He was jerked from sleep when his feet flew up from the deck of the Pave Low as it pitched over toward the ground. His boots slammed back to the deck when the helicopter pulled up and banked hard right, in a desperate attempt to escape something. Wink slept and Zev looked confused. The crew chief studied something Woods couldn’t see. A Lieutenant came down from the cockpit and strapped into the seat across from Woods. He looked grim.
“What’s going on?” Woods yelled to him.
“Fighter. They didn’t see him coming. He didn’t turn his radar on until the last second. Now he’s all over us.”
“Fighter? Syrian?” Woods asked, his mouth dry.
“Not sure. They’re working the ESM gear to identify him now.”
“What about the gunships? Can they help?” Zev asked, overhearing the conversation.
“No, they’re air to ground only. No help at all against an airplane. They’re just hoping he doesn’t see them.”
“So what do we do?” Zev asked.
“Not much. Try to evade him.”
The crew chief listened in his helmet, then crossed to the Lieutenant, grabbing hard points of the helo to avoid falling. He spoke into his ear, then crossed back to his station.
The Lieutenant looked at Woods. “It’s an F-14.”
“What?”
Woods reached for the buckle to his seat belt. “Get him on the radio! It’s one of ours! Try guard 243.0!” Woods said, shouting and trying to stand. “It’s probably someone from my sq—“ He froze. “It’s Iranian,” he realized.
“Iranian?” the Lieutenant yelled.
“Only other country in the world that has them,” Woods yelled back.
“Great,” the Lieutenant said as he made his way back to the cockpit to relay the good news.
Woods ran up to the cockpit, tearing up the three steps to the elevated area where the pilots sat. He had to get to the pilot to help him evade. If he didn’t do it just right he could fly them right into oblivion.
The helicopter jerked madly back and forth and then tried to slow to a near hover right on the ground to let the F-14 go by. Woods grabbed a steel bar next to the ladder to keep himself from falling down into the cargo area. The helicopter went left and right, spinning on its axis as it tried to avoid the F-14’s deadly 20-millimeter Vulcan cannon, the Gatling gun that could fire six thousand rounds of heavy ammunition a minute. The helicopter had no ability to defend itself from a fighter. Woods looked for an extra headset so he could talk to the pilot on the ICS when a flash to their right made him cover his eyes.
“What the hell was that?” the copilot yelled as Woods peered out the window over his shoulder.
Woods smiled. “Missile impact. Somebody got him.”
“Who?”
The Captain replied, “Fighter. F-18s from the George Washington staged out of Batman. They were supposed to cover our egress. You know any of them?” the Captain asked Woods.
Woods smiled as he thought of Terrell Bond bagging an Iranian F-14. He would be impossible. “Yeah, I know them.”
“Tell whoever that was that I owe him a case.”
“I guess that means I owe you at least two cases.”
“Two cases should just about do it.”
“You just let me know when and how to deliver it.”
“I sure will.”
“Are we in Turkey yet?” he asked, examining the screen in the middle of the cockpit.
“In about two minutes.”
Woods began to relax for the first time since the cat shot off the carrier. They might actually make it home. He turned and headed down the ladder to the cargo area.
Woods sat next to Zev. “Is your name really Zev?”
“No.”
“You sure we got the Sheikh?”
“Yes,” Zev said. “I am sure.”
“You heard it?”
“Yes. Almost made me deaf.”
“How did you get a bug into that mountain?”
“I never could have.”
“Who did?”
“One of our best.”
Woods was curious. “Who?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Woods wanted to know, but he looked straight ahead and said nothing.
Zev spoke. “A woman.” He paused. “Spoke Arabic and Farsi. She made herself an Iranian farm girl bringing fruit for them from a distant valley. They let her into the fortress to deliver food. Several times.”
“She was one of you?”
“The best I’ve ever seen.”
“Was she with the Mossad?”
“I can’t really say—”
“Why not?”
“I talk too much. Comes from sitting in the desert by yourself for days without talking to anybody.”
“Was she with the Mossad?” Woods asked again.
Zev looked at Woods for a long time before he spoke again. “Kidon.”
“What?” Woods asked, leaning forward.
“Kidon. Special unit for . . . assassination.”
“An Israeli assassin?” Woods was amazed. Then he went cold. “Was her right hand mangled?”
Stunned, Zev said quickly, “How do you—”
“Irit,” Woods said breathlessly, as too much came to him at once.
Zev tried to imagine how a U.S. Navy Lieutenant could possibly know her name. “She was preparing a . . . gift for the Sheikh. It went off before she was ready. It ruined her hand.”
Woods stared. “She’s the one they were after on the bus.”
“They found out.”
Woods had to know. “Where was she going when she was killed?”
“Tel Aviv.”
“To interview with El Al?”
Zev’s eyes strained through the darkness to see if Woods was joking. “No. She was coming to help plan our next mission. To see me. We are . . . were in the same unit. Twelve of us.”
“Not to interview?”
“No.”
Nothing was fitting together. “Why was she in Italy?”
“She went there often. Vacation.”
“I met her there.”
“You met Irit?” Zev said, his surprise now complete.
“She and my roommate were seeing each other.”
“The American Naval officer?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah,” Zev said. “Now I see.” He frowned thoughtfully. “So your bombing strike was personal. You against the Sheikh. For your roommate.”
“You too. For her.”
“It was my fault. They never should have found her.”
“I’ve got to know one thing, Zev.”
“What?”
“What was Tony Vialli doing in Israel?”
“Who?”
“My roommate. The Navy officer.”
“With Irit?”
“Right.”
“I never knew his name. He came to visit her.”
“Did someone else want him there?”
“Just the opposite. She was afraid his coming would draw too much attention to her. I told her he should not come. It was a risk to be seen with him.” Zev was quiet for a long time, remembering Irit and all she had meant to him, and to his team, a look of profound sadness over his barely visible face.
“So why did he go?”
Zev looked at Woods and shrugged. “Because they were in love.”
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my gratitude and admiration to Commander Sam Richardson, USN, an F-14 pilot and the Commanding Officer of VF-14. He was kind enough to read the manuscript and give me excellent guidance. I would also like to thank Commander Dave Pine, USN, Commanding Officer, and the officers and sailors of VF-31, the Tomcatters, and the F-14D squadron aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln, who treated me like a member of the squadron during my visit there. I am also grateful to Captain J.J. Quinn, USN, and the men and women of the USS Abraham Lincoln for allowing me the run of the ship and helping me remember what carrier life is like.
I am also
greatly indebted to the fine men and women of the 16th Special Operations Wing of the United States Air Force at Hurlburt Field, Florida, and in particular those in the 20th Special Operations Squadron who fly the MH-53J Pave Low III helicopters, and the 4th Special Operations Squadron who fly the AC-130U Spooky. Their advice and assistance were invaluable.
About the Author
James W. Huston is a graduate of Top Gun and the University of Virginia School of Law and is the author of the bestselling thriller Balance of Power. He lives in San Diego, California.
Credits
Jacket Design by Mark Stringer
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