Boyce acknowledged with a short nod. He jammed his cigar back in his mouth and resumed pacing back and forth in the flag plot compartment.
Fletcher wished Boyce would leave the meeting, go busy himself with some air wing matter. He was becoming Fletcher’s biggest headache.
Seated at the table in the flag conference compartment were Sticks Stickney, Guido Vitale, and Spook Morse. Watching from the far end of the room was Whitney Babcock, who had a telephone pressed to his ear.
Babcock hung up the phone and walked to the conference table. “That was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs,” he said. “The President and the National Security Council are fully apprised of the situation. They have authorized an amphibious assault to retrieve the marines—”
“About damn time!” Boyce interjected.
“—subject to the Battle Group Commander’s discretion,” Babcock went on. “The on-scene commander — that’s Admiral Fletcher — has been given a window of twenty-four hours to resolve the situation.”
Boyce’s eyes bulged. “Twenty-four hours? What for? We could launch the assault now — with full air cover.”
“Absolutely not,” said Babcock. “The marines are in no immediate danger. It is still possible that the situation can be resolved diplomatically. We don’t want to start a war in Yemen.”
At this Boyce exploded. “Excuse me, but this is a fucking war. What do you call it when you lose three jets and four helicopters and a dozen fighting men? We’re supposed to negotiate with that sonofabitch?”
“That’s enough, Captain!” snapped Fletcher, giving Boyce a fierce look.
“It’s okay,” said Babcock, his voice indulgent. He smiled at Boyce. “The President believes, as I do, that a diplomatic solution to this matter is preferable to a military one. We don’t want to lose any more troops saving the ones who are already on the ground.”
“This reminds me of Bosnia,” said Boyce. “When the Serbs took the U.N. peacekeepers hostage and tied them to the targets they thought we might bomb. For a while we actually let them get away with it. Looks like we’re doing it again.”
“This isn’t Bosnia,” said Babcock. “There’s much more at stake here than in Bosnia.”
“More at stake than the lives of fifty marines?”
Fletcher was giving Boyce the look again.
“Gentlemen,” said Babcock, “I suggest we adjourn while the admiral and his staff prepare the op plan. You’ll be notified of any new development.”
That was fine with Boyce. He crammed the stub of his cigar back into his face and stalked out of the compartment.
Farewell to Yemen, thought Claire. And good riddance.
From the window of the CH-53E Super Stallion, she watched the stuccoed buildings and the treeless landscape of San‘a drop away. With her in the cabin of the big helo were two dozen other civilians, mostly wives and children of embassy staffers.
“Where are we going?” she had asked the loadmaster back at the landing pad. He was a marine gunnery sergeant, wearing full combat gear.
“Can’t say, ma’am. Not until we’re out of country.”
The NEO — Noncombatant Evacuation Order — had come within two hours of her arrival at the embassy. The killing of Vince Maloney provided the final stimulus to remove the American presence from the troubled country.
She still had on the linen pantsuit she’d worn to the restaurant with Maloney. It was a mess — torn and soiled from falling in the street — but it was all she had. Everything she had brought to San‘a — luggage, clothing, toiletries, notebook computer — was back in the Al Qasmy hotel.
Oh, well. The computer, of course, she would miss. All her working notes, e-mail, and contacts were stored in its memory. Still, she had only to remember the dark-eyed killers in the streets of San‘a to be glad she was leaving, with or without a computer. She was alive, thanks to a Yemeni taxi driver whose name she never learned.
It took six CH-53Es, Marine aircraft from the Saipan, to retrieve the evacuees from San‘a. Another half dozen, she was told, were fetching Americans out of Aden.
The column of helicopters threaded its way through the mountains east of San‘a, then turned south and followed a valley to the sea. Claire was numb from fatigue and fear. She had dozed for no more than a couple of hours at the embassy, waking in a panic. Still vivid in her memory was the orange glare, the crackling heat from the funeral pyre of Vincent Maloney.
A wave of sadness passed over her again. Poor Vince. She had accused him of doing nothing, of protecting his job, and she was wrong. For all his sloppy habits and flawed character, he was a dedicated foreign service officer. Why did they kill him?
In a flash it came to her. It wasn’t just him. She was supposed to die in the car with him. That was why they chased her through the streets. They wanted her dead.
They hate us all.
She drew her arms around herself and shivered in the drafty cabin of the Super Stallion. It was too much to comprehend in her exhausted condition. All she knew was that she hated Yemen. She wanted out of this god-awful place. She wanted Sam Maxwell. For all she knew, he was dead too.
She felt the helicopter bank, and she sensed that they were about to land. Through the open hatch the gray silhouette of a ship came into view. Behind it glistened a wide, white wake, sparkling in the morning sun.
The helicopter tilted back, slowing as it passed over the ramp of the flight deck. Claire felt the wheels clunk down on the steel deck. The whopping rotor noise hushed.
The hatch swung open, and in the backdrop Claire could see the distinctive, antennae-covered superstructure. Parked on the deck was a swarm of sleek, swept-wing jets.
A man wearing a cranial protector and a float coat over his yellow jersey appeared in the hatch. “Hope you had a nice ride, folks,” he yelled over the engine noise. “Welcome to the USS Ronald Reagan.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE MOLE
Lt. Dimitri Popov, the new executive officer, entered the control room and came to where Manilov was jotting on his notepad.
Manilov put down his pen. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
Popov looked nervous. “Captain, the men have requested that I…” His voice faltered.
“What is it, Popov? What do the men want?”Here it comes again, Manilov thought.
The officer swallowed hard and resumed. “They do not wish to seem disloyal. But they would very much like to know what will happen to them when we complete this mission. Where will we go, and what will we do with the Mourmetz?”
Manilov nodded. These were legitimate questions, ones that had nagged at him since they left the yard in Vladivostok. Whenever the problem drifted unbidden into his thoughts, he always came up with the same answer. He had no idea.
But that would not please the crew.
The truth was, Manilov did not want to think about it. He was approaching the single culminating moment of his life. All that had happened to him in the past nineteen years was a prelude to the events of the coming hour. He had no thought of living beyond today. To make plans for tomorrow, next week, to plot an escape to some balmy paradise would only undermine his resolve. He had to remain focused.
To carry out his mission, he needed the crew of the Mourmetz. They must believe that they would live through this day, that their lives would go on.
“You may tell them that we will escape with the Mourmetz and sail to a neutral port,” Manilov said. “I have selected a place where the boat can eventually be reclaimed by its, ah, owners.”