by Jeff Edwards
He’d bought a sandwich too, grilled chicken and avocado on a brioche roll, but he left that untouched on the table while his eyes feasted on the mural.
Bergner’s whimsical rendering of the historic U Street corridor was framed on the left by portraits of jazz legends Billie Holiday and Duke Ellington, and on the right by a throng of revelers, celebrating in the streets on the night of the 2008 election, when the race barrier of the American Presidency had finally been shattered. Between the two ends of the painting lay a curving section of road, with a 1920s era convertible cruising past the façade of the old Roosevelt Theater.
The color pallet of the mural was weighted heavily toward oranges and yellows, giving it a false impression of antiquity, counterbalanced by the strange mingling of resignation and optimism on the faces of the people depicted.
Brenthoven lifted his cup and took a sip of cappuccino. Still a bit too hot, but damn it was good.
His eyes danced back and forth across the mural, not focusing on any particular section. He’d seen that painting at least a hundred times since Bergner had created it in 2009, and he still wasn’t quite sure why it affected him so profoundly. There was something there, below the surface, some subtly encrypted message of hope and despair. A subliminal acknowledgement that the world could be a much better place… should be a much better place… but even in the midst of oppression and injustice, there was still reason to look forward to a brighter tomorrow.
Brenthoven took another swallow of his cappuccino, and started to think about unwrapping the sandwich.
Of course, he could be completely wrong about the intended message of the mural. He had never met with Joel Bergner, and he had never bothered to research the deliberate symbolism (if any) that the artist had attempted to convey. But that was what the painting said to Brenthoven, and—from his perspective—that was the only symbolism that really mattered.
“Good evening, Mr. Brenthoven,” said a voice behind him.
Brenthoven glanced over his shoulder. He was surprised to be addressed by name, but even more surprised when he saw who had spoken. It was Gita Shankar, the Ambassador for India.
She held up a paper cup with the café’s logo. “May I join you?”
Still a bit put off by the unexpected encounter, Brenthoven took a couple of seconds to respond. “Of course. Yes, please do.”
The ambassador took the chair opposite his own, and pulled the lid from her cup.
Brenthoven nodded toward it. “Coffee?”
“Tea, actually,” the Ambassador said. “With milk. Apparently it is the closest thing to chai that this establishment can make, unless I want to try something called a smoothie.”
“If you’re not familiar with smoothies, you’re probably safer with the tea,” Brenthoven said.
He tipped his cup slightly in the ambassador’s direction in a toasting gesture, and then took a drink. When he set the cup down, he looked the Indian woman in the eyes. “I have a strong hunch that you are not a frequent customer of this café.”
Ambassador Shankar toyed with the lid of her cup. “You are quite correct, of course. I have never been here before.”
Brenthoven nodded. “Then, may I ask what brings you here this evening?”
“Surely, you must know the answer to that,” the ambassador said. “I am here because you are here.”
Brenthoven nodded again. “You had me followed?”
The ambassador grimaced. “Only with the best of intentions, I assure you.”
Brenthoven met her grimace with a frown of his own. Apparently he was becoming careless. He’d never needed Secret Service protection before, but if his movements were that easy to track, it might be time to think about better options for his personal security.
He looked at his unexpected visitor. “You’ve obviously found me, and I can promise that you have my undivided attention, Madam Ambassador.”
“Please,” she said. “Call me Gita.”
“And you can call me Gregory,” he said. “But I’d still like to know why you took the trouble to have me followed here. I assume you want to discuss something outside of the traditional channels. As I said, you have my attention.”
The Indian ambassador raised her cup, and then lowered it without drinking. “You’re quite correct, of course. I wish to speak to you informally, and outside of normal channels.”
Brenthoven took another swallow of cappuccino. “About what?”
“About the hydroelectric site that we have been discussing. And my country’s possible intentions regarding the disposition of that site in the near future.”
“I see,” Brenthoven said. The ambassador obviously didn’t want to name the Three Gorges Dam in this public setting, and any discussion about India’s plan to destroy it would apparently be couched in indirect terms. That was okay. Brenthoven knew how to talk around a subject as well as any government official.
“Is there something specific you wanted to tell me about your country’s intentions regarding the hydroelectric facility in question?”
“Yes,” the ambassador said. “Unofficially, I have been authorized to tell you that our planned actions will occur in two days.”
She looked at her watch. “Approximately forty-eight hours from now.”
Brenthoven sat up. “Forty-eight hours? Are you serious?”
“I am quite serious,” said Ambassador Shankar. “That timeline is given to you in strict confidence. We expect you to protect this information as you would defend the military secrets of a close ally. If it should leak to the wrong people, any trust between my government and yours would be irreparably damaged.”
“I understand,” Brenthoven said. “But I don’t understand why you are sharing this with us. If this information is so sensitive, and I agree that it is, why not restrict the knowledge to your own inner circles?”
“Because there is still time for your government to convince my leaders to divert from the plan,” the ambassador said.
Brenthoven stared at her. “How? What do we have to do to convince your government not to go through with this plan?”
Ambassador Shankar smiled. “We have already discussed that. You can enter the conflict on the side of my country, and help us force the People’s Republic of China to end their acts of aggression, without resorting to unthinkable strategic options.”
“We can’t do that,” Brenthoven said. “The PRC has done nothing to provoke the United States. We have no justification for entering into direct military confrontation.”
The ambassador looked surprised. “Shooting down your military aircraft was not sufficient provocation?”
Brenthoven felt a knot form in his chest. “Madam Ambassador, what are you talking about?”
“Ah,” said the ambassador. “I assumed that you knew…”
The knot in Brenthoven’s chest tightened. “Knew what?”
“About the air battle that took place roughly an hour ago,” she said. “Two of your carrier-based F-18 aircraft were attacked by two flights of Chinese warplanes. I’m not sure about casualties on the Chinese side, but I know that one of your planes was destroyed. I believe the other was damaged, but I haven’t yet been briefed on the details.”
Brenthoven shook his head. “That’s impossible, Madam Ambassador… Gita. I would have been contacted.”
He reached for his cell phone, and fished it out of his pocket. It was off. The battery had died, or the software had recycled itself, or something else. It didn’t matter why it had happened. What mattered was that the damned thing had powered itself down.
How long had it been off? How long had he been completely out of touch? There was probably a chase team at his townhouse now, and they had no doubt tried his home phone fifty times already. They’d called his cell phone too, of course, but the goddamned thing had been sitting silent in his pocket, like a lump of fucking lead.
He punched the power button, and the phone began its boot-up routine. He didn’t have to wait to know what he would fin
d. At least twenty voicemails, and an equal number of waiting text messages.
Damn. Damn. Damn!
He stood up. “I’m sorry, Gita. I have to go.”
The ambassador stood up as well. “Of course, Gregory. You have business to attend to.”
Her voice hardened. “But don’t forget what I said. Forty-eight hours.”
CHAPTER 36
COMBAT AIR PATROL
VFA-228 — MARAUDERS
BAY OF BENGAL
MONDAY; 01 DECEMBER
0626 hours (6:26 AM)
TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’
Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Rob “Monk” Monkman eased his crippled Boeing F/A-18E Super Hornet into a slow right turn and tried to ignore the growing vibrations that rattled his fighter. The carrier was only a little more than 60 miles away now. Almost home. Almost home…
He didn’t feel much like the Monk at the moment. His Shaolin fighter-jock machismo seemed to be on vacation. Right now, he felt like plain old Robby Monkman, and he was just about scared enough to piss his pants.
He ignored the collage of red tattletales blinking on his up-front control display. The touch-sensitive LCD screen was designed to give him fingertip control and status indications for nearly all of the plane’s onboard systems, but he had lost track of the ever-shifting jumble of warning readouts. His Hornet was hurt bad, he knew that much. He also knew he didn’t have a prayer of sorting out the cascading alert messages to figure out exactly how bad things were.
The Super Hornet’s digital flight control system was supposed to detect battle damage and make real-time corrections to compensate. It must be doing its job, because Monk’s plane had taken the missile hit more than an hour ago, and he was still in the air.
The starboard engine was fodded out and he’d lost a shitload of fuel, but the quadruplex fly-by-wire controls were still responding to his commands if he didn’t push his injured bird too hard. When he’d gone through initial Hornet flight training at NAS Lemoore and the advanced pipeline at NAS Fallon, everybody had talked about how tough the Super Hornet was. Well, the aircraft was definitely living up to its reputation for being able to take a punch.
But rugged airframe construction and multiply-redundant systems hadn’t been enough to save Poker. Rob had seen the Chinese air-to-air missile punch right through the canopy of Poker’s Hornet, blasting the entire cockpit section of the plane into titanium shrapnel. And Rob had reefed his own Hornet back around quickly enough to watch the remains of his flight leader’s aircraft cartwheel into the sea.
No ejection. No chute. Not that he’d expected one. He’d known from the instant of the missile impact that Owen ‘Poker’ Dowell was dead.
But any thoughts of grief had vanished from Rob’s consciousness almost as quickly as they had appeared. He had turned his attention—and his fury—on the Chinese bastards who had just blown his mentor and friend out of the sky.
Rob had no idea why the Chinese pilots had opened fire. It had been a routine intercept, two Navy F-18’s turning back two pairs of Bogies at the edge of the 300 mile defensive Combat Air Patrol perimeter.
They’d gotten close enough to eyeball the inbound aircraft, and identified them as Chinese J-15’s, confirming the classification provided by the E-2D Hawkeye flying Airborne Early Warning support for the Midway air wing.
There had been at least a dozen similar intercepts over the past week or so, as the Chinese probed the edges of the USS Midway’s air defense envelope. But the Chinese Bogies had always turned back, and there had never been any sign of real trouble.
And then they had blasted Owen Dowell without warning. There had been no radar spikes, no fire control acquisition alerts. Just a sudden fireball as Poker took a missile right in the lips. Probably that made the Chinese missile some kind of infrared homer, or something else which didn’t require an active seeker that would have alerted the sensors in the Super Hornets.
Rob didn’t give a damn about any of the technical details. He had concentrated on going after the treacherous fucks who had just killed Poker.
* * *
Now, as he made his approach toward the Midway, Rob could no longer remember much about the engagement. He knew that he had shot down two of the Bogies, and damaged a third. He knew that he had taken a hit somewhere in the mêlée.
He knew that his wings were bare of weapons, and his 20mm gun was completely out of rounds. Most of the details of the dogfight had faded with his anger, but he had definitely emptied the full magazine on the bastards.
He checked his range to the carrier. It was time to call in, so he keyed his radio circuit. “Strike—Two Zero Nine at fifty-two. Single engine, state four point three.”
His report, as short and cryptic as it might have seemed to non-aviators, told Strike Command everything they needed to know. Monk was 52 miles away from the carrier, coming in on one engine, and he was down to only 4,300 pounds of fuel.
Strike responded immediately. “Roger, Two Zero Nine. Flash Ident.”
Monk toggled the switch that gave his aircraft’s IFF transponder an extra burst of transmit power. This would cause the symbol for his plane to flash briefly on the aircraft carrier’s tracking display, verifying his identity, and making it easier to spot him among the cluttered radar signatures of the busy air pattern.
He checked his fuel again. He’d be cutting it close. A healthy Super Hornet burned about 1,100 pounds of gas during a routine landing pass. Monk didn’t know what his current burn rate was, but his aircraft was definitely not healthy, and his fuel usage was bound to be higher than normal.
He had survived the dogfight, and limped most of the way home. Was he going to get this close to the carrier, and then run out of fuel before he could land? Wouldn’t that be some fucking irony?
There was no way for him to know how badly his airframe was damaged, or whether or not the canopy would open if he had to punch out. If the canopy was jammed shut, the ejection seat’s solid fuel rocket would slam him into the underside of the acrylic bubble at about 12g’s. As Poker used to say, hamburger all over the highway.
He gave his head a quick jerk to clear his mind. It was time to stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong. He needed to concentrate on keeping his plane in the air. Aviate, navigate, communicate. That was all he needed to do. Aviate, navigate, communicate. Forget about all the shit that could kill him.
* * *
His Squadron Rep’s voice came over the radio. “Two Zero Nine—Barnstormer. Alright buddy, let’s work the list.”
Back on the carrier, Chuck ‘Barnstormer’ Barnes was armed with a copy of the NATOPS systems handbook and checklists for the F/A-18E aircraft. Like all Navy pilots, Monk carried a pocket version of the checklist in his cockpit, but the content of the short list was pared down to a bare minimum, for rapid and easy use. Flying a jet aircraft didn’t leave time for reading lengthy technical write-ups, so multiple-failure situations were not covered. Major emergencies called for the full NATOPS manual, and Chuck Barnes was ready to talk Monk through the list of in-flight checks and emergency procedures.
By the time they had done all they could do with the checklist, Monk was coming up on the 25 mile mark. It was time to check in with the carrier’s Air Traffic Control Center.
He keyed the radio again. “Marshal—Two Zero Nine at twenty-five. Single engine, three point seven.”
“Roger single engine,” Marshal replied. “We’re going to bring you straight in.”
That was a comforting, if obvious decision. Monk was being given clearance to bypass the air traffic control pattern (the stack), and proceed directly in for a landing approach.
He didn’t have enough fuel to wait his turn in the stack, even if he hadn’t been flying on one engine. As usual, there was a tanker orbiting the carrier at 3,000 feet. The standard procedure would be to rendezvous with the tanker, take on some gas, and make his final approach with a comfortable fuel margin. But one of the many flashing red tattletales on Monk’s up-
front control display told him that several components of the Super Hornet’s fuel system—including the extendible fuel probe—were failing real-time function checks. The decision not to risk an in-flight refueling had been made way above his pay grade.
* * *
Monk was down to 3,200 pounds of fuel by the time he was five miles out, and it was becoming clear that he would need to trap on the first try. If he missed the wire on the first pass, he might have enough gas to make it back around for a second attempt. They’d definitely rig the barricade if he had to make a second approach.
No Navy pilot ever wanted to land that way, his plane caught in a giant nylon net like a fly trapped in a spider web. Not a good way to land, but it was better than ejecting.
The carrier was visible now, a small dark shape in the distance.
Monk spotted the ‘ball’ about three-quarters of a mile out, the colored lights of the Fresnel lens optical landing system. The orange meatball showed slightly below the green horizontal datum lights. He was a little low, but his lineup looked good.
He added power to his one good engine and keyed the radio. “Marauder Two Zero Nine, Super Hornet ball, two point eight, single engine.”
The Landing Signal Officer responded. “Roger ball.”
The aircraft carrier that had looked so tiny just a few minutes earlier was growing rapidly, but Monk concentrated on the meatball, his lineup, and angle of attack. Meatball, lineup, angle of attack. Nothing else. Just like in training. Meatball… Lineup… Angle of attack…
The LSO’s voice came over the radio. “Little power.”
Monk edged the throttle forward on his good engine and his flight path shallowed a fraction. A few seconds later, his wheels slammed into the deck. He instantly shoved the throttle forward, his lone engine shrieking to full power in case he missed the wires and boltered.
His tailhook caught the number two wire. Not a perfect landing, but good enough. His body surged forward against his restraint straps as the arresting cable decelerated his aircraft, and brought it to a stop.
He was down.
A yellow shirt ran toward him, giving the throttle-down signal. Monk brought the port engine back to idle, and the voice of the Air Boss boomed over the radio. “Two Zero Nine—Boss. We’re gonna shut you down right there.”