actually responsible for this bird farm? I mean, do they have two captains or what?”

  “Yeah, they do. Admiral Rhode at NavAir says the official skipper is Captain Albright, who’s about to retire. He has a Chinese opposite number with an exec and department heads on down the line, and most of them have American supervisors. But a lot of the crew is civilian contract labor because there aren’t enough white hats available after all that ‘right sizing.’”

  “They still going to send some talent out from Pensacola?”

  Ostrewski nodded. “Yeah, I guess Rocky Rhode and others are nervous about of a bunch of civilians driving a carrier up and down the California coast, and retired guys like us landing on her. We’re getting an instructor from the LSO school and a couple of TraCom instructors to monitor our procedures.”

  “Well, I’m glad to see the Chinese are running their part of it.” Thaler waved a hand toward the carrier’s island, where a gutted Flanker airframe was secured to the deck by tie-down chains. Even with its outer-wing panels folded, the sixty-eight-foot-long fighter, with its twin tails reaching eighteen feet high, took up a lot of space. The ATA instructors watched “Flight Deck 101” in progress as Chinese sailors rehearsed aircraft handling and servicing in the unaccustomed carrier environment.

  “Think they’ll get the hang of it?” Thaler asked.

  “Yeah. This first class is a mix of navy and air force. The sailors handle the basic chores and the blue-suiters do the aircraft maintenance. They already knew the Flanker systems.”

  Psycho Thaler was skeptical. “Man, they’re sure jumping in with both feet. I’d hate to have to learn everything they need to in a few weeks.”

  Ostrewski pointed to the sailor doing most of the talking. “See the petty officer who’s lecturing? Mr. Wei, our Chinese liaison, told Terry Peters that this bunch started training ashore back in China. They knew all the moves before they got here: the yellow gear, the deck cycle, all that stuff. They even had full-size flight deck and hangar deck mock-ups to practice moving airplanes.” He shook his head in appreciation. “Makes sense when you think about it.”

  Deep in thought, Ostrewski toed a tie-down on the nonskid deck surface. “What is it?” Thaler asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Ozzie looked up again at the bustle around him. “I can’t quite get used to the idea of us selling the Commies an operational carrier, then teaching them how to use it.” He grinned self-consciously. “Even if our company has the contract.”

  Thaler nudged his colleague. “Careful—if Terry Peters hears you, it’s bad enough. If Jane hears you …” He allowed himself a grin. “Besides, like we always said in the navy—it’s way above our pay grade. Congress and the administration signed off on it three years ago, so just be thankful that we got the job.” Psycho grinned at his former Langley shipmate. “Besides, how’d you like to watch some other civilian contractor get a sweetheart deal like this?”

  Thaler noticed a stocky Caucasian detach himself from the Chinese. “Hey, there’s Igor Gnido. He’s the lead pilot with the Sukhoi transition team.”

  The Russian waved at the Americans, and Thaler greeted him. “Hey, Igor.” Ozzie was less effusive; he merely nodded. The Only Polish-American Tomcat Ace respected Gnido’s reputation as an aviator but could not bring himself to like the former Soviet combat pilot.

  “Good morning to you,” Gnido ventured with a smile that Thaler took as genuine. The Flanker pilot waved a hand toward the Chinese sailors. “They getting good start on flight deck pro-cee-dures.”

  “We were just discussing that,” Thaler replied. He watched as a group of “grapes”—sailors in purple jerseys—moved a fuel hose toward the Sukhoi’s port wing. “Did the factory specially build this airplane to accept American hose fittings? I mean, like they built the nose gear to fit the catapult shuttle?”

  Gnido leaned close, trying to ensure that he understood the question. Thaler made a circle with his left thumb and forefinger and a probe of his first two right fingers. The Russian nodded. “Ah, da, da.” He nodded decisively. “Nose gear yes. Fuel fittings, not exactly.” He shook his head. “All Soviet aircraft were being designed to take your hoses, you know?” He hid any edginess in mentioning a NATO—Warsaw Pact conflict. “Plan was, take European airfield
s and use equipment already there, you know?”

  Ostrewski, whose Polish roots ran deep, absorbed that knowledge and worked his professionalism around the ethical thorns. “Well, I guess that makes sense, if you’re going to invade the next country.”

  Thaler felt moved to intervene. “Does that cause any problems with maintenance, Igor? I mean, having both English and metric systems in the same airplane.”

  Gnido shrugged eloquently. “Is not being much problem. Just way it is, you know? Like cockpit instruments. In air force Flankers, all is metric. In this airplane for navy, airspeed is knots, altitude meters. Besides, pretty soon America is being all metric, like rest of world. Best for everybody, yes?”

  Thaler demurred. “Igor, you’ll get an argument about that, I guarandamntee you.”

  Two

  Scooter

  Half a dozen staffers of Advanced Training Associates lazed away the shank of the afternoon, sipping slowly and speaking rapidly. The animated atmosphere in ATA’s office spaces probably had not been seen since Williams Air Force Base became Williams Gateway Airport south of Mesa, Arizona.

  Despite the beer-call military ambience, the atmosphere was post— Cold War business; a corporate foundation overlaid with a lather of friendly rivalry.

  One of the partners, Zack Delight, had told an active-duty friend, “Here there be morale.” A former Marine aviator, he had retired as a reserve lieutenant colonel, flew for Delta, and now was on his second or third career, depending on how they were reckoned. Pushing sixty, he was stocky, well built, and studiously irreverent. He sat on a barstool, scratching the Vandyke beard he had cultivated to cover a scar obtained in a motorcycle “incident.” Now, with the unaccustomed beard, “Pure” Delight said he was still getting accustomed to “that mean-looking bastard glaring at me in the mirror every morning.”