Exit Alpha

by Clinton Smith

Cain glanced around the room but couldn’t see Zuiden. Had Vanqua grounded him or was he cleaning?

  Spencer was winding up. ‘There’s a CentCom stockpile at Oman and they allow recce flights to operate from Masirah. But Diego Garcia’s the nearest US base. It can handle carriers but it’s a three-and-a-half-day steam from the Gulf. That’s the strategic outline. Now let’s hear it from the coalface.’ He stepped down and Cain mounted the podium.

  He surveyed the expectant audience. He had to go for the gut.

  ‘I’ve just finished my assignment so this is off the cuff. For most of you here, I’m your future. And Rhonda makes that sound impressive. But she’s also told you I’m through.’

  He looked at the worried faces, the young ones in his ‘family’. He took them through his years of training and told them he’d worked for an aim — had suffered the punishing schedule because he believed EXIT’s credo to be true.

  He moved on to his time in the field, the complexity and detail needed to convince scores of people that an impostor was the person they knew. The need to act a part and probe into the target’s life. The need to replace friends with facsimiles, to pay off others. He then gave specifics about the replacement of Zia ul-Haq, the stress, the dangers. The cadets sat enthralled.

  He finished with an appeal. A rock was needed to stand against the waves of national selfishness. He believed in EXIT and its credo because he believed in humanity and the attempt to be impartial. As he concluded, several cadets were close to tears. Allah be praised, he’d done it, got the thing back on track. He felt emotional himself. He turned to Rhonda, shrugged. ‘Enough?’

  She stood up, ‘Thank you, Ray,’ came forward and hugged him.

  The cadets were up. A storm of fervent clapping.

  She smiled and gestured for quiet. ‘Well, we intended to have questions but we’re now over time, so you can talk to him individually later.’

  Although the cadets were sitting again, a score of hands waved in the air.

  ‘All right. Three questions?’ She looked at him.

  He nodded and pointed to an intense-looking Chinese girl. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re at the top. A Grade Four. Now you have to leave. Isn’t that an enormous waste of training?’

  ‘It’s not restricted to us. It’s a typical situation in the services. Consider the captain of this ship. He may have trained all his life for the job and he might hold it . . . how long, Commander?’ He glanced at the sailor.

  Spencer piped up. ‘Two years.’

  He turned back to the girl. ‘And remember, when you’re my age, you won’t have the physical drive you feel now.’

  ‘But won’t you miss this?’

  He laughed. ‘I’ve slaved nonstop for thirty years. Constant stress. You burn out. Yes . . . ?’

  A Malaysian-looking youth with a punk haircut. ‘The thought of killing people still grosses me out. How do you cope when you actually have to do it?’

  ‘Yes.’ He paused, last night raw in his gut. ‘I’ve been taught how to kill but it still sickens me. You could say I’ve absorbed the techniques but not the attitude. The short answer is that combat readiness requires compassion fatigue. But it’s a long conversation with many aspects. I’ll be glad to discuss it with you privately. Yes . . . ?’

  A thoughtful-looking cadet with a beard. ‘One hears rumours that several of our projects aren’t quite as impartial as you paint them. There have been instances that don’t stack up lately. Has Tigon’s vision been subverted?’

  A murmur went around the room. Vanqua was standing up quickly.

  ‘Do you have any comment?’ the cadet persisted. ‘For instance, why are we on a participating vessel?’

  Cain locked eyes with him, ‘I’m trying to find out.’

  His reply wasn’t the evasion they expected but a deliberate affirmation. The cadets looked at each other.

  ‘Already too many questions,’ Vanqua cut in. ‘Enough.’

  Zuiden appeared at lunch. After the meal he brushed by Cain and drawled almost admiringly, ‘You’re some messy sleeper.’

  CATS BENEATH THE MOON

  Dinner was early that evening to accommodate the first tour of the ship. Spencer handed half of them security tags and told them to sign out. As Cain joined the line of cadets he saw the sandy hair of Zuiden ahead.

  Then Hunt joined the line in a jumpsuit that fitted her disturbingly. Were they mad?

  He dropped back two places to talk to her. ‘Why not give it a miss till tomorrow?’ He flicked his eyes toward Zuiden.

  ‘I can’t. Vanqua insists I go tonight. Something about things looking right.’

  ‘Rhonda went along with that?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Then you’d better stay close to me.’

  ‘She said I had to.’

  Great, he thought. Now I’m nurse.

  First stop was a tour around the hangar bay conducted by a black chief petty officer. ‘We’ve got two acres in here but as you see we don’t waste space. Ship’s so big no one ever sees all of it and even if you had your own brother on board, you’d be lucky to run across him in a year.’

  Beyond the closely parked, chained aircraft was a vast oval in the hull. A rating stood in the middle of it, outlined against moonlit wave-crests, arms spread wide and down, hands pointing to the deck. A klaxon sounded twice then kept on sounding as a plane with ugly splayed landing gear descended on a huge exterior platform.

  ‘Deck-edge elevator, one of four,’ the petty officer yelled. ‘Can strike down aircraft in 30 seconds. He pointed out features of the bay. ‘Refuelling outlets over there. Hangar control. Bomb-proof doors. Conflag station up near the overhead. Fire control’s a big deal here, when you consider all the go-juice and ordinance . . .’

  Cain stared at drop tanks cradled in racks far above. He’d noticed that the cadets glanced at him admiringly and found it disconcerting. Hunt stayed by him. Fortunately Zuiden was still up front.

  ‘This is a Tomcat . . .’

  The group stopped to examine the fighter which was being maintained by blue-shirted mechanics on a work stand. As questions started Cain walked around the dirty-looking plane, reading instructions written on it. COOLANT ELECTRICAL DISCONNECT. ADAPTOR INSTL. UMBILICAL ACTUATION HOOK. COMMAND SIGNAL DECODER. There were vanes behind the engine exhausts — one set open, one closed.

  ‘What are these for?’ he asked.

  ‘Turkey feathers,’ the man said. ‘New GE engines. You take off closed down. No afterburner. Melt the blast shield. Just military thrust.’

  He didn’t understand or much care. He touched Hunt’s arm and fell back behind a fork-lift to talk to her unheard. ‘What exactly did Rhonda say to you?’

  ‘We can’t talk here.’ She walked ahead.

  ‘This is a Hornet,’ their escort explained. ‘A strike fighter we convert to attack role by adding weapon racks. Heavy on juice. Always looking for plugs . . .’

  Cain trailed the group, keeping an eye on Zuiden, who was asking a question about repairs. Their guide was keen to inform him. ‘We keep the down birds back this end. Got aircraft shops, spare parts stowage. Engine maintenance astern. Planes are cranky, like babies. When we get to the fantail, you’ll see the . . .’

  Spencer glanced up from his watch. ‘Sorry, chief. Pushed for time. Got to get on the roof for the launch. Can we muster them on an elevator?’

  They were herded out onto the platform that jutted from the hull. Cain stared at the water creaming below, then up at the great bulk of the ship. Canisters for inflatable life rafts festooned its sides like grapes on a vine. Sponsons, catwalks, splayed safety nets jutting angles and protrusions, made it a citadel overhanging the sea.

  The klaxon sounded. They rode up and joined the flat-top. Posts holding a safety cable slid smoothly into the deck. He walked over the cable which fitted into a groove.

  ‘We’ll take a short cut through the bomb farm.’ Spencer led them behind the island. ‘Some climbing ahead. In here.’

/>   ‘Isn’t there a lift?’ Zuiden asked.

  ‘Sure, but so small you’ve got to be married to ride in it.’

  ‘Do we get to see Pri-Fly?’

  ‘They’re a bit busy right now.’

  They had to climb six levels before they reached the steel walkway high above the flight deck. By then, the vanished sun was a glow on the horizon. Looking down at the now yellow-lighted deck, Cain was surprised to see planes stacked with tails projecting over the sea. He could feel the huge vessel listing to starboard and looked aft to a curving wake. Behind them and to the side, he saw the running lights of a ship and another light far astern.

  Spencer said, ‘She’s coming into the wind. It’s no fun being the plane-guard destroyer captain — watching a floating airport charging in every direction. Carriers are notorious for unannounced turns and speed changes.’

  ‘So why don’t they communicate?’

  ‘Because the carrier’s got this permanent can of worms. And the junior grade lieutenant on the greyhound is too intimidated — too scared to pick up his primary tactical circuit handset and front the admiral. Meanwhile the carrier’s fighting the crosswind. For instance, it’s okay for launching one plane but out of limits for another in the pattern. So the PIM’s out the window because she’s got to chase the wind for the birds.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ It was double-Dutch to him. He looked at the organised bedlam below. Hurrying figures carrying flashlights, waving light wands. Power cables festooning the deck, yellow plane-handling equipment being moved into position. A chopper took off further aft. ‘What’s the significance of the jacket colours?’

  ‘The red guys with the carts are ordies — ordnance.’ Spencer pointed down. ‘Blue guys are plane handlers, tractor drivers and so on. Purple are “grapes” — fuel guys. Green’s catapult and arresting gear crews. Yellow for officers handling the show.’

  ‘And this thing’s powered by a reactor?’

  ‘Eight — two for each shaft. Driving thirty-two heat-exchangers. Welcome to the world of the supercarrier — grandest expression of the American Empire.

  A PA system roared, ‘Stand clear of intakes . . . check positioning of huffers . . . check again for FOD. Aaaaand . . . start ’em up.’

  Cain watched, feeling the vibration of the ship. Dim red glows from the cockpits. Plane captains on the deck, waving their blue lights. The whine of a turbine from the deck. Then others, as starter-carts came to life. The racket of the first aircraft engine starting. He took out his earplugs, rolled them into grubs, inserted them.

  ‘Turkeys are cooking.’ Spencer inserted his own plugs as more engines spooled up. The ground crews were checking control surfaces and hydraulic pressures.

  Cain glanced along the line of faces gazing down. He poked Spencer, yelled, ‘Where’s Hunt?’

  Spencer got it, more by lip-reading than sound, looked around. Cain walked back along the steel balcony. No Hunt. And no Zuiden. Spencer turned back, shrugged, then went forward through a door at the end of the walkway.

  Cain followed him in. The noise level dropped. It was a dimly lit, glassed-in eagles’ nest that protruded from the island. The air boss sat on a raised chair in front of intercoms and consoles, controlling the launch.

  Spencer asked his assistant, ‘Did a big fair-haired man and a woman come in here?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The commander’s face tightened. He looked across at Cain. ‘Must have gone back down the way we came up.’

  Cain said, ‘I’m on it.’

  He ran back on the walkway to the hatch and half-slid down the ladders, surprising other sailors coming up.

  ‘See a fair-haired guy and a woman come down here?’

  ‘Check.’ One rating pointed down. ‘Guy was carrying her. Said she’d fainted.’

  Zuiden had dropped her on the noisy island walkway without the others even seeing it. Accurate pressure on the carotid sinus was all it took. Cain, using the rails, half-slid down more ladders. If Zuiden was carrying her he wouldn’t have got far.

  He was on the level below the flight deck before he saw them — at the far end of a passageway running athwart the ship. Beyond hurrying sailors and air-crew, he glimpsed the flash of Zuiden’s back with the woman like a sack over his shoulder. He ran after them, past cabins and ready rooms, pushing past the crew.

  At the end, the passage split and a ladder rose through a trunk. It was a three-way choice. He took the ladder.

  A light trap brought him out into the wind and darkness near the waist of the vessel on the catwalk that ran around the flight deck. He turned away from the sea which foamed 60 feet below the overhang — faced the island across the deck which was level with his chest. It was alive with light-wands and launching planes.

  Where the hell were they? Up here? He dodged past reels of hoses, heading forward.

  On the deck, a Tomcat — wings spread, flaps set, exhaust gases shimmering — was moving toward the catapult shuttle. As it paused, inching forward, a blast shield rose from the deck behind it.

  A yellow-jacketed officer held his wands crossed above his head while red jackets did something to the missiles on the pylons beneath its wings. Last-minute checks. The plane’s control surfaces cycled. Cain moved further along the catwalk, trying to ignore the drama on his right.

  He saw a sponson below him, beside a column holding what looked like a signalling lamp or searchlight. The small outcrop looked deserted.

  Zuiden knew his stuff, had cut loose during the main event. Hunt might not be unconscious, he realised. Perhaps he’d killed her — come here to drop her overboard. No, he couldn’t be up here. There were green-clad sailors further forward — a launch or recovery crew — and Zuiden wouldn’t have gone near them. The bastard wasn’t on the catwalk and now could be anywhere in the ship.

  Another jet was waiting behind the shield while the first one ran up, the power of its engines depressing the nose wheel strut. The roar was visceral.

  White flame thundered from the Tomcat’s tailpipes. He covered his ears as the sound became unbearable. The plane’s port and starboard lights came on and the white light on the tail. The crouching catapult officer swung his yellow wand in an arc to the deck, then brought it up to the horizontal like a lunging fencer. A green light winked out near a control bubble further forward. As steam slammed against the catapult pistons the aircraft rocketed down the rail, twin furnaces of flaming orange and, in three seconds, was flung off the deck.

  Cain had instinctively ducked, found himself facing tie-down chains hooked from a rail and a red fire extinguisher labelled CARBON DIOXIDE. He rose, padded back through drifting steam, wondering how much hearing he’d lost.

  As he passed the jutting sponson, he thought he saw movement. Was someone there?

  He craned over to see more, could just make out a shape that looked like a boot.

  Then a sailor appeared on the sponson — a burly black man who crouched and pulled at something. A flash of teeth but his voice was drowned by the racket from the deck. He seemed to be dragging on a second man’s legs — a man who lay prone on the grid. As the man was pulled back, he twisted. A man with fair hair, a pale stalk protruding from his pants.

  Zuiden — with his dick out.

  Cain vaulted over the catwalk rail and dropped to the platform below, landing beside the sailor a second too late. Zuiden, still down, had hooked one leg behind the man’s foot and smashed the other into his knee. As the sailor toppled, yowling as his leg collapsed, Zuiden chopped his throat.

  Then Zuiden saw Cain and moved inboard as far as he could, aware that Cain’s breast-cannon wasn’t accurate. He had his pistol out and with his other hand was trying to zip his pants.

  Beside him on the grid — the blur of Hunt’s splayed body, her top off and her clothes around her knees. The hatch into the hull was open. Zuiden would have closed it but couldn’t lock it. And the sailor had stumbled on the scene.

  Cain registered it all in a blink. He felt welded to the deck,
knew there was nothing he could do. If he moved his hand to the pressor switch, Zuiden would shoot and he’d be dead before the explosive slug went wide.

  A launching F–14 shook them with a speech-defying roar. Hunt was stirring, coming around.

  He looked at the rock-steady gun. He’d feel the jolt before he saw the barrel flame.

  An endless second.

  Zuiden’s savage grin. He edged toward the hatch — was gone.

  FALLOUT

  Cain went to the salt-sticky rail and looked at the creaming sea far below. It had been close. The sweat on his face was clammy with it. He turned back, stepped over the dead seaman and squatted beside Hunt.

  She peered at his face then, felt wind on her flesh, looked down. She saw the sailor’s body, stared up at him again, uncomprehending — her full, perfect breasts transformed by moonlight to marble.

  He yelled, ‘Zuiden.’

  She felt between her legs, made a poor attempt to cover herself.

  He said, ‘Zuiden knocked you out and raped you.’

  ‘That sailor’s . . . ?’

  ‘Dead. Zuiden killed him.’

  She breathed heavily, eyes blank.

  He got her dressed and helped her through the hatch away from the noise. She leaned against the side of the alleyway as if she might collapse.

  * * *

  By the time they were cleared through into EXIT, Hunt was herself again, which Cain didn’t consider an improvement. She said, ‘I’ll handle it from here.’

  She left a message in reception for Rhonda then led him along a corridor and keyed a code into the doorpad.

  The cabin was larger than his and featured a wider bunk. Its personal compost revealed immediately whose it was. On one wall was a poster in a frame.

  The Suffolk Savoyards present

  HMS PINAFORE

  or

  The Lass that Loved a Sailor

  Cut-in photographs of cast members included an attractive, dark-haired woman about twenty.

  He said, ‘You and Ron are an item?’

  ‘Objections?’

  ‘No.’

  She sat on the bunk as the door-control clicked and the catch disengaged. Rhonda was in the room, leaning back against the closing door, her good-natured face now grave. She sat beside her lover, petted her, while Hunt told her what she knew.