Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  “Exactly,” Woods said, closing the door behind them. He took a deep breath and tried to decide what do to next.

  Big interrupted his thoughts. “Does it matter to you?”

  “What?”

  “Whether it would be right to attack these guys, as in moral.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All this talk about Thomas Aquinas . . . does it make any real difference to you? ’Cause I get the feeling you’re just using this stuff as an angle. To get what you want.”

  “What’s got you stirred up?” Woods asked.

  Big opened his closet and started putting on his flight suit. “I was listening to you pin the poor chaplain to the wall, and making that Navy lawyer-puke feel uncomfortable. You were working them. I just wonder if what they’re saying matters to you or if you’re just using them.”

  “You’re worried about me misusing Aquinas?”

  “Nope. Don’t even know that much about him. So, does it matter? What they’re saying?”

  Woods considered Big’s question. Big had a way of asking questions that made him squirm. “Yeah, it does. We’ve let the whole thing slide to the President, and he decides when and where we go to war. It’s all wrong. My father fought in Vietnam—”

  “I know—”

  “—in an undeclared war. I think it delegitimized the whole thing. It may have been one of the things that caused the public to lose faith in it. Congress never voted for it.”

  “Come on—”

  “No, you asked,” Woods said, getting it off his chest. “So we don’t operate like we should anymore. I think we should get back to that. Where we don’t have to sit out here planning a strike against some guy, or group, just because the President says so. That’s what a king would do. I’m willing to go to war, but I want it to be something the country supports. I don’t want to come home and have people spitting on me like they did my father.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “I’m not. It’s important.”

  Big smiled. “Maybe one day somebody will listen to you.”

  “Yeah, like today. I’m going to get this e-mail out tonight. I’m going to retype the padre’s memo and put his name on it, and mention Rayburn, and send it to Admiral Brown.”

  “Admiral who?” Big asked, concerned Woods had decided to try for a truly momentous jump over the chain of command.

  “Brown. My congressman. Retired Vice Admiral Lionel Brown. You know.”

  “Oh, yeah—“ The phone on the bulkhead rang, startling both of them. Big reached over his head and pressed the button that released the handset and kept it from falling during high seas. “Lieutenant McMack, Ready Room Ten,” he said. He listened, then frowned. “Aw, no,” he said, closing his eyes momentarily. “When?”

  He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. “They find anything?” He waited, then nodded. “Okay. Thanks.” He hung up the phone and looked at Woods, who was waiting expectantly for some indication of what had happened. Big sighed. “Gator just flew into the water.”

  “The F-18 guy?”

  “Yeah. Their LSO. On approach, half a mile out. Just kept descending and didn’t pull up. The LSOs were screaming at him. He just flew right into the water. Perfect attitude, perfect rate of descent, right into the water. Hit like a pancake. Didn’t even try to eject.”

  Woods couldn’t believe it. Most cruises resulted in one or two accidents, maybe one death. This cruise was snakebit.

  “His wife is waiting for him in Piraeus. We pull in tomorrow and nobody knows how to get ahold of her.”

  16

  Sami stopped his Nissan in front of Cunningham’s townhouse. It was in one of those condo complexes where it required GPS or perfect directions to find someone’s condo. All the buildings looked the same, all the stairways and doorways looked the same: the same colors, the same decorative plants, the same cars in front—junkers for those who just moved in, and the BMWs for those about to move out.

  Sami leaned over and peered up the stairway for Cunningham. He checked the clock on the dash, which, much to his annoyance, continued to work and kept more accurate time than his three-hundred-dollar wristwatch. Finally Cunningham came bounding down the stairs carrying his briefcase.

  Opening the car door, he slid into the front passenger seat.

  “Sorry,” Cunningham said.

  “No problem,” Sami replied, backing out into the deserted, small street that looped the entire complex. He drove off quickly. “What do you think of Kinkaid?”

  “What?” Cunningham said, looking over toward Sami for the first time.

  “Kinkaid.”

  “Too early.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  Cunningham watched the traffic on the street they were turning on to. They never talked when they carpooled. He didn’t like to think this early. “What about him?”

  “You think he’s doing a good job?”

  “Sure.”

  “See anything that troubles you?”

  “Let’s hear what’s eating you.”

  “I think he may be in bed with Israel.”

  “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Where does he go first when we need info? Israel. Where does he have a pal on the ‘inside’? Israel. Too many crosscurrents at work here. I don’t like it.”

  Cunningham rolled his eyes but tried not to let Sami see. “You’re losing it. He’s the most quality guy we’ve got. He’s cool.”

  “I don’t think so.” He accelerated hard and the four-cylinder engine strained to meet his demands as they merged onto the mostly deserted freeway. “Ever hear of Mega?”

  “No. What is it?”

  Sami didn’t answer.

  17

  Woods stood next to Big, anxious for the officer boat to touch shore at Piraeus. He knew they should be excited about a new port, liberty, all the things that were supposed to make his job fun. But it wasn’t like that. Other thoughts clouded his mind. Vialli, the XO and Brillo, and now Gator, whom he hardly knew.

  “Aw shit, Trey,” Big said.

  “What?” Woods replied.

  “Look who’s standing on the pier.”

  Woods looked at a woman who was carefully watching the officer boat approach the pier. “Who is she?” he asked.

  “Gator’s wife,” Big replied. “She was at the Air Wing party before we left on cruise. Look at her,” Big said, studying her body language. “She hasn’t heard.”

  “Oh, no,” Woods said. He checked the officer boat for anyone from Gator’s squadron. “I’m sure not going to tell her.”

  “I’m not going to tell her,” Big said, searching desperately for some way to dump the unpleasant job on someone else. He spotted the Air Wing Maintenance Officer coming out onto the deck. “Greebs,” he said, calling to him. “Gator’s wife is on the pier. Someone’s got to tell her.”

  Greebs looked at them both. “Not me,” he said. “Didn’t even know the man.”

  The boat touched the pier as the coxswain reversed the engines to stop its forward progress.

  Woods and Big watched in fascination as Gator’s wife smiled and waited anxiously for the officers to get off the boat. She had flown all the way from the States for this port call to see her husband for the first time in three months. She was wearing a silk blouse, tight white pants, and heels. Her freshly washed black hair glistened in the Greek sunshine. She had something in her hand that Woods couldn’t make out. “This has the makings of a disaster, Big,” Woods said.

  A Petty Officer jumped off the bow onto the pier and tied the boat off. He hurried to the stern and tied off the other line. The coxswain killed the engine and the boat settled into its place next to the pier.

  Woods and Big held back, hoping someone else would recognize Gator’s wife and beat them to the pier to take the poor woman aside. The officers streamed right by her and headed toward the waiting taxicabs fifty yards away at the head of the pier.

  Finally, Woods and Big ste
pped ashore. “Hi,” Woods said to her. “I’m Sean Woods.” Big stood behind him, pretending to look for someone or something down the pier. “You remember Big,” he said. “I think you met at the Air Wing party.”

  “Hi,” she replied. “I’m Susan Gomez—”

  “Right, Gator’s wife.”

  “Right.” She smiled. “Have you seen him? He promised he’d be on the very first O-boat ashore,” she said. “Is this it? Did I miss it?”

  “No,” Woods said. “This is it.” Woods hated this. He wished he had just kept walking. “Let’s go over there for a minute,” he said, pointing down the pier away from the taxis and the activity. He put his sunglasses in his pocket and moved away slowly.

  Susan followed, but with a growing sense of foreboding.

  Finally, Woods stopped. Turning to her, he met her eyes. She was stunningly pretty, but her face was full of fear. She couldn’t speak.

  Woods held her shoulders. “Last night, Gator was on the last recovery. He was on final approach, and got into a descent that he never pulled out of. His F-18 hit the water and he didn’t eject. He was killed, about ten o’clock. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but that’s why he’s not on the boat. Someone from his squadron should have been here to tell you, but they were trying to find you. I don’t think they knew how to get in touch with you.”

  She stared at him with no comprehension, her mind refusing to accept what he had just said. “What?” she said finally.

  “Gator’s dead,” he said. “His airplane went down.”

  Woods put his arm around Susan’s shoulder. Susan’s thin body began to shake, as she fought back the truth that would change her life forever. Tears erupted from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “Are you sure? Could there be some mistake?”

  “No, they’re sure.”

  “Where is he? Did they find his body?”

  “No,” Woods replied. “They’re still looking for him. They’ll have people out there all day, looking for wreckage, trying to figure out what went wrong.”

  She covered her eyes with her hand, her diamond wedding band glimmering in the sunshine. She shuddered. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “He was . . .” She couldn’t finish.

  At the pier, another officer boat was tying up. “Big, go see if there’s someone from Gator’s squadron on that boat.”

  “Rog,” Big said. He hurried down the pier and waited for the officer boat to unload.

  Woods reached for Susan and held her close to him. “I’m sorry,” Woods said. Her mouth pressed into his shoulder, muffling her sobs. He stroked her hair, trying to comfort her. He didn’t know what else to say or do.

  Big came back with another officer in tow. “Susan, here’s the XO,” Big said, relieved.

  Gator’s XO looked at the scene and knew he had blown it. He was the one who was supposed to tell Gator’s wife about her husband. He had taken the Chief’s word for it as to when the first O-boat would leave. He hadn’t anticipated a bunch of anxious officers talking the coxswain into going early. “Hello, Susan,” he began. “I’m sorry about Gator. We don’t—”

  “Is he really dead?” she asked, searching his face for any glimmer of hope.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But you haven’t found his body. He might still be out there.”

  “We saw his airplane hit the water, Susan. He didn’t even punch out.”

  “Aren’t you still looking for him?”

  “Yes, we are, but he isn’t alive. Maybe we’ll find his body, but probably not. Don’t get your hopes up because we’re out there looking for his body. Look,” he said, wanting to comfort her, but not having any idea how to, “I’d like you to come with me. I have a place arranged. There are some things we need to do.”

  The XO turned to Woods and Big. “Thanks. I missed the first boat. I owe you one.”

  Woods spoke. “You need us for anything else?”

  “No. I’ve got it from here. Thanks for stepping in.”

  “Sure,” Woods said.

  The two of them watched Susan and the XO walk slowly down the pier in the beautiful sunshine.

  “You did good, Trey,” Big said.

  “We didn’t have any choice.”

  Big hitched up his jeans and tucked in his shirt. “Oh yes we did. If I’d been by myself I’d have walked right by her. No doubt about it.”

  “So now we set off to go get your flokati rugs.”

  “Yeah,” Big replied. “But I don’t feel much like shopping. That sure took the fun out of the morning. Nothing like staring mortality in the face.”

  “How ’bout a cup of coffee?” Woods asked.

  “Yeah. That sounds good.” They began to walk. “You ever come close to just buying it? Flying into the water or something?”

  “Once. Scared the hell out of me.”

  “Dangerous business, Trey.”

  “Keeping the world safe for democracy.”

  “I’m saying.”

  Congressman Lionel Brown liked to have his staff meetings every day at 0730. Not 7:30, 0730, just like he was still in the Navy. Admiral Brown wasn’t like other members of Congress. He was a Naval Academy graduate and a retired Vice Admiral. His last job in the Navy as AIRPAC had taken him to North Island Naval Air Station in Coronado, California, the peninsula that forms San Diego Bay and sits across the water from the city. After retirement, Brown had moved to Washington, D.C., and worked in the defense industry. A beltway bandit, as they were called.

  While in Washington he had been able to observe how the government operated. He had seen how military policy was made by people who had never served a day in the military. It had distressed him so much he’d decided to move back to Coronado, where he had kept a home, and run for Congress. Prior to his election there hadn’t been a single former flag officer or general in Congress. He had come to Washington with one agenda item—to make sure Congress knew what it was doing in the decisions it made about the military. Nothing else mattered to him. Just defense. The Speaker had wisely placed him on the House Armed Services Committee, and through attrition and retirement, he was now the senior member and the chairman. Considered defense-oriented, but rational, he was well regarded on both sides of the aisle.

  He sat at the head of the conference table on the edge of his seat as he always did. He believed in daily staff meetings of thirty minutes to make sure everyone was on the same page. His schedule was passed around and problems that had come up the day before were identified and someone was assigned to solve each one. The meeting was over at 0800 whether all business was completed or not.

  This meeting had been short, with all business completed at 0750. The Admiral was in a good mood. He pushed his thick, graying brown hair away from his forehead and put his reading glasses into his suit coat pocket. “Anything else for the good of the cause?” he asked his staff.

  Jaime Rodriguez hadn’t planned on saying anything, but there was time. “We received an interesting letter the other day,” he began tentatively.

  “Why didn’t you bring it up in constituent correspondence?” the Admiral asked absently.

  Jaime knew he should have. That was why he was bringing it up now. “It didn’t strike me as being that important then, but it keeps coming to mind.”

  “What was it?”

  “From a Navy Lieutenant—”

  “Constituent?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s his command?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where is he? Where is he currently stationed?”

  “A carrier.”

  “Ship’s company or an aviator?”

  “Um . . . I’m not really sure.”

  “What ship?”

  “I don’t really remember, sir. Sorry, I hadn’t intended to bring it up. Since we had some time . . .”

  “What’s so interesting about it?”

  “It was about this Sheikh guy. The new terrorist?”

  The Admiral nodded.

&nbs
p; “He thought he had a way of hitting back at this guy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He thought we should declare war.”

  “Against whom?” the Admiral asked, amused.

  “Against the Sheikh himself.”

  Admiral Brown looked confused. “How could we do that?”

  “It’s pretty interesting. He did his homework. He sent it by e-mail. He attached a memo from a priest—”

  “A priest?”

  “Yes, sir—claimed he had some expertise in ethics. It’s an analysis of whether it would be a just war, mentions Aquinas, and Grotius—”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, sir, but he also talked to a JAG officer about the legality of declaring war against one man. The JAG guy looked at it and said it could be done. Nothing that would keep us from declaring war against one man, a terrorist, or his whole organization for that matter. Then we could send the entire military after him. Wherever he is. And if someone is protecting him, or guarding him, then international law would allow us to go through them too.”

  Admiral Brown looked at Jaime, his legislative director, carefully. He was clearly pleased. He loved new ideas. “A Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A very clever Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Admiral Brown glanced around the room. “What do you think about this idea?” he said to no one in particular.

  Nobody said anything. Jaime finally replied, “I think it’s incredible.”

  Brown nodded and checked his watch—0800. He stood. “Tim?”

  “Vacation.”

  “Have him research it. This is the kind of thing that might respond to some good thinking.” To Jaime he said, “You’ll need to do a reply.”

  Sheepishly Jaime said, “Sir, I already sent a reply back to him. I sent him a form letter about terrorism.”

  The Admiral frowned but then he said briskly, “All right . . . Let’s get on with the business of the day.” Then he had another thought. “Jaime, why this Lieutenant?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Why did he care about it enough to write?”

  “You know that bus attack? Where the Navy officer was killed?”