Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  “I wanted us all to be aware of this. You can see what the concern is. If someone’s watching an embassy, the obvious question is why and the obvious answer is to conduct some kind of attack on the building.”

  He showed an overhead diagram of the location of the embassy in Casablanca, another larger one of the city, and a smaller one of the blocks immediately around the distinctive three-story structure. “As you can see, the possible approaches for a truck bomb are numerous. There has been some progress made in blocking off the parking near the building, but we’re not free of risk.”

  “He wouldn’t use a truck bomb against an embassy,” Sami said.

  Kinkaid stared at Sami, put off by his tone. “How do you know that?”

  “It’s not their style.”

  “So that’s the end of our analysis? ‘It’s not their style’?”

  Sami was stung. “I just don’t think they will. His Assassins operate based on a different set of criteria. He doesn’t seem interested in large bombs that blow up hundreds of people. I think there might be some—I hesitate to call it wisdom—but thinking there. If it’s a big explosion and a hundred people are killed, all we see is a pile of dead people, but it isn’t really personal. So far, at least, he’s gone for the dramatic impact.”

  “So don’t worry about a large attack or truck bomb because Sami says?”

  “No, sir, we should take precautions, absolutely, I’m just telling you that I don’t think it’s very likely.”

  “I’m sending out Snapshot Teams,” Kinkaid said with finality. “Anybody disagree with that?”

  Cunningham spoke reluctantly. “Why would he be after us? Unless he knows Ricketts was there, the only American he’s encountered was the Navy officer. By accident. So why would he start on us?”

  “Maybe we’ve been his target all along, and now he’s just getting started.”

  Cunningham nodded. He and the others knew better than to disagree with the head of the task force, at least when he had declared what he had decided to do. And it did make sense. It was something that should be done, even if they found nothing. The riskier course would be not to send the teams, and have something happen.

  Woods sat in front of the computer screen dealing with the e-mails he looked at every day. In fact, in many ways they made his day. He stayed in touch with his mother, his brother, his friends from college, and Navy pals whom he had met at various points in his Navy career. He stared at the in box, surveying the return e-mail addresses for the new e-mails he had received. He noticed one he didn’t recognize—“jaime.rodriguez@mail.house.gov.” What the hell is that? he thought to himself as he scrolled down and hit Enter to retrieve that e-mail first. It came up and he read it:

  Dear Lieutenant Woods: We’ve never met. I am the Legislative Director on Admiral Brown’s staff. I’m the one who received your letter recommending we declare war against Sheikh al-Jabal. I am also the one who sent you the form letter, saying essentially that we shared your concern with international terrorism, and that the Admiral was supporting this or that. I’ve felt bad ever since that letter went out. I wanted to tell you that the form letter didn’t truly reflect the interest your letter generated in this office. You probably don’t know Admiral Brown. He is bright, energetic, and most of all, willing to listen to the ideas of his subordinates. That distinguishes him from a lot of his fellow members of Congress, believe me. But he was willing to listen to you too. That’s what I wanted you to know. I personally talked to him about your idea. He was fascinated. We talked at some length about whether it was possible, legal, etc. Good stuff. The staff has been talking about it ever since. He’s even got some people looking into it further, including me. It just seemed unfair to let you continue to think that no one here paid any attention to it all. There are enough cynics there who think nothing that a constituent says has any value at all. I guess sometimes that does seem to be the case. But at least as far as your letter is concerned, it has stimulated a lot of thought and I wanted you to know. Let me know if there is anything I can ever do for you. I feel like I owe you one.

  Sincerely, Jaime Rodriguez

  Woods couldn’t believe his eyes. He read the e-mail again and again. He sat back in his chair and stared at the screen. Suddenly he yelled, “Big!”

  Woods and Wink were elected by Bark to be the first aircrew to sit alert five. During the transit west, while there wasn’t going to be any flying, the carrier still had to protect itself from an unexpected attack. It was one thing that all carrier Captains and Air Wing Commanders had in common—an aversion to being attacked by surprise. Pearl Harbor had changed everything. If there was even the remotest possibility of a threat, pilots sat in airplanes on alert, ready to take off on a moment’s notice. With Israel and Syria having at it, it was decided to keep fighters in alert five until the flight schedule picked up again in the afternoon.

  Alert five simply meant they had the ability to get airborne with live missiles and defend the carrier battle group from any attack in five minutes. The aircrew had to be strapped into their seats, airplane plugged in, sitting on the cat, alignment set, ready to go. All they had to do was start the engines and get shot off the catapult.

  Woods and Wink sat in the Tomcat on catapult three in the middle of the landing area of the flight deck. The canopy was open to the warm beautiful Mediterranean day. The sun was overhead, the sea swept by at thirty knots.

  Woods concentrated and moved the buttons quickly with his thumbs. He had done it hundreds of times and was ready. He knew the limited time he had, about thirty seconds. He moved buttons furiously, frustrated, an occasional curse coming from his mouth. The thirty seconds passed, and the ship’s radar antenna came around again, wiping out the electronic football game he was manipulating. “Fourteen points,” he called to Wink as he passed the football game back to him.

  Wink grabbed it and checked the location of the rotating radar. Thirty seconds. He worked the game frantically, passing, carrying the ball and scoring, again and again. He was much better at it than Woods. He could see the radar approaching. He worked faster. The radar beam passed through them and wiped out the game. “Seventeen points!” he announced.

  He reached forward with his right hand and passed the portable game back to Woods. “You cheated,” Woods accused. “No way you could score that much in one pass of the radar.”

  “You just can’t stand losing.”

  Woods was so intent on the game he didn’t see their relief approaching the plane. The two officers began their own preflight. Each new alert crew took the opportunity to check the airplane themselves. Not that they didn’t trust their squadron mates. They wouldn’t have trusted themselves. When they were done, they called up to Woods and Wink. “Okay,” they said. “You can come down.”

  Woods and Wink unstrapped, gathered their navigation information and flight bags, and climbed down to the flight deck. “All yours,” Woods said. “I wish we could stay and sit in this plane longer, but I guess we can’t have all the fun.”

  Lieutenant Commander Paulson looked at Woods with a smile. “You may not be winning this deal. There’s another officers’ meeting in five minutes. That’s why we decided to relieve you just a little early. Now you’ve got to go.”

  “Ohhh, not another one. What about?”

  Paulson shrugged. “CAG’s on the warpath. He’s running around all over the ship with his hair on fire. Something’s up.”

  Woods looked at Wink, who was trying not to throw up. “You guys want the football game?” he asked finally.

  “No thanks. I brought a book.”

  “You’re not supposed to read,” Woods said.

  “I know. I’d better be careful, or they’ll give me a time out and strap me into a seat in a small confined place for two hours.” He shrugged. “What are they gonna do? Send me home? Hurt me,” he said as he climbed into the front cockpit.

  “See you guys,” Wink said. He glanced at Woods and saw the concern on his face. They walked across
the flight deck to the starboard side by the arresting wires and stepped onto the short ladder leading below to the O3 level. As they stepped off the ladder, Wink asked Woods, “You worried?”

  Woods took longer to answer than he usually did. “I feel like a criminal hoping the police don’t find the evidence I know is there.”

  “I still can’t believe we did it,” Wink said, pursing his lips as he moved through the hatch to the passageway. “But I’d do it again.”

  “Do what again?” asked Bark, standing in the passageway waiting to go into the ready room.

  “Kick his butt in the portable football game,” Wink replied quickly.

  “That all you guys do on alert is play that stupid football game? You don’t ask each other NATOPS and safety questions? You don’t review airplane systems?” All the systems were explained in Naval Air Training and Operational Procedures Standardization manuals on which they were tested regularly. Failure meant you were grounded.

  “Guilty, Skipper,” Woods added. “Paulson says there’s yet another meeting. What’s the deal?”

  “I don’t know. It’s CAG’s show. I’m just an attendee, like you. I guess we’ll soon find out. But this one’s just for our squadron. In five minutes—actually, right now,” he added, checking at his watch.

  Woods and Wink followed Bark into the ready room. The Jolly Rogers were sitting in their assigned ready room chairs. Woods made his way to his seat in the second row. Wink took a chair farther back.

  Officers were talking quietly to each other, but their attention rarely diverted from CAG, who was standing in front of them waiting for something. Nervousness was universal. No one knew why they should be nervous, but they all knew they should be.

  CAG looked at Bark, sitting directly in front of him in the front row chair. “Everyone here?” CAG asked him.

  “Yes, sir, except for the alert.”

  CAG started without any preliminaries. “You heard what I said on the television this morning. There was a large battle between Israel and Syria, and we didn’t want to be anywhere near it. It was bad enough for us to have been in Israel the day before. They should have told us not to come knowing what they were going to do the day we left—but we can’t change that now. The reason I wanted to talk to you, our one and only F-14 squadron, is because it has turned ugly. Israel has been sending continuous raids all day. They’re not letting up this time.”

  The officers glanced at one another, relieved to hear it wasn’t about them.

  “But there has been a new development that has really got me frosted,” he said, scanning the faces in front of him. “This is really about VF-103. I just hope there has been some . . . mistake.”

  Woods involuntarily gripped the armrests of his chair. He tried to continue to breathe through his nose. He could feel Wink’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head.

  “I was just called on the carpet by Admiral Sweat. Syria has lodged a formal protest against the United States. Actually, against us. Their Ambassador called on the Secretary of State this morning, in Washington, to accuse us of assisting the Israeli attack on the Syrian Air Force, and of actually participating in the attack.”

  The officers, murmured about how ridiculous that accusation was.

  “According to Syria, their pilots reported seeing U.S. Navy Tomcats during the air battle.”

  The aircrew laughed nervously. Woods tried to join in with sufficient sincerity so he wouldn’t stand out. He glanced at Pritch, who was standing in the corner behind the SDO desk. She looked as if she was going to faint.

  “Not only do they say they saw F-14s in the battle, but they say the F-14s had the skull and crossbones on their tails,” CAG said. “And there’s more. Syria said they aren’t basing this accusation only on visual sightings. Several of their pilots claim their wingmen were shot down by F-14s. They claim that Sparrow and Sidewinder missiles were used. A couple of pilots themselves claim to have been shot down by Tomcats.”

  The officers dismissed the accusation as so much nonsense. “That’s not all,” CAG said, frowning. “The Syrian Ambassador said that they were sure.” He lowered his voice and took a step forward. “Their electronic warfare people identified the F-14 radar.”

  Woods tried not to hyperventilate. The pilots and RIOs were silent, wondering suddenly if it was somehow true, but unable to imagine how it could be.

  “If anyone has anything to say, I would like to hear it,” CAG said softly. He stood in front of the group and waited for someone to speak.

  Woods tried not to draw attention to himself. He began to sweat, and told his body to stop sweating. He knew he couldn’t look at Big, or Wink, or Sedge. Any knowing look would be intercepted by the CAG, or someone else, and all would be lost. They had never discussed what to do if found out. Lie? Lie boldly? Say nothing? Lie to protect others but not yourself?

  Woods admitted to himself that he hadn’t thought it through in the infinite detail he should have. They never should have turned on their radar. Just because he wanted the kill. No, he thought, because he wanted to live. Because the Flogger was coming after them and was going to kill them if they hadn’t turned on the radar. He had to.

  But he thought he had all possibilities covered. He had told himself that if they closed in on him, if they discovered what had happened, he would stand up courageously and announce what had happened, and tell the world that he was proud of it.

  But he wasn’t proud anymore. He was scared. Officers began to stir. Nobody wanted to even touch the subject, or risk being the focus of some investigation.

  Bark stood up and crossed to the other side of the ready room from the CAG. He looked at the squadron. “Any of you have anything to say?” he asked, sweeping his eyes over them. “Who was on the flight schedule yesterday?” he asked.

  Woods thought Bark’s gaze rested a little longer on him than it did on the other officers.

  “CAG,” Bark said, “when was this supposed to have happened?”

  “They didn’t give a time. Sometime yesterday, during the air battles.”

  “But the reports I’ve read said there were several battles, going on most of the day.”

  “That’s right. We don’t know the actual time.”

  Bark smiled. “Well, are they saying there were Jolly Roger Tomcats there all the time?”

  The other officers smiled, realizing the ridiculousness of such a statement.

  “I don’t think so,” CAG said. “Sounds like one section to me.”

  Bark rubbed his chin, his brown eyes intense and thoughtful. “They say these Tomcats shot down ‘several’ MiGs?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How many?”

  “Between four and eight.”

  Bark whistled. “That’s pretty good work. And with missiles?”

  “That’s right,” CAG confirmed.

  “If they shot down four to eight MiGs, there should be four to eight missiles missing. Right?”

  CAG thought for a second. “Right.”

  “Let’s inventory the missiles.”

  “Great idea,” CAG said. “Do it.”

  “Yes, sir, sure will,” Bark replied.

  CAG turned his gaze back toward the aircrews. “But I want to hear from the officers in your squadron. I want to hear from them that they weren’t there.”

  “Sir, you asked them if they had anything to say, and they didn’t.”

  CAG paced in front of the squadron. “How could the Syrians have been so wrong about seeing F-14s?”

  Bark smiled. “I’d like to meet the MiG pilot that can tell the difference between an F-14 and an F-15 in the heat of the battle. Both have two tails, two engines, nice radome shaped noses, basically the same color unless you see them together—I have trouble sometimes when we fight F-15s. Easy mistake. Look at World War II—U.S. pilots shot at American planes thinking they were Japanese. Happens all the time.”

  “But why would they say the planes had the skull and bones on the tail?”

/>   “Because we’re the most famous Navy fighter squadron in the world!” Bark replied.

  “Ooorah,” one officer said loudly, endorsing the accolade.

  Bark went on, “We’ve been in movies, commercials, you name it. Nearly every book you see about F-14s has our plane on the cover. Every model made of the F-14, just about, has our paint scheme on it. It’s everywhere. It’s probably the only one they know about. Hell, CAG, that’s why VF-103 changed its name to the Jolly Rogers when the Navy decommissioned VF-84. We didn’t want to see that great tradition die, so we became the Jolly Rogers.”

  CAG hesitated, his confidence in his information faltering. “What about the radar? They detected the F-14 radar.”

  “I’ll bet they had the F-18 radar too, and our E-2C,” Bark replied. “It’s a powerful radar. Those electrons keep going—I’ll bet you could pick them up on the moon.” His eyes searched the room. “Who’s our NATOPS RIO? Wink?” Wink raised his hand. “How far you figure an F-14 radar could be picked up by ESM? More than a hundred miles?”

  Wink nodded. “Way over two hundred miles. Probably could detect it on the moon. Literally.”

  “They probably were being bombarded by F-14 electrons. No news there. We were flying all day, and radiating the entire time. No reason not to. We didn’t even know about the air battle. This sounds like sour grapes to me. They know we were in port the day before. They’re probably just trying to make us look bad. To tie us in. Trying to throw blame around for their rout. As if the Israelis need our help.”

  Maybe there was an explanation, CAG decided. He surveyed the room slowly, trying to find something that seemed out of place in the demeanor of the officers. “Well,” he said to Bark, “I guess we’ll know for sure if we’ve got a problem when that missile inventory is completed.”

  “Yes, sir, we sure will.”

  “I want CAG Ops to do the inventory.”

  “Yes, sir, no problem,” Bark said.

  CAG hesitated and then made his way out of the room. The officers breathed easier.