by Robert Gandt
She was a pretty girl, black-haired with high cheek bones and large brown eyes. Behind the dark eyes, Claire remembered, was a look of sadness.
They talked about family things, how the kids were handling school, the garden that Maria had begun in the back yard, old friends who had gone on to new assignments. Maria was thrilled that Sam Maxwell was a test pilot.
“Raz admired you so much,” she blurted. It was the first mention of her husband. “He said you were the smartest guy in the squadron, the one who was going on to great things.”
Maxwell had been embarrassed by the compliment. “Raz was like my big brother,” he said. “He took me under his wing when I came to the squadron, always watching out for—”
A man barged into the room, smiling, exuding friendly boisterousness. He went straight to Maxwell and stuck out his hand. “You’ve gotta be Brick. I’m Frank Gallagher. Maria told me you were coming by.”
It was hard not to like Gallagher. He had the humor and easy confidence of a man who didn’t take himself too seriously. He was older than Maxwell by about ten years, a successful land developer, a widower and father of a pair of teenagers.
Maria’s eyes darted worriedly between the two men, watching for signs of disapproval from Maxwell. She was caught in a chasm between bereavement and guilt. She was in love with two men—one a ghost, the other a man who provided the kind of rock solid strength she desperately needed.
Claire was not surprised when she heard, six months later, that Maria and Frank were married. She hoped that the two would have a good life. Maybe some of the sadness would leave Maria Rasmussen’s eyes.
Now Claire understood what Maria had gone through—and was going through all over again. What it was like to love two men. To choose between them.
Life isn’t fair, she thought. No one should have to make a choice like that. Not Maria Rasmussen, not Claire Phillips. When a ghost appeared in your life, you shouldn’t have to choose between him and a living person.
So who promised you that life would be fair? Welcome to real life, girl.
With that thought, she finished packing.
< >
An hour later she was aboard a CH-53 helo back to Bahrain. Her excuse was that the major news story—the strike in Iran— had been reported, and she had to get back to the bureau office.
It was still early morning when she arrived in her cubicle on the mezzanine floor of the Gulf Hotel. Five minutes later, she had Phillip Granley, the vice president of World News Syndicate, on the satellite phone connection.
His voice was a hoarse croak. “Christ almighty. Do you know what time it is here?”
“You said to wake you up at any time if it was something hot. This is somelthing hot, Phil.”
She told him about Jamal Al-Fasr and Raz Rasmussen.
Granley took several seconds to digest the information. “And you say the CIA doesn’t want to do a deal and exchange prisoners?”
“Correct.”
“Why?”
“That’s the question. And that’s the story.”
“How did you get this information?”
“Sources. Unnamed.”
“And I presume that you can document the story?”
This was the slippery part. The only document she had seen was the copied pages from Raz’s daybook that Maxwell showed her, and she couldn’t reveal their existence.
“I have seen solid evidence that the American prisoner exists and is being held by the Bu Hasa. I know, also, that the terrorist leader, Al-Fasr, is in American custody. It hasn’t been announced yet, but sooner or later they’ll have to admit it. We can’t prove that he wants to be exchanged, but we don’t have to. It makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is why we’re leaving one of our own prisoners behind.”
“Can you think of one compelling reason why World Wide News ought to get crossways with the CIA?”
“Phil, when you hired me, you said to report the truth, no matter how much better a lie would sound. Well, damn it, this is the truth. I know it, and the CIA knows it.”
“Yeah, fine, but that doesn’t include sticking our noses into national defense matters. Sometimes we have to use good sense and cut the government a little slack with the truth. This kind of thing could blow up in our face.”
“I’m not suggesting we go public with it. Let one of your contacts at the Pentagon know that we know, and that the story might come out unless they go through with the prisoner exchange.”
“Threaten them, you mean.”
“In a nice way.”
“No.”
“This is a humanitarian thing, Phil.”
“You’re saying we don’t get to run the story, but we use it anyway to blackmail the government. What the hell kind of business do you think we’re in?”
“There’ll be a story when it’s all finished and done. And we’ll have the scoop.”
“This is a thing that gets reporters like you blackballed and vice presidents like me canned. Let me go back to sleep, and I’ll forget you ever called.”
“Phil, I love my job, but my personal integrity is more important. This man has been held hostage for over a dozen years. What if it were you?”
Silence.
“If you don’t do this, I’ll find another contact.”
“Another job, you mean.”
“Whatever.”
Another long pause. “You’re serious about this?”
“Very.”
“Shit.” She heard him sigh over the phone.
“Phil, it’s the right thing to do. Even if the details never emerge, you’ll know you had a part in setting this poor man free. If the truth does come out, this could mean a Pulitzer.”
Another silence while this sank in. She knew she had found the right button to push.
“All right,” said Granley. “I’ll see Duncan Medcalf tomorrow when I’m in Washington. He’s the new deputy Secretary of Defense. When I tell him this story, you’re gonna hear a scream all the way from Washington to Bahrain.”
“Thank you, Phil. You won’t be sorry.”
< >
Medcalf’s owlish eyes peered through the oversized glasses, revealing not a hint of reaction.
“Prisoner?” said Medcalf. “You’re claiming that an American has been held there for over ten years?”
“Over a dozen years,” said Granley.
“And you say we can get him back in exchange for some captured terrorist?”
“For Jamal Al-Fasr. Whom I happen to know you just grabbed in Iran.”
At this, Granley thought he saw Medcalf blink. “May I ask the source of this information?”
“It wouldn’t be useful,” said Granley. “Anyway, the Iran operation got a lot of media coverage. You knew you couldn’t keep the Al-Fasr story under wraps for very long.”
They were sitting in Medcalf’s new office in the Pentagon. Before his appointment to the number two job in the Defense Department, Dr. Duncan Medcalf had been Dean of the School for International Studies at Columbia. His academic career had been punctuated with three tours of duty in the State Department and one stint as a National Security Advisor.
“Assuming this Al-Fasr story was credible—and I’m not saying that it is—why would we release a terrorist who is on our most-wanted list?”
“Because we want to get an American back.”
Granley waited while Medcalf toyed with the Mont Blanc pen on the table. Maybe he doesn’t know about an American prisoner, thought Granley. Or maybe Claire Phillips has it all wrong.
“If World Wide News has a story about some American prisoner,” said Medcalf, “why haven’t you gone public with it? After all, it would be quite an exposé. Cause a lot of heads to roll here in Washington.”
Granley nodded. Now they were in the bargaining stage. “I’ve considered that. I’ve also considered that it might be more useful not to go public with it. Not yet.”
“Useful?” The owlish eyes fixed on him. “Let me see if I’m following yo
u on this. You want us to make a prisoner exchange—Al-Fasr for this hypothetical American POW, right?”
“Right.”
“And if we don’t, you might go public with the story.”
Granley shrugged. “Something like that.”
“I believe that’s called blackmail.”
“I prefer to call it freedom of the press.”
“I can have your network’s access to the Defense Department severed with a single phone call. Is that what you want?”
“Look, Dunc, you and I go back a long ways. I came to you with this because you’re a guy who believes in doing the right thing.”
Medcalf’s face hardened. He rose and walked back to his desk. For a while he stood with his back to Granley. “I’m still new in this job. There are a number of issues I’m not yet privy to.”
“I understand.”
“It will take me a little time to sort out the facts.”
“How much time?”
“Give me three days.”
Granley rose. The meeting was over. “You’re still a good guy, Dunc.”
< >
Oceana Naval Air Station, Virginia
“You gotta be shitting me,” said Captain Gracie Allen.
“No, sir,” said the briefing officer, a commander from OPNAV—the office of the Chief of Naval Operations. “Your C-9 leaves Oceana at four-thirty, connecting with a C-17 at Dover Air Force Base. I suggest you pack for two weeks.”
“Listen, I’ve got a strike fighter wing to run. I can’t—”
“You were handpicked for this assignment, Captain, because of your knowledge of the situation and because you are personally acquainted with the POW. Your Chief of Staff will manage your office here until you return. Your orders are to report to the Reagan Battle Group Commander ASAP and coordinate with him.”
Allen shook his head in amazement. From the window of his second-deck office he had a panoramic view of the flight line at Oceana Naval Air Station. Row after row of F/A-18 Hornets filled the expanse of concrete on the base. They were all his.
Allen’s title was Commander, Strike Fighter Wing Atlantic, which meant that all the Navy’s F/A-18 squadrons on the east coast came under his administrative command. Though he held the rank of captain, the office carried with it the honorific rank of commodore. It was the last and best flying job in the Navy for an aging fighter pilot like Gracie Allen.
Except that he was on his way back to the Gulf. And he wasn’t in the cockpit of a fighter.
“Am I gonna get shot at?”
“There’s that possibility,” said the commander. “You will be accompanied by a unit of Marines and whatever air cover is deemed necessary. And, of course, the CIA will assign personnel of their own.”
“CIA?” Allen shook his head. “So who’s in charge? Us or them?”
“As the officer-in-charge, you represent the Navy’s piece of the prisoner exchange. The CIA will provide other assets, including intelligence and cryptographic support. One of their senior officers will accompany you during the actual exchange.”
“That figures. Who is it?”
“The section chief in Bahrain.” The commander glanced at his notes. “Somebody named Bronson.”
< >
Owwooooooooo.
The long chorus of howling and baying commenced, as usual, when Dog Balls Harvey entered the officers’ wardroom. It was nearly six o’clock, and most of the Roadrunners were already seated for dinner.
Owwwwwooooooo. The chorus swelled.
Harvey’s long face reddened. His oversized Adam’s apple bobbed like a counterweight. He flashed an embarrassed grin, then bent in a low bow, acknowledging the howling officers.
Maxwell watched from his seat at the head of the table. Harvey was handling the treatment pretty well, he reflected.
As much as Dog Balls had pleaded, he had been unable shed the call sign that the Roadrunners hung on him. When they presented him with a flight deck vest with his call sign stenciled on it, he threw away the vest.
They replaced it. He threw it away. They gave him another. Finally he gave up.
Now they were howling.
“Sit down,” Maxwell said to Harvey, nodding to the empty seat beside him.
Harvey sat. His face was still red.
The howling subsided, and the officers went about having dinner.
“These guys are merciless,” said Maxwell.
Harvey shrugged. “They’re having fun.”
“I can tell them to lighten up on you.”
“Thanks, Commander, but I’d appreciate it if you’d just. . .”
“Butt out?”
He nodded. “Yes, sir. You may find this a little hard to believe, but I’ve sort of. . .you know, gotten used to it.”
“All that howling doesn’t bother you?”
“Not really. You see, I’ve been an outsider most of my life. I didn’t belong to a fraternity or any clubs where I went to college up in Minnesota. Didn’t have many buddies going through flight training. And the crews in my old patrol plane squadron, well, they never seemed to kid around as much as these tailhook guys.”
It was the longest speech Maxwell had ever heard Harvey deliver. “What you’re saying is that you’re actually having fun?”
“Yes, sir, something like that. All that kidding and howling, it doesn’t bother me. It makes me feel like I’m one of the guys.” Dog Balls’s face reddened some more, and he turned his full attention to his dinner plate.
Maxwell smiled. “Congratulations, Mr. Harvey. I think you’ve broken the code.”
< >
USS Ronald Reagan
Petty Officer Carson was almost finished filling in the day’s inspection sign offs. He was alone in the QAR compartment, and flight deck ops were shut down for the night. This was the best time to do his work. He could massage the entries that DiLorenzo had earmarked, improving the results of the day shift’s work so that two of the jets would be out of the inspection cycle early. They would be back on the line by tomorrow.
He had just hit the “Enter” key, watching the sign offs magically appear on the screen, when he froze.
Someone was in the compartment. He heard the door clunk closed.
As footsteps clumped across the steel deck behind him, Carson’s fingers flew back to the keyboard, hitting ALT/TAB once, twice, once again until the corrosion inspection records were gone and a new display shimmered on the screen.
He turned to face the visitor, and his heart nearly stopped. Oh, godawful flaming shit. What does he want?
Of all the human beings on the planet, Carson was most of all frightened by the hulking, glistening-domed presence of his squadron executive officer. He knew it was an unreasonable fear, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about Cmdr. Bullet Alexander—that dark brown face, eyes glowing like embers—that struck fear in his heart. The man looked like a cross between Godzilla and Mr. T.
He was in the compartment. What in hell for? The executive officer never came down—
“Can I have a word with you, Carson?”
Oh, shit. Carson stared at the XO. His head nodded up and down and his lips moved, but nothing came out.
Alexander’s eyes flicked to the screen for a moment, studying the display, then riveted again on Carson. “That the corrosion inspection sign off?”
“Y-y-yes, sir. I mean, it’s in there somewhere.”
“Can you show it to me?”
“Show it to you? Well, yes, I guess. . .which jet do you want to see? They’re all—”
“The replacement birds from VFA-193. Aircraft 306, 307, and 309.
Carson fought back the panic that was buzzing through him like an electric current. “Ah, 306 was the mishap bird, wasn’t it, Commander? That’s been removed from the LAN display already. Maybe you could get a print out from the wing maintenance office.”
“But the corrosion inspection was signed off on 306?”
Carson’s head went into an involuntary nodding movem
ent again. “Oh, yes, sir. No doubt about that.”
“Did they find any corrosion when they did the inspection?”
“Umm, no, I don’t think so.”
“And how about 307 and 309? They came from the same squadron. Have those jets received the full corrosion inspection?”
“Well, yes, sir. I believe they have.”
“Show me, please.”
Carson nodded, and his heart pounded in his chest. He turned to the keyboard and paged through the displays until he came to the sign off sheets for aircraft 307 and 309.
Alexander peered at the screen for nearly a minute. “Those your initials on the check offs?”
“Yes, sir. That’s me, the Quality Assurance Rep.”
“Does that mean you actually looked at the jets?”
“Well, what it really means is, I make sure whoever did look at the jets did his job according to the maintenance tech order. I’m sort of the validator of the process.”
“So your sign off is our final validation that the job was done right?”
Carson didn’t like this line of questioning. He felt like a man headed for the gallows. “Yes, sir, you could put it that way.”
“And you’re saying that everything was okay? No corrosion, no problems?”
“No problems, Commander. Uh, may I ask why you want to know about this?”
“I’m asking because I lost an airplane for reasons that were not determined. Not to my satisfaction, at least.”
Alexander peered at the flickering screen for another full minute, seeming to look for some hidden answer. Then he switched his gaze back to Carson. “I’m sure you understand how important this job is, Carson. You know that we’re counting on you.”
“Counting on me?” Carson’s voice was beginning to tremble.
“To give us good airplanes. The pilots in this squadron trust you with their lives.”
“Oh, yes, sir. I am very aware of that.”
Alexander gave him another of those looks that sent a tremor through Carson’s gut. “Keep up the good work, Carson.” He turned to leave the compartment. “You know you can always come to me if you have any problems.”