Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  “Don’t take it lightly, Sami. Don’t disregard what your friends say.”

  “I don’t, and I didn’t. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  Dinner on the Washington had passed unremarkably, but the aircrew were growing restless. Bark called an AOM in the ready room for 1900. They were all there early for the first time in anyone’s memory. Bark’s expression spoke to them of pending action.

  At exactly 1900 Bark got up from his chair. He glanced toward the back. “Petty Officer Griffin, would you please hang the sign on the rear door?”

  Griffin crossed to the door and hung the do not disturb—meeting in progress sign on the outside.

  Bark nodded, ready to begin. Woods noticed that Bark was wearing his “lucky” flight suit. It was the one he had been issued as a flight student in Pensacola. He had worn it in every airplane he flew and every squadron he had been in. It was getting frayed and faded, but that didn’t deter Bark. He knew a good thing when he saw it.

  Bark’s voice was loud. “We’re going in. We’ve got the targets.”

  Excitement was visible on the faces of the Jolly Rogers.

  “Strike Ops is deciding what strike package to take right now. I’ve been lobbying for the only medium attack capability in the Navy. That would be us. I want them to have us as the go-to strike, and use the F-18s as bomb trucks directed by us. We’ll see. I think we’ll be on the first strike, but it’s not settled yet. The important thing to know is that we expect to go tonight.

  “The Admiral tells us that additional forces are inbound to this area from all over the world. The Army will be sending an airborne division to Italy, the Air Force is sending several squadrons of fighters and light attack to Aviano, but we still don’t know if Italy will sign off on attacks from her territory. This isn’t a NATO deal, so I have my doubts. Plus some of the countries like Syria, and maybe Iraq, will whisper in Italy’s ear and tell them how unwise it would be for her to support this misguided war of America’s. So we’ll wait to see. So far though, Italy hasn’t tried to tell us what we can do from our own carriers.” Bark smiled. “The first stage of this war will be Navy strikes, and we’re it. We’ll be going after the fortress in Lebanon.”

  “They expecting any opposition?” Lieutenant Commander Paulson asked.

  Bark shook his head. “No way of knowing. But when Israel went north into Lebanon to go after this guy, who came to his defense? Syrian Air—”

  “Bring them on—”

  “That’s why the initial strikes—2200 tonight—will be Tomahawk launches. First airplanes will launch immediately thereafter. The Tomahawk missiles are destined for certain structures, and certain SAM sites in the area—”

  Big interrupted. “We’re going to attack Syrian and Lebanese SAM sights? They’re not in this fight, are they?”

  “That’s one of the problems. Seems wise to assume that any SAM site in the area is going to be trained on our fighters. It’d be foolish in the extreme to fly over a hot SAM site and just figure they’re not going to shoot at us.”

  “But won’t Syria and Lebanon say we’ve attacked them if we attack their SAM sites?”

  “That’s been the decision. I am both surprised and pleased. I was afraid we’d head into these strikes and just hope they didn’t shoot at us. Now they almost certainly will, but we hope they won’t have much capability left to do it. Anyway, we can discuss the politics of it another time. The initial strike will be by Tomahawks against their Air Defense Command and Control, and some fixed SAM sites, then we’ll go in. That’s the plan, and that’s what I’m here to talk about.

  “A lot of things can go wrong with this operation. Let’s concentrate on what we need to do. I’ve asked Pritch to get the latest intelligence photos of the targets.”

  On cue she stood up and moved to the front of the room. Pritch’s briefings were well regarded and listened to carefully. It was obvious to everyone she took her job very seriously. She spent her off hours researching things she didn’t understand very well and deepening her knowledge of those things she did understand. It made her briefs much more reliable.

  She nodded to Petty Officer Griffin, who turned down the lights. “We’re going to spend some time getting familiar with the target. I say ‘target’ because it is likely we will be participating on strikes on only one target. For the whole Air Wing.”

  30

  Sami stood before the clerk. He outranked her in terms of who had a higher GS number, but she had what he wanted and would give it to him only if she was satisfied he was entitled to it.

  “It’s an old file,” he pleaded.

  “It doesn’t matter, sir. It is still classified, and you’re not on the access list.”

  Sami had to get the file. He couldn’t steal it—that would be impossible—and he could end up in prison just for trying. “What is the code word of the program?”

  “Sir,” she said, in the prim tones of an old-fashioned schoolteacher, “you know I can’t tell you that.”

  It suddenly struck him. “You’re aware of the Gaza Task Force?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “I’m on it,” he replied.

  “Okay.”

  “Have you seen the order?”

  “Yes, sir, I have it right here.”

  “Read it,” he demanded.

  “I don’t need to. I’ve already read it.”

  His face glowed. “Then you’ll recall that it gives the members blanket clearance for all research and investigation files dealing with the Middle East, with a few exceptions that are in specific categories. Right?”

  “Yes,” she said, not following.

  “Well, this file deals with the Middle East. And it’s not in the category of excluded matters.”

  “I don’t know that it deals with the Middle East—”

  “Well, look at it!” he said, exasperated. It had better deal with the Middle East, he thought. He turned his back on her so she could examine the first page of the file.

  “You’re right, sir,” she said. She slid the file across the counter to him. “Sign this,” she said, handing him a checkout card.

  He signed the card quickly and gave it back to her. She studied it and smiled at him. “Have a nice day,” she said.

  He turned quickly away, anxious beyond measure to read the file. He put it under his sweater vest and went straight to his cubicle. Glancing around to make sure no one was approaching or likely to interrupt him in the next fifteen minutes, he took the file out from under his sweater, opened it, and read the cover: mega investigation. top secret.

  Woods pushed against the weights as he strained to beat his personal record of bench-press repetition. He tried to get to the weight room on the 03 level at least five times a week. It had been three days since he had been there, and he was itching to get back to his schedule. He often found himself at the weight room after midnight, when it was not only uncrowded, but unrushed. Sometimes sacrificing sleep for conditioning was not a good trade, especially when he had to fly, but he found lifting weights reduced his stress.

  They had already planned the strike down to the last second, but he needed a forty-five minute workout before he got ready for the brief. The workout helped him keep his mind off all the things that could go wrong.

  He wasn’t the only one. The weight room was crowded with sweaty men and two women, two S-3 pilots who worked out every night. Woods was slightly put out because he had to wait for each station.

  As he finished his fifteenth bench press, he lowered the weights slowly so they didn’t drop. Sweat rolled down his cheeks as his red face relaxed. Grabbing his towel, he stood up and moved to the next station. He waited for the S-3 pilot to finish and then put the pin in the weights for the leg press.

  “Lieutenant Woods?”

  Woods hadn’t see the man come in, but he recognized the voice. Great, Woods thought. I am not up for this. Not turning around, he placed his feet on the metal plates to begin his first leg press. He
pushed hard and the large column of weights moved upward. Finally, Woods nodded toward the chaplain, just one inch short of rudely ignoring him.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” the chaplain said, unfazed.

  Woods didn’t say anything. He pushed the weights up with his legs, his hands solidly gripping the handles on either side of the seat. Straining against the weights, he held his breath and tried not to grunt.

  “Your roommate, Mr. McMack, told me I could find you here.”

  “What’s up?”

  The chaplain stood awkwardly, watching Woods. “May I talk to you?”

  “I’m going to keep going, if that’s okay. But say what you want to say.” He pushed against the weights again.

  “I’ve been thinking about our last conversation.” He waited for Woods to reply, but Woods was silent. “I have some concerns I’d like to discuss with you.”

  Woods let the weights he was holding up with his legs slam down. The sharp sound was like a rifle shot that sent a bolt of fear through the chaplain. “What?” Woods said.

  The chaplain walked around the station so that he could look at Woods. “Do you remember what we talked about?”

  “Look, Father, if you’ve got something to say, let’s hear it.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry for the intrusion. I’ve been thinking about what has happened. I simply wanted to ask you one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m concerned about what we’re doing.”

  “We who?” Woods said.

  “The U.S. I’m concerned about how we got into this war.”

  “Why?”

  “If someone from this ship went into Lebanon without the country knowing it, without authorization, and it led to an official declaration of war, it may not be, well, it might not be a just war, or the right thing to do. That would be deceitful.”

  Woods wiped his face and closed his eyes momentarily. “I’m not following you.”

  “When you sent my memo to Congress, we told them how just it would be to declare war. But the actual reason Congress gave for going to war was not for the attack on Lieutenant Vialli, but for the other attacks: the attaché, the Navy commander, and the State Department man. And those attacks were in response to their belief. You, or someone like you went into Lebanon with the Israelis. Wouldn’t that make the war unjust? Wouldn’t the declaration of war by Congress based on deceit be fraud?”

  “No,” Woods replied quickly. “We should declare war against this guy for killing Vialli. That’s all this is about. Tony Vialli. They killed him, and now they’re going to pay for it. Simple as that.” Woods got up from the leg press and walked around the chaplain to the next station. He sat on the bench facing out. “And now they’ve killed other Americans. I don’t understand how you can even say that,” Woods said.

  The chaplain stood in front of him, refusing to leave until he satisfied some apparently unquenchable desire to talk this through. “Remember how Germany invaded Poland?”

  “What?”

  “World War II. Remember? Germany invaded Poland in 1939.”

  “Of course. Everybody knows that.”

  “Well, that’s what brought England into it, and started the real fighting. Remember how it started?”

  “Sure. Germany invaded Poland and beat the hell out of them.”

  “Yes, but why did Germany invade? What was the supposed reason?”

  “Don’t remember.” Woods checked his watch.

  “There was an attack on German soldiers around a radio station on the Polish border. Twenty or thirty soldiers were killed. Pictures of the dead bodies with their German uniforms were circulated. Hitler was outraged and said he would defend Germany. He invaded Poland the next day.”

  “Okay,” Woods said.

  “His response was justified?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know—”

  “Hitler staged the entire thing,” the chaplain said. Woods was interested, but he didn’t get the point. “The dead Germans were prisoners. Hitler murdered a bunch of prisoners, put them in uniforms at the communications station, and declared that an outrageous attack had occurred. He deceived his own countrymen, the Poles, and the world. He used it as the pretense to start World War II.”

  “I gotta keep going here. What are you getting at?”

  “If someone from this ship performed an illegal action and our declaration of war is the result of that, we’re in the same boat as Adolf Hitler.”

  “It’s not the same at all,” Woods said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the Sheikh murdered Vialli.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because the Sheikh said so!”

  “What if they were there for another reason, and Vialli attacked them? After all, they didn’t kill the children.”

  “Right. Unarmed, Tony attacked a bunch of innocent terrorists who just wanted to ride on the bus.” Woods had heard enough. He was losing patience with this attempt to cast the American action in a cloud of moral ambiguity, where, for once, Woods believed it didn’t belong. “Now I get it,” Woods continued, trying to keep from saying too much. “You just make up a scenario to justify doing nothing. Well, I’ll tell you what. I am going to do something about it. You can watch and you can wring your hands. You can complain that it didn’t all line up perfectly, but things in human history rarely do. We’re doing the right thing here. This was going to happen eventually anyway. So we’re going to go after this guy, and we’re going to go all out. If anything else comes of it—if World War III results—then at least we know who our enemies are. Let’s get it over with.”

  Woods stood up, took his towel, and left the gym without looking back.

  Sami was surprised to see Kinkaid at the agency cafeteria. He’d never seen him there before. It was close to personal enjoyment and Kinkaid seldom did anything for fun. He only ate for fuel. The caffeine was simply the stimulant that allowed him to work ungodly hours without collapse.

  He waited in the checkout line behind Kinkaid. “Hey,” he said to Sami, finally noticing him, “What brings you here so early?”

  “The espresso. They guy who runs the machine is actually Italian, and knows what he’s doing.”

  “You mean it matters?” Kinkaid smiled as he paid the clerk. “I thought the idea was just to make it as bitter and awful as you could, and then sell it to people who have spent a long time convincing themselves it tastes good.”

  “No, no,” Sami replied enthusiastically. “There is a huge difference. Lots of factors. Probably the most important are the quality of the coffee beans and the freshness of the coffee when it’s handed to you. He does a great job.”

  “Well, good,” Kinkaid said. “You got a minute?”

  “Sure,” Sami shrugged, a little concerned. He paid for his espresso and followed Kinkaid to the corner of the room, where they sat at a small round table. “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know,” Kinkaid said, taking a drink. “I try to read people. Sometimes I’m right. I’m getting the feeling that there’s something eating you about our task force. Something’s going on in there,” he said, pointing to Sami’s head.

  “I hope there’s something going on in here,” Sami said, trying to make his response sound lighthearted. He wasn’t ready to talk about things yet, but he did have serious concerns.

  “So what’s going on?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Horseshit,” Kinkaid said with such force that it caught Sami completely off guard.

  “What?”

  “That’s horseshit. Don’t try to blow smoke at me, Sami. Something’s bugging you. What is it?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yeah, I really do.”

  “I don’t trust the Israelis.”

  Kinkaid was surprised. “Huh? What do they have to do with any of this?”

  “They might be behind the whole thing.”

  “What whole thing?”

  “The whole sti
nking mess. The whole thing may have been just to get the United States more deeply involved. To do their dirty work for them.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Think about it. A nice Navy Lieutenant met a beautiful girl who turned out to be Israeli. She lured him back to Israel, where he was promptly murdered—”

  “So was—”

  “You wanted to hear it, let me finish,” Sami said more abruptly than he’d intended. “He got killed, then something happened in Lebanon that may have involved a Navy plane. I’m not sure what happened there, but let’s assume one of our pilots went on his own private revenge attack with the Israeli Air Force. That sure as hell was with their consent, and would almost certainly have been their idea. No doubt. Then this Sheikh guy got all pissed at the U.S. because we were on the attack, which the Syrians claim to have figured out all by themselves, and his guys start attacking U.S. citizens all over the damned place. Now we declare war against him and are figuring out how to get back at him and take him out. Exactly what Israel wanted.”

  “They couldn’t do it themselves? You think they’re afraid of this lunatic?”

  “He’s not a lunatic,” Sami said, shaking his head. “Trust me, he is no lunatic. He may be wrong, and misguided, even evil, but he’s not a lunatic.”

  “So who attacked the bus and killed this Lieutenant and his girlfriend?”

  “You saw the reports. Men in Israeli Army uniforms.”

  “So the Israelis attacked the bus and killed their own people?” Kinkaid exclaimed. “You’re the lunatic! Don’t go irrational on me, Sami! I can’t afford to lose you.”

  “I’m not being irrational. I’m thinking about angles you may not be. You have to look at all the angles, Joe. All of them!”

  “And then the Sheikh cooperated and took responsibility for the attack? Where are you getting this stuff, Sami? Get off it before you stink up the whole place.”

  “If the order comes from high enough, the Mossad would do anything.”

  “I’ll see you at the task force meeting,” Kinkaid said disgustedly. He got up and walked out of the cafeteria.