The Shadows of Power

by James W. Huston

  He turned downwind, lowered his flaps and landing gear, turned onto the base leg of his approach, and landed uneventfully. He taxied toward the Blue Angel hangar. His plane captain was waiting for him and directed him to his parking spot. Everything was done precisely, to form habits, so that when it mattered, when half a million people were watching at an air show, it would be automatic. The pilots joined the other Blue Angels near the hangar and walked through it to the ready room, where they would brief and debrief every flight until they left El Centro.

  Oden walked next to Stovic. “So, Animal, how does it feel to be in a blue jet?”

  “Good. Really good. How about for you? Is it all old hat now?”

  “Never old hat. Never routine. Always a thrill.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Quick debrief, then off to the hotel.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “You and me—first day of learning the routine. Brief, fly, debrief, do all that twice, then dinner, bed, and get up and do it again the next day. And the one after that, and the one after that. We’ll pull so many Gs, your balls will be sagging down around your ankles.” He laughed. “It’s quite a workout, but our first air show is in two months.”

  * * *

  Ismael called the dealer at exactly 8:30 a.m. from yet another pay phone. “It’s me,” he said.

  “So what will it be?”

  “Coffee shop, the Sunnyside coffee shop on—”

  “I know where it is. Nine.”

  “What do you look like?”

  “Fifty. Big. Burly. Wearing a brace.” The line went dead.

  Ismael started for the coffee shop immediately, only a three-minute walk from the telephone he had used, and began to watch the restaurant. He didn’t want any unpleasant surprises. He wondered what kind of brace the man would be wearing. The man had said he was “burly.” Ismael wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he thought it meant heavy.

  He stood outside the restaurant for twenty-five minutes. He saw nothing unusual or suspicious. At 9:00 a.m. exactly, a large man in a cheap green nylon jacket and a leather cap tried to get by him into the door. “You the guy?” Ismael asked the man.

  The man stopped and looked at him. He was wearing a metal neck brace that came up from his chest, inside his jacket. It looked like a brace for someone who had broken his neck, and held the man’s head at an awkward height above his shoulders. It was obviously uncomfortable. His chin spilled over the brace in front. “Yeah. What’s your name?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ismael replied.

  “We going to do business or play games?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “Let’s cut the cloak-and-dagger bullshit. If you need what I got, then you need it.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Dick. You?”

  “Bill.”

  The man gave a curt smile. “Bill.”

  Ismael nodded.

  “Fine, Bill. Let’s go inside and see if we have anything to talk about.”

  They went inside the restaurant and asked for a table for two toward the back. They sat down, and Dick took off his hat. Ismael thought he looked amazingly strong. He had rough fingers. He was someone who worked with his hands or at least spent much of his time outdoors.

  “So,” Ismael said. “You can get anything?”

  Dick shrugged. “That’s more of a marketing thing. I can get a lot. What you lookin’ for?”

  “I have many needs. Maybe you could give me an idea of the kinds of things you have or can get,” Ismael said clearly.

  Dick shook his head. “No. I’m not doing a list.” He took a long drink from his coffee. “Tell me what the hell you need.”

  “Where would they be delivered?”

  “The bigger the item, the more scrutiny we’re likely to get, the more likely it is the delivery will be somewhere different. Say you wanted a .50-caliber machine gun, not that you would. And if I were inclined to get it for you, not that I would be, then I might want that to be delivered somewhere outside of Washington, in, say, Maryland. Maybe some secure building somewhere.” He grabbed his coffee cup without using the handle.

  Ismael asked, “What about for a handgun?”

  “A handgun? Shit, you don’t need me for a handgun. You can buy those in a thousand different places. I could get one for you, sure. Pretty much anything you want. But is that what this is about?”

  “No, but I would need one anyway. Personal security. Home security, I think it is called here.”

  Dick studied his face. “When you say here, you mean the U.S.”

  “Sure.”

  “Where you from if you’re not from here?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Why do you care?”

  “I don’t. I just thought it was an unusual thing you said. I like to know who I’m dealing with. You from here?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. You can get handguns?”

  “Of course. But what else do you need?”

  Ismael hesitated. He was starting to get a bad feeling. Or perhaps it was just his inexperience. “I’d rather not say.”

  Dick sat back in frustration. He reached for his cup again. “Then what the hell are we doing here? If you’re not going to tell me what you want, I don’t think I’m going to be able to tell you whether I can get it. Unless you can help me figure out how to read your mind, I think we’re about done.”

  “Perhaps I will tell you then.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Ismael sat silently, then said, “What happened to your neck?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Ismael stared down at the table.

  Dick finally tried to stimulate him. “Look, what’s your target?”

  Ismael felt as if he was slipping into a moving river against his will and his head was about to be pulled under the water. “It’s aviation related.”

  Dick squinted. “What the hell does that mean? You trying to shoot down an airplane? Is that it? You want some sort of shoulder-fired SAM, don’t you?” Dick looked around at the other people in the restaurant. “Are you shitting me? You know how hard those are to get?”

  “I didn’t say that’s what I want. I said it was aviation related. I didn’t say the weapon was aviation related. I could be talking about jet fuel.”

  “Then tell me more.”

  Ismael stood up. “Excuse me for just one minute. I have to use the rest room.”

  Dick nodded and adjusted the neck brace.

  Ismael went to the bathroom. The door opened, and a man came out. Ismael pulled the door closed behind him and locked it. He stared at himself in the mirror, controlling his breathing. His instincts were screaming at him to flee, but he had to get a missile. He had learned a long time ago, though, to trust his instincts. He had to get out of there. He stepped out of the bathroom and looked around for another door. Nothing. He’d have to go out the same door he came in.

  He turned his head away from Dick and walked briskly toward the front of the restaurant and out the door. The traffic was loud as soon as he opened the door onto the street. He glanced quickly up and down the street, trying to remember the location of the closest Metro stop. He saw several trucks and vans parked and moving along the street. Each one of them in his now panicking mind held five or ten federal agents who were there to grab him. He tried not to run, but he was so animated he jumped into a run every third or fourth step, when he would catch himself and start walking again. He could almost hear the hum of camera shutters in his head. He was sure he had been photographed.

  How stupid could he have been? He reached the Metro stop, ran down the stairs, bought a token, and rammed it into the gate. He jumped on the first subway that arrived, planning to ride the trains for an hour in innumerable and inconsistent directions. He settled back into the seat next to a glass window etched with graffiti.

  Back at the restaurant, Dick had begun to wonder what had happened to Ismael. He got up, went to the bathroom, and found it e
mpty. He stepped into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. He took an earpiece out of his pocket and placed it in his ear. “Shit. I think he’s made us. He’s not in the restaurant. You guys see him?”

  “Yeah. He bolted,” a woman answered. “He walked out of the restaurant about three minutes ago. He headed down into the subway. We’ve got two guys trying to track him, but we can’t reach them right now.”

  “Damn it!” Dick shouted as he punched the paper towel holder, causing the bottom door to open and all the paper towels to fall out onto the floor. He didn’t even notice. “You get his picture?”

  “Lots,” she replied.

  “Let’s get back to the office. We’ve got to start working this one right away. I don’t like what he said.”

  “Where do you think he’s from?”

  “Don’t know. Middle East, northern Africa somewhere. Young. He must be desperate. Nobody’s called that phone number in six months.”

  Rear Admiral Don Hooker walked down the passageway of the Pentagon. Even though it was a hallway, all the Navy officers called it a passageway. That’s what it would be on a ship, so that’s what it must be on shore as well. Ceilings were overheads, walls were bulkheads, drinking fountains were scuttlebutts, the usual nautical words. But Admiral Hooker wasn’t feeling very nautical right now. He had been summoned by Vice Admiral Robert Girardi, the Admiral in charge of preparing the final Navy budget to be submitted to the CNO, the Chief of Naval Operations. It was in its final stages of preparation. Hooker knew that if he was being summoned, it wasn’t to congratulate him because they had found a pile of extra money in the budget and were wondering if he needed any of it.

  He walked into the reception area of Girardi’s office and greeted Senior Chief Helen Johnson, who sat there. She was annoyingly efficient and humorless. “Morning, Chief. Is he ready to see me?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s been waiting.”

  Hooker looked at his watch. He was right on time. To the minute. He walked in, and Admiral Girardi looked at him. “Don, how are you?”

  “Good, Admiral. What can I do for you?”

  “Let’s not rush into this. I have something I want to talk to you about, but I can’t really get my throat going this early without a cup of decent coffee. Senior Chief!” he yelled.

  “Yes, sir?” she replied.

  “Get us two cups of coffee. Black.”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, jumping up.

  Girardi closed the file on his computer that represented the latest work on the budget.

  The coffee came, and they drank from the heavy mugs. “Well,” Girardi said, “we need to talk about something. Like I said. But before we do, tell me how things are going for you.”

  “Really good, sir. This is a great job,” he lied. He would rather be at sea. Naval officers belonged at sea. He had already commanded an air wing and a nuclear carrier. He had been on the fast track to Admiral and was selected before almost anyone else in his year group. All was well. But now, instead of taking over a battle group, he had ended up in the Pentagon. He still wasn’t sure how it had happened, or why, or really what the career implications were, but he knew he would be watched.

  “Well, you’re one of our best. But I’ve got some unpleasant news for you.”

  Hooker waited.

  Girardi drank deeply from the coffee and put the cup down on the corner of his desk. “The Blue Angels are under you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hooker smiled. He loved the Blue Angels and everything about them. They flew F/A-18s, the same plane he had flown for the last ten years in his squadron tours. “Why?”

  “We need to talk about them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How much do they cost the taxpayers every year?”

  “I don’t really know, sir. They’re not broken out as a separate item in the budget—”

  “Let me save you the trouble,” Girardi said putting his hand up, stopping Hooker. “I had one of our whiz kids go through and figure out how much it costs to keep the Blues flying every year. We amortized the airplanes, the buildings, all the capital assets, threw in the personnel costs, the fuel costs, travel, maintenance, everything that you would calculate if you were flying the Blue Angels in the private sector. It was quite an interesting exercise—”

  Hooker could see where this was going. “You could do the same for a destroyer—”

  “Except a destroyer is a combatant, not a circus act.”

  “That’s not fair, sir. The Blues are inspirational. I’ll bet eighty percent of the Navy pilots that have worn the uniform since 1946 saw the Blues perform before signing up. Maybe more.”

  “Well then, let’s put them in the recruiting budget. Problem is that would be more than the entire recruiting budget put together.”

  “It would not,” Hooker replied.

  “You get the point.”

  “Sir, are you implying what I think you are?”

  The Vice Admiral played with one of the sugar packets that had come on the silver tray. He hesitated. “We’ve got to make some hard decisions, Don. The JSF program is in some trouble. They’re looking for money. Congress isn’t going to bleed out one more cent. They’re funding the War on Terrorism, which is a black hole of spending, and trying to support the new procurement and personnel concerns. Either we get it done with what we’ve already been allocated, or something else happens, like canceling the Joint Strike Fighter for the Navy.” He toyed with the sugar pack. “We can’t let that happen. We don’t have any medium bomber capability anymore, not since the A-6 went away. That was early Vietnam technology. Then we pissed all over ourselves with the A-12, and it got canceled. So we’ve had to do it with strings and mirrors ever since. The new Super Hornet gets us part of the way there, but we need the JSF. And we don’t need the Blue Angels. At least not to fight a war.”

  Hooker was furious. This kind of decision represented everything that was stupid about Washington. Decisions made by accountants or armchair warriors, with no feel for the fleet or what motivated the people in it. “Sir, I think this is a huge mistake—”

  “We all love the Blue Angels. They’re great. But sometimes we have to make hard decisions.”

  Hooker put his coffee cup down on the desk untouched. “I have to go on record as disagreeing with this one, Admiral. I think we’re doing the Navy a disservice.”

  “Where would you get the money from? We’ve got to keep the JSF alive!”

  “I don’t know, sir. If you want me to go through the entire budget and come up with alternatives, I could do that, maybe like building fewer day care centers or not refueling one of our nuclear submarines—”

  “The decision has been made. I have to get on with other things. Sorry. And you have to go tell the Blue Angels. Where are they right now anyway?”

  “El Centro. Winter training.”

  “You’d better get out there. No sense putting off the inevitable.”

  Hooker stood. “Sir, when was the last time you saw the Blue Angels?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with it?” he asked, annoyed.

  “Do you remember?”

  “I don’t know. Probably ten years ago.”

  “When was the last time you were in the cockpit?”

  “Two or three years before that. Why?”

  “I don’t think you would have made that decision if you’d seen them recently. They’re an inspiration—”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything? Are you going to ask me when was the last time I rode a merry-go-round?” He paused. “Do you want me to get someone else to go out to El Centro?”

  “No, sir. I’ll go. I just wanted you to know that you’re making a big mistake.”

  “You’ve said that, and I don’t want to hear it again.”

  Hooker stood, nodded, and walked out of Girardi’s office.

  * * *

  Stovic sat in the cockpit of #6 on the runway with the throttles full forward in military power. He wore his ne
w Blue Angels helmet and a lip mike that reached around from the side attachment to his helmet and touched his lips. No oxygen mask. Didn’t need it. And no G-suit. He had never flown a jet without an oxygen mask and a G-suit. It felt naughty, like driving your car without a seat belt.

  He scanned his instruments, looked to his left and right to see that the flight controls of the airplane were moving correctly, checked the rearview mirror for good rudder, and released his brakes. He moved the throttles into full afterburner and raced down the runway with his two jet engines screaming and tearing up the air. This was his first chance to practice the first maneuver he would do during the air show, the low transition, where as soon as he got airborne he would pull his landing gear up, settle the airplane down to fifteen or twenty feet off the runway, accelerate down the entire length of the runway, then pull the stick back hard and climb away from the crowd like a rocket. It was an amazingly impressive maneuver, one that left onlookers shocked with its daring and power. The four jets that made up the Blue Angel diamond, the ones that flew around as if they were welded together, had already taken off and were lining up for their first maneuver. Oden, #5, had just taken off and was waiting for Stovic to get airborne so they could line up their first solo maneuvers. Every aspect of the flight, every move was being videotaped for a later debrief.

  Standing out in the desert by the runway was the video team and Andrea Ash, the new flight surgeon, the one Stovic had met in the hall at his interview. Much to his surprise, the Blues wanted the input of a layman, someone who didn’t know the intimate details of the formations and the maneuvers. She had been selected. She was to watch every flight and sit in on every debrief to tell them what she thought. Stovic’s F/A-18 rolled quickly down the runway and accelerated.

  He watched the airspeed indicator run up to one hundred knots very quickly. His Hornet was clean and fast. The Blue Angel mechanics were the best in the Navy and kept airplanes tuned like sewing machines. He saw his airspeed pass through one hundred thirty knots and rotated the airplane off the runway. As soon as he was airborne, he raised his landing gear and lowered the nose so that he was flying straight above the runway, accelerating rapidly. He felt the gear and flaps clunk into place and the gear doors close over the wheels. He passed through two hundred fifty knots, then three hundred knots and was approaching four hundred knots by the time he reached the end of the runway. He lowered the nose of the aircraft as he reached the end, to make his pass extremely low. It was intoxicating to be able to do maneuvers that were typically forbidden. This was the kind of thing that would get you written up for a flight violation if you were an ordinary Navy pilot flying something other than a blue jet. He timed his pullback carefully, waited until he reached the end of the runway, and jerked back on the stick as the G forces loaded onto the airplane instantaneously. The Hornet’s nose pointed quickly into the sky and continued to rise. He looked in his rearview mirror, saw the exhaust of his jet kick up sand at the end of the runway, and smiled. His F/A-18 was rocketing into the sky when suddenly his fantasy flight was interrupted by reality. “Blue Angel Six, tower.”