by Unknown
The officer turned and handed the sheaf of papers to Rafjani.
“Sorry to inconvenience you,” he said.
He shouted orders to his men, who ran back to their vehicles and sped away in clouds of dust, leaving Rafjani alone in the road beside his truck. He was dumbfounded. The dogs should have been foolproof. The police should have confiscated the cargo, towed the truck, and hauled him away in chains. But he got away with it. He had to know for sure. His superiors would flog him to death if he returned with forty eight cases of machine parts.
With his own flashlight, he hopped back up into the rear of the truck. The lid of the open crate was pried up at an angle. He took it all the way off and removed the heavy, oily gears that filled only about the top third of the crate. Beneath them was a false bottom, painted black. He pried it up and shined the flashlight 52
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into the box.
It was there, at least it looked like what it was supposed to be, large bricks of plastic explosive, about the consistency of soft putty, each wrapped in translucent wax paper. He lifted out a brick, folded open the paper wrapping, and pressed his thumb into it. His finger sunk in, leaving an impression.
It began to occur to Rafjani what he had. If this was truly plastic explosives and not just clay, then it was a particularly extraordinary substance indeed. It was certainly undetectable by dogs. What other interesting qualities did it possess? As he closed the wrapping and began to replace the items in the crate, ideas began to form in his head, and he liked those ideas.
* * * *
The last of the Rockies was behind and Josh and Fredericks passed over the coast of California, obscured beneath a light cloud cover thirty five thousand feet below. Fredericks had been in contact with the aircraft carrier USS America for several minutes. Josh listened to the conversation in his headset. He was not happy when Fredericks asked three times for their exact position.
“What’s the problem?” Josh said when Fredericks keyed off his mike.
“Nothing,” Fredericks said, then was very quiet.
Josh waited. “You sure?”
There was another long pause.
“The America sailed early,” Fredericks finally said. “And we were late leaving Colorado.”
“Ah,” was all Josh said.
He didn’t need to be told any more. He didn’t know why the America sailed early, but they had. Judging from Fredericks’
concern over the carrier’s position, Josh came to the conclusion Fredericks was worried about having enough fuel to make it to the carrier.
Josh strained to look back at the coast receding behind them.
They were a few hundred miles past it but still close enough to Change of Heart
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turn back. The Navy had enough airfields up and down that coast to take care of whatever fuel needs they had. Turning back, however, would probably ruin any chance of completing this mission.
This fact had been impressed upon Fredericks enough that he offered no explanation of his concerns for fuel. He would press on, just as Josh would want him to, and if they came up short of the safety of the carrier deck, they would bail out and wait to be picked up. It was that simple. Josh didn’t like anything about it but that was what they would do. For the rest of the flight they were quiet and tense.
From that height the ocean looked vast and endless. Fredericks was supposed to put that huge plane down on the tiny deck of a carrier somewhere in the middle of all that. The longer the flight went, the more Josh doubted it could be done.
As they approached the carrier, Josh listened carefully to the communication between Fredericks and the America’s radio operator. Fredericks asked for clearance to land and other routine procedures, but there was no mention of the fuel. Josh swallowed several times to equalize the pressure on his ears as they descended. The immense ocean loomed larger and larger below.
Finally Josh could see the carrier as just a speck on the surface of the water ahead, surrounded by a ring of smaller specks, her escort ships. Behind the carrier trailed a long, white tail of churned water, and Fredericks used it as a homing device. They were no more than a few miles off the stern of the carrier and it looked like nothing more than a toy boat bobbing on the water.
They were so close, only a few hundred feet over the waves. Josh waited for the engines to sputter and the plane to drop like a rock into those waves.
He could see lights on the deck, guiding them in. Fredericks held the plane on a straight, smooth course, gliding toward the deck. To Josh it still looked incredibly tiny and felt like they were moving much too fast. He had seen carrier landings from a deck.
Fredericks appeared to be coming in much too steeply.
“Call the ball,” came a message through Josh’s headset.
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“Tomcat ball,” Fredericks replied.
Josh could hear the tension in his voice. There was no indication of trouble from the engines, but Josh was still waiting for it.
If it was a movie he would have closed his eyes by now.
“Wave off. Wave off. You’re too high,” came another urgent message through the headset.
Josh could see flashing red lights on the end of the deck.
“I think they’re waving you off,” Josh mentioned.
“There won’t be any wave off’s on this flight,” Fredericks said.
He brought the plane down very steeply, very quickly. Josh’s eyes grew wide. His bunched fists pressed against the sides of the tiny compartment. He never noticed the ache in his shoulders.
Below them, the deck crew dove for cover and scrambled to get out of the way. Someone screamed something in Josh’s ear, but later he would never recall a word of it.
The landing wheels were still over the water, about a hundred yards off the fantail and about a hundred feet above the deck, when the engines sputtered and quit. The massive jet turned into a glider. The F-14 was an immense, heavy aircraft designed with the minimal amount of wing surface needed for maximum speed.
It made a poor glider.
“Oh my God!” Josh screamed.
Fredericks pulled back on the stick like he was pulling his only child from the grip of an alligator’s jaws, but the F-14 dropped from the air like a rock. The extended wings managed to provide enough forward motion to get the wheels on the hard surface of the deck and the plane slammed down with a jolt that rattled Josh’s molars. The entire plane bounced three feet into the air. The tailhook latched onto the second of four arrestor cables stretched across the deck and jerked the plane to a stop in only a few feet, forcing Josh and Fredericks forward against their thick restraint belts.
Josh finally blinked. They were stopped on the edge of the landing deck, staring toward the open ocean. A swarm of crewmen gathered around the plane, shouting and pointing at Change of Heart
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Fredericks.
Josh peeled off his helmet.
“I don’t know whether to recommend you for a commenda-tion or have you committed,” he said.
“Shut up,” Fredericks replied.
He opened the canopies as they unstrapped themselves.
One of the deck crew, the Landing Officer, wearing a yellow vest and helmet with yellow markings, climbed up the small ladder to the cockpit and shouted at Fredericks about procedures and reckless behavior and endangering lives. Fredericks didn’t seem too interested. He climbed down the ladder, forcing the Landing Officer out of his way.
The Landing Officer yelled in Frederick’s ear the entire way across the deck to the hatchway. Josh walked along with them, but stayed behind. Fredericks was a little crazy for letting his plane run out of fuel like that, but he did the right thing. Josh wanted to step up and defend his pilot’s actions, but that only would have made the situation worse, so he followed behind, avoiding the stares from the deck crew when their heads turned as he walked past. He felt like a town leper.
They went into the hatchway
and the noise of the deck and the shouting LSO died away.
“What a relief,” Josh said.
“It’s not over yet,” Fredericks said.
He looked up the stairwell. Josh did not envy him for what he faced next. They went up.
The Executive Officer was on the bridge, standing in front of the padded captain’s chair. Seated in front of him were several other officers, including the Air Boss, who looked out the pan-oramic windows at the landing deck before him while he spoke into a handset.
Fredericks saluted the Executive Officer. The salute was returned with a glare. Josh stood beside Fredericks, ready to defend his actions.
“Hell of a stunt,” the XO said. The name badge on his left breast above the ribbon board read Johnson. “If I was the captain 56
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I think I’d bust your ass.” He nodded to the Air Boss, who wore a yellow sweater with the words ‘Air Boss’ stencilled across the back. “Speak to him.”
Josh and Fredericks looked at the Air Boss’s back. Eventually, he put the handset down, scribbled some notes on a pad, and turned to face Fredericks. His face was grim.
“The captain wants to see you,” he said.
Fredericks nodded. He went through a hatchway, leaving Josh on the bridge with the Air Boss, the XO and several other sailors. Josh looked around the bridge.
“Who the hell are you?” the Air Boss said.
Johnson glared at him.
“The tooth fairy. Who the hell are you?” The Air Boss grinned.
“Murphy,” he said, and extended his hand. “They call me the Air Boss.”
“No kidding,” Josh said. He shook Murphy’s hand. “Josh McGowan.”
“And what business do you have with that maniac?”
“He’s my chauffeur.”
Murphy raised his eyebrows.
“Is he authorized to risk your life and the lives a hundred sailors ferrying your ass around?”
“He’s authorized to get me to my destination no matter what it takes.”
Murphy snorted and Johnson laughed.
“What are you, some kind of spy?” Murphy said.
Josh shook his head.
“I’m a janitor. The admiral’s toilet is clogged and he needs me to clean it out.”
“A pair of jokers,” Johnson said to Murphy.
Fredericks closed the door of the captain’s cabin and stood for a second, fuming. He had not been chewed out like that since his first day of Officer Candidate School. This mission was becoming much more trouble than it was worth.
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The uniformed Marine standing guard beside the door saluted, watching him.
“What are you looking at?” Fredericks snarled, and stormed off in search of his passenger, a man he considered more and more as a liability to his career.
Fredericks considered leaving McGowan on the bridge until they were ready to take off, but he couldn’t do that. He’d love to, but he couldn’t. He went to the pilot’s mission briefing cabin and used the shipboard phone to call the bridge. Sure enough, McGowan was still there, probably twiddling his thumbs and wondering what to do with himself. Fredericks told the Air Boss to send him down.
The mission briefing cabin was like a classroom, except for the rows of high backed, cushioned chairs instead of desks facing the chalkboard at the front. Shortly, this room would be filled with air crews. Fredericks sat in one of the chairs in the front row and lit a cigar.
He’d read the file on McGowan. Academy grad with just as many honors as disciplinary reports. Two years aboard the Farragut, a fine warship. Promotions to lieutenant. Transferred to Special Forces Division, where he served three years on covert operations under Rear Admiral Katherine Filmore’s command.
Promoted to lieutenant commander. Not bad. Wherever McGowan was headed, he probably had a difficult job ahead, especially if Filmore was heading it up. There was everything to like about the guy, so why did he feel so much animosity for him?
It wasn’t McGowan that annoyed him. It was this mission.
It was like being an airline pilot and that was a job he dreaded.
He was chosen for this job instead of some younger guy because they were trying to send him a message. The brass at the top was trying to tell him he was no longer needed for dangerous air combat missions. He knew they wanted him to take a desk job and give up his seat for some new young hot shot, but he wasn’t listening.
However, the Navy wasn’t the only one telling him to take a 58
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desk job. His wife, Anita, was leaning on him pretty hard lately.
They had two kids in high school and she wanted him to take it easy before someone started another shooting war. He did not have the heart to tell her that a war was why he was still in a Tomcat. He saw himself as a warrior and nothing but battle would do for him. He had many years of actual combat experience, but that fifth kill always eluded him, preventing him from becoming an Ace. He wanted that one last chance to make himself legendary before he took that seat behind a desk. At least no one would take that away from him; a desk would be there whenever he wanted it.
McGowan appeared in the doorway. He said thanks to a sailor who led him there and entered the room. Fredericks watched him without speaking.
“When do we fly out of here?” McGowan asked.
Fredericks sighed. It was the first question he expected.
Special Forces guys could be so predictable.
“Two hours.”
“Why the wait?”
“We won’t be in range of Pearl until three this afternoon.” McGowan nodded as if he understood. Fredericks expected him to rant about being behind on this mission, another typical response from Special Forces guys, and was surprised when he didn’t.
“I’m gonna see if they have any food on this boat,” McGowan said.
Fredericks nodded. He watched McGowan stand in the hallway for a second deciding which way to go. He wondered how much experience McGowan had on board a carrier and whether he would be able to find the Officer’s Mess on his own. Food did sound good. He hadn’t eaten in over twelve hours himself.
A few minutes after McGowan was gone, Fredericks got up and followed him out.
Fredericks felt smug when he got to the small Officer’s Mess cabin and McGowan was not there. He imagined McGowan wandering the lower decks, lost forever. He got a cup of coffee Change of Heart
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and was looking for a spot to sit when a thought came to him.
He left the Officer’s Mess and went to the Crew’s Mess, a much larger room like a cafeteria with a pinball machine and a ping pong table and some other recreations. There was McGowan at a table with a tray of food, watching the inboard television newscast. He looked more like a sailor now than a civilian in a poorly fitting flight suit.
He got his own tray of chipped beef and mashed potatoes and sat beside McGowan. They sat in silence while they picked at their food. Fredericks realized McGowan was looking at him and turned to face him.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing.” McGowan looked away, then turned back. “How long have you been in the Navy?”
Fredericks put his fork down and wiped his mouth with a small napkin.
“Thirteen years,” he said with a deep sigh. “I signed up right out of high school. Filmore tells me you’re an Academy grad, too.”
McGowan nodded. “Class of ‘86. How long have you been flying Tomcats?”
“Since the day I started. They wanted to put me behind a desk a few years ago. I’m too stubborn. They try every year, every year I win. I’ll keep this job ’til they pry that joystick from my fingers. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“How did you get to the Academy?”
McGowan chuckled.
“It was sort of agreed I would go there. They didn’t know what else to do with me and I didn’t really know what to do with myself. The only thing I had a
t the time was hockey. I played in high school. I never thought about playing in college. The Academy had a team, not much of a team, though. So I walked on, played for four years, then started my service on the Farragut.”
“How did you get a Special Forces post from there?” McGowan cleared his throat.
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“The Navy and I sort of came to an agreement that I wasn’t exactly suited for commissioned service. They kind of wanted me to leave and, well, Filmore offered to take me off their hands.”
“I see,” Fredericks said. “So you hold a grudge against the Navy because you have an attitude problem.”
“I don’t have an attitude problem. They’re the ones with the attitude problem.”
“Uh huh. I’m curious. If you had a problem with the Navy, why didn’t you just get out?”
McGowan stared straight ahead.
“I guess I sort of needed the Navy by then. They didn’t need me, but without them I was nothing.” They walked back to the flight operations room. It began to fill with flight crews. Josh and Fredericks sat in the back row. Fitted over the backs of the chairs were covers depicting the insignia of the flight crew occupying the briefing room. The covers were blue with the image of a large black cat over a carrier, its claws extended and teeth showing fiercely, the insignia for the Black Cats. Fredericks wished he was flying with them.
The Air Wing’s commanding officer stood at the chalkboard and detailed a mock air battle that would take place over the waters south of Hawaii with another carrier that sailed from the Marshall Islands. These F-18 crews would be the initial strike package against the other carrier. Right behind them would be a squadron of A-6’s, and ahead would be the F-14’s to clear their path. They would begin launching their planes in less than an hour.
The pilots filed out of the room. The commanding officer seemed to notice McGowan and Fredericks for the first time.
“Which one of you is Captain Fredericks?” he said.
“I am,” Fredericks answered.
The officer handed Fredericks a slip of paper.
“The captain asked me to inform you your plane will be in range of Pearl within ...” he checked his watch, “... twenty minutes.
