Shadows of War

by Robert Gandt

  “The Red Flag competition, 1994. I was with the Navy detachment from Lemoore. You were leading the United Emirate fighter weapons team.”

  Al-Fasr nodded. “I remember.”

  “You scraped an Air Force F-16 pilot off on a ridge when you broke the hard deck.”

  “He was incompetent. He shouldn’t have tried to fight me down there.”

  Maxwell felt the old anger coming back as he remembered the incident. Al-Fasr had been thrown out of the competition and sent back to the emirates with instructions never to return.

  “We met one other time,” said Maxwell.

  Al-Fasr’s eyes narrowed. “In the air?”

  “You were in a MiG-29.”

  He studied Maxwell for a moment, then said, “You were flying the F/A-18?”

  Maxwell nodded.

  “In the canyon?” said Al-Fasr.

  “I’m the guy.”

  “I should congratulate you. No one was ever able to beat me in a one-versus-one engagement. You were lucky. If my aircraft had not struck the ground, you would not be here.”

  “If your aircraft had not struck the ground, my next Sidewinder would have blown you to hell.”

  Al-Fasr gave him a hint of a smile. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  The dogfight with Al-Fasr was still vivid in Maxwell’s memory. He had pursued Al-Fasr’s MiG through a twisting canyon in the highlands of Yemen. Al-Fasr led him into a trap—a narrow canyon bridge that looked like the eye of a needle. In an instinctive maneuver, he rolled the Hornet into a knife edge bank and slipped through the narrow passage.

  Al-Fasr had been waiting. He pounced from above, and Maxwell countered with a rolling scissors maneuver. The two jets were locked in a fight to the death, turning, depleting energy, until they were only a few hundred feet above the moon-like terrain.

  And then Al-Fasr made a mistake. Dodging a Sidewinder missile from Maxwell’s fighter, he scraped a wing along the crest of a ridge. In a geyser of fire and debris, the MiG-29 exploded.

  Al-Fasr was dead—or so everyone thought. But at the last instant before the MiG disintegrated, Al-Fasr had ejected from the dying jet. Though badly injured, he survived and managed to escape Yemen.

  “How’d you catch him?” asked Boyce.

  “He got separated from his main force,” said Gritti. “He was boogieing for cover in the marshland. One of my Marines dropped out of a helo on him like he was Hulk Hogan.”

  “You caught him by surprise. That’s a switch. Maybe we’re finally getting the drop on these assholes.”

  Al-Fasr seemed oblivious of the discussion. He sat with his arms crossed, examining his fingernails.

  Boyce re-inserted his cigar in his jaw and stood gazing down at the prisoner. “What were you doing in Iran?” he said to Al-Fasr. “Is Iran supporting the Bu Hasa Brigade?”

  “Is this a discussion or an interrogation?”

  “Neither. It’s a question.”

  “Iran means nothing. It is an artificial country with no right to exist.”

  “So you moved in and carved out a piece for yourself?”

  Al-Fasr shrugged. “I don’t require the consent of an irrelevant government.”

  “Now that you’re retired from the terrorist business,” said Boyce. “Who’s going to run the brigade?”

  “An effective military unit doesn’t depend on a single leader.”

  “Military unit?” snorted Boyce. “Since when does a bunch of thugs who murder innocent people qualify as a military unit?”

  At this Al-Fasr looked up, meeting Boyce’s gaze. Before he could answer, the steel door of the compartment flew open, banging against the stop.

  Ted Bronson stormed into the room, accompanied by one of the Marine sentries. He was wearing khakis and desert boots, and he still had the float coat from his helicopter trip to the Saipan.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Bronson demanded.

  No one answered. Everyone in the room stared at Bronson as if he’d just landed from Uranus.

  A look of cold fury covered his face. He turned on Gritti. “Who gave you the clearance to let unauthorized personnel have contact with a prisoner?”

  Gritti’s face darkened. “Clearance? Excuse me, but I’ll remind you who captured this guy. And in case the CIA is too fucking stupid to know who this ship belongs to, let me also remind you that you’re a civilian who is assisting a naval operation.”

  Bronson said, “This happens to be a national security operation, Colonel, and your role in it ended the moment you returned to the Saipan. Your orders were that any prisoners or material recovered from the raid were supposed to be handed over to the senior CIA officer in the theatre. That happens to be me.”

  For a long moment the two men glowered at each other. Finally Boyce cleared his throat and said, “As a matter of military protocol, Colonel Gritti called his fellow strike commanders—that’s Commander Maxwell and me—to a post-strike debriefing. He was kind enough to let us meet the enemy we’ve been trading shots with for two years. You got a problem with that, Mr. Bronson?”

  Bronson swung his gaze to Boyce and Maxwell. “I want both of you out of here now. Everything you’ve heard or observed in this space is considered classified.”

  “Now wait a damned minute,” said Gritti. “I’m still in command of this unit. When and how these officers leave is my call, not yours.”

  “Unless you want to be relieved of your command,” said Bronson, “you’ll butt out and leave this matter to the CIA.”

  It was a stand off. Gritti’s eyebrows descended over his eyes. Bronson’s neck turned a shade of crimson.

  Al-Fasr was watching the exchange with rapt attention. His eyes flicked from Bronson to Gritti and back again. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have a proposition that may interest you.”

  Chapter 18 — The Gift

  USS Saipan

  1540, Thursday, 18 March

  A silence fell over the room as they stared at him. Al-Fasr almost laughed at the look of surprise on their faces.

  Finally Gritti, the one who took him prisoner, said, “What kind of proposition?”

  “An exchange of prisoners.”

  “What prisoners are you talking about?” said Boyce.

  “Me. For one of your people.”

  Another silence, more looks of surprise.

  You’ve got them, Al-Fasr thought to himself. You are in control.

  “One of our people?” said Boyce, exchanging glances with Maxwell. “Would you mind being more specific?”

  The CIA officer, Bronson, inserted himself between them. “That’s enough. Any discussions with this man will be conducted by the CIA. I want all of you out of here now.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Maxwell. “What does he mean, one of our people? Did they capture any of our guys during the raid?”

  “None that have been reported to me,” said Gritti.

  Maxell shoved his way past Bronson. He looked down at Al-Fasr. “Okay, who are you talking about? Are you saying the Bu Hasa Brigade has an American prisoner?”

  For a moment Al-Fasr held Maxwell’s gaze. There was something in the American’s eyes. He knows who I mean.

  “That’s correct,” said Al-Fasr, still looking at Maxwell. “One whom they will release in exchange for my freedom.”

  “Who the hell is he talking about?” said Gritti.

  “It can only be one person,” said Maxwell.

  Gritti and Boyce were both looking at him. “Would someone tell me what the hell’s going on?” said Boyce.

  “Get out of this compartment,” said Bronson, his voice turning shrill. “I’m bringing charges against all of you for breach of national security.”

  He waved to the Marine sentry at the door. “Escort these officers out of the SCIF now. They have no further access to this compartment.”

  Boyce said to Gritti, “Can he do that?”

  “Yeah, if he wants to be an asshole about it, which he obviously does.”

  Boyce
and Gritti turned to leave the compartment. Maxwell hesitated, still peering at Al-Fasr as if looking for confirmation.

  Al-Fasr gave him a barely perceptible nod.

  “Out!” yelled Bronson, giving Maxwell a shove toward the door.

  < >

  USS Ronald Reagan

  Petty Officer First Class Donald Carson was getting a bad feeling.

  Standing behind Lieutenant DiLorenzo, watching the officer’s fingers fly over the keyboard of the maintenance computer, Carson had the feeling that he was standing in quicksand.

  “See how easy it is,” said DiLorenzo.

  It was easy, observed Carson. Easier than he had ever imagined. DiLorenzo had managed to open up the LAN—Local Area Network—of the air wing maintenance department. Displayed on the monitor was the page listing the periodic inspection dates of each aircraft in the wing.

  It was nearly midnight. Carson and DiLorenzo were alone in the Quality Assurance compartment on the second deck. DiLorenzo had locked the door. Though most of the ship was quiet, the night maintenance shift was at work in the shop spaces and on the hangar deck.

  Carson was an AM1— Aviation Structural Mechanic First Class. He had been in the Navy eighteen years, which wasn’t long enough to retire, but too long to still be only a first class petty officer. As the Quality Assurance petty officer in the squadron maintenance department, Carson was responsible for verifying each procedure of the aircraft corrosion inspections.

  “There are the dates for the last corrosion inspections on aircraft 306, 307, and 309,” said DiLorenzo. As Carson watched, DiLorenzo erased the dates from nearly a year ago and inserted new dates. Exactly seven days ago. Each of the inspection items were checked off and had the name of the quality assurance rep from each work center.

  Carson’s bad feeling was getting worse.

  “Is it really necessary to hack into the LAN like this?” said Carson. “Couldn’t we just do it the normal way and actually run the inspections?”

  “This is all a paper game,” said DiLorenzo. “It’s about numbers. We’re in competition with all the other Hornet squadrons, and we won’t make the necessary numbers unless we do it this way.”

  “But what if there really is some corrosion in those jets?” said Carson. “What if something is wrong with them? Our pilots have to fly those things, and they trust us to do it by the book.”

  DiLorenzo turned from the computer and looked at Carson. “You know I would never compromise safety. That’s not the issue. These jets were inspected a little over a year ago and they were clean as a whistle. This is a three year cycle, and there isn’t any way we should have to be taking them apart this soon. This stuff is all bullshit—just a game the bean counters make us play. How could these jets have corrosion? They’re damned near brand new.”

  Carson wasn’t so sure. He wished he hadn’t been dragged into this, but he didn’t know how to avoid it. He was afraid of DiLorenzo. DiLorenzo had been a chief petty officer himself and he knew ways to make life a living hell for any poor bastard who didn’t do things his way.

  “How many do we have to do like this?” asked Carson.

  “Just these two. Getting past these two inspections will put us ahead of the other two Hornet squadrons in the maintenance production numbers. It will decrease our short term workload by half.”

  DiLorenzo grinned and turned back to the computer. “Think of it like it’s a pit stop at the Daytona 500. Something Jeff Gordon would understand.”

  Carson nodded. DiLorenzo had found his soft spot. Carson was a native of north Florida, and NASCAR was practically a religion to him.

  “Okay, but what if someone hears about what we did?”

  DiLorenzo’s hands froze over the keyboard. He turned back to Carson and his voice hardened. “No way is that going to happen. No way. You got it? If anyone should ask about this, you deny everything. This comes directly from Commander Manson, and he’s our boss.”

  Then DiLorenzo softened his voice and flashed another grin. “And besides, everyone on the corrosion inspection team is going to get a Navy Achievement Medal. Plus, you and I, Carson, are going to get Navy Commendation Medals. I don’t need to tell you how that will look on your upcoming promotion board. So will the Battle “E” that the squadron is going to win because of us. Medals mean promotion points, which means you beat out the competition. You’re gonna have a whole new row of ribbons on your rack. You’ll finally get that chief petty officer’s hat you’ve been wanting all these years.”

  DiLorenzo’s voice had the warm charm of a natural salesman. Carson felt himself being swept up in the officer’s spell. He had never received any decoration higher than the Navy Achievement Medal, which these days was almost a rubber stamp award. But a Navy Commendation Medal! And the Battle “E.” He could see the look on his wife’s face at the award ceremony back in Oceana.

  DiLorenzo returned to the keyboard and continued talking as he typed. “Commander Manson takes care of his people. He’s about to screen for his own squadron command, you know. He’ll be looking for loyal troops like us for his maintenance department. If that happens, you’re not only looking at promotion to Chief Petty officer, maybe even Senior Chief. How would you like that?”

  He’d like it a lot, Carson had to admit. More than anything else, he wanted to put on a chief’s hat. His last three evaluations by division officers had been lousy. So lousy that he had missed promotion to chief petty officer.

  Now he was in a bad spot. If the Navy separated him before he got his twenty in, he would have problems getting a decent job on the outside. He might be a good aviation mechanic, but he wasn’t good enough to make chief petty officer, a dismal fact that his record would reflect.

  He had a teenage son still at home, and a plump and disgruntled wife who wanted nothing less than a nice new home that was far away from military housing.

  Yes, damn it, more than anything he wanted to exchange his sailor’s dungarees for the khaki uniform of a chief petty officer. It would be the culmination of his Navy career.

  And why not? It was a fair reward for bending the rules a little. A win-win, good for him, good for the squadron.

  So why do you still have this bad feeling in your gut?

  He tried to ignore the feeling. “Uh, how did you manage to get into the master computer?” he asked. “I thought that was hack proof.”

  “Simple. I used the air wing maintenance officer’s password.”

  “So it looks like he made the entries?”

  “Sure.”

  “How do you know his password?”

  “Guesswork. I figured that he used the same thing almost everyone else does—a family member’s name. In this case, his wife. Same as you.”

  Carson’s bad feeling was getting worse. He felt himself sinking deeper into the quicksand.

  < >

  USS Saipan

  “It’s Rasmussen, isn’t it?” said Maxwell. He glowered at Bronson. “That’s who Al-Fasr is talking about, isn’t it?”

  Bronson ignored him and slammed the door of the compartment where Al-Fasr was confined.

  “I told you to get out of here,” said Bronson. He shoved Maxwell toward the main door of the SCIF. “That’s an order.”

  “Screw your order. “They’ve got Rasmussen, don’t they? And Al-Fasr wants to be exchanged for him.”

  Instead of answering, Bronson seized his arm and aimed him toward the door. Maxwell yanked his hand off his arm. “Answer my question, goddamn it.”

  “If you don’t leave this space immediately, I’ll have you confined to the brig.”

  “You lied when I asked you before about Rasmussen.” The anger was boiling up in Maxwell. “You knew Rasmussen was alive, and you knew where he was. You’re stonewalling it.”

  Boyce and Gritti were watching the scene with rapt attention. The Marine sentry had a worried look on his face, glancing from Gritti to Bronson.

  Bronson said, “You are now several fathoms out of your depth, Maxwell. Bef
ore you completely trash your petty little career, I advise you to return to your ship and keep your nose out of national security matters.”

  “He’s right, Brick,” said Boyce. “Let’s go.”

  Maxwell wasn’t finished. “Wait a minute here. A friend of mine has been left behind in Iraq for over a dozen years. And this so-called intelligence professional knew it all along. Didn’t you, Bronson?”

  Bronson gave him another shove. Maxwell shoved him back. “Do that one more time and I’ll break your fucking nose.”

  “Corporal, arrest this man,” Bronson said to the sentry.

  Gritti stepped in before the young Marine could respond. “Belay that, Corporal. I’m in charge here. Brick, we’re leaving. Now.”

  Maxwell hesitated, still thinking about smashing Bronson’s face. It would be worth it. Almost.

  “We’re outta here, Brick,” said Boyce. “Let’s go cool off and talk.”

  For another moment he glowered at Bronson, then he turned and followed Boyce and Gritti out of the SCIF compartment. They stood in the passageway while Maxwell tried to control the anger that still seethed in him.

  The two sentries at the compartment door watched with curious expressions.

  “Rasmussen is alive,” said Maxwell. “Bronson has known it all along.”

  “Like he said, it’s an intelligence matter,” said Boyce. “Not our business.”

  “Raz is my business. He’s my friend, CAG. He’s one of us. The CIA wants to leave him behind for some reason that Bronson won’t tell us.”

  “We don’t know that it’s Rasmussen. We don’t even know that Al-Fasr isn’t yanking our chain. The sonofabitch is a terrorist and a murderer. It’s probably all bullshit.”

  “It’s not bullshit,” said Gritti.

  Boyce and Maxwell stared at him.

  “Excuse me?” said Maxwell.

  Gritti glanced once at the curious sentries, then gave Boyce and Maxwell a nod. “Follow me.”

  < >

  They walked in silence to Gritti’s stateroom.

  Gritti closed the door, removed his cap, then took a seat at his desk. He twirled the combination to his safe and extracted a plastic-wrapped object.