Final Flight jg-2

by Stephen Coonts

  “I guess. So what am I? Number ten for you this month?” She giggled as Jake ran his tongue down her neck and across her collarbone, heading south.

  “Eleven, I think.”

  She hugged him fiercely. “Oh, I love you, Jake Grafton, you worthless gadabout fly-boy, you fool that sails away and leaves me.”

  When she released him, he propped his head on one elbow and ran his finger along her chin. She nipped at it.

  “Have you been to the beach house lately?” he asked. Three years ago they had purchased a house on the beach in Delaware that they visited at every opportunity, anticipating the day when they would live there permanently.

  “Just last weekend. You can still hear the gulls from the window, and the surf hitting the sand when the tide is in. But the upstairs commode stopped up. I had to call a plumber….” She went on, detailing the domestic crises and how much it had cost. He rolled out of bed and slipped a robe on.

  From an easy chair near the door to the balcony, he said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about that house, lately.”

  Callie sat up in bed and swept her long dark hair away from her face. “Is twenty-three years enough?” That was how long Jake had been in the navy.

  “I can’t fly at night anymore. I’m half grounded.” She left the bed, came over to the chair, and sat on his lap. He wrapped the robe around them both, as far as it would go.

  “It’s my eyes. I’m losing my night vision. Something about liquid purple and rods and all that.”

  “My God, Jake, won’t you miss the flying?”

  “Yeah,” he sighed disgustedly.

  “And if you can’t fly, how can you continue to command an air wing?”

  “I can’t. They’ll send someone to relieve me pretty soon. I’ll probably be home in a month or so, and they’ll ground me completely. No more flying. Ever.”

  “Where will you go from here?”

  “I don’t know. Probably some admiral’s staff someplace. We’re short on radar repairmen, but we’ve got a lot of admirals and a lot of staffs.”

  “So you’ve been thinking about the beach house?”

  “Uh-huh. And about us. About you and your gadabout fly-boy lover and all the time we’ve been apart. And I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s time. Everybody retires sooner or later, unless they get zapped, and so why not? It’s time you had a full-time husband, not some …”

  Callie put her face inches from his. Her cascading hair framed her dark eyes. She put her hands on his cheeks. “I’ve been extraordinarily happy married to you. Oh, the separations have been hard to take, but I can endure the days alone because I know that, God willing, you’re coming back to me. You are who you are and what you are, and I love you. So don’t you dare start talking like you’ve given me the dirty end of the stick these last fifteen years. You haven’t.”

  He started to speak, but she put her lips on his. In a moment he carried her back to the bed.

  * * *

  They ate a room service breakfast on the balcony, wearing only their robes. From here you could see the sweep of the Bay of Naples and the old Renaissance harbor where the yachts moored. The carrier lay several miles out to sea, foreshortened from this angle. Two surface combatants were anchored near her. The carrier’s flat top looked grotesque, but the cruisers with their superstructures looked ominous, powerful — gray warships on a blue sea. And way, way out there, the sea and the sky were married by the summer haze. It was going to be hot today.

  “Are you going out to the ship?” Callie asked as she sipped her orange juice.

  “Thought I might, after a while. Then maybe this afternoon you and I could go somewhere together. How about Pompeii?” Jake sat looking at the ship and drumming on the glass table with his fingers.

  “I’m glad you gave up smoking.”

  “I haven’t made it yet,” Jake said, and self-consciously stuffed his hands with their chewed fingernails into his robe pockets.

  Callie hid her smile behind another piece of toast. Yes indeed, she decided, she had been extraordinarily lucky when she landed this one. Not that he had had a chance of getting away, of course. She ran a hand through her hair and stretched. Jake was looking down at the patio around the pool three stories below where breakfast was served al fresco.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “I thought I recognized that girl. But from this angle I’m not sure.”

  Callie rose and stepped over to the railing. She had her toast in her hand. “Which girl?”

  “That one with the blue dress.”

  Callie leaned on the railing and called, “Oh, Judith. Good morning.” The girl in the blue dress looked up, grinned, and waved.

  “It’s Judith Farrell,” Callie announced, and popped the last bite of toast into her mouth.

  “Where in the name of God did you meet her?”

  “On the plane down here from London. She sat right beside me. She’s a very nice young lady, an American reporter living in Paris. Gave me an excellent chance to practice my French. She’s very fluent. She’s going to be in Naples for two weeks. I asked her to have dinner with us tonight.”

  Jake’s startled gaze left Callie and went back to the patio and the top of Judith Farrell’s head.

  “Who did you think she was?” Callie asked curiously.

  “I thought she might be Ms. Judith Farrell of the International Herald Tribune. The world is just too goddamn small.”

  * * *

  Up in his suite, Colonel Qazi swung his binoculars toward poolside and examined Farrell’s profile. He was seated on a chair atop a table well back from the doors to the balcony so that he was invisible to persons in other rooms. After a moment he took his headphones off and handed them back to Yasim. He lifted the binoculars again. His brows knitted as he watched Judith Farrell eat her continental breakfast.

  “Judith Farrell. What room is she in, Noora?”

  The girl checked the chart. “Room 822.”

  “You and Yasim get it wired as soon as possible. Bugs in her phone, bathroom, and bed.”

  “Who is she?” Ali asked.

  “Ostensibly a reporter. She was on the ship in Tangiers.”

  “Could she recognize you?”

  “No. I was fat and sixty-five years old for that appearance.” He handed the binoculars to Ali, who trained them on the girl at poolside.

  When Qazi received the glasses back, he swung them to the Graftons’ balcony. So Farrell and Mrs. Grafton had side-by-side seats on the flight from London. Very interesting.

  The colonel climbed down from his perch while the ex-CIA agent, Sakol, examined Judith Farrell with the binoculars. He fingered the focus knob. After a glance, he placed the glasses back on the table. “I’ve never seen her before — Mossad, CIA, or GRU.”

  “It is also possible she is what she seems to be,” Qazi said with finality.

  “Or she could be one of those amateurs that the Americans are using these days instead of the CIA professionals,” Sakol retorted as he resumed his seat. “Perhaps she delivers autographed Bibles and cakes shaped like keys.” He yawned and stretched.

  “We’ll check her room,” Qazi said. “It would be an honor to have an opportunity to steal a Bible signed by a president.” He turned to Ali. “What did you learn last night about security and antiterrorist precautions aboard the ship?”

  “They have armed marines at the enlisted landing on the fantail, and on the officer’s brow. Four fifty-caliber machine guns, two on each side of the flight deck, are manned by marines around the clock. Planes are scattered around the flight deck so there is no room for a helicopter to land. The radio masts that surround the flight deck are kept in an up position. Lights are rigged around the ship so that swimmers and small boats cannot approach at night unseen.”

  “And the communications?”

  “He got it all,” Sakol sneered. “Your sadistic, camel-fucking assistant enjoyed every minute. He had a hard-on the whole time. I thought his cock was going to rip his
zipper out.”

  Ali’s right hand moved toward the pistol he carried in his trouser pocket, since it was too hot to wear a jacket.

  Qazi waved his hand at Sakol. “Enough, Sakol. Enough. I can’t let Ali shoot you just yet.”

  “The little prick wouldn’t enjoy just shooting me. He would first want to—”

  “Enough!”

  “I’m going to get some sleep,” Sakol said. “You perverts figure out how you’re going to rape the world. Put Ali near the crotch.” He went into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  “He will betray us,” Ali said.

  “Perhaps, given the opportunity.” Qazi sighed and stretched. “Are we on schedule?”

  “It will be very tight. I am returning to Africa this afternoon. Noora should return with me. We will need her to handle Jarvis.”

  “Three days. We must be ready to go in three days. The Americans might sail at any time.”

  “Their reservations are for another seven days,” Yasim reminded them.

  “The American government could order the ship to sail at any time in response to events in Lebanon. This would be an excellent time for those Shiite fools to behave themselves, but one cannot expect miracles. We must seize this opportunity before it escapes us.”

  “Then we must make some changes.”

  “Yes.” Qazi rubbed the back of his neck. Ensuring the painstaking accomplishment of a myriad of small details was the foundation of a successful clandestine operation, and the reason Colonel Qazi was still alive after twelve years in the business. He insisted Ali and his other lieutenants exhibit the wholehearted enthusiasm for detail he preached. Unanticipated events would occur in spite of every precaution, but the less left to chance the better.

  “Tell me about the communications.”

  * * *

  Jake left the hotel at eight A.M. with four other officers he met in the lobby. All were attired in civilian clothes. Walking down the Via Medina together, they still drew glances from pedestrians and kamikazes zipping by on motor scooters. American sailors on liberty were no longer authorized to wear their uniforms ashore due to the terrorist threat, but their nationality was obvious to everyone, especially when they opened their mouths. Another regulation decreed without even a nod toward reality, Jake mused. He began to perspire as he walked. The exercise felt good after so long without it.

  They turned left when they reached the Piazza Municipio and walked down the divided boulevard toward the harbor. Behind them, across the top of the boulevard, was the Municipal Building. On their right the Castel Nuovo jutted upward into the dirty-white morning haze. On the side of the seven-hundred-year-old structure Jake could see a shell impact mark, perhaps a scar from World War II. It appeared as if a shell with a contact fuse had gouged a shallow hole in the stone and the shrapnel had ripped out gouges which radiated in all directions from the center crater. Jake wondered how many wars and sieges and shellings the castle had withstood.

  The little group threaded their way through bumper-to-bumper morning traffic to the gate to the quay. The carabinieri on duty gave the little group a salute and received smiles in reply.

  They joined other officers and men waiting for the ship’s launch. As they chatted they watched the ferries getting under way for Ischia and Capri. People boarded the vessels through the stern, then each moved slowly ahead as a man on the bow took in the anchor cable and, a hundred yards from the quay, the anchor itself. Now the screws bit the water in earnest and the wake began to spread. As each ferry departed, people on the stern waved heartily to the Americans.

  When the officer’s launch arrived at half past the hour, Jake stood with the boat officer and coxswain amidships rather than sit in the forward or after passenger compartment. He had never gotten used to riding these small craft in the chop beyond the breakwater.

  The launch plowed the oily, black water and stirred the floating trash with its wake as it passed the bows of four U.S. destroyers and frigates moored stern-in against the breakwater. At the masthead of each ship the radar dishes rotated endlessly. Most of these ships were part of the flotilla that accompanied and protected the United States. At the piers on the other side of the harbor, on his left as the launch made for the harbor entrance, ships of the Italian Navy were moored. Just visible in the haze beyond them was the rising prominence of Mount Vesuvius.

  Jake looked aft, over the stern on the boat. Buildings from prior centuries covered the hills behind the Castel Nuovo and the Municipal Building. At the top of the most prominent height stood a magnificent stone castle. This was Castel Sant’Elmo, now a military prison. The flanks of the hill between the Municipal Building and Castel Sant’Elmo formed the oldest, poorest quarter of the city, the tenderloin known to generations of American sailors as “the Gut.” The bars and girls there had entertained seafarers for centuries, and the punks there had rolled them and left them bleeding for at least as long.

  Even with its smart new residential and shopping districts, Naples remained an industrial port city, not pretty, not spruced up for tourists, but a city of muscle encased in fat and smelling of sweat and cheap wine. It was an old European city that modern Italian glitz and new Roman fashion had yet to transform.

  He watched the features of the city merge into the morning haze as the boat bucked through the swells beyond the harbor entrance. The natural breeze was magnified by the boat’s speed, so the perspiration dried on Jake’s face and his stomach remained calm. He even traded quips with the boat officer, a young F-14 pilot in whites.

  Gulls looking for a handout swept over the launch, almost close enough to touch, their heads pointed into the prevailing wind, out to sea. On the boat’s fantail the Stars and Stripes crackled at attention.

  It was a good feeling, Jake reflected, seeing the gray ships lying there at anchor in the sun with the sea breeze in your face, the coxswain wearing his Dixie cup at a jaunty angle to prevent it from being blown off, his white uniform incandescent in the sun. This was the part of his life Jake would miss the most, this carefree, tangy adventure with the world young and fresh, life stretching ahead over the waves toward an infinite horizon.

  But as the launch approached the United States Jake Grafton’s thoughts were no longer on the scenic quality of the morning. The two linesmen lowered the bumpers at the last moment and leaped onto the float below the officer’s brow as the launch brushed against it. At the top of the ladder the officer-of-the-deck saluted Jake, who nodded and rushed on by. He made his way to his stateroom on the O-3 level, right beneath the flight deck, and called Farnsworth as he changed into a khaki uniform. “Have you been ashore yet?” he asked the yeoman.

  “Not yet, sir. I’m going this afternoon after I get a few more things done.”

  “How about having someone bring the maintenance logbook for that A-6 that crashed up to the CAG office. I want to look at it.”

  “I’ll call their duty officer.”

  “Anything sizzling?”

  “Same old stuff, sir. The XO is having everyone do another muster this morning. Seems three guys, one of them a petty officer, didn’t show up this morning. So the XO is making the whole ship muster again.”

  “See you in a few minutes.”

  He wondered what that was all about. Ray Reynolds must be worried about something.

  In the office he automatically reached into the helmet suspended from the overhead. It was empty. He accepted a mug of coffee from Farnsworth and stared accusingly at the helmet as he took the first experimental sips. Finally he retreated to his office, the “cave,” where he flipped through the incoming messages and letters. The navy had named an officer to replace him, someone he didn’t know. The new man would report in four weeks. No hint as to Jake’s next assignment. Perhaps that was just as well. No doubt it would be some staff or paperwork job somewhere. Better he shouldn’t know just now, while Callie was here.

  The maintenance logbook was delivered by a young airman, whom Jake thanked. The book was a loose-leaf binder. On
the metal cover in numbers an inch high was the black stencil “503,” the side-number of the A-6 Majeska and Reed had taken on Reed’s last flight. Below the large number, in smaller stencil, was the aircraft’s six-digit bureau number.

  Jake opened the book. On the right side were the “down” gripes for the last ten flights. Each gripe card carried the date of the repair, the name of the man who had performed it, and the corrective action taken. On the left side of the book were all the “up” gripes that had not been repaired. A down gripe, by definition, was one so serious that the aircraft could not fly until it was fixed. An up gripe, on the other hand, was a nuisance problem that could wait until the bird was down for another problem or a planned maintenance inspection before it was repaired, or “worked off.”

  Jake read the down gripes first and the particulars of each sign-off. The problems struck him as routine; the type of complaints that one expected an aircraft to have, especially if it were used hard, as all the A-6s had been these last few months.

  The up gripes constituted quite a stack. The little forms were arranged in order, with the most recent on the top of the pile and the oldest on the bottom. When he had read each one, he went back through and read them all again carefully.

  Finally he closed the book. What was there about that aircraft that caused a crash? There was not a single gripe on the oxygen system. Had Bull Majeska really blacked out? At sea level, where there was plenty of oxygen if his mask were not completely sealed to his face? Or was he lying? What revelation could he make that would be so terrible? Terrible to whom? To Majeska, of course. When Jake found himself chewing on a fingernail, he slammed the book on the desk and shouted for Farnsworth.

  “Gimme a cigarette.”

  “No.”

  “Goddammit! Please!”

  “Bust me. Give me a court-martial. No more weeds for you.”

  “If you shaved your legs, Farnsworth, you’d make somebody a good wife.”