Stephen Coonts - Jake Grafton 2 - Final Flight

by Final Flight (lit)

  "So no matter how many weapons are there, we can only take a few." "Correct, Excellency. Our goal shall be to obtain six. Even half that many will make us a formidable political force to be reckoned with." El Hakim left the window reluctantly and returned to his seat on the carpet. "If you destroy the ship, the Americans will not know for sure how many we have." "True, but they will be able to estimate the number with accuracy.

  Destruction of the ship will merely ensure our escape. The Americans will undoubtedly leap to the proper conclusion without evidence." "No doubt." The dictator snorted. "They have demonstrated their capacity for that aerial feat numerous times in the past." "So when the mission is complete, we must inform the world promptly in order to forestall any rash action on the part of the Americans. They are very sensitive to public opinion, even when goaded beyond endurance." El Hakim tilted his head back and narrowed his eyes. "The political and military exploitation of your mission is my concern, Colonel, not yours.

  "Of course. Oazi lowered his gaze respectfully. "But still, Excellency, our mission will be for naught unless the Americans are sufficiently delayed to give us time to escape and alter the weapons.

  "Time? How much time?" "The Americans have built numerous safety devices into each weapon.

  That information was part of the interrogation of the American sailor you did not hear. It was extremely technical. The only real danger from an unaltered weapon is that fire or an accident will split the skin of the weapon and cause nuclear material to be spilled. If one were handled carelessly enough, a conventional explosion of low magnitude could occur.

  But there can be no nuclear explosion unless and until a variety of sophisticated devices within the weapon have all had their parameters satisfied. For example, the devices must be initially stimulated by precisely the right amount of electrical current for precisely the proper length of time for the triggering process to begin.

  And that is only the first safeguard. But these safeguards must all be overcome or bypassed." "How will you do that?" "We'll need the cooperation of an American expert, one who helped design and construct the safeguards. Fortunately we are well on our way to obtaining the cooperation of just such an individual right now. We have identified him with the help of Henry Sakol." The left corner of El Hakim's mouth rose slightly in a sneer. He knew Henry Sakol far too well. A former CIA agent, Sakol supplied weapons which El Hakim could obtain nowhere else, thanks to the American government, Mr. Sakol's former employer. Sakol was a ruthless and greedy man, a godless man without scruple or loyalty. "When we have the nuclear weapons, we will have no further need of Sakol." "Truly." "Do you intend to use him for this operation?" "Yes, Excellency. He knows much that will be useful." "He will betray you if given the slightest opportunity. The Americans would reward him well, perhaps even forgive his crimes." "He'll have no opportunity. I'll see to it." "And the weapons expert?" "A fat fool with a very rich, very stupid wife and a fondness for small boys. He would serve the devil himself to preserve his filthy secret.

  I'm allowing him a quarter hour in the plan for him to alter just one weapon. But for our purposes, five or six hours must pass before the Americans are in a position to generate a military response to the incident. We need that time to escape. Then they must face the fact that we have also had sufficient time to alter the others. Of course, we don't actually have to do it. The Americans must merely be delayed until they see that we have the personnel, the equipment, and the time to accomplish the task." Qazi searched El Hakim's face. "The beauty of these weapons is that one never has to use them. They accomplish far more by simply existing, ready for use, than they could ever accomplish by exploding." The ruler smiled. "What course do you recommend?" "An announcement by you to the world press immediately after the operation. This will cause alarm throughout the Western world and create confusion in Washington, where all the decisions will ultimately be made. The confusion will give us time while the Americans assess how they should react. We want a thoughtful reaction, not a knee-jerk lashing out by the American military. When they pause for thought, the Americans will realize the implications of our deed and will accept the new reality. The new reality will be that we are now a nuclear power.

  They will accept it! They have no alternative." They discussed it. The dictator prided himself on his understanding of the decision-making processes of the American government and his ability to predict its policies. The Americans would be greatly embarrassed, he thought, but the critical factor would be the hysterical fear of Western European governments that a military response to his acquisition of nuclear weapons would lead to a nuclear conflict on their soil or in their backyard. After all, they would scream at the Americans, "You are four thousand miles away from El Hakim, with an ocean between you. We are here." So the Americans would wring their hands and suffer the humiliation. It would be a bitter pill, but they would swallow it.

  Finally El Hakim sighed. "Fortunately we are smarter and more determined than the Americans, praise Allah, even if we cannot match their technology. When can we proceed?" "That we do not know, Excellency. The United States is now patrolling off the coast of Lebanon. How long she will be there no one can say.

  As you know, the Moslem factions, with Iran's backing, will do all in their power to embarrass the Americans. And embarrassment is about all they can accomplish." El Hakim nodded his head a thirty-second of an inch and his jaw tightened. He did not appreciate being reminded of the limited options open to a group with few political assets and still fewer military ones.

  He had spent too many years in that position.

  "We must be ready when the ship enters port, whenever that is." "We'll be ready, Excellency. We are monitoring the commercial hotels and airports at various possible ports of call. The longer the ship is at sea, the greater the likelihood that many wives will come from America to visit their husbands when the ship enters port. Advance hotel and airline reservations will give us ample warning." "We must not fail, Can'eaazi. We cannot fail." El Hakim's voice was soft, yet hard, like a thin layer of sand over desert stone.

  "I understand, Excellency." "The stakes are too high to allow my genuine personal affection for you to have any bearing on my decisions." It was Can'eaazi's turn to clench his teeth and nod. "Keep me advised of the state of your preparations." El Hakim rose and left the apartment, leaving the door open behind him.

  "HOW MUCH LONGER before we go into port?" Jake was still in his flight suit and stared at the admiral, Cowboy Parker. They were seated in the admiral's stateroom on the 0-3 level, immediately below the flight deck.

  "I don't know." As usual, Cowboy's angular face registered no emotion.

  In his mid-forties, he had been identified years earlier as one of the finest young officers in the navy and had been sent to nuclear-power school after his tour as commanding officer of an A-6 squadron.

  He had served two years as executive officer of a nuclear-powered carrier, then as commanding officer of a fleet oiler. When he finished his tour as commanding officer of the Nimitz, he had been promoted to rear admiral.

  In spite of that, Jake thought, his ears still stuck out too much.

  "We can't keep flying around the clock like this.

  We've just lost one plane, and if we keep it up, we're going to lose more. These men have been working like slaves." Cowboy sighed. "I know that, Jake." "If we can't go into port, at least let's pull off a couple hundred miles, say down south of Cyprus where we can get some sea room, and stand down at five- or ten-minute alert. It's keeping airplanes aloft around the clock that's wearing these guys down to nothing." "Jake, I don't have that option. You know that! As soon as I get that authority, we'll go down there." Grafton stood up and began pacing the little room. "Well, maybe we can drop our nighttime flights to just the E-2, a tanker, and a couple fighters. Maybe use the Hornets as fighters during the day and the Tomcats at night. Keep the A-6's in five-minute alert status at night, armed for bear." "Sit down, Jake." Jake eyed Cowboy. They had served together dur
ing the Vietnam War in an A-6 squadron aboard the Shilo and had remained good friends ever since.

  When Cowboy had had his tour commanding an A-6 squadron in the late seventies, Jake had been his assistant maintenance officer.

  "Sit down. That's an order." Jake sat.

  "This is like Vietnam, isn't it?" Jake nodded. "Yep," he said at last. "Just another set of damn fools pulling the strings. And we're grinding people into hamburger. It's frustrating." The telephone rang. Cowboy picked up the receiver. "Admiral Parker." He listened for a moment or two, grunted twice, then hung up.

  The two men sat in silence. A plane slammed into the flight deck above their heads and the room vibrated slightly as it went to full power.

  Then the engines came back to idle and faded into the background noise.

  A minute later another one hit the deck. On the television in the corner the landing planes were depicted in a silent show filmed from a camera high on the island and one buried in the deck, aimed up the glide slope. The picture alternated between the two. The only audio was the very real sound of the planes smashing into the steel over their heads.

  Jake massaged his forehead and ran his fingers straight back through what was left of his hair.

  "You don't look very well," Parker said.

  "Hell of a headache." "The head quack tells me you're over a month late getting your annual flight physical." "Yeah. He's been after me." "Go get the physical." "Yes sir." "What do you think went wrong with that plane tonight?" "Don't know. My guess is a malfunction in the oxygen system, but we may never know. Depends on how much wreckage that destroyer pulls out." "They haven't found much." Parker jerked his thumb at the phone. "Just a few pieces floating. Most of it went to the bottom." "Did they find the bodies?" A postmortem on the bodies might reveal an oxygen malfunction.

  "Nope." Cowboy searched the younger man's face. "What are you going to do now?" Jake knew he was referring to the leadership problem.

  "Remember the last month of the war in Vietnam, after I was shot down?

  Camparelli hung a helmet in the ready room and said anyone who couldn't hack the program could throw his wings into it." "I remember." "I'm going to hang up a helmet." "As I recall, no one quit." "Yeah. That's why Camparelli did it. He was smart. I'm going to give the helmet a try, but with my luck I'll have a dozen crews quit on me.

  Cowboy laughed. "Your luck will hold, Cool Hand. Keep rolling the dice." He stood up.

  "I better get back to flag plot." That space, a part of the combat decision center, depicted the task group's tactical situation to the admiral on computerized presentations. It was his battle station. "They get nervous if I'm gone too long.

  Hell, I get nervous if I'm gone over ten minutes." He paused at the door and turned back toward Jake. "If it'll make you feel better, I have a "Nixon in "88' T-shirt I can let you steal." "It may come to that." Admiral Parker stuck out his hand and Jake pumped it.

  - When Jake entered the air wing office, Chief Harry Shipman was sitting at his desk.

  "Heard we lost one.

  "Yeah. Call Mister Cohen and ask him to come to the office." "Aye aye, sir." Jake walked between the desks and entered his office.

  For some reason known only to the ship's architect, he had a sink in his small office.

  He took three aspirin from a bottle in the desk drawer and washed them down by drinking from the sink tap. Then he soaked a washcloth in cold water, raked the papers away from the middle of the desk, sat in his chair and tilted it as he arranged his legs on the desk. He draped the wet cloth over his forehead and eyes.

  He tried not to think about Jelly Dolan and Boomer Bronsky. His office was on the 0-3 deck, immediately beneath the flight deck, so he could hear the sounds of aircraft being moved about his head. He tried to identify each sound.

  He had just drifted off to sleep when someone knocked on the door.

  "Come in." He threw the washcloth in the sink.

  He felt better.

  Lieutenant Commander William Cohen and Chief Shipman entered and sat in the two empty chairs. Cohen was the air wing aircraft maintenance officer. Shipman worked for him.

  "Who went in?" Cohen asked.

  "Dolan and Bronsky. They were flying my wing.

  I didn't see them eject, and the angel and the destroyer haven't found them. They passed out in the cockpit and the plane nosed over.

  "Oxygen problem?" "Probably, but who knows? Maybe the accident investigation will tell us. "Jake removed his feet from his desk and sat upright in his chair.

  "How well are the squadrons maintaining the planes?" Jake asked this question looking at Cohen.

  "Availability is very good. Only three planes down awaiting parts, one F-14 and two A-6's. F-18's are doing fine. That F-18 is one hell of a fine airplane to maintain." Cohen had started in the navy as an enlisted man and received his commission while a first class petty officer, Jake knew. After twenty-two years in the navy Will Cohen knew aircraft maintenance better than he knew his children.

  "Are the squadrons taking shortcuts to keep the availability up?" Jake found his cigarettes and set fire to one.

  "I don't think so." Cohen draped one leg over the other and laced his fingers behind his head. "If they are, I haven't seen it." "We're going to find out," Jake told them.

  "Will, I want you to check the maintenance records on every airplane on this ship. Are the squadrons missing or delaying scheduled inspections? Are they really fixing gripes or merely signing them off?

  Look for repeat gripes signed off as "could not find" or "could not duplicate." You know what I want." "Yes sir." "Chief, I want you to check their compliance with proper maintenance procedures. Select gripes at random and watch the troops work them off.

  See if the manuals are up to date and being used. Check to ensure the supervisors are supervising and the quality-control inspectors are inspecting. Check their tool inventory program." "Aye aye, sir. Do you have a deadline on this?" "Make progress reports from time to time. Start with the Red Rippers, then move around at random.

  Cohen flicked a piece of lint from his khaki trousers. "CAG, this is gonna look like we're trying to close the barn door after the horse has shit and left." "I don't give a fuck how it looks." Jake put his elbows on the desk.

  "The troops are tired and morale is low.

  Shortcuts and sloppy work become acceptable when you're tired. We're going to make everyone, from squadron skippers to wrench-turners, absolutely aware that the job has to be done right.

  We're going to reemphasize it. We're going to make sure we don't drop a plane in the future because of sloppy maintenance." "I understand." "I want you guys to be visible. I want everyone to know just exactly what you're up to. Let it be known that I intend to burn anyone who's slacking off." Both men nodded.

  "Finish your night's sleep, then get at it.

  Chief, before you go back to bed, call the squadron duty officers and tell them I want to see all the skippers here at 0800." "Yes sir." The two men rose and left the office, closing the door behind them. Jake retrieved the washcloth from the sink and rearranged his feet on the desk. In moments he was asleep.

  Jake sat in one of the molded plastic chairs in the sick bay area. He watched the corpsmen in their hospital pullovers moving at their usual pace, coffee cups in one hand and a medical record or specimen in the other. They came randomly from one of the eight or ten little rooms and strolled the corridor to another. The atmosphere was hushed, unhurried, an oasis of routine and established procedure.

  At last the door across from him opened and a sailor came out tucking his shirttail into his bell bottom jeans. Seconds later Lieutenant Commander Bob Hartman stuck his head out and waved at Jake.

  The little room had one desk and a raised examination table. "Good afternoon, CAG. Glad you finally paid us a visit down here in the dungeon." Jake grunted. Doctor Hartman was assigned to Jake's staff and liked to while away off-duty hours in the air wing office, yet whenever anyone suggested he look at a sore thro
at or toe, he told them to come to sick bay. This was his turf.

  "Strip to skivvies and socks, please, and take a seat on the table." As Jake hung his khakis on a convenient hook, the doctor pored over the notes the corpsmen had made when they ran Jake through the routine tests.

  At last he left his desk, arranged his stethoscope in his ears, then held it against Jake's chest. "You failed the eye examination, you know." The doctor was about thirty-five, had a moderate spare tire, and a world-class set of bushy eyebrows. When he looked at you, all you saw of him were the eyebrows. Then the nose and chin and all the rest came slowly into focus.

  "Please cough." Jake hacked obediently.

  "Now turn and let me listen to your back." He thumped vigorously. "You need to quit smoking." "I know." "How much do you smoke?" "A pack or so a day." "Your lungs sound clear." Hartman turned to the X rays on a viewing board and studied them.

  "No problem there," he said finally and came back to Jake. "Stand up and drop your drawers." After the usual indignities were over and the doctor had peered into all of Jake's bodily orifices, he told him to get dressed and resumed his seat at the desk.