Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  Woods walked aft and grabbed the closest phone. He dialed the number, letting it ring and ring. Finally someone answered. “Hello,” a voice said, obviously having awakened from a deep sleep.

  “Is this Lieutenant Rayburn?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “This is Lieutenant Sean Woods, VF-103. I need to talk to you.”

  “Why?” Rayburn said testily. “Can’t it wait?”

  “No. I have to see you tonight.”

  Rayburn sighed. “I’ll meet you in my office in five minutes. Can you be there by then?”

  “I’m already there,” he said. The line went dead. He hurried back down the passageway to the office door to wait.

  Five minutes went by, no Lieutenant Rayburn. Then ten. Woods paced in front of the door, waiting. He looked at his watch again, and finally heard the clanging of a nearby ladder as Lieutenant Rayburn slid to the deck.

  Glancing curiously at Woods, he opened the door to his office and switched on the lights. Rayburn was short, about five six, with clipped straight brown hair. In his late twenties, he had obviously taken the time to comb his hair and put on a clean uniform. He was wearing gold wire-rimmed glasses. “Now,” he asked, “what can I do for you?”

  Woods offered his hand and said, “I’m Sean Woods. Thanks for coming in the middle of the night.”

  “What’s up?” said Rayburn impatiently.

  “I was lying in my rack, and I couldn’t sleep.” He saw Rayburn’s face—he was getting angry—and decided to change his approach. “You remember the guy who was killed in the attack in Israel?”

  “Sure. He was there illegally. Faked his leave papers. I had to review the JAG investigation to determine whether he was in the line of duty and all that.”

  “Then you know what happened.”

  “Probably better than you do.”

  Woods looked at Rayburn, trying to read his tone of voice. Rayburn was impressed with himself. Great, Woods thought. Just when I need some help I get an arrogant attorney.

  “You’re the JAG officer on the ship, right?”

  “Obviously.”

  “So you’re supposed to know the law.”

  Rayburn shrugged. “Some of it. The rest I have to look up, but I have a good set of law books aboard. Why, what do you want to know?”

  “Mind if I sit?” he said, pointing to a chair and sitting down without waiting for a reply. Rayburn took the desk chair behind a Navy-issue steel-gray desk.

  “I’ve been trying to think of some way to hit back for Vialli. Some way to go after the terrorists who murdered him.”

  “Like what?” Rayburn asked, putting his feet up on the desk.

  “I’ve already talked to the Admiral about us attacking them, but he isn’t going to do that. . . . I was thinking that we should declare war.”

  Rayburn realized Woods had finished. “That’s it?”

  “Yeah. What do you think?”

  “Against who?” Rayburn asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “The guy who was in charge of the attack, and planned it. The Sheikh.” Woods’s eagerness showed on his face. “We should declare war against him, as an individual, and maybe his group of terrorists. We wouldn’t have to just issue statements about how horrible it all was and do nothing. I say declare war, tell the whole world the full force of the U.S. military is going after them, and then do it. If some country is hiding them, or letting them train there, they should know it won’t matter to us. We’ll go after them wherever we can find them. If someone is protecting them, they’d better get the hell out of the way.”

  Rayburn’s expression was one of disbelief. “You got me up in the middle of the night to ask me about declaring war against terrorists?”

  “Yeah. What do you think?” Woods said enthusiastically.

  “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Why?”

  “The Admiral can’t declare war, only—”

  “I know that. I’m not saying we should declare war, I’m saying the country should declare war.”

  “Only Congress—”

  “I know. But that’s it. That’s what I want to know. Where does it say that Congress can declare war?”

  “In the Constitution,” Rayburn said sharply.

  “Then here’s the question,” said Woods, leaning on the gray desk. “Is there anything there, in the Constitution, that says we can’t declare war against one man? Or a terrorist group?”

  Rayburn shook his head. “You’re nuts. I have no idea. You don’t need a JAG officer, you need a psychiatrist. I’ll call him in the morning and set up an appointment for you,” he said, starting to get up.

  “Come on, think about it! What’s so wrong with it? It could be the very thing Congress has been looking for all these years to combat terrorism. Leave a standing declaration of war against every terrorist who attacks us. Then wherever we find them, we can go after them with the full force of the military and hammer them. We don’t need to worry about arresting them, or playing international police. We treat them like any other soldier of any country that we’re at war against. They’re fair game.”

  Rayburn put his hands on his desk, and pushed himself up. “Good night,” he said.

  Woods was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t know how else to say it,” Rayburn replied. “We’re done. And next time,” he added with a bite, “spare me the late-night harebrained schemes, will you?” He motioned to Woods to leave the office as he turned off the lights, one after the other. Rayburn locked the JAG office behind them and started down the passageway.

  “At least think about it, won’t you?” Woods asked of his back.

  “Good night,” Rayburn said without slowing or turning.

  14

  Woods put his tray down across from Big McMack, who had gotten enough eggs, French toast, and bacon to preserve his name for at least one more day. “I’ve got it figured out, Big,” he said as he sat down.

  Big squinted at him through swollen morning eyes. “Did you take a shower this morning?”

  Woods looked at him with confusion. “Sure.”

  “And yesterday?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “We’re only supposed to take showers every other day.”

  “Probably send the shower Nazis after me,” Woods remarked.

  “They’ll make you take saltwater showers from the fire main.”

  “Just like the good old Navy. David Farragut. John Paul Jones. They washed with salt water. I guarantee you.”

  “Yes,” Big agreed. And they read books, and wrote letters, and thought great thoughts. Today’s Navy officer is condemned to a life of the lowest common denominator. Men love to see breasts, so they give us these horrible movies. Anything rated R. The library is full of Mad magazines, and books about cars. Where is the intellectual in uniform? Where is the Renaissance Man?” Big asked, hunched over his plate, cramming his mouth with a forkful of French toast. “You’ve got what figured out?” he asked through his food.

  “How we can hit back.”

  “Speak English. I do better in that. It was my minor.”

  “For Vialli. We can do something about it.”

  Big put his fork down on the table and sat back. “You still on that? Your little vendetta bit? Let it go, Trey. It’s going to drive you crazy.”

  “No,” Woods said with intensity. “We can declare war.”

  “Against whom?”

  “Against the people who killed Vialli. Against the Sheikh.”

  “I hate to break it to you, Trey, but war is declared against a country. You know, ‘a date which will live in infamy . . . I ask that the Congress declare . . . a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese Empire’ and all that. You’ve heard Roosevelt. It just wouldn’t do if he’d said, ‘We hereby declare that a state of war exists against Admiral Yamamoto.’ Just doesn’t have the same ring.”

  “We can do it.”

  Big suddenly realized he was s
erious. “How?”

  “I had this brainstorm last night. I was lying there and it just hit me. Like a bolt of lightning—like a vision. So I went to see the JAG officer. I told him the idea. He said he’s gonna think about it. I think it struck him as something completely new.”

  “Well, if you get it so the Washington can declare war, then you’re on to something.”

  “No. Congress. If they really chew on it, they might just do it. And if they do, and we’re right here, we’ll be the ones to go.” Woods looked at his roommate with obvious enthusiasm. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re nuts. You should have some French toast and fill your belly. Once you get enough fat in your system you’ll be ready to fly, and then you’ll start making sense.”

  “You’ll see. You laugh now, but you’ll see.”

  “What am I going to see? You going straight to the Admiral with this insight? He may just put you right in the brig for insubordination, sitting on the deck in your underwear with a bunch of druggies.” Big smiled to himself at the image.

  “This Admiral isn’t going to do anything about it. He doesn’t have the balls. He’s more worried about his prostate or something. He’s not worried about his pilots.”

  “His prostate?” Big said, screwing up his big round face.

  “Well, whatever.”

  “So what are you planning?”

  “I’m going to write to my congressman.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” Big said, rolling his eyes, his belly moving with internal laughter. “Shoot, I’ll bet your congressman doesn’t get more than ten or twenty thousand letters a day. Probably answers every one of them personally. He’ll probably read yours on the floor of the House as one of the most brilliant ideas in American history.”

  “Get off my back, Big. This could be the kind of idea that changes American foreign policy forever.” Woods was flush with excitement. He hadn’t slept all night, and was operating on adrenaline. “We’ve never had a good response to terrorism. It’s always covert, or half baked, or a one-time air raid. We never go after the bad guys. But in a war, that’s exactly what we do. We go after the bad guy. We go after him until he surrenders or we’ve killed him. Capture the Flag. Out in the open, in the full light of day, with the full force of the military. Right at them, until it’s over. It’s time to do that with terrorists.”

  “Do what with terrorists?” asked Father Maloney, sitting down next to Woods and removing his breakfast from his tray.

  “Morning, Father,” Woods said, debating with himself whether to tell the chaplain. Why not. “Have Congress declare war against terrorists. Then go after them with the military to take them out.”

  “I didn’t know Congress could do that.”

  “I didn’t either. But I thought of it last night, and asked the JAG officer. I don’t think there’s any limitation against it. He’s still thinking about it, but he didn’t say anything right away.”

  “Hmmm,” Maloney said, scooping up a forkful of scrambled eggs that had an odd green hue to them. He stopped. “Are these powdered eggs?” he asked no one in particular.

  Big replied. “I don’t think so. They may be sneaking in some powdered with the regular, but I saw them break mine and scramble them.”

  “I wasn’t watching.”

  “They may have poured yours from the special pitcher,” Big said, emphasizing “special.”

  To Woods, the Chaplain said, “Do you think such a war against a terrorist or a group would be a just war?”

  “Absolutely,” Woods answered immediately. “How could it not be? If we’re attacked, we can respond. Why wouldn’t that be true if the attack was only against one person?”

  Maloney nodded slowly. “Have you ever studied the theory of the just war of Aquinas?”

  “No,” Woods answered. “But I’ll bet you have.”

  “It comes up in my reading—”

  Big stood up. “I’m out of here. This is too heavy for me.” He looked at Maloney. “Sorry, Padre. Aquinas didn’t write any good screenplays, so I don’t know much about him.” He spoke to Woods. “I’ll be in the ready room.”

  “Okay, see ya in a minute,” Woods said, wiping his mouth on his napkin. “I’ve got to go too,” he said, rising, trying to get away from Chaplain Maloney.

  Maloney continued, almost to himself, “. . . You have the seven requirements, as outlined by Grotius in the seventeenth century, which was really just a refinement of Aquinas . . .”

  “I’m sure it’s very interesting, but I’ve really got to go to the ready room. We’re having an AOM in a few minutes.”

  “That sounds very important. What is it?” Maloney asked innocently.

  “All Officers’ Meeting.”

  “Well then, I won’t keep you.”

  “See you later,” Woods said, standing. He was about to walk away when a thought occurred to him. Turning to Maloney, he said, “You know a lot about this just war stuff?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A lot is saying a lot.” Maloney smiled. “Little word joke there. Um, I suppose so. I studied ethics at the Catholic University, and my area of emphasis was the ethics of the use of force, warfare, those sorts of things.”

  “I’m going to write a letter to my congressman telling him that we should declare war on terrorists who attack the U.S. or its citizens,” Woods said. “Do you think it would be a just war? ’Cause if I can convince them it is, they’ll have no reason at all not to do it.”

  Maloney regarded Woods with his pale intense eyes. “I don’t know, I haven’t considered it. I’ll have to think about it . . .”

  “I’m going to do the letter tonight, and send it off by e-mail. It’d be great if I could attach something from you, saying it would be a just war. Might just make the difference.”

  Maloney nodded tentatively, unwilling to commit himself.

  The ringing phone startled Woods. The sound of a jet being thrown off the carrier by catapult four made him wait a few seconds before answering. “Lieutenant Woods.”

  “Trey?”

  “Pritch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I was just reading a report that I thought you might be interested in seeing.”

  “What kind of report?”

  “The investigation into Vialli’s death.”

  “Murder.”

  “Right. Murder. It gives a lot of facts about it.”

  “Like what?”

  “I think you should read it.”

  “I will. But give me the heart of it.”

  “I don’t know. I think it’d be better—”

  “Just give it to me.”

  “Okay.” She turned a couple of pages. “Four people were killed. They didn’t kill any of the teachers, or the kids.”

  “I know that.”

  “They shot a soldier, the driver, Vialli, and the woman—”

  “Irit.”

  “Right,” she confirmed, surprised he knew her name. Then she remembered the story of how Vialli had met her. “Tony had been hit in the mouth with a gun butt, hit on the head with something hard, and then shot in the back.”

  Woods closed his eyes. “In the back?” he whispered.

  “Twice. Close range. Basically assassinated.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what nobody can figure.”

  Woods had tried to put it behind him. “Anything else?”

  “Irit was shot in the back too.”

  Woods tried to control his breathing. “What about the soldier and the driver?”

  “Soldier got it in the chest, and the driver got it in the back of the head.”

  “They were after someone.”

  “I don’t know what to make of this.”

  “Who were they after? Because whoever it was, they got him.”

  “You think they were after Tony? And Irit just happened to be there?”

  “Sure looks like it.”

  “But why?”
>
  “I don’t know. But I’m sure going to find out.”

  Sami pulled up into his parents’ driveway in Woodbridge, Virginia, a beautiful, tranquil northern Virginia suburb of Washington, D.C. His father had done well for himself. He had left the diplomatic service of Syria over serious disagreements with Hafez al-Assad, the President of Syria, who had been there for two generations and had maintained his position through brutal oppression and eradication of dissent. Sami’s father, Abdul Rafiz Haddad, couldn’t stomach selling the Syrian propaganda internationally anymore. He had been warned by friends in Damascus that his name had been put on the list of the disloyal. He had walked out and had never been back.

  Sami looked at the large, brick colonial house and grew angry as he did every time he came. His father was often critical of the United States and its declining morality, its general lack of sophistication, its materialistic culture, the ugliness and coldness of the cities, but he was always ready to take advantage of the good parts. The ability to buy a big house and own an acre of land, to raise a family in freedom, to read an Arabic newspaper and the Washington Post at breakfast, and to loudly and freely criticize the government of the country in which he lived and the one from which he had come.

  Never happy, Sami thought, slamming the door on his Nissan as hard as he could and waiting for the car to stop shivering from the blow. He went to the door and opened it without knocking. He had gone to high school from this house, taking the long bus ride to St. Alban’s Episcopal School at the Washington National Cathedral every day. His father, a devout Muslim, had decided to send Sami to the Cathedral school because it was supposed to be the best in Washington. He saw no irony in that.

  Sami went to the back porch, where he knew his father would be. “Father!” he called out as he approached the door. His father hated being surprised. “I’m home!”

  He opened the sliding door from the family room to the enormous screened-in porch and saw his father sitting in his favorite chair reading an Arabic newspaper.

  “My son!” his father said, putting the newspaper down and rising from his chair. They embraced. “How have you been?”

  “Well, thanks. Where’s Mother?” he asked, looking around.