It was stupid. These two were strolling along like tourists on a nature walk. They should have attended her in-country briefing about escape and evasion. B.J. started down from the promontory to intercept them.
Then it was too late. In the next instant she saw an armored personnel carrier burst into the valley, kicking up a column of dirt as it came churning toward the two aviators.
The two pilots turned back in the direction they had come. The crippled airman tried to run, but he stumbled and fell. Kneeling, he turned and faced the oncoming vehicle. The other pilot ran several paces, then stopped and ran back to the side of his injured companion. Both had their pistols drawn.
Brrraaaaaappppp! A single long burst of automatic fire came from the machine gun mounted on the APC. The kneeling airman toppled end over end like a rag doll.
The second pilot stood motionless, yielding to the inevitable. He made a show of dropping the pistol and raising his hands.
Brrraaaaaapppp! The bullets caught him across the chest, hurling him backward. The pilot lay spread-eagled on the dirt, blood oozing in a pool around him.
B.J. felt sick to her stomach. From her vantage point two hundred yards away, she watched the APC pull up to where the two slain airmen lay. Half a dozen troops, each wearing desert-colored fatigues and carrying automatic weapons, climbed out the back hatch. They examined the bodies, rolling them over, removing the pistols and survival items. B.J. saw them studying the pilots’ equipment, talking among themselves.
They have the radios, B.J. realized. If they knew how, the bastards could listen in on the SAR frequency.
After they dragged the bodies into the APC, two of the troops stood gazing around the valley with binoculars.
She knew what they were doing. They were searching. They knew another pilot was out there. She hunched down behind the cluster of rocks.
“You want a drink?” said Boyce.
Maxwell shook his head. “No.”
“Too bad. You sure as hell need one.” Boyce flopped down in one of the two desk chairs in his stateroom and motioned for Maxwell to take the other.
Boyce didn’t mind breaking the Navy’s traditional ban on alcohol aboard ship, just as he didn’t mind firing up a cigar. Too much moderation was bad for you, he always said. He considered a highball after a hairy night of carrier ops to be good therapy.
But not tonight. Boyce busied himself scribbling notes on a yellow pad. Maxwell kept his silence, waiting for the boss to unload whatever it was on his mind.
He noticed that Boyce had aged in the past week. The wisps of red hair on his pate seemed to have grown thinner and grayer. He guessed that it was the stress of commanding the Reagan’s air wing. Or the pressure of dealing with the likes of Fletcher and Babcock.
Boyce ripped off the yellow page and handed it to Maxwell. “That’s the air plan for tomorrow. Starting at sunup, we’re gonna keep jets over the area full-time. HARM shooters, EA-6 jammers, a rotating CAP. I’m putting a Tomcat with a TARPS package over the area once an hour.” Each TARPS pod contained two cameras and an infrared scanner.
Maxwell studied the sheet. “Did the admiral sign off on this?”
“He doesn’t have a choice. Fletcher is a political animal, and he knows he can’t appear to give up on missing pilots, especially when the word gets out that one of them is a woman. I’m gonna keep reminding him of that.”
“What if Al-Fasr starts shooting again? What are the rules of engagement?”
“Anybody lights up — radar, SAM site, AA guns — we come down on them like the hammers of hell.”
“Babcock is not going to like that. It wouldn’t fit in with his negotiated settlement.”
“Maybe not, but he’s savvy enough to know how it will play on the evening news when America learns that one of our girl pilots might be held by a band of terrorists and we’re not doing anything about it.”
The thought of B. J. Johnson in the hands of Al-Fasr sent another surge of dread through Maxwell. “How long are we prepared to keep it up?”
A somber look came over Boyce’s face. He leaned back in his chair and rolled a cigar between his fingers. “You and I came up believing that nobody got left behind. We don’t give up on our people. We didn’t do it in Vietnam, not in Desert Storm, not in Bosnia, not in Afghanistan, and as long as I’m running the air wing, we’re not gonna do it in Yemen. If I send pilots into harm’s way, then they have to believe that I’ll come and get them if they get shot down. I’ll stay until we find them.”
“That may not be what they’re thinking up on the flag bridge right now.”
“Maybe not, but it’s our duty to do what’s right. Even if it means pushing the envelope a little.” His eyes narrowed and he looked at Maxwell. “Maybe more than a little. Do you read me?”
Maxwell nodded. Boyce was an old warhorse from another era. He had risen through the ranks in a time when orders were clear, missions were specific, and the enemy was identifiable.
Well, times had changed. Red Boyce had not. Thank God for that.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Perfectly.”
Spook Morse knew what was coming. He could see it in Fletcher’s face, the way he sat there drumming his fingertips on the table surface.
Fletcher waited until the air wing officers, Boyce and Maxwell, had both left. The only ones left in the flag intel compartment were Fletcher and Babock, Captain Vitale, and Spook Morse.
“Explain yourself, Commander Morse,” said Fletcher. “What the hell are you saying? Al-Fasr has an informer aboard the Reagan? You mean—”
“A spy? Yes, sir. I’m sure of it.”
The admiral’s face hardened. “May I ask why you haven’t bothered to inform me, the Battle Group Commander, about such a matter?”
Morse took his time. He knew Fletcher. He was blustering, making a show of gruffness to impress the civilian, Babcock.
“Until now it was only a suspicion, Admiral. For that matter, I still have no proof, just some deductive reasoning and circumstantial evidence.”
“Don’t give me that intelligence community line about deductive reasoning. I’m your boss and I want some straight talk. Do you know who the informer is?”
“I can narrow it down to a dozen candidates.”
“How would somebody get classified information off a carrier at sea without our knowing it?”
Morse wondered again how someone as clueless as Fletcher rose to flag rank. Idiots. “Lots of ways, Admiral. Using our own comm gear, if he knew what he was doing. Several million bytes of data get transmitted from the Reagan every day, and much of it is classified.”
“Who are these suspects you have in mind?”
Morse didn’t answer for several seconds. His eyes moved around the table, pausing on Vitale, then dwelling for several seconds on Whitney Babcock. Babcock returned his gaze while he played with a ballpoint pen.
“The list includes everyone who sits in on our top-secret briefings. That includes me, of course, and you, Admiral Fletcher, Mr. Babcock, Captain Vitale, Captain Boyce, and the strike leader, Commander Maxwell. Beyond us, there are half a dozen possible suspects who work in sensitive jobs.”
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a spiral notepad. He ripped off the top sheet and handed it to the admiral. “These are listed in order of likelihood. For your information, I’ve had each of their phones and their e-net lines monitored. Not that that will turn up anything unless our player turns out to be a total amateur.”
Babcock spoke up from the end of the table. “I don’t like the sound of this. Does this mean you’re eavesdropping on us?”