Boyce’s eyes went to the man standing across the desk from the admiral. He wore marine desert-colored BDUs — battle dress uniform. He had a bristly gray crew cut with an expanse of white on either side, a pair of round, steel-framed spectacles, and a ramrod-straight posture. On his collar he wore the insignia of a bird colonel.
“Gus Gritti!” said Boyce. “You bristleheaded sonofabitch, who let you aboard this ship?”
The marine regarded Boyce with icy brown eyes. “You’ve got a mouth like a megaphone, Boyce. When are you squids going to learn some manners?”
A huge grin split Boyce’s face. He and the marine shook hands and clapped each other on the shoulder. Boyce knew Gritti from their academy years. Gritti was a paradox in the Marine Corps — a legendary, mud-crawling infantry warrior with a passion for the operas of Puccini and Verdi, and whose credentials included a master’s in humanities from Stanford.
Ignoring the other officers in the room, Boyce turned to Maxwell. “You see this ugly jarhead? This is the toughest marine since Chesty Puller and absolutely the right guy to have on your side in a bar fight. He’s also the right guy to get our pilots out of Yemen.”
“Maybe,” said Gritti. His eyes were fixed on Admiral Fletcher. “My team could snatch your people out of there, but you have to convince the Battle Group Commander that we need close air support while we’re doing it.”
“Close air support? Hell, yes, you need close air support.” Boyce looked at Fletcher. “Sir? Aren’t we going to—”
“Of course they’ll get air support,” said Fletcher. “But Colonel Gritti has a problem with the amended rules of engagement.”
Boyce eyed the admiral warily. “What amended rules of engagement?”
“The altitude floor. By the new ROE, our close air support aircraft will be limited to a minimum release floor of twenty thousand feet.”
“Twenty thousand feet!” Boyce sputtered. “You can’t even see the gooks from there. Hell, Admiral, you can’t support troops on the ground from four goddamn miles up.”
A sour look was coming over Fletcher’s face. Before he could respond, Babcock cleared his throat and walked over from the corner of the room. He gave Boyce and Gritti one of his patronizing smiles. “Believe me, it won’t be a factor, gentlemen. The rescue of the downed pilots won’t meet any opposition from ground forces. The altitude limit has been imposed because sensitive talks are now in progress between the U.S. and Yemeni governments. They’ve lodged a protest with the U.N. Security Council, and we have strict orders from the White House not to further provoke them.”
Boyce’s face was turning the color of fresh lava. “Are you telling me, sir, that those terrorists are just going to let us saunter into their country and pick up our people? That they’re not going to shoot?”
“We have assurances to that effect.”
“Assurances from murderers? You mean someone from our side is actually talking to those thugs?”
Babcock’s smile was becoming strained. “I realize that these issues may be difficult for you to understand, Captain. You’re a technician, not a diplomat. All you need to know is that this matter in Yemen will end with a diplomatic solution, not a military one.”
Boyce’s face darkened further. “What I really need to know is how I’m going to cover Colonel Gritti’s marines while they’re snatching our pilots out of Yemen. From twenty thousand goddamn feet—”
“That’s enough, Captain,” said Fletcher in a sharp voice. “You’re coming very close to impertinence, and I won’t have it.” He gazed around the room. “I’ll remind everyone in this room that I’m still the Battle Group Commander, and that Mr. Babcock here represents the National Security Council and takes his orders directly from the President. He is the senior official in this theater.”
Fletcher looked again at Boyce. “Is that clear enough for you, Captain Boyce?”
Boyce hesitated for a second, then felt Gritti’s boot kicking his ankle. “Yes, sir,” he said in a loud voice.
Claire sniffed the air and took an instant dislike to Aden. The reek of garbage, and something that reminded her of death, wafted in from the harbor. As the caravan of taxis drove the reporters to the Sheraton, hard-eyed Yemenis glowered at them from the roadside.
About forty reporters and cameramen were camped at the Sheraton, which was guarded at the entrance by a squad of surly Yemeni soldiers. No one wanted to venture into the city. Aden had the feel of an enemy camp. Still fresh in everyone’s memory was the bomb attack on the American destroyer, the USS Cole, as it entered the port of Aden.
Mel Bloom, the chief of information for the U.S. mission in Aden, was standing at the lobby bar. He saw her coming and threw up his hands. “I don’t know anything.”
“C’mon, Mel. We know there are pilots down in Yemen, and another strike is in the works.”
“Media brief at one o’clock. No updates before then.”
“When will they let us go back out to the Reagan?”
“You gotta be joking.”
Claire resisted the urge to seize Bloom’s windpipe and choke the air out of him. He was a pompous bureaucrat, but she knew he was just doing his job. Anyway, he was probably telling the truth. He didn’t know anything. Whatever happened in Yemen was still happening, and the military wouldn’t disclose anything that might jeopardize the operation.
“Okay. Promise you’ll tell me as soon as you know something about the pilots?”
“Sure, Claire. You’ll hear.”
At the bar she recognized one of the reporters, a stringer for Reuters. His name was Lester Crabtree and he was plastered. She took the seat next to him and ordered a vodka tonic.
“Hope you have a positive-space ticket,” said Crabtree.
“To where?”
“Anywhere. This place is going to blow. When the Yemenis figure out we’re bombing them, they’re going to turn on us like a pack of jackals.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Same as you. We’re vultures. We circle around where we think the bodies will be.”
She remembered now that Crabtree was a world-class jerk. “Do you think there’ll be bodies in Aden?”
He shrugged and tossed down his drink. “Aden’s on the coast, right? That means the Navy will have to evacuate us from here when the sticky stuff hits the fan. The real bloodbath will be up north, in San‘a. That’s the capital and it’s where the rebels will go when they’re ready to take over.”
Claire sipped at her drink and watched their reflections in the mirror over the bar. Crabtree might be a jerk, but in this case he probably had it right. Yemen’s shaky coalition government was hanging on by a thread. A well-armed rebel force could march into town and take over anytime they wanted.
She ordered another round for Crabtree, then paid the tab. “Thanks, Lester. See you at the press brief.”
In her room on the third floor, she sat at the tiny desk and opened up her notebook computer. There was no direct Internet connection through the hotel’s phone line. She drafted an e-mail message, which she would later take to the hotel’s business center for uploading.
From: Claire.Phillips@mbs.com
To: SMaxwell.VFA36@USSRonaldReagan.Navy.mil
Subj: Love, etc.
Okay, sailor, you promised to tell me once a day how much you loved me, right? Well, maybe you didn’t exactly say that, but you did say you would practice.
I’m frightened, Sam. I’m frightened for your safety and for everyone on theReagan. But it’s you I love, and I don’t think I could bear losing you. I lost you once and it broke my heart.
Please don’t let this war become personal, my darling. You lost Josh, but that is not a reason to throw your own life away chasing the animal who killed him. Nothing is worth that.