Acts of Vengeance

by Robert Gandt

  A look of shock passed over the reporter’s face. “No,” he muttered.

  <>

  Spook Morse, Maxwell couldn’t help noticing, had eyes like a ferret. The intelligence officer’s tiny brown eyes were darting from one person to the other at the conference table.

  “I’ll remind you that this is a debriefing, Commander Maxwell,” said Morse. “I get to ask the questions.”

  The combination of fatigue and frustration was catching up with Maxwell. All he wanted to do now was reach across the table and seize Morse by the neck.

  As if reading his thoughts, Boyce spoke up. “Everyone should bear in mind that Commander Maxwell has been under considerable stress,” he said. “Let’s just get on with the debriefing, Spook.”

  Morse flashed the briefest of smiles, then continued. “Beginning with when you ejected from your aircraft. How did you happen to find this mercenary pilot, Rittmann?”

  “I didn’t. He found me. I was still putting my gear together, getting ready to move out. He showed up and held me at gunpoint.”

  “What happened then?”

  Maxwell related the story about Rittmann’s interrogation and the knife, and the timely appearance of B.J. Johnson.

  Morse was making notes on a yellow pad. He looked up and said, “After you and Lieutenant Johnson had Rittmann in your custody, what did you do?”

  “We asked some questions.”

  “I see,” said Morse. “You consider yourself an intelligence specialist, do you?”

  Maxwell felt his temper flaring again. He received a nudge in the ribs from Boyce. He took a deep breath and said, “I considered myself a downed pilot in serious trouble. It seemed possible that Rittmann might have information that would keep us alive.”

  “And what, exactly, did he tell you?”

  At this Maxwell paused. He felt Boyce’s eyes on him. In his mind Maxwell could see Rittmann, bitter and cynical, glowering at him in the darkness.

  “Go ahead, Commander Maxwell. What did Rittmann tell you?”

  “He described the Al-Fasr order of battle. He thinks six MiGs, maybe four left, ten or fifteen APCs, six Dauphin choppers, and a large supply of SA-16 missiles.”

  Morse was scribbling furiously. “Did he say where the MiGs came from?”

  “Libya, via Chad.”

  “Did he say where the MiGs launched from when they pounced our strikers?’

  “He claimed they came from Eritrea. I was working on that when he told me about the Reagan.”

  “What about the Reagan?”

  “He said that Al-Fasr intended to sink it.”

  Morse looked up from his note pad. “He wasn’t serious?”

  “Very serious. He said that Al-Fasr hates the U. S. Navy, and his ultimate goal is to sink a carrier.”

  This brought a chuckle to the intelligence officer. “How did he say this feat would be accomplished?”

  “He said he didn’t know. I pressed him on it, but he clammed up. Soon after that was when he grabbed Lieutenant Johnson, and I had to shoot him.”

  Morse’s eyes were locked onto Maxwell. “Did it occur to you that Rittmann was a valuable intelligence source? Why did you kill him?”

  That exceeded Maxwell’s limit. He glowered at Morse and said, “Because he pissed me off.”

  Boyce intervened again. “That’s enough. We’ve been over that. He already told you he shot the sonofabitch because it was the only way to save Lieutenant Johnson. You have obviously run out of intelligent questions. It’s time that Brick got some sleep.”

  Without waiting for Morse to object, Boyce rose from the table and Maxwell followed. They left the intel compartment, closing the door behind them.

  In the passageway, Boyce glanced around, making sure they were alone. “Why didn’t you tell him what Al-Fasr said about having intelligence sources aboard the Reagan?”

  Maxwell shook his head. “I don’t know. Something, a gut feeling maybe. You said Morse already suspects a spy on the Reagan?”

  “Yeah. Are you saying you think it might be him?”

  “No. But it’s possible, isn’t it? In any case, we can assume it’s someone who knows what Morse is doing. If he’s running a witch hunt, the real mole will know it. If he hears what Rittmann said, he’ll go deeper underground.”

  Boyce rubbed his chin. “Okay here’s how it’s going down. Not exactly the approved routing, but I’ll take the heat for it later. I’ll relay the whole package of what we know directly to my old boss, Admiral Riley, at the National Security Agency, and let him deal with it. If he wants to handle it without getting our flag intel in the loop, that’s his call. We’re off the hook.”

  Maxwell nodded his head wearily. “Then can I punch out Spook Morse?”

  “No. You can hit the rack. That’s an order.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  <>

  Fletcher gazed through the thick-paned glass of the flag bridge compartment. The darkness over the Arabian Sea was almost total. No stars, no moon, not even lights along the Yemeni coast. To the south lay the horn of Africa, black and inscrutable beneath the invisible horizon.

  Fletcher was in a contemplative mood. For once, briefly at least, he was free of the troublesome presence of Whitney Babcock, who had retired to his stateroom to handle some classified message traffic. Traffic with whom? Chief of Naval Operations? The joint chiefs? The President, perhaps?

  Or the terrorist, Al-Fasr?

  It was a joke, he thought. He was the Carrier Battle Group Commander—the ultimate combat post for a naval officer—and here he was, subservient to a civilian with less military experience than most of his teenage sailors. Babcock conducted briefings with CNO, the joint chiefs, and the Joint Task Force Commander for Southwest Asia—without Fletcher’s participation.

  Most amazing, though, was how Babcock had maintained control of the operation. With the initial go-ahead from Washington to launch a strike against Al-Fasr, Babcock had insisted that it be a Navy show, with minimal participation by Air Force or Army units. Fletcher could imagine the bitching going on at the Air Force tactical fighter bases in Saudi, and inside the Army’s elite Delta force. They had been excluded from the show.

  Gazing out at the darkness, a feeling of dread passed over Fletcher. Against his judgment, he had let Babcock establish the rules of engagement. He had been in the Navy long enough to know what would happen next. Inevitably he would be summoned to account for the losses they suffered in Yemen. America hated body bags.

  He had presented his concerns to Babcock. As usual, Babcock was dismissive. “The objective is worth the price.”

  “I’ve lost over a dozen American lives and six vastly expensive aircraft. May I ask what objective is worth that sacrifice?”

  “A strategic objective, not a tactical one. It’s not your job to devise strategy, Admiral, just implement tactics. All you need to know is that the southern Arabian peninsula is a region of far greater importance than you can appreciate. What we’re accomplishing here will affect the future of America.”

  Fletcher had not been pleased with the answer. Nevertheless, he kept his silence.

  “Excuse me, Admiral.” Fletcher’s thoughts returned to the present. He turned to look at Meyers, a lieutenant commander on his staff. “The new op plot that you ordered is ready.”

  Fletcher slid his half-frames down over his nose and gave the plot a quick scan. The plot included a depiction of the Arabian Sea and its surrounding coastlines. Symbols and arrows denoted the location and direction of each element of the battle group as well as their projected positions.

  Fletcher traced with his finger the courses of the Reagan and the amphibious assault ship Saipan, the two leviathans of the battle group. At 0300 they would turn in place and cruise westward to a position near the mouth of the Red Sea, above the Greater Horn of Africa. Eight other warships, including the Aegis cruiser Arkansas, would assume new positions in the formation.

  He noted the coordinates of the new position, then
grunted his approval. It would be sent, as it was every day, by satellite UHF to the commanding officers of each ship in the battle group.

  Fletcher scribbled his initials at the bottom of the op plot and handed it back to Meyers. “Transmit it encrypted to all elements. Copy Fifth Fleet and JTF.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  <>

  The compartment allotted to the working press contained three steel chairs and a standard Navy gray desk. On the desk was a single military-issue ship’s telephone.

  When the other reporters had gone, Claire pulled up one of the chairs and telephoned the Air Wing office. A yeoman grilled her about who she was and why she wanted to speak with the Air Wing Commander.

  She heard Red Boyce’s booming voice. “Claire Phillips? How the hell did you get back aboard the Reagan? You’re amazing.”

  “I’m a reporter. I get paid to be amazing.” She told him about Aden and Sana’a and the non-combatant evacuation.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Tell me what happened to Sam Maxwell. I know he was shot down.”

  There was a long silence, and Claire’s anxieties started kicking in again. Please, God, let him be okay.

  “Where are you now?”

  She told him.

  “I’ll be right down.” His voice seemed oddly casual, as if he were enjoying himself. “I have some news that may interest you.”

  <>

  In accordance with Admiral Fletcher’s orders, the updated op plot was transmitted to all elements of the Reagan Battle Group.

  Thirty minutes later, a figure emerged on the viewing deck, aft of the island superstructure on the Reagan. The carrier was slicing through the Gulf of Aden at a speed of fifteen knots, but the impression from high up on the island, 120 feet above the water, was one of motionlessness. The ship seemed suspended in a black void, swept by an invisible breeze.

  For several minutes the man stood with his hand on the rail, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He wanted to be sure that he was alone. Sometimes at night he encountered strangers—sailors gazing at the stars or listening to music or, as he’d seen one night, sipping prohibited alcohol.

  It was possible, he supposed, that he could be watched by observers using night vision equipment. But all they would see would be a man using some sort of device—a tape or CD player, a radio, a stargazing scope. If danger was imminent, he could always throw the device over the rail.

  Merely possessing the SatPhone, of course, did not implicate him in espionage. Even though the use of such a device was prohibited aboard Navy ships at sea, he could claim ignorance. The phone was a commercial product, manufactured in the United States. Ironically, it utilized the same constellation of satellites the U. S. Navy employed for the transmission of their own secret data. The only additional feature installed in his phone was the scrambling software, which was also a commercial product.

  He extended the antenna and punched in a twelve-digit number. After fifteen seconds, he heard a sequence of beeps. He was connected.

  From his inner pocket he retrieved the document. Using a red pen light, he read the data from the op plot into the phone. When he was finished, he waited until he received another series of beeps.

  Received and acknowledged.

  He tore up the document, then made balls of the shredded pieces and let the wind carry them into the blackness of the Gulf.

  <>

  From the end of the table in the flag conference compartment, Fletcher glowered at Vitale and Morse. “This is unbelievable. Someone passing our op plots as soon as we write them? Explain to me how that can happen.”

  Morse said, “The technicians down in Surface Watch who monitor the emissions from the battle group just alerted us. Their RF scan was picking up stuff in a format that didn’t come from us. The transmissions are scrambled, but there’s no doubt they contain classified data about our movements.”

  “What ship is it coming from?”

  “Right here. The Reagan.”

  “What kind of transmissions?”

  “Some kind of commercial phone, they think. Iridium, Global Star, SatPhone, one of those. We don’t know which yet.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Longer than we’d like to think. It might explain how Al-Fasr has anticipated our operations at every turn.”

  Fletcher slammed a fist onto the table. “All this high tech equipment we invent to protect our secrets, and someone can blab them to the enemy like they had their own goddamn private line.”

  For a moment, the room was silent. It was not Fletcher’s style—he liked his image of a southern gentleman—to use obscenities, but his anger was spilling over. “How can someone transmit secrets from one of our ships without our knowing it?”

  Vitale and Morse looked at each other, neither having an answer. Vitale said, “I’ve instructed the Surface Watch Officer to set up a scan that will alert us as soon as he transmits. In the meantime Spook has narrowed our list down to a handful of possibles—those with access to classified data—and we’re running checks on them.”

  “That’s what you said before. You still haven’t caught anybody. What did ONI say when you reported the intelligence leak?” ONI was the Office of Naval Intelligence, located in Suitland, Virginia.

  Vitale pulled a print-out from the stack in front of him. “They passed it to NSA, and a counter-espionage team is on its way to the Reagan. They should be aboard by tomorrow.” The NSA—National Security Agency—was the intelligence unit responsible for cryptology and security of sensitive information.

  “What kind of team?” asked Fletcher.

  “FBI, CIA, probably. Might include a cryptologist, a computer hacker, guys with special tools.”

  Fletcher turned to gaze out the thick-paned glass of the flag bridge. He saw only blackness. No horizon, no distinction between the overcast sky and dark void of the ocean.

  Spies. Moles. Agents. The whole thing was incomprehensible to him. People aboard his ship with telephones communicating via satellite? What the hell had naval warfare come to?

  <>

  Gritti looked at his defenses and nodded in approval. He didn’t have many advantages over the enemy, but at least the terrain was in his favor. The ground sloped away to the north where the Sherji had their guns and armor concealed in a grove of trees. They were too far away to be reached with mortars, but he had a solution for that.

  He hoped they waited until nightfall, thinking the perimeter would be easier to breach. It would be a blessing. Under cover of darkness he would deploy patrols outside the perimeter, including mortar teams. If the Sherji got to the perimeter, they would find themselves attacked from behind as well as frontally.

  He finished his tour of the team’s positions and hunkered down beneath the boulder where he had established a command post. Inside the makeshift shelter were Master Sergeant Plunkett and Captain Baldwin.

  “Snipers?” Gritti asked.

  “In place, covered the best they can be,” answered Plunkett. “Two with M40s and two Barrett teams.”

  “Keep ‘em moving. Two rounds max, then change cover.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Plunkett. “They know their job.”

  Gritti smiled at the mild rebuke. Plunkett was right. Marine snipers were not only professional marksmen, they were masters of camouflage and concealment. The snipers were essential to any chance they had of surviving another attack. If they could pick off the Sherji’s leaders and point men from a great distance, it might strike a little terror into them. Maybe change their minds about dying for Allah.

  The M40A1 sniper rifle was a hellish weapon. The heavy-barreled gun could reach out a thousand yards and nail a ten-inch target. Even more hellish was the Barrett M82A1A .50 caliber special-purpose rifle. In the hands of a trained marksman, the Barrett could stop targets as large as a truck.

  Gritti saw that the wind, though light, was out of the south. Another advantage.

  “Be ready with the smoke,�
� he told Baldwin. “When they start shelling, we lay the smoke and get the fire teams deployed. Maybe we can surprise the sonsofbitches with mortars and a couple of ambushes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  If the Sherji chose not to wait for darkness and began their attack in broad daylight, Gritti would put down a thick blanket of smoke. Under the smoke, the Marine fire teams would move out.

  Would it work? Probably not, Gritti thought to himself. But it would be sweet. Since they’d landed in this shitty place, it had been Al-Fasr, time after time, who delivered the surprises. Now it was their turn.

  Waiting for the battle to begin, Gritti sensed the same old doubts nagging at him. He had fifty able marines. Against how many? Several hundred, perhaps more. The Sherji would whittle at them until the core of their fighting strength was nil.

  Is it worth it?

  It was not too late. He could still show a white flag.

  No. The thought of surrender was unacceptable to him. Not while they could fight, not while they could inflict pain and death on the enemy.

  Gritti checked his watch. Still early afternoon. He wondered what Al-Fasr was thinking. Would the Sherji wait for darkness?

  Would he? Hell, no.

  As if triggered by the thought, the first rumble from the valley below reached him. It sounded like a thunderclap. A fifty-seven millimeter, he guessed.

  <>

  Claire took a deep breath, then knocked on the stateroom door.

  She had a cute little speech prepared, something to the effect that he ought to let her know before he goes off on a hiking trip excursion in the Middle East. He ought to be more considerate than to leave a girl without telling her when he’s coming back. It was supposed to be funny.

  Then a panicky thought: You look like utter hell.

  She should have taken the time to fix her hair. Put on some make up. She was still wearing the torn pant suit that made her look like a refugee, which, of course, she was. After learning from Red Boyce that Sam was alive, she had run directly to—

  The door opened.

  He had been asleep, and judging by the lined face and reddened eyes, he needed it. He was wearing a white T-shirt and warm up shorts. His left arm was bandaged from something.