“And the crew, sir? What will become of them?”
“We will be met by representatives of Al-Fasr, who will deliver to us our remuneration for the mission. His agents will organize travel, clothing, new passports, that sort of thing. It has all been arranged.”
Popov was nodding his head, pleased with the information. “This neutral port, Captain. May we know which neutral port? Capetown, perhaps? Mombasa?”
“It is best that we not divulge that information, since we are entering a combat situation.”
Popov seemed satisfied with the answers, unaware that Manilov was inventing them on the spot. “I will tell the men. They will be greatly relieved to hear this.”
“Thank you, Mr. Popov.” He watched the executive officer stride out of the control room.
“Close the door,” said Boyce.
Maxwell shoved the door closed, then sank into a chair at Boyce’s conference table. He had been en route to the flag intel compartment for debriefing when Boyce snatched him and pulled him into the office.
They were alone in the air wing office. Boyce clamped down on his cigar and said, “I’m writing you a letter of reprimand for violating the rules of engagement.”
Maxwell looked at him, too tired to protest.
“You would have gotten a court-martial, but none of the pussies on flag staff seems to comprehend what you actually did. Fletcher won’t make an issue of it because he wants another star. He knows he can kiss it good-bye if some reporter digs up another Mogadishu story about him being responsible for GIs trapped in Yemen.”
“So why am I getting a letter?”
“For the record. Off the record, I’m throwing it in the shit-can. Also off the record, what you did out there was exactly what I expected you to do. I’m pleased, and I’m sure Colonel Gritti is pleased. How’re you feeling?”
“Terrific. Haven’t felt so good since I had dysentery.”
“Too bad. After they finish debriefing you upstairs, go get yourself checked out by the flight surgeon. Then get some rest and be ready to fly again. We’re not finished with this mess in Yemen, and I’m gonna need you. By the way, how’s your wingman? I mean wingperson, or whatever the hell she is. You know what I mean. I’ll never get used to this gender shit.”
“B.J.’s okay. Except for the gunshot wound.”
“The what wound? From…?”
Maxwell hoisted his Colt .45. “From this.”
Boyce was giving him a strange look. He shoved the cigar into his mouth and tilted back in his office chair. “Either I’m getting senile, or I’ll swear you’re gonna tell me you shot your own wingman.”
Maxwell poured himself a coffee. While Boyce gnawed the end off his cigar, Maxwell told him about the SA-16 hit, the ejection, then about the German mercenary pilot. He recalled for Boyce what Rittmann had said about the Reagan and about Al-Fasr having an informer aboard.
When he was finished, Boyce removed the cigar and said, “Un-fucking-believable. Then you had to go and shoot the sonofabitch.”
“It was him or B.J.”
“You got the daily double. Remind me to schedule you for remedial training on the shooting range.”
With the other evacuees, Claire stepped onto the windswept deck, blinking in the bright daylight. It was the same surreal tableau she had left behind two days ago — howling engines, clouds of steam billowing from catapult tracks, men in colored jerseys and cranial protectors scurrying between airplanes, jets hurtling off the bow.
They were herded across the deck, through a door into the island structure. After they had removed their headgear and flotation vests, a chief petty officer led them to a briefing room. Another twenty civilians were there. Claire recognized several of the reporters from Aden, including Lester Crabtree.
They were still asking each other questions when the chief barked out, “Attention on deck!”
Into the compartment strode a tall man in khakis with an eagle on each collar. Claire recognized Sticks Stickney, captain of the Reagan. Stickney saw her and gave her a quick smile.
“Welcome to the USS Reagan,” Stickney said to the group. “Chief Harkins will give you your berthing assignments. We’re short of accommodations, I’m afraid. The women will be doubling up in staterooms, and the men will be billeted in temporary quarters we’ve set up on the O-3 level. For those who haven’t been aboard a Nimitz — class carrier before, notice that there is a diagram with a map on how to get around. In the event I find it necessary to call the ship to general quarters, everyone aboard the ship — including guests — will go immediately to their battle stations. Yours happens to be right here. Please make it your business to know how to find this compartment.”
The civilians all nodded, some grinning uncertainly.
“There is a list of areas that are off-limits. You will see these marked on the diagram in red. No one will be permitted to enter these areas without an escort.”
More nods, a few more uncertain grins.
“For the media personnel, individual clearances have been issued for each of you. Note that there will be a mandatory press briefing at ten-hundred each morning in this compartment so long as you’re aboard. Any of you who misses the briefing or is discovered in a restricted area without specific consent from me will be confined to your quarters, under guard, until you can be offloaded from the ship. Any questions?”
They stared back at the captain. No one was grinning now.
A man raised his hand. “Captain, that seems rather draconian. Does that mean we’re at war?”
Stickney gave him a thin smile. “What it means, sir, is that we are on a heightened readiness status. Which is also why each of your dispatches must be cleared through our public affairs office.”
The man rose to his feet. “That’s censorship. We happen to represent the free press, and this is a breaking story. We have a right to report the news as we see it.”
This time Stickney wasn’t smiling. His eyes drilled into the reporter, trying to read his name tag. “Mr.…?”
“Crabtree. Lester Crabtree, Reuters.”
“Mr. Crabtree, you are a guest aboard this vessel because you’ve been evacuated from a hostile country, courtesy of the U.S. Navy. If you attempt to transmit one byte of information that has not been cleared by me, I will have you locked in the brig. If this conflicts with your sense of a free press, I will make arrangements for your immediate return to Yemen. Is that your wish, sir?”
A look of shock passed over the reporter’s face. “No,” he muttered, and sat down.
Spook Morse, Maxwell couldn’t help noticing, had eyes like a ferret. The intelligence officer’s tiny brown eyes were darting from one person to the other at the conference table.
“I’ll remind you that this is a debriefing, Commander Maxwell,” said Morse. “I get to ask the questions.”
The combination of fatigue and frustration was catching up with Maxwell. All he wanted to do now was reach across the table and seize Morse by the neck.
As if reading his thoughts, Boyce spoke up. “Everyone should bear in mind that Commander Maxwell has been under considerable stress,” he said. “Let’s just get on with the debriefing, Spook.”
Morse flashed the briefest of smiles, then continued. “Beginning with when you ejected from your aircraft. How did you happen to find this mercenary pilot, Rittmann?”
“I didn’t. He found me. I was still putting my gear together, getting ready to move out. He showed up and held me at gunpoint.”