“What happened then?”
Maxwell related the story about Rittmann’s interrogation and the knife, and the timely appearance of B. J. Johnson.
Morse was making notes on a yellow pad. He looked up and said, “After you and Lieutenant Johnson had Rittmann in your custody, what did you do?”
“We asked some questions.”
“I see,” said Morse. “You consider yourself an intelligence specialist, do you?”
Maxwell felt his temper flaring again. He received a nudge in the ribs from Boyce. He took a deep breath and said, “I considered myself a downed pilot in serious trouble. It seemed possible that Rittmann might have information that would keep us alive.”
“And what, exactly, did he tell you?”
At this Maxwell paused. He felt Boyce’s eyes on him. In his mind Maxwell could see Rittmann, bitter and cynical, glowering at him in the darkness.
“Go ahead, Commander Maxwell. What did Rittmann tell you?”
“He described the Al-Fasr order of battle. He thinks six MiGs, maybe four left, ten or fifteen APCs, six Dauphin choppers, and a large supply of SA-16 missiles.”
Morse was scribbling furiously. “Did he say where the MiGs came from?”
“Libya, via Chad.”
“Did he say where the MiGs launched from when they pounced our strikers?”
“He claimed they came from Eritrea. I was working on that when he told me about the Reagan.”
“What about the Reagan?”
“He said that Al-Fasr intended to sink it.”
Morse looked up from his notepad. “He wasn’t serious?”
“Very serious. He said that Al-Fasr hates the U.S. Navy, and his ultimate goal is to sink a carrier.”
This brought a chuckle from the intelligence officer. “How did he say this feat would be accomplished?”
“He said he didn’t know. I pressed him on it, but he clammed up. Soon after that was when he grabbed Lieutenant Johnson, and I had to shoot him.”
Morse’s eyes were locked onto Maxwell. “Did it occur to you that Rittmann was a valuable intelligence source? Why did you kill him?”
That exceeded Maxwell’s limit. He glowered at Morse and said, “Because he pissed me off.”
Boyce intervened again. “That’s enough. We’ve been over that. He already told you he shot the sonofabitch because it was the only way to save Lieutenant Johnson. You have obviously run out of intelligent questions. It’s time that Brick got some sleep.”
Without waiting for Morse to object, Boyce rose from the table and Maxwell followed. They left the intel compartment, closing the door behind them.
In the passageway, Boyce glanced around, making sure they were alone. “Why didn’t you tell him what Al-Fasr said about having intelligence sources aboard the Reagan?”
Maxwell shook his head. “I don’t know. Something, a gut feeling maybe. You said Morse already suspects a spy on the Reagan?”
“Yeah. Are you saying you think it might be him?”
“No. But it’s possible, isn’t it? In any case, we can assume it’s someone who knows what Morse is doing. If he’s running a witch-hunt, the real mole will know it. If he hears what Rittmann said, he’ll go deeper underground.”
Boyce rubbed his chin. “Okay, here’s how it’s going down. Not exactly the approved routing, but I’ll take the heat for it later. I’ll relay the whole package of what we know directly to my old boss, Admiral Riley, at the National Security Agency, and let him deal with it. If he wants to handle it without getting our flag intel in the loop, that’s his call. We’re off the hook.”
Maxwell nodded his head wearily. “Then can I hit Spook Morse?”
“No. You can hit the rack. That’s an order.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Fletcher gazed through the thick-paned glass of the flag bridge compartment. The darkness over the Arabian Sea was almost total. No stars, no moon, not even lights along the Yemeni coast. To the south lay the horn of Africa, black and inscrutable beneath the invisible horizon.
Fletcher was in a contemplative mood. For once, briefly at least, he was free of the troublesome presence of Whitney Babcock, who had retired to his stateroom to handle some classified message traffic. Traffic with whom? Chief of Naval Operations? The Joint Chiefs? The President, perhaps?
Or the terrorist, Al-Fasr?
It was a joke, he thought. He was the Carrier Battle Group Commander — the ultimate combat post for a naval officer — and here he was, subservient to a civilian with less military experience than most of his teenage sailors. Babcock conducted briefings with CNO, the Joint Chiefs, and the Joint Task Force Commander for Southwest Asia — without Fletcher’s participation.
Most amazing, though, was how Babcock had maintained control of the operation. With the initial go-ahead from Washington to launch a strike against Al-Fasr, Babcock had insisted that it be a Navy show, with minimal participation by Air Force or Army units. Fletcher could imagine the bitching going on at the Air Force tactical fighter bases in Saudi, and inside the Army’s elite Delta force. They had been excluded from the show.
Gazing out at the darkness, a feeling of dread passed over Fletcher. Against his judgment, he had let Babcock establish the rules of engagement. He had been in the Navy long enough to know what would happen next. Inevitably he would be summoned to account for the losses they suffered in Yemen. America hated body bags.
He had presented his concerns to Babcock. As usual, Babcock was dismissive. “The objective is worth the price.”
“I’ve lost over a dozen American lives and six vastly expensive aircraft. May I ask what objective is worth that sacrifice?”
“A strategic objective, not a tactical one. It’s not your job to devise strategy, Admiral, just implement tactics. All you need to know is that the southern Arabian peninsula is a region of far greater importance than you can appreciate. What we’re accomplishing here will affect the future of America.”
Fletcher had not been pleased with the answer. Nevertheless, he kept his silence.
“Excuse me, Admiral.” Fletcher’s thoughts returned to the present. He turned to look at Meyers, a lieutenant commander on his staff. “The new op plot that you ordered is ready.”
Fletcher slid his half-frames down over his nose and gave the plot a quick scan. The plot included a depiction of the Arabian Sea and its surrounding coastlines. Symbols and arrows denoted the location and direction of each element of the battle group as well as their projected positions.
Fletcher traced with his finger the courses of the Reagan and the amphibious assault ship Saipan, the two leviathans of the battle group. At 0300 they would turn in place and cruise westward to a position near the mouth of the Red Sea, above the Greater Horn of Africa. Eight other warships, including the Aegis cruiser Arkansas, would assume new positions in the formation.
He noted the coordinates of the new position, then grunted his approval. It would be sent, as it was every day, by satellite UHF to the commanding officers of each ship in the battle group.
Fletcher scribbled his initials at the bottom of the op plot and handed it back to Meyers. “Transmit it encrypted to all elements. Copy Fifth Fleet and JTF.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The compartment allotted to the working press contained three steel chairs and a standard Navy gray desk. On the desk was a single military-issue ship’s telephone.
When the other reporters had gone, Claire pulled up one of the chairs and telephoned the air wing office. A yeoman grilled her about who she was and why she wanted to speak with the Air Wing Commander.
She heard Red Boyce’s booming voice. “Claire Phillips? How the hell did you get back aboard the Reagan? You’re amazing.”