USS Bennington, Indian Ocean, 1527 (GMT)
“I’ll have a salad.” Bobby Fisk was sitting at one of the three smaller tables along the bulkhead rather than at the long central table where the captain and executive officer traditionally sat with most of the other officers. He waited for the dinner ritual to begin.
“I’ll have a salad” had quickly become the most despised words in the wardroom—the signal that the captain had arrived and that all normal conversation had ended. The only discussion from that moment forward would be the captain’s doltish questions. First he would ask the chief engineer how much fuel they had.
“CHENG, what’s our fuel status?”
And that, thought Bobby, sealed their fate for another day. Fuel status. That meant the CO would continue to issue his standard order: “Trail shaft,” the operating condition that maintained maximum fuel efficiency. The cruiser would run only one of its four turbines to turn only one of its two shafts and propellers. The other shaft would remain unengaged, its prop spinning freely by virtue of the ship’s speed.
Bobby knew the CO’s next question would be about the ports they might visit, though they had yet to make a single port call. The crew had started to refer to this as the “Flying Dutchman” cruise, after the ship of legend that never made it to port.
Bobby finished his dinner just in time for the CO to ask the next question on his unvarying list: when was the Bennington scheduled for its next underway replenishment (UNREP). During that process the cruiser and its supply ship would match speeds and courses and run parallel, close enough to throw a baseball from one to the other.
“Tomorrow, sir; 0900,” OPS said simply before viciously stabbing the pork chop on his plate.
When he initially arrived aboard the ship, Bobby had thought dinners in the wardroom would be a real-world continuation of his education at the Naval Academy, where his course subjects had ranged from international relations to low-intensity conflicts, from the theories of Mahan and Corbett to ship architecture. He had hoped to take advantage of the senior officers’ experience and knowledge. At this point, though, even a simple discussion about baseball scores would have been a welcome break to the monotony of the nightly wardroom script. The change of seats hadn’t helped.
Bobby had had enough. A ship’s officers were supposed to converse over dinner, sharing ideas in a civilized manner. It was a navy tradition—or so he had been led to believe. He spoke up, his fair skin flushing in embarrassment when every face in the room turned toward him. “Sir, Admiral Zumwalt advocated a high-low mix of ships for twentieth-century warfare. Shouldn’t the Navy consider this for the twenty-first century too? What about using small coastal patrol boats for dealing with pirates, sir?”
The wardroom fell silent. The only sound came from the galley, where the mess specialist was working furiously with a metal spatula scraping the remnants of the meal from the grill.
The CO looked across the room at Bobby, who until then had always sat toward the bottom of the long center table, and offered a simple and final answer: “No.” The CO then turned to the supply officer. “Make sure we get enough fresh vegetables this UNREP.” And Bobby, as the Bennington’s other officers had done before him, decided never again to utter a word about naval strategies or force structures in the wardroom. Lacking the appetite for dessert, he stood with the obligatory “Excuse me, Captain,” and promptly left the wardroom.
“Hey, Bobby. Nice try. Join me for a smoke in five minutes,” said OPS, who had followed him out into officers’ country.
They met at the only space on deck where smoking was allowed. OPS, a lieutenant commander on his fifth deployment, handed Bobby a cigar and a lighter. He then reached back and retrieved a book that had been tucked into his khaki belt at the small of his back.
“This is the book I mentioned the other day. Check it out. It’ll give you something else to think about when you go off duty.”
Bobby took the book and turned it over to read the cover. “Thanks.”
“What’s your duty station tomorrow during the UNREP?”
“I have to be in the landing safety officer shack during ops on the VERTREP for one of my quals,” Bobby replied. The VERTREP—or vertical replenishment—transported pallets of food and material from one ship to the other using helicopters. Bobby was required to participate in at least three VERTREPs on this deployment in order to complete part of his qualifications as a surface warfare officer.
OPS grinned. “Great. You’ll have a perfect vantage point. I want you to pay really close attention to the third trip our helo makes to the supply ship tomorrow. Do not take your eyes off that helo. And don’t say anything about it to anyone. Got it?”
“Got it, sir.”
Bobby shaded his eyes against the brilliant sun as he walked toward the LSO shack the following morning. The heat was already ferocious. He greeted the LSO and picked up a headset. The ship’s SH-60B helicopter—call sign Batwing 57—had already completed two VERTREPs carrying heavy pallets from the supply ship to the Bennington. Batwing 57’s pilots had demonstrated their skill on this difficult evolution. The skies were clear and the water calm, but even a slight breeze or shaky handling of the dangling packet could set it swinging, sometimes to such a degree that it could take a helicopter down.
On his headset Bobby heard Batwing 57 report that it had secured pallet number three and was en route to the Bennington. Midway across, Batwing 57 announced to the LSO and the bridge: “The load is unsteady . . . very unsteady . . . we are cutting the load.”
The aircrew on Five-Seven pulled the manual release that opened the cargo hook and released the pallet, which fell eight hundred feet until it hit the water and broke apart. Bobby heard a commotion somewhere on the ship, then a voice from the bridge over comms.
“LSO, Bridge. What was on that pallet?”
“Bridge, LSO. SUPPO listed that cargo as fresh produce.”
The LSO put his hand over his microphone and turned to Bobby. “The captain’s salad,” he said in mock sadness.
For the first time in days Bobby smiled.
U.S. Embassy, Sana’a, 1650 (GMT)
C. J. reviewed her notes as the technician prepared the feed to Washington. He muttered something that she ignored as she continued to rehearse the request she was about to make. She had worked with Eliot Green when he was Becker’s chief of staff in the Senate. Speaking to him now, however, was like addressing the president himself. She checked her watch: 9:50 a.m. in D.C. The technician muttered something else, which shook her out of her distraction.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“We’re ready, Madam Ambassador,” he said, “The feed is live. The White House will initiate.”
A few seconds after the technician left the room the screen crackled to life. “C. J.”
“Hello, Eliot.” The fat, pockmarked face of the White House chief of staff topped by his receding red hair appeared larger than life on the screen in front of her. She wished she had a smaller screen.
“We only have a few minutes, C. J. I wanted to speak with you before the president’s press conference on the Middle East. We expect the questions to be on Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan, but on the off chance there’s one on the situation in your region, I wanted to check with you. Oh, and one administrative note: Deputy Secretary of State Dunner tendered his resignation earlier today.”
“I know,” she answered. “I saw the communiqué.”
“The death of his son has been extremely difficult for him, so he decided to spend more time with his family.”
“I understand. I’ll miss him.”
“What about the oil rights?”
“They’re a problem. I’m still trying to work some angles with the Yemenis.”
“How long have you been there now, C. J.?” Green barked. “You wanted Yemen, you got it. You told us you could make things happen there. The president’s still waiting.”
“It takes time just to get a meeting here, Eliot. I’m setting
it up.”
“Wrong answer. We need to move things along or get someone in there who can.”
“Eliot, I’ve got one hand tied behind my back on this. We’re operating with about half of the normal embassy staff. Things take longer. I spoke with John Dunner about that. He agreed with me and was trying to get more people assigned here.”
“Dunner is gone. You’re speaking to me now. We’ll send people as they become available.”
Eliot Green, who had spent most of his career bullying people on Capitol Hill, briefly thought about how the president should give a non-answer should a question about embassy staffing arise. That was unlikely, but contingency planning was an important part of his job. That’s an excellent question, Chuck. The men and women who staff our embassies are some of the finest public servants in the world. We devote significant resources to the process of selecting the right people for those jobs, and I’m confident that the teams we have in place do their jobs well, in the finest tradition of the State Department. Next question.
“C. J., really. You need to think about this. We can put you in Belgium. Luxembourg is also available. The president can’t keep his eye on every detail in every single country. Can you or can’t you do this?”
“It would be easier with more personnel, but I’m pursuing a couple of promising avenues. I called in a favor at the Pentagon, and I have a new defense attaché who knows the Yemenis extremely well.” She regretted mentioning that as the words came out of her mouth.
“Where in the Pentagon did this attaché come from?”
“Not the Pentagon proper. He’s former Navy, recalled for this job.”
“From where? DATT jobs take months of selection and training. Does he have that?”
“He’s been living abroad. He knows what he’s doing.” C. J. was anxious to close the door she had mistakenly opened.
“Okay. I need to get on a conference call to Afghanistan now. I want you to email both Helen Forth and me every day with your progress. And it better be progress, C. J.” The screen went blank.
What would be worse, she wondered: failing in Yemen or Eliot learning that Connor Stark was working with her again? Eliot’s a busy man, she thought. He’ll probably forget all about this.
When the screen went blank on the Washington end of the call, Eliot Green turned to his aide. “Call the Pentagon. I want to know who the hell they just assigned as the defense attaché to Yemen.”
A couple of hours later, C. J. was curled up on a comfortable sofa in the ambassador’s residence trying to read a local newspaper printed in Arabic. A knock at the door interrupted her fierce attention.
“Come in,” she barked.
Gunnery Sergeant Willis, the head of the embassy’s Marine detachment, poked his head in the door. “Madam Ambassador, you asked to be notified when Commander Stark returned. There’s someone with him as well.”
She stood and slipped on her shoes. “Bring them in, Gunnery Sergeant.”
Stark entered first, followed by a well-dressed Middle Eastern man in his thirties who was sporting a large gash on his forehead and carrying a bloody handkerchief in his left hand. He also appeared to have soiled himself. She rose and tried to conceal any revulsion her face might betray to this . . . guest.
“Commander, what’s going on?”
“There was a little accident down the road.”
She stiffened. “Was it an attack?”
“You could say so.” Stark aimed a look of disgust at his companion.
“I was doing my job, Madam Ambassador,” interjected Golzari, aiming a dark look at Stark.
“Interfering was more like it,” Stark retorted. “This is Diplomatic Security Service Special Agent Golzari. He intentionally collided with the vehicle that was escorting me back from a meeting at a restaurant.”
C. J. raised an eyebrow. “Escorting? I was told you left the compound alone.”
“That wasn’t an embassy-issue vehicle escorting you, Commander,” Golzari chimed in. “Those weren’t Marines, and they sure as hell weren’t DSS agents.”
“Madam Ambassador, please let me explain,” Stark began, ignoring Golzari. “It was important that I reestablish contact with some people here in order to comply with your request. Overt protection would have interfered with that. Plus, we are currently short on Marines as well as an RSO. Who was I supposed to take? The two new assistant RSOs would be more hindrance than help.”
“No RSO?” Golzari asked in disbelief. “There has to be . . .”
C. J. stopped Golzari with a raised hand. “We have a significant personnel shortage here, Special Agent. Commander, who exactly was protecting you?”
“Highland Maritime Defense. Most of their people are with the boats off Socotra, but Bill Maddox always brings along several when he’s in town to conduct business.”
“Wait a minute,” Golzari interrupted, dabbing at the blood trickling more slowly now from the gash on his forehead. “You’re an officer assigned to the embassy and you hired a private security company detail? What kind of operation is this?”
“Agent Golarzi . . .” C. J.’s voice was dulcet sweet as she turned her gaze from Stark to him.
“Golzari, Ma’am.”
“My apologies. Agent Golzari, help me understand your role in this. Why are you here?” Her voice rose slightly. “And why did you create a public disturbance?”
“I’m here as part of an investigation into a murder in the United States and an attack on an allied operative in London. As I arrived, I saw an embassy SUV being tailed. I believed the vehicle was without protection, so I followed to ensure that the situation remained secure. I saw Commander Stark enter a local restaurant alone, leaving his car without protection. It appeared to me that he was in danger, so I followed and at an appropriate time took action.”
“Agent Golzari, my apologies for the confusion,” C. J. said. “See the staff nurse about that cut. Let the consul know if you need any assistance from us in your investigation. Gunnery Sergeant Willis can help with any immediate needs you have—perhaps a change of trousers?”
As the three men turned to go, she added, “Commander, please stay a moment. We have other matters to discuss.”
“Thank you, Madam Ambassador,” Golzari said stiffly. He turned and followed the gunnery sergeant out of the room without acknowledging Stark.
“Let me guess,” Stark said when the door had closed behind them. “You wanted to chew me out again?”
“No, Connor,” she sighed. “I’m not going to chew you out.” She sounded tired and discouraged. “I’m not going to get into the legalities or the inappropriateness of having private security escort you, even if you didn’t technically hire them, though I expect the judge advocate would disagree. We’ll deal with that later. How did your meeting go?”
“Fine.”
“That’s it? One word?”
“Really fine?” he offered.
C. J. groaned even as she cracked a smile.
“I know you want to know what I’m up to, C. J. Here’s what I can tell you: I had dinner with a friend who is closely tied to the Yemeni government. I couldn’t ask too many specific questions because it’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other. They don’t work that way. Every transaction is built upon trust. And trust, as you are no doubt aware, takes time.”
She returned to the sofa and removed her shoes again. She motioned to him to take a chair near her, and as he did he smelled the distinct but subtle scent of her perfume: fresh, light, floral, and vastly different from the restaurant’s heavy aromas and the fetid smells of the city outside the embassy compound.
“You can’t leave me in the dark, Connor. I can’t operate that way, and Washington is breathing down my neck.”
“Let me find out what’s going on first, and then I’ll tell you as much as I can without violating any trusts.”
“What about violating the trust of your government?”
“It’s not my government anymore.”
�
��Are we going to get past that?”
“I don’t ‘get past’ humiliation and dishonor.”
“So you’ve just stewed for the last ten years?”
He shrugged. “I’ve done other things so that I wouldn’t have to think about it.”
“Then why didn’t you say no when the Navy found you in Scotland?”
“Because they told me I’d go to jail if I didn’t come.”
“Huh, you’re rusty,” she laughed. “You used to recognize a bluff when you heard one. I told the Navy that if you refused to cooperate, they should just leave you alone. No prosecution.”
Stark glared at her. “You what?”
She shrugged, trying not to look pleased that she had outfoxed him. “I’m giving you an opportunity to clear your record, like you asked.”
“What if I decide that’s what I no longer want?”
“Then you can go.”
“Just like that?”
She nodded. “Just like that.”
He eyed her warily.
“I’m sorry about our exchange earlier, Connor. I’m sorry about how I spoke to you. And I’m sorry about recalling you. I’m sorry about . . . well . . . the court-martial. I should have done things another way then. If I had, things might have been different—then and now.”
Stark was startled by the unexpected apology and angry with himself. He had indeed gotten rusty. His career and promotions had never been of primary importance to him; those were simply reflections of what he wanted to do—to serve, to protect, to save. He hadn’t been able to protect his friends from terrorists in Italy early in his career, but he’d fought back in another country and toppled another terrorist organization in Canada. That episode had cost him the chance to wear his country’s uniform. It had been his choice, no one else’s. Now it was Ullapool that had been desecrated by an attack, and his friends there who might be subject to further intrusions. What if they tried to hurt Maggie? The fear of that haunted him.
The Aden Effect Page 10