Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  Ricketts stared down at his feet. “I may have some information on his whereabouts.”

  “What? You’re shitting me? Where is he?”

  Ricketts shook his head. “I know where he will be. Not where he is.”

  “Where? How do you know—”

  “I cannot disclose—”

  “I’m in charge of the task force,” Kinkaid said gruffly. “You’ll tell me whatever I need to know—”

  “No, I won’t,” Ricketts said icily. “Not if it will endanger my agents.”

  “How would telling me endanger your—”

  “I got an agreement from the Director himself when I started running agents that I didn’t need to tell anyone anything I didn’t want to. It’s my judgment alone—”

  “That’s bullshit. We have to share information—”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Ricketts replied. “But I will tell you only what is necessary, and to the others, nothing. They can do their analysis, and stare at their photographs, and drink Starbucks—”

  “We are on the same team—”

  “We walk to the same destination, but not together.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Kinkaid asked.

  “I don’t think we should waste our time trying to capture him. We should take him out—”

  “That would require a finding—”

  “I know. That’s what we should do.”

  “No,” Kinkaid said. “The Director wants him here. He wants a nice big trial the whole world can see.”

  Ricketts understood, even though he disagreed. “I can grab the Sheikh. I need only your approval.”

  “How would you get him?”

  “You do not need to know that.”

  “The hell I don’t—”

  “You may ask the Director. He won’t tell you, but you may ask him.”

  Kinkaid fought back his frustration. “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “Do you think you can do it?”

  “I’m sure I can.”

  “How much risk?”

  Ricketts pondered, as if doing a calculation. “Much.”

  “Do you want to do this?”

  Ricketts nodded in the darkness. “Yes.”

  “Do you need any help, any support from us?”

  “No.”

  Kinkaid wasn’t sure what to say. It was all very irregular. He also had served in the DO long enough to know that some of the best officers were the quirkiest. “I don’t like it. I have to know.”

  Ricketts said nothing. He just stared at Kinkaid. The distant light in the parking lot at the top of a pole was behind him and showed only his silhouette. “You can tell me not to do it. Or you can let me put this guy out of our misery, but I can’t tell you how or when.”

  “How about where?”

  “Sorry.”

  “You got a plan?”

  “Start of one.”

  Kinkaid debated with himself. He finally had to admit that results were what he wanted, and Ricketts brought results. “Do it.”

  “Want to get a slider?” Woods asked Wink and Big at the back of the ready room as the SDO set up the video projector in the aisle between the seats and aimed it at the enormous screen suspended from the overhead in the front. Movies in the Navy had long been a grand tradition. The movie would be shown at an announced time and all the officers would show up to watch it. The SDO was responsible for selecting the movie from the hundreds of videotapes available from the ship’s video library and ensuring the projector was set up. He had to roll the movie exactly at the specified time. To the second. Or the Executive Officer would rail on him and he would be held in general contempt by the squadron for some unspecified period.

  “Sure,” they replied together. “We can get back in time for the movie. How many stars is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Three, I think.” The star system was legendary within the squadron. Every SDO tried to get a five-star movie. If the CO agreed that it was five stars, that SDO was taken off the SDO watch bill for an entire month. But it was hard to find a five-star movie. The categories were clear enough: a train, an Indian, female nudity, a mort (someone killed by other than natural causes), and a snake. The snake and the Indian were the toughest. One movie had a hat trick in one scene—a naked female Indian riding a horse when confronted by a snake. There was a mort, but a train never showed up so it stalled at four stars.

  In the forward wardroom, several aircrew in their flight suits were spread out among the long tables. Woods, Wink, and Big stood in front of the grill expectantly. After a few seconds the messmen asked them what they would like.

  “Double slider,” Woods said.

  “Triple cheeseburger,” Big said enthusiastically.

  “Single for me,” Wink said, looking at Big. “Geez, Big, you’re going to weigh three hundred pounds.”

  “I already do.” Big smiled.

  Wink glanced at him skeptically. “Are you kidding?”

  Big leaned against the bulkhead behind him while he watched his triple cheese slider sizzle on the large flat grill. “Wink, you’re amazing. If I weighed three hundred pounds I wouldn’t even fit through the door. I am a svelte two-forty.”

  “Wow,” Woods said. “Athlete.”

  “You going to start on me?” Big said.

  One of the EA-6B Prowler pilots joined them in line. “Hey, Wink, was that you on button seventeen in marshall this last recovery?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you have that cloud layer right at marshall?”

  “We were below it. Darker than a witch’s heart.”

  “We were in the goo the whole time. Unbelievable.”

  Pritch appeared in the room, moving to the end of the line.

  Three plates magically appeared on the counter. The men grabbed their food and sat down at a table.

  After taking a large bite from his burger, Big looked across at Woods. “How you doing? About Boomer and all.”

  Pritch sat down on the other side of Big. Woods looked at her, slightly annoyed she was there, and annoyed at himself for being annoyed. “I don’t know,” Woods replied. “I was really bent. Nothing seems to be happening. I try to act normal, do my job, be myself, but it’s like it’s all in slow motion, or something. Then the XO . . .”

  “I know what you mean,” Big replied.

  “Mind if I join you?” asked Father Maloney, standing next to Woods, a cup of tea in his hand.

  Woods rolled his eyes as he looked at Big and Wink across the table. “No, please,” he said, motioning to the chair next to Wink.

  “I gotta go,” said Big, getting up as the chaplain sat down. “Gotta go debrief.”

  “What?” asked Pritch. “I debriefed you an hour ago.”

  “Maintenance. I’ve got to talk to maintenance about the FM radio.”

  “You’ve got FM in your airplane?”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know, Pritch,” Big said as he bounced quickly on the balls of his feet to get his flight suit to unrumple and straighten down his legs over his flight boots.

  “Me, too,” said Wink, standing.

  Woods was stuck. He wanted to catch the movie in the ready room, but it was obvious that the chaplain had sat down to talk to him. He didn’t know the other officers at all, and he’d met Woods at Vialli’s funeral service.

  The chaplain sipped his cup of tea. His round, kind face was slightly red, as it usually was, as if life on the carrier was too much of an effort. He seemed very out of place in a uniform. He had a Lieutenant Commander’s gold oak leaf on one collar and a cross on the other—the insignia worn by a chaplain.

  Woods had always thought crosses looked incongruous on uniforms. He found the whole chaplain thing almost offensive. They tried so hard to be everyone’s friend it was as if their lives didn’t have any content. He was sure his opinions were stereotypical, especially since he had never had a conversation of any length with any chaplain, but he wasn’t in any hurry to change that.

&
nbsp; Woods finished his burger without knowing what to say. To talk shop, or ridicule Pritch—the thing he wanted to do most—just didn’t seem right with the chaplain sitting there.

  “How have you been, Lieutenant Woods?” Father Maloney finally asked.

  “Pretty good, thanks, just trying to figure out where to spend all the money I make.”

  Maloney smiled at Pritch. “Hello. I’m Father Maloney, the Catholic chaplain aboard. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “No, sir, I’m Ensign Charlene Pritchard.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  “Does Lieutenant Woods always joke with others the way he does with me?” he asked Pritch.

  “He doesn’t take much very seriously.”

  Maloney looked at Woods. “Is that true?”

  Woods shrugged, waiting for the right time to make his exit.

  “Have I made you angry somehow?”

  “No, sir,” Woods replied.

  “It seems like my presence makes you uncomfortable,” Maloney said.

  Pritch sneaked a glance at Woods.

  “Not really. Seeing you just reminds me of Vialli, and that aggravates me.”

  “Why does it aggravate you?”

  Woods stared at Maloney. “Is there something about being a chaplain that makes you ask such dumb questions?” he said, his face reddening. He hesitated for a minute, then went on. “Sorry. He was my roommate, and my friend. He was murdered. Here we sit on the most lethal weapon ever designed, his murderers are a couple of hundred miles away, and we’re eating hamburgers. The whole thing just pisses me off.”

  Maloney nodded his head understandingly. “I know what you mean. But we don’t know that nothing is being done about it.”

  “You know something I don’t know?”

  “No, I certainly wouldn’t know. I just meant that the government might be doing things we don’t know about.”

  “Like what? Sending the crack CIA to find some terrorist and put a stick in his eye? Come on.”

  “All I was saying is we shouldn’t assume we know everything when we don’t.”

  “What’s probably happening is that we know more about it than anyone, and nothing is being done at all. That’s the most likely.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. But we can’t do much about it.”

  “The hell we can’t. Sorry. Yes we can.”

  “What would you suggest?” Maloney asked, sipping his tea.

  Woods’s words were direct. “I think we should announce to the world that we’re going after the terrorists. Launch an attack on their headquarters. They’ve already claimed responsibility for it. Let’s take them at their word.”

  “We can’t do that, can we?”

  “Why not?”

  “That would be an act of war.”

  “So what?” Woods replied. “What are we here for, Father? Why are we in the Mediterranean?”

  “To defend NATO,” said Pritch.

  “From what?” said Woods.

  “Whatever threat develops.”

  “Isn’t attacking a Navy officer a threat?”

  “Not to peace, not really,” the chaplain said.

  “It’s a threat to every American. Terrorism is intended to make us afraid. To make us change our plans, our attitudes, and live in fear. That is a threat to peace. I think we should go after them. Quit waiting around for the politicos to test the wind. Let’s go now.”

  “That would be vengeance,” said Maloney.

  “What’s wrong with a little vengeance now and then?” asked Woods, angry.

  “ ‘Vengeance is mine, says the Lord,’ “ said Maloney. “It’s not up to us to exact revenge against an enemy, it’s God’s decision.”

  Woods frowned. “What does that mean?” he asked. “Was it wrong to take vengeance on Japan for attacking us at Pearl Harbor? Should we have left that up to God? Should we wait for a storm or an earthquake or something? I remember a lot of attacks directly ordered by God in the Old Testament. Maybe we should just be listening for his order.”

  Maloney realized he was in much deeper than he’d intended to get in the conversation. He also realized he had to answer. “Of course the country can respond. That’s legitimate warfare. But the ship, or the Captain of the ship, can’t do it on his own—that’s revenge.”

  “I don’t see the difference,” Woods said. “The country acts through us. Through people. That’s all we can do.”

  Maloney considered his words. “It is a question of authority. The country can act, individuals cannot.”

  “Doesn’t it matter what they’re doing or why? If the U.S. can attack, why can’t we? We are the U.S.”

  “We can, if instructed to by the government. Even you would agree that we can’t act on our own.”

  “I don’t care who does it, as long as someone does!” Woods said, his voice loud, drawing looks from other pilots on the wardroom. “It’s only the police that can stop the guy who breaks in to rape your wife? You have to stand there and watch. Call 911. ‘Hello, police, there’s a guy here in my bedroom. He’s raping my wife, but I know I can’t act on my own. Only the state has the authority to protect me . . . I think he’s almost done . . . Do hurry . . . ‘ That’s how it’s supposed to go? That’s your idea of authority?”

  Father Maloney didn’t respond. He breathed deeply and looked down at the table. Then he said, “The use of force by an individual in an emergency is different than an act of war.” He smiled a small smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean to get into this. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  Woods showed his annoyance. “I’m pretty tired of people telling me why we can’t do anything about murder,” he snapped. “I for one am not going to just live with it. I’m not going to stop until they regret having killed Vialli. Not until they’ve paid for it.”

  Maloney shrugged. “What can you do? You have to let it go.”

  “Why do I have to let it go? Why does everybody keep telling me that?” Woods said, his voice rising again.

  “Because you can’t change it. You can’t do anything about it. It isn’t profitable to strain at things you can’t change. It only causes frustration and pain.”

  Woods spoke slowly, deliberately. “I will never forget, and I will never quit. Ever.”

  Pritch slid her chair back, sensing an opening. “I’ve got to go debrief the last recovery in CVIC. See you later, Trey. Nice to meet you, Father Maloney.”

  Maloney rose and extended his hand to Pritch. “I enjoyed meeting you. Are you Catholic?”

  “Used to be. See you later,” she said uncomfortably.

  “What do you have in mind?” Maloney asked, sitting down again and sliding his chair directly across from Woods.

  “Nothing.”

  “I miss Tony a lot.”

  Woods was amazed. “Father Maloney, you didn’t even know him. All you did was preside over his funeral.”

  “You perhaps think you know more than you do. You should be careful. Tony was a Catholic—”

  “I know that. But I also know he didn’t buy it. He was a regular guy—”

  “Are you Catholic?”

  “No.”

  “What church did you grow up in?”

  “Presbyterian.”

  “Do you buy it, as you have put it?”

  Woods shrugged and nodded.

  “Well, Tony did buy it. All of it. He came to our Wednesday morning mass every week. Never missed once. We talked weekly.”

  Woods stared at the priest, dumbfounded. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I didn’t say that to embarrass you, but so you could understand that there are others who feel his loss as deeply as you do.”

  “I know that. I’ve just been a little careless lately.” Woods stood up, pushing his chair back under the table. “I’ve got to hit the rack. It’s been a long day. See you again sometime.”

  “Yes. Good night, Lieutenant Woods. Have a go
od evening.”

  “Thanks,” Woods said as he headed toward his stateroom, knowing he’d missed the start of the movie and not really caring. He was no longer in the mood.

  He closed the flimsy steel stateroom door behind him, sat down heavily in his desk chair and unlaced his boots. He dropped them on the tiled deck, standing up to take off his flight suit. He slung it over his chair and removed his yellow T-shirt. He turned on the small neon light over the steel sink, feeling the coolness of the metal through his cotton boxer shorts as he leaned against it.

  He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked tired. He felt tired. He had been up almost nineteen hours. Nothing unusual about that though, he told himself. Eighteen was the norm. No, it was weariness. He couldn’t do anything about Vialli and he knew it. Every time someone reminded him of it, he felt the frustration more deeply. He shook his head vigorously, and splashed cold water on his face.

  He switched off the light and brushed his teeth in the dark. He couldn’t hear Big breathing in the top bunk—he was probably at the movie—but Bernie was there—guush, cuh cuh cuh. At least the catapults were quiet. The last launch was over. He could hear the recovery aft, as an S-3, distinctive by sound of its relatively quiet but deep turbofan engines, strained futilely against the arresting cable.

  He pulled back the white cotton sheet and gray USN blanket on the lower bunk and crawled in. He listened to the familiar sounds of the ship, as he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and prepared for his usual instantaneous unconsciousness.

  His eyes snapped open as his heart raced. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He jumped out of bed and pulled on his flight suit, socks, and boots, zipping up his flight suit all the way to hide the fact he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt. He threw open the door to the stateroom and slammed it behind him. He turned outboard, went through a hatch, and grabbed the railings on the ladder as he slid down feet first. Down another, and another, and another, until he was on the mess deck.

  He stopped in front of a door and tried the handle. It was locked. Shaking the handle, he finally let go with a grunt. He looked up and down the passageway, but no one was around. He was about to walk away when he saw the sign in the middle of the door: in case of emergency, contact Lieutenant Rayburn at 4765.