Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  The Washington was dead in the water, trying to stay as close to the accident scene as it could, hoping to find at least one of the crew alive. But everyone knew they were dead. The Tomcat had plunged into the ocean like a lawn dart less than a mile in front of the carrier. Everyone on the flight deck had seen it.

  The sea and sky were still bright blue. There were no clouds or whitecaps in sight. The helicopter’s turning blades and screaming jet engines were the only noises on the deck.

  Woods stepped through the cargo door of the helicopter and grabbed the arm of the crew chief, who hauled him in effortlessly pointed to a forward-facing seat and instructing him to secure himself by the straps. The helicopter lifted off into a low hover, steadied itself, and flew off toward the west at two hundred feet.

  The flight to the destroyer took less than ten minutes. Woods saw the small flight deck on the fantail of the ship and wondered if the pilot was going to set down or just dump him out somehow. He watched as they slid sideways until they were directly over the flight deck of the ship, the helicopter inching down carefully until it was hovering three feet above the flight deck. The crew chief motioned Woods to the hatch and held his arm across the opening while he watched the deck. A cord from his helmet was plugged into the bulkhead of the helicopter so he could talk to the pilots on the Internal Communication System and listen to the radio talk. He waited, pointed for Woods to sit down on the deck of the plane, and then jump down to the ship.

  Woods sat and jumped the three feet to the deck, where he was immediately met by two of the ship’s crew. He followed them forward as the deafening helicopter lifted away from the destroyer.

  He climbed the ladder to the next deck, looking around for any signs of the wreckage on the water. It was finally quiet, the SH-60 heading back toward the carrier. A commander approached Woods and extended his hand.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant. I’m Commander Bill LaGrou, the Commanding Officer. Welcome aboard the David Reynolds.” He was accompanied by another Commander, and two Lieutenants. “This is Gary Carlton, my XO.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Woods said, evaluating him. His ball cap, with the name of his ship on it and gold braid on the bill, was pulled down almost to his eyebrows. Shorter than Woods, he had to turn his head up substantially to look into Woods’s eyes. His hair was completely gray, almost white, and his belly strained against the web belt holding up his khaki trousers. His brown eyes searched Woods’s face.

  “I don’t want you to waste any time. You’ve got to get to the accident scene right away,” LaGrou said, pulling his eyes away from Woods to look toward the port side of the ship. “The motor whaleboat is ready to go. I’m not really sure what you need, but I’ve got a good coxswain, our corpsman, and three boatswains to go with you. If you want anything else, let me know.”

  “Yes, sir, sure will. Is there a radio? Some way to contact you?”

  “Oh, yeah, we’ll make sure you take the handheld. They told me you’re supposed to bring any major wreckage you can recover back to the ship, so we can carry it to Sicily where some accident types are going to look at it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if you find anything from the pilots, the corpsman has a body bag—”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  LaGrou hesitated. “We were supposed to drive to the point of entry, which is right”—LaGrou looked around—“over there,” he said pointing to a spot aft of the ship and a few hundred yards off the port side, “and stay there. When we got here we saw some debris. We held our position but the currents and waves have moved the wreckage away from here, probably a mile or so by now. It’s probably over there,” he said, pointing past the bow on the port side. He lowered his voice. “Those guys from your squadron?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Inexperienced?”

  “No, sir. Our XO and a very good, although young, RIO.”

  LaGrou looked shocked, then scanned the sky. “What could have happened on a beautiful day like today?”

  “That’s what we’re going to try to find out. I’d better get at it.”

  LaGrou nodded and scratched his pale face. “They just flew into the water, going straight down. They must have been going five hundred knots.” He looked at Woods again.

  “Yes, sir, I saw it.”

  “Well. Then you know how fast they were going. What would you estimate?”

  “Probably about that. Maybe six hundred.”

  LaGrou shook his head. “I guess when it’s your time, it’s your time.”

  Woods looked into LaGrou’s face. “What do you mean?”

  LaGrou immediately saw that his words had carried more meaning than he had intended. “Oh, nothing, really. Just a figure of speech,” he said, shrugging. “If we’re scheduled to check out today, or tomorrow, there’s not much we can do about it.”

  “I think if these guys had been paying attention, they wouldn’t have bought it.”

  LaGrou squinted at Woods. “I’m sure you’re right. . . . Let me know if you need anything, Lieutenant,” he said again.

  “Will do, sir.” A First Class Boatswain’s Mate indicated that Woods was to follow him. “This way, sir. We’re ready to go.” He hurried down a ladder and then another, finally descending the Jacob’s ladder on the side of the destroyer to the motor whaleboat. Woods was right behind him.

  “Good morning, sir,” said the coxswain standing in the rear of the boat. “You ready?”

  “Yep. I’m Lieutenant Woods,” he said. “Let’s get underway, and we can talk about what we’re going to do as we head out there.”

  “Roger that,” said the coxswain, increasing power on the diesel motor as one of the boatswain’s mates cast off from the destroyer. Half the ship’s company was on deck looking on curiously.

  Woods sat back against the side of the boat, air moving across his face as they worked away from the ship. “Where’s the wreckage?” Woods asked.

  “Out about 310, sir,” the Coxswain replied, pushing the tiller slightly away from him. “I don’t see it right now, but I’m sure we will soon.”

  Woods couldn’t think of what else to say. He knew he had to move quickly and speak with authority as if he knew what he was doing to give them confidence in him; but in reality, he had no idea how to proceed. He had never had any training in accident investigations. He hadn’t even been briefed on what he was to look for other than signs of fire—charred bits of airplane, he guessed. He concluded this was simply one of those times when someone had to do something or everyone would feel more helpless than they already did. That instinct to “do something” seemed to dominate the thinking after someone has died. Sometimes knowing why or how something happened made the fact less painful, especially if blame could be placed on some mechanical defect or malfunction. Then you wouldn’t have to believe your shipmate screwed up. Whatever the reason, he had to do something to make this effort worthwhile.

  “There it is, sir!” one of the boatswain’s mates in the bow cried out, leaning forward like a harpoonist. He pointed toward the starboard side and the coxswain steered in that direction. Woods stood up carefully and looked where the boatswain was pointing. Squinting, he covered his eyes to get a better look. He saw two dark shapes jutting out of the water, floating. Instinctively, he put his hand out to get the coxswain to slow down. The boat slowed to a crawl as they entered the area where the remains of the F-14 were. They approached the two shapes cautiously, not knowing what they were looking at or whether more might be floating under water, unseen. The coxswain turned toward the two shapes and slowed even more, to two knots. They were within one hundred yards before Woods recognized the shapes as the twin tails of the Tomcat, floating perfectly upright in the sea like shark’s fins. The air and water moved quietly around the tails, touching them ever so slightly.

  The coxswain inched the boat forward until he was right next to the black monsters. The boatswain in the bow grabbed the rudder of the starboard tail and pulled the boat to it. Woods m
oved forward and stared.

  Small pieces of honeycombed metal—all sizes and shapes—floated around the tails. Woods was surprised by how intact the tails were, the white skull and crossbones staring back at them defiantly from the middle of each tail. He peered into the blue water underneath the tails for more of the airplane, but the way they were bobbing meant there wasn’t much attached below the surface.

  There was something odd about the top of the left tail where the red anticollision light should have been. Woods walked aft in the boat and examined the light, holding his hand over his eyes to block the sun and squinting slightly to focus. “What in the world . . .” Woods said out loud.

  The corpsman stood up next to him and looked where Woods’s eyes were focused. He stared for a few seconds, then said, “It’s a scalp.”

  Woods lowered his hand, fighting the nausea in his stomach. “What?”

  “It’s a scalp, sir. Sure as hell,” the corpsman said.

  Woods raised his eyes and examined the light once more. It was Brillo’s scalp, all right, sitting on the anticollision light just as if it were sitting on Brillo’s head. He recognized the uncontrollable wiry brown hair. The horrific image was searing itself into his brain and he turned his eyes away. “How could his scalp be on the tail?” he asked.

  The corpsman replied, “He stopped before the tail did. Took him clean out of his helmet. Shitty way to go. At least it was fast.” The corpsman sat down quickly and pulled something out from under his seat. A body bag. He unzipped it and stood up again by the port side. “Slow down,” he said to the coxswain, who couldn’t have been going more than one knot. The corpsman leaned over the side.

  Woods saw a large white piece of meat floating next to the boat, undulating gently and heading for them. “What is that?” Woods asked, not wanting to know.

  “A back,” the corpsman said matter-of-factly. “See the indentation for the spine?”

  Woods felt his mind at work again, searing this new image into his memory. He couldn’t stop it.

  The corpsman reached down and picked up the flesh with his latex-glove-covered hand and hauled it into the boat. He put the back into the body bag and zipped it partway up. He held it at the top in his fist, like a trash bag with potting soil in the bottom. “Here comes some more,” the corpsman announced. “Help me out here,” he ordered.

  Woods looked the other way, pretending to be interested in various pieces of wreckage until the body collection was completed.

  After much effort and boatswain cursing they secured the tails to the boat as well as they could. The boat headed slowly toward the destroyer, towing the tails behind it.

  Commander LaGrou was waiting when Woods came up the ladder. “How’d it go, Lieutenant?” he asked anxiously.

  Woods couldn’t say anything. The images tore through his brain.

  “Any signs of what caused it?”

  Woods shook his head and forced his mouth into an inverted crescent, as if he had no real expectation of finding anything that would give a reason for the crash.

  “We’ll have to detach soon and head for Sicily—they’re going to set up an accident wreckage inspection sight at Sigonella.”

  Woods nodded absently, barely hearing the Commander.

  “The bad news for you, Lieutenant,” LaGrou said, “is that the helo that was supposed to pick you up would have had to get you five minutes ago to work you into the air plan.” LaGrou waited for some reaction. Seeing none he continued, “So, you’ll be with us until tomorrow morning at 0700. They’ll send a helo back to retrieve you. You can sleep in my in-port cabin. It’s very comfortable.”

  “Thanks,” Woods said absently.

  “No problem. I’m sure the wardroom will treat you very nicely. I think you’ll enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you, sir, I appreciate it.”

  The wardroom did treat him nicely. The men were even deferential. They weren’t sure how to console Woods over the loss of two of his squadron mates. They wanted to ask the questions that would tell them how close he’d been to the dead men so they could know exactly how bad he was feeling, but they didn’t want to be morose. So they avoided the questions, and didn’t know how deeply he was affected. They all knew about the scalp though. Everybody on the ship knew about the scalp. It was one of those details that was too good not to tell someone else about, usually starting with “Can you believe it?” to set the tone of disgust and amazement.

  Woods excused himself from the wardroom early, skipping the movie and free popcorn in spite of the guarantee that it was just what he needed. He went to the Captain’s in-port cabin and sat on the rack. He was exhausted. He pulled his flight suit down around his waist and washed his face in the steel sink. He looked as tired as he felt. He took off his flight boots and flight suit and lay on the top of the Navy blanket in his boxers and T-shirt. The ship was moving too much for him to sleep on his side. He stared at the overhead that he couldn’t see in the blackness and thought of the XO and his three beautiful daughters. All blond with curly hair. He wondered if they knew about their father yet.

  Suddenly there was a quiet knock on the door. He wasn’t sure he had even heard it. There it was again. “Yes?” he said loudly.

  “Commander LaGrou.”

  He swung his legs over and pulled his flight suit on quickly. He crossed to the door in his stocking feet and opened it. “Yes, sir?”

  “Mind if I come in?” LaGrou asked.

  “No, sir,” he lied, turning on the light.

  LaGrou closed the door behind him. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. I was afraid you’d be asleep.”

  “No, sir, just resting a little. Kind of hard to sleep.”

  “I’m sure,” LaGrou said. He stood awkwardly. “I . . . I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. They were your friends.”

  Woods didn’t want to talk about it. Talk wasn’t going to do anything. “Yeah. Yes, sir.”

  “Look, these things happen. People are killed every day in the Navy, just doing their jobs—”

  Woods had heard that enough. “And why? Not why did he crash—we’ll figure that out—but why are we here where he could crash? Why do we fly off carriers every day?”

  “It’s what we do—”

  “So we’re ready when we need to use force. So we stay sharp—“ He stopped. “Do you have a chart that shows our position?”

  LaGrou was taken aback by Woods’s intensity. “Sure, in Combat—”

  “I want to show you something,” Woods said as he quickly sat down on the single chair in the stateroom and pulled on his flight boots. He laced them halfway, wrapped the laces around the ankles, and tied them hurriedly. “Show me.”

  LaGrou opened the door and headed down the passageway. Woods followed. They walked into Combat Information Center, the nerve center of the ship. It was almost completely dark. Three large screens were in front of several consoles, where officers and enlisted men sat, monitoring the huge volume of information that flooded in from innumerable sources.

  “Over here,” LaGrou said. They crossed to a large flat table that had a chart on top of it. “I have our navigator keep a paper chart with our position just in case all the electronics crap out at the same time,” LaGrou smiled.

  Woods studied it quickly. He saw the mark that showed their current position. He spread his hand out along a longitude line, then used it to measure their distance to Lebanon. “Two hundred nautical miles to Beirut,” he said. He stared at LaGrou. “Two hundred miles.”

  “I’m not following you, Lieutenant.”

  “That Sheikh who killed Tony Vialli, my best friend, is eating grapes in Beirut while we’re out here, two hundred miles away, picking up the pieces of two others. What were they doing? Trying to stay sharp. To stay ready. For what?” he said, raising his voice. He stared at the chart. “We keep sharpening our sword, showing everybody how sharp and shiny it is. We use it sometimes. Kosovo? Sure. Iraq? Sure. For an American Naval officer murdered by a terrorist?” He coul
d see LaGrou was trying to control his surprise. “I guess not. We just sharpen our sword, and cut ourselves with it.”

  13

  Kinkaid had been alarmed by Ricketts’s call in the middle of the night. Most of the alarm though came from the fact that Kinkaid had complete faith in Ricketts’s judgment. If he called in the middle of the night, it was for a reason. He was wily, brilliant, a master of languages and disguises, and someone who never failed in a mission. But there was a dark side as well—no respect for authority. He was known to think that those not in the Directorate of Operations, the DO, were just weak-tit parasites. He was unimpressed with electronic intelligence and “analysis,” a word he used only when forced.

  Kinkaid pulled up into his reserved parking spot at 4:37 a.m. His hair was still matted in the back. He had taken the time to get dressed for the day, since it was sure to be another long, frustrating day anyway.

  He walked toward CIA Headquarters and shifted his travel coffee mug to his left hand with his briefcase while he put his car keys in his suit coat pocket. He nearly dropped everything he was carrying when a voice called his name from right behind him, no more than a foot away. He swallowed. “Trying to give me a damned heart attack? What the hell are you doing?” he said, turning around.

  Ricketts stared at him with his hands in his pockets unsmiling.

  Kinkaid growled, “Let’s go inside where it’s warmer. I’m freezing my ass off.”

  “Out here,” Ricketts said.

  “What for?”

  “I don’t want any of the other parasites listening.”

  “To what?”

  “Our conversation.”

  Kinkaid put his briefcase down and took a long drink from his coffee. “Okay, what?”

  Ricketts looked around the mostly empty parking lot. There wasn’t anything but asphalt for seventy-five yards in any direction. “What do you want to do with this Sheikh?”

  “Do with him? I want to find him. Then I want to get him.”

  “Meaning . . .”

  “I don’t know.” Kinkaid frowned. “Grab him. Bring him back for trial. Put his ass in prison for a few lifetimes.”