Morse had no idea where he was running to. In theory, it was possible to disappear aboard an aircraft carrier like theReagan, which had as many enclosures and spaces as a medium-sized city.
He reached the bottom of the ladder and bolted into the hangar bay. For a second he stood there, surveying the scene. The cavernous area was filled with aircraft, wings folded, fastened to the deck with tie-down chains. Tugs chugged across the deck, towing fifty-thousand-pound warplanes like semitrailers.
Again, the sound of boots. Coming from the ladder above.
He darted across the hangar deck, then caught his shin on a tie-down chain and went tumbling across the rough, non-skid surface of the deck. The chain ripped into his leg. Blood spurted from his torn trousers. Painfully he climbed to his feet and hobbled aft, in the direction of the fantail.
“Stop him!” someone yelled. “Stop that man! He’s a fugitive.”
At this, a husky young sailor in blue chambray working clothes stepped from under the wing of an F/A-18, blocking his path. The sailor grabbed for his arm.
He let the sailor set himself, allowing him to yank his arm. Suddenly he shot his right hand forward, heel extended with his full weight behind it, catching the sailor beneath the chin. The man’s head snapped backward as if on a hinge, making a cracking sound. He toppled backward like a rag doll onto the hangar deck.
The sound of his pursuers grew louder. Boots pounding on the steel deck.
Run.
Running was difficult. His injured leg throbbed, and his breath came in short, hard rasps.The Beretta. Why hadn’t he kept the pistol with him? He should have been ready for this.
Where to run?
That way.Across the deck he saw daylight, clouds, an opaque sky and ocean. The elevator bay was open. The giant deck-edge elevator was used to transport jets between the flight deck and the big interior hangar deck. The elevator was topside now, flush with the flight deck. The great cavity in the side of the ship was open to the sea.
He ran toward the elevator bay. An EA-6B Prowler was tied down at the aft side of the open elevator well, and an F/A-18 on the forward side. His heart pounded. He fought the mounting sense of desperation that was seizing control of him.
At the deck edge Morse stopped, looking wildly around him. They were trotting toward him, thirty yards away. He recognized the burly, oily-faced Korchek, chuffing behind the two marines. He carried a pistol.
Morse was cornered. No place to hide, no options, not even a weapon . . .
He saw something—a locker mounted on the bulkhead behind him. Stenciled on the cover was
PYROTECHNIC SIGNALING DEVICES,
EMERGENCY USE ONLY.
He snatched the cover open. Inside the locker was a stack of night signaling flares, another stack of smoke flares, and a box of pencil flares that deck crew wore in their flotation vests.
A box was labeledVERY PISTOLS . He tore the box open. It contained three of the brass-colored pistols. Beside it was another box—STAR SHELLS.
The Very pistol had been around for over a century. It was a short-barreled device that fired a single large-caliber signaling cartridge.
He picked up one of the pistols. He snatched one of the star-shell cartridges and shoved it into the pistol.
Clutching the Very pistol close to him, he ran to the edge of the elevator bay. He stood at the deck edge, peering out at the open sea.
“Hold it right there!” The voice came from behind him.
He continued gazing toward the ocean. The dark rim of a land formation jutted from the distant horizon. The coast of Somalia? Perhaps the Yemeni island of Socotra, nestled in the Gulf of Aden. It meant the ship was heading eastward.
“Turn around with your hands on your head,” he heard Korchek order. “The game’s over.”
Morse didn’t respond. A strange sense of calm had come over him. The urgent, cornered-animal desperation was gone, replaced by a cool detachment. He was again in control. He was Spook Morse, master of espionage.
He turned to face his enemies. His hands came up with the Very pistol.
Boom!He was shocked at the heavy recoil of the gun. For an instant he caught the look of disbelief on Korchek’s face. The star-shell signaling charge exploded in a blinding flash where the FBI agent’s face had been.
He was dimly aware of the muzzle flashes from the two M16 combat rifles as the 5.56-millimeter bullets tore into him.
Within seconds, a crowd had gathered around the elevator bay.
“Medic!” someone yelled. “Get the medics here on the double!”
“No hurry,” someone else said. “These guys ain’t going nowhere.”
The hangar deck officer, a lieutenant commander in a yellow jersey, charged across the hangar bay. He pushed his way into the crowd of sailors, wondering what was going on. From up in his control compartment he’d heard something that definitely sounded like gunfire. Onhis goddamned hangar deck.
Two marines stood there, wearing their combat gear. On the deck lay a man’s body, some guy in civvies. Ten feet away, at the deck edge, was another body in officer’s khakis.
The hangar deck officer pushed his way over to the civilian. He saw the guy’s feet, wearing wing-tip cordovans. Someone had covered his head with a towel. A puddle of fluid was spreading on the deck around him.
“What the hell’s going on?” the hangar deck officer demanded. Without waiting for a reply, he stooped over and removed the towel from the man’s head.
His face was a molten mass of bloody protoplasm. The stench of incinerated hair and flesh hit the officer in the gut like a hammer blow.
He recoiled from the sight. His hour-old lunch surged like lava from the depths of his stomach. He couldn’t hold it. He staggered to the deck edge and leaned out over the rail, heaving his guts out.
After a minute of concentrated barfing, the officer turned from the rail and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. Weakly, he walked over to the marines, making a heroic effort not to look at the faceless corpse in civvies.
“Okay, what happened?”
The senior marine, a corporal, told him.
The officer shook his head, his stomach still roiling.
He looked at the other body, the one in the officer’s uniform. The dead man wore silver oak leaves on his collar. At least half a dozen rounds had been fired into him. He lay on his back, his eyes staring sightlessly out to sea.
The hangar deck officer recognized him from the wardroom. He was an intelligence officer, one of those prissy staff guys who never wasted his time conversing with the working stiffs. The guy was a mess.
Torpedoes, air strikes, now a shootout on his deck. It had been a hell of a day. “Fucking incredible,” said the hangar deck officer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
STRAIT OFHORMUZ
USSRonald Reagan
Arabian Sea
1145, Friday, 21 June
On the third ring, a voice answered. “Lieutenant Johnson.”
“It’s Claire Phillips. Would you be available for some conversation?”
A pause. Claire could sense the hostility over the phone. “The answer’s still no,” B. J. Johnson said. “No interview, no television exclusive of the amazing wounded girl pilot.”
“That’s not what it’s about.”
“What then?”
“Some girl talk. No business, no Navy stuff.”
“Look, Ms. Phillips, I have a lot to—”
“Call me Claire. And I promise I won’t keep you long.”
Another hesitation. “For a few minutes. Where do you want to meet?”
“Your call.”
“You know how to find the viewing gallery up behind the island? Vultures’ row, they call it.”
“I know it. See you in ten minutes.”
She’s very good looking,thought B.J., and the thought only made her angrier. Even in a shapeless jumpsuit and wearing minimal makeup, Claire Phillips was one of those women who could look like a fashion model even in a twe
nty-knot wind on theReagan ’s viewing deck.
“Okay,” said B.J., “what did you want to talk about?”
“Just some personal stuff. What it’s like being a woman in a man’s world.”
“I told you before, no interview.”
Claire held her hands up. “See? No notepad, no recorder. You have my word that whatever we talk about won’t go any farther.”
“I gather you don’t want me talking about what I saw this morning.”
Claire tilted her head, looking at her. “What did you see this morning?”
“You and Commander Maxwell, alone in his room.”
Claire nodded. “I think I’m getting the picture. And what do you think we were doing in his room?”
B.J. struggled to keep her voice neutral. “Seems obvious enough. I believe they call it shacking up.”
“Would it make any difference if I told you we weren’t doing that?”
For a moment, B.J. wasn’t sure how to answer. She folded her arms over her chest and turned to the rail. “I really don’t care, one way or the other.”
“Yes, you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so angry.”
“I amnot angry,” she said, aware that the anger was spilling out of her like venom. “What you do together doesn’t interest me in the slightest.”
“Look, B.J., you can believe what you want. But you ought to know that Sam Maxwell has more personal integrity than you’re giving him credit for. He happens to care very much about his squadron and the example he sets for his officers.”
B.J gnawed on her lower lip while she digested this statement. Whether she believed Claire Phillips or not, she suspected that this part was true. Brick Maxwell might be a misguided buffoon whose taste in women was zip, but he was an ethical guy. Especially when it concerned his squadron.
Still, the fury was bubbling up in her. As much as she hated it, she knew why. She was jealous, damn it.
“Are we finished talking?”
Claire nodded. “Sure, if you want. I’m sorry if I upset you. I just thought that . . . since we have so much in common, it would be nice if we could talk.”
B.J. looked at her. “What is it we have in common?”
“Our jobs, for one thing. We both work in what is mostly a man’s profession, and they don’t like us for it. For every woman in a foreign press bureau, there are a hundred guys who think she ought to be home mending their socks. I know it’s the same for you. Look around this ship. How many of you are there?”
B.J. didn’t have to look around. Since the death of Spam Parker, she had been the only woman fighter pilot on the USSReagan. Things might have gotten better lately, but she could still sense the same old women-aren’t-warriors resentment.
“You know what they call us?” B.J. said.
“What?”
“Aliens.” She had to smile as she said it. “It was supposed to be an insult, but I’ve gotten over that. I even had a picture of a little green extraterrestrial stenciled on my locker. Just to piss them off.”
At this, Claire had a good laugh. “I love it. You’re a trailblazer, and they don’t know how to deal with it.”
B.J. felt a tingle go through her. “Trailblazer?” She stared at Claire. “That’s what Brick once said about . . . his wife. Did you know her?”
“I met her once, when I was doing a story at the cape. Now that I think about it, she was a lot like you. Same features, same size. She was smart, good-looking, and tough.”
B.J. didn’t reply. Claire Phillips’s words were replaying in her mind.She was a lot like you. For a while she leaned against the rail, letting the warm sea wind blow through her hair. It explained a few things. Seven bullet holes, for example, in the body of the man who was holding the knife to her throat. Brick Maxwell was shooting the man who threatened his wife.
A lot like you.
She had come up here determined to dislike this woman. Claire Phillips was an adversary. One of those fluff-headed females whose looks and connections counted for more than talent and guts.
Wrong again.
“Look, Ms. Phillips, I ought to tell you—”
“Claire.”
“Claire.” B.J. cleared her throat and started over. “What I meant to say was . . . I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?”
“For being rude.” She knew she was blurting the words, but she wanted to get it over. “For behaving like a jerk. I apologize.”
There, she said it. Now she would get the hell out of there.
As she turned to leave, Claire touched her arm. “You’re not wearing your sling.”
“It wasn’t much of a wound. Just a nick, really.”
“I heard it was a close thing.”
B.J. had to grin, thinking about it. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Brick Maxwell—a great pilot, but a really lousy shot.”
The staccato beat of the whirling blades broke the morning stillness. The two helicopters—the AH-1W Whiskey Cobra in the lead, trailed by the UH-1N Super Huey—skimmed the floor of the canyon, pulling up over the natural bridge that spanned the canyon.
Before them spread the valley. On the western slope rose a high ridge.
In the raised aft seat of the Cobra, the pilot glanced at his GPS coordinates again, then turned toward the ridge. Beyond the crest, he saw what they were looking for. The hillside was littered with debris, torn metal, destroyed machinery. In several places the slope was splotched with the black residue of an intense blaze.
After the Cobra completed a sweep, meeting no opposition, both choppers settled onto the sloping brown terrain.
A dozen men in combat gear spilled out of the Huey. A fire team armed with MP-5N submachine guns took the lead while the six men behind them fanned out, walking through the littered terrain, turning over and examining pieces of wreckage.
Fragments of the destroyed MiG-29 were strewn for half a mile. The officer in charge, marine Capt. Barry Weaver, snapped pictures with a Nikon digital while the others turned over hunks of metal, looking for clues.
“Over here, Captain,” yelled Gunnery Sergeant Chavez. “Looks like part of the cockpit.”
It was. There wasn’t much left—the remnants of an instrument panel, part of a radio console. Weaver took several shots; then he turned the pieces over and took more. When he was finished, a Navy medical corpsman poked around, filling several plastic zip bags with samples and scrapings from the twisted metal.
They continued searching. The corpsman took more samples from likely hunks of wreckage. After half an hour, Weaver said, “That’s it. We’ve seen enough of this place.”
After the Whiskey Cobra did another periphery search, the Huey lifted off. The helicopters skimmed the ridge, heading eastward before making the turn toward the coast.
Weaver, standing between the two pilots in the Huey, saw it first—something metallic, glinting in the sand.
“There.” He pointed down and to the right. “Check it out.”
The pilot nodded and slewed the Huey around into a turn. While the Huey hovered fifteen feet over the spot, Weaver and two marine riflemen fast-roped down.
Even before he reached the object, Weaver knew what he was seeing. He pulled out the Nikon and began clicking.
It was evening, and they were taking one of their walks—promenades, Claire used to call them—on the flight deck. TheReagan ’s warplanes looked like museum exhibits, all tied down, intakes and tailpipes plugged with protective covers.
“Sam, do you think we’ll get married?”
He stopped and looked at her in surprise. It was another of those questions out of the blue. She’d been doing that a lot lately.
“What kind of a question is that?”
“A perfectly simple one.” She kept his hand clasped in hers. “Do you or do you not think we’ll get married?”
“I don’t . . . I guess I really haven’t given it that much thought . . .”
“That is impossible to believe. You say you love me, but you haven’t thou
ght about whether you want to marry me?”
“I didn’t mean that.” He sounded flustered, and he hated it. “Where’d this come from? Do you want to get married?”
She smiled. “Is that a proposal?”
“No. I mean . . . it’s a question. It sounds like you’re asking me if I want to get married.”
“Well, do you?”
“I don’t know. I mean, yes, but not yet.”
“You mean yes, you want to get married, but no, you haven’t made up your mind to do it.”
He stopped and looked at her. “Did I say that?”
“More or less. I’m just helping you out.”
“Is this how you interview people on your television reports?”
“No. Sometimes I have to get pushy.” Then she laughed, which was his clue that she was yanking him around again.
For a while neither spoke, watching the brown coastline of Oman slide past the carrier’s port side. A pair of Seahawk helicopters skimmed the water between theReagan and the shoreline.
She took his arm. “How long will theReagan be in Bahrain?”
“Long enough to patch the hull. Two or three weeks; then we’ll head to the States so the ship can get a major refitting.”
She seemed to be mulling over this information. “That means, if we’re going to be together, I’ll have to be in the United States.”
“Until theReagan deploys again. Wherever that might be.”
“Sam, have you ever thought of another line of work?”
“No. Have you?”
“No.” She waited a moment. “But I’m open to suggestions.”
“Bandar Abbas,” said Gritti, “on the starboard side.”
Maxwell looked through the thick panes of the flag bridge. TheReagan was transiting the narrow Strait of Hormuz, returning to the Persian Gulf. He could make out shadowed outlines on the Iranian shore—buildings, cranes, docks.
“Do you think they’ve figured out what happened to their missing submarine?”
“I hope they paid cash for it,” said Gritti.
Acts of Vengeance Page 30
