Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  “Sure.”

  “It was his roommate.”

  “Want me to get your mail too?” Woods asked as he changed into his uniform in his stateroom.

  Big nodded, lying there with his eyes closed.

  “You should have let me help you carry those rugs. I thought that was the whole idea.”

  Woods locked the stateroom door behind him and headed aft toward the ready room. It was deserted except for the duty officer. Woods leaned over and looked in his mailbox. He pulled out two news magazines, a post card, a sports weekly, and two letters, one from his mother and . . . his heart skipped, one from the House of Representatives. He looked at the envelope, not sure whether to open it or bring it back to the stateroom. He decided to take it where he could find some privacy and not have somebody looking over his shoulder. He hurried back to his stateroom, slamming the door behind him. “Big! Look!” he said breathlessly.

  Big rolled over and peered at Woods sideways, examining the envelope. “I can’t read it.”

  “It’s from Congressman Brown,” Woods said excitedly. “I just e-mailed him!”

  “Doesn’t take long to print a form letter.”

  “You’re missing this one, Big.”

  “Open the letter.”

  Woods stuck his finger under the flap and tore the top of the envelope. He opened the single sheet. “It’s on his letterhead, and signed by him personally.”

  “Read it.”

  Lieutenant Sean Woods, USN

  Fighter Squadron One Zero Three

  FPO New York, NY 10023

  Dear Lieutenant Woods:

  Thank you for your recent letter. I share your concern about terrorism. It is a scourge on civilized societies. I agree it is no way to achieve even a worthwhile end; it demonstrates the inhumanity of the terrorist by his disregard for human life.

  I have taken several steps to combat terrorism, both here and abroad. I have endorsed the bill recently introduced in the House by Congressman Black, which strengthens the FBI and its ability to track terrorists. I have also cosponsored the Act to End International Terrorism. That act will do two things, first, increase the ability of our intelligence-gathering agencies, including the CIA, to monitor terrorist activity abroad, and second, facilitate cooperation among INTERPOL and other international police and intelligence agencies making it easier for them to share information and planning on how to deal with terrorists.

  I hope this meets with your approval. It is important that a congressman receive correspondence from his constituents. Thank you, Lieutenant Woods, for your letter and your support.

  Sincerely,

  Lionel Brown, Vice Admiral,

  United States Navy (Retired)

  Congressman, 49th District of California

  Woods stared at the page after he had finished reading the letter.

  “He didn’t even mention what I said. How can he write a letter like that and not even mention it? He didn’t even say anything about Father Maloney’s memo or the law stuff. Nothing.”

  “It’s a form letter, Trey, just like I told you it would be.”

  “It can’t be,” Woods said. “This must just be the first letter, there’s probably another one coming that will answer mine.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Big said.

  “But it is the perfect solution!”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it. You’ve bought into the myth that we live in a representative democracy that is actually responsive. That’s rubbish. Congressmen exist for one purpose only—to stay in office. That’s why they start running for office as soon as they get in. That’s all they do. Shoot, Trey, during the cold war there was more turnover in the politburo than in Congress.”

  “Bullshit—”

  “It’s true.”

  Woods wasn’t even listening. “It’s one thing to tell me my idea is stupid, or wrong. But to treat me like some Rube from Brawley writing about his check for farm subsidies . . .”

  Big sat up. “You really think a congressman saw your letter? What have you been smoking? Some flunkie gets the letters, sorts them by issues, and cranks out whatever form letter is closest. Then they mark down your issue, which side you’re on, and count them up. All you’ll get out of your letter is that somewhere in your congressman’s office, your letter caused some bright young college graduate with unlimited ambition to put a mark on a list that shows one of the congressman’s constituents is in favor of a stronger response to terrorism. That’s it.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yep.”

  “Don’t they want to do anything about it?”

  Big chuckled. “You don’t understand. You don’t get the critical difference between the ability to do something and the will to do it. They don’t have the political will. They don’t ever step out in front—they’re afraid of taking the wrong position.”

  Woods laid the letter on the desk and stared at it as if it bore a disease. Then he picked it up and tore it in half, then in half again, and again, until he had ripped the letter to shreds, slamming it into the steel trash can.

  Big rolled over and moaned. “Anything else in the mail?”

  Woods picked up the rest of the mail and went through it again. “No. Just the usual.” He stopped. “Who would send me a postcard?” He examined it, then recognized the writing.

  “What?” Big asked. “What is it?”

  Woods whispered, “It’s from Boomer. From Israel.”

  “You’re shitting me,” Big said, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. “What does it say?”

  Woods read it with an odd feeling, as if he were doing something somehow improper. “He’s in Nahariya. He’s in love. Irit is great . . . they’re going to Tel Aviv tomorrow where she is going to interview for a job with E1 A1 as a flight attendant. They’re going to take the bus down the coastal highway . . . should be beautiful . . . very upbeat.”

  “That’s kind of spooky.”

  Woods was sad, remembering the last time he had seen Vialli.

  Big interrupted his thoughts. “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “I thought she was a schoolteacher. What’s she doing interviewing for E1 A1?”

  “I don’t know. I think the schoolteacher bit was when she told him she was from Italy.”

  Big squinted. “So what did she really do?”

  Woods and Wink orbited twenty miles out from the Washington, waiting. Finally the Air Boss transmitted, “Victory 200, you’re cleared in.”

  “You ready, Wink?”

  “Hit it,” he said to Woods, then to the Air Boss: “Roger.”

  Woods lowered the nose of the Tomcat and pushed the throttles to the stops.

  “Passing through ten.”

  “Roger.”

  Woods checked his instruments and made sure the TACAN needle was on the nose pointing to the Washington straight ahead, sixteen miles away. He glanced over his shoulder and watched the wings begin sweeping back as the Tomcat passed through .7 Mach, seven-tenths the speed of sound.

  “Passing five.”

  “Roger,” Woods replied. Ten miles. He pulled the nose over farther toward the water, pushing the throttles into afterburner. He felt the burners kick in and shoved the throttle to the end.

  “Passing two.” The needle on the airspeed indicator moved steadily through Mach 9. “Home base, Victory 200, 6 miles out for supersonic pass.”

  “Roger, 200. Cleared in supersonic.”

  “I can’t believe they pay us for this,” Woods said. “Passing one thousand feet, going hot mike.” Woods remained amazed that Bark had let him do the supersonic pass. They had done air shows for dignitaries often, and the supersonic pass was the most fun of the entire event, but it was always the Commanders or Lieutenant Commanders who got the job. This time for some reason, Bark had let him do it. The ship had offered to perform the show for Israeli dignitaries, and they had eagerly accepted. The COD had made two trips to Haifa, and the dignitaries from Israel now stood on t
he flight deck, watching the demonstration of the capabilities of an aircraft carrier. One weapon system they wished they had and knew they would never get.

  “I’m hot,” Wink said, flicking the switch on his ICS.

  The F-14 slipped through the sonic barrier imperceptibly, its wings swept full aft, like a horse with its ears pinned back.

  “Radar altimeter set at fifty feet.”

  “Cool,” Wink said, leaning forward to look for the carrier so plainly visible on the radar. He saw the big gray hulk on the beautiful blue sea. The sky was lighter blue and equally smooth. They continued to accelerate through Mach 1.1.

  “Home base, see you,” Wink transmitted.

  “No tally on you, continue . . . tallyho. You’re awfully low,” the Air Boss transmitted, corrective concern in voice.

  “Roger that,” Wink said, smiling.

  In an instant they were on the carrier. They flew down the port side of the Washington, like a blurred image in a photograph, with no sound.

  Big McMack, standing on the flight deck, was always amazed at the sight of a supersonic airplane. He had done it countless times, but seeing it from the flight deck was another experience entirely. He scanned the faces of the Israeli dignitaries as they watched the passing Tomcat. He knew the look. He knew what they were saying: “It’s so quiet . . .” Just wait he said to himself, putting his fingers in his ears.

  Woods and Wink looked up at the figures standing on the flight deck as the Tomcat flew like an arrow at fifty feet over the water, twenty feet below the flight deck. They passed the entire length of the flight deck in less than a second.

  “You ready?” Woods asked Wink.

  “Pull it,” he replied, leaning back in his seat.

  Woods pulled on the stick as they passed the ramp of the flight deck and pegged the accelerometer on 6.5 Gs. The silent Tomcat pulled up from the horizon and pointed straight up from the earth with no apparent effort.

  Big, gritting his teeth, kept his eyes on the watching dignitaries. They were smiling. Then, just when they had forgotten it might ever be coming, BOOM! Their knees buckled and their hands went to their ears. “Too late,” Big said to himself as he removed his hands from his ears and chuckled.

  The Jolly Roger F-14 left thick white vapors behind it from the G forces acting on the wings. It screamed away from earth, still supersonic, climbing like a bandit. In five seconds it was passing through ten thousand feet and growing smaller.

  Woods held the stick against his left thigh as he took the Tomcat spun through one aileron roll after another. The nose was exactly straight up, ninety degrees away from the horizon, the earth spinning around and around beneath them, as if suspended on a string. “Passing fifteen,” Wink reported.

  “Roger,” Woods replied. “Who was on the flight deck anyway?”

  “Passing twenty. I’m not sure. I think the Israeli Secretary of Defense and a couple of other politicians.”

  “Prime Minister?”

  “Passing twenty-five. Yeah, he was supposed to come. Don’t think he did though.”

  “We’ll level off at thirty.”

  “Okay.”

  As they passed through thirty thousand feet, no longer supersonic but still rocketing away from earth, Woods steadied the Tomcat in level flight, upside down, then rolled upright, his throttle reduced to four hundred knots.

  “Victory 200, RTB.”

  “Roger, 200. Air show complete, green deck. Cleared into the break.”

  “Roger that,” Wink said. “Let’s do it.”

  Woods rolled upside down and pulled the nose down toward the horizon. The plane quickly descended through twenty thousand feet and headed back toward the ship. Woods glanced to his right as they straightened from their left turn. “Check it out,” he said, looking over at Israel. “Sure is pretty.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “You ever been there?”

  “No. Passing through five thousand feet. You?”

  “Once. Wings coming back. Last cruise I was on.”

  “What did you think? Victory 200, five miles for the break, see you.”

  “Roger, 200, cleared for the break. Say speed.”

  Wink glanced at his airspeed indicator. “Five hundred.”

  “Roger.”

  The carrier was passing underneath them and to their left. Woods banked the plane slightly to see the deck clearly. “Check that out,” he said. “They’ve got the dignitaries standing on the flight deck just forward of the island.”

  “We ought to bolter just to give them something to see.”

  “Not today. I’m too hungry.”

  They waited until they had passed in front of the carrier. Wink braced and Woods snapped the Tomcat into a left bank, pulling back hard on the stick. At eight hundred feet they headed downwind, the opposite direction of the ship. Leveling out, they went through the landing checklist quickly and started their approach turn toward the carrier, the only airplane in the air.

  Big watched his roommate bank toward the flight deck onto final approach. The LSOs were in place, ready to receive the big fighter. Woods rolled into the groove and steadied on his heading and rate of descent. He was on rails. The Tomcat descended steadily and quickly toward the landing area as the dignitaries stared, openmouthed.

  Wink transmitted, “Victory 200, Tomcat, ball, 7.0.”

  The LSO replied, “Roger, ball.”

  Woods watched the ball, the landing reference lens on the port side of the ship. It was perfectly centered. He glanced again at his rate of descent, his lineup, and his angle of attack. The deck rushed up and stopped the Tomcat’s descent and the wire grabbed the tailhook. Woods put the throttles full forward and tried to pull away from the wire. The Tomcat rolled to a short stop on the deck. A perfect landing.

  The Israeli dignitaries were stunned. They had been around the military all their lives, but had never seen anything remotely like this. They looked at the Tomcat and the carrier with envy.

  18

  Eight F-16 Israeli fighters appeared out of nowhere and flew over the Washington as it steamed majestically into Haifa Bay. They banked east and flew inland, still in formation. Woods smiled at the sight. There was nothing quite like seeing fighters fly in formation. Woods aligned his belt buckle to keep his whites pristine and perfect. He was one of the few squadron officers willing to put on his dress uniform for the privilege of standing on deck while approaching Haifa. Sailors lined the perimeter of the flight deck and every deck above it, to the O12 level above the signal bridge, their whites snapping like flags in the stiff breeze.

  Small patrol gunboats of the Israeli Navy—officially not a Navy, just part of the Israeli Defense Force—cruised alongside like puppies, dwarfed even by the Ticonderoga, the Aegis cruiser accompanying the Washington.

  Excitement had been building for days since the port visit to Haifa had been confirmed. The sailors had assumed it would never happen. Too much volatility. Port calls in Israel were always subject to the political winds and changed with little notice. Many of the sailors had been on cruises in the Mediterranean before and had been scheduled to go to Haifa only to have the plans change for reasons they couldn’t now remember. But someone had decided that allowing events like the bus attack to vary the schedule was giving in to terrorism. And now they were in Israel.

  They were excited; more than the usual excitement of a port call. Perhaps it was the recommendation to wear their uniforms ashore that so astounded them. The usual instructions were to wear civilian clothes and try not to look too American; otherwise, it was thought, people might spit on you or try to shoot you. But here, there were stories of people being asked over to dinner by Israelis because they were Americans. And women who wanted to spend time with you because you were in the Navy. That rumor alone was enough to make the sailors lose sleep.

  As always in the Mediterranean, the Washington anchored offshore, her draft too deep to pull into port.

  As soon as the anchors were lowered the boats were
prepared to carry the men to liberty. Woods was in line to be on the first officer boat. Big was his reluctant companion.

  Woods bounced impatiently. He had been to Israel before, but had never taken advantage of his time to see the country. This would be different. He had traded with other officers so the duty watches he was scheduled to stand weren’t during the time in port in Israel. He could spend every minute of the next four days seeing the country. And finding out what had happened to Vialli.

  “How are we going to get to Tel Aviv?” asked Big unenthusiastically.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Do you even know where we’re going?”

  “Vaguely. It’s north of Tel Aviv on the coastal highway.”

  Big looked down at Woods. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Have to.”

  “Won’t change anything.”

  Woods nodded slowly. “I know.”

  “Then why do it? You’ve gotta get on with your life. Vialli’s death—”

  “Murder.”

  “Okay, murder. You can’t spend the rest of your life obsessing about it.”

  “I’m not obsessing.”

  “Right,” Big replied as the line started to move.

  “I just want justice . . .”

  Big scoffed. “You need to read more Shakespeare. Then you’d know justice doesn’t exist.”

  “I’m not talking about global justice, Big. I’m talking about making the people who did this pay. That’s all.”

  “Good luck,” Big replied, stepping into the open enlisted boat being used as an officer boat. Automatically, he walked toward the bow. Woods followed. “They never find those guys, and if they do, they can’t ever do anything about it.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to change. That’s why I wrote to my congressman . . .”

  “Looks to me like you’ve hit a wall. You didn’t accomplish anything except to get frustrated and obsess on Vialli for a month.”

  The boat pulled away from the Washington, headed for Haifa. The white buildings of the city stood out sharply from the hills, reminding Woods of the Azores. He sat back against the seat and looked aft toward the diminishing carrier.

  When the boat touched the quay the sailors jumped off to moor it firmly. The officers waited for the Air Boss, the senior officer aboard—always last on and first off—to go ashore first, then filed off after him, looking forward to what they thought awaited them.