“Yeah.”
“He said he could?”
“Sure. But if someone looks close they’ll see the difference—”
“They won’t. Nobody checks on Tiger. He’s the man.”
“What if they do?”
“They won’t.”
“And we’ve got to get there and back in one cycle? One hour and forty-five minutes? Are you kidding me?”
“Wink, I showed you the chart. You know this stuff. It’s one hundred eleven nautical miles to Ramat David. How long is that at five hundred knots? Thirteen point three two minutes, Wink. You did the calculation. And how far is it from Ramat David to the Bekáa Valley in Lebanon? Sixty-four friggin’ miles, Wink. How long does that take at six hundred knots? Six point four minutes, Wink. So far that’s about twenty minutes. And to get back? Another fifteen, or twenty minutes, depending. So forty or so minutes total, add a little time for air combat. What, ten minutes? Think we can squeeze that into an hour forty five? Sure, there will be some time between, but the timing works—”
“I just don’t think we’ll pull it off.”
“Come on Wink,” Woods said. “Show some cojones. This is about Tony, not us. We’re doing this for him. It’s about courage, about never forgetting. About a willingness to hang your ass out when it’s time to hang it out, and not sit around, fat, dumb, and happy, after these assholes murder our squadron mate.”
Wink stood up and looked straight at Woods. “No, Trey. It’s about going to jail. It’s about doing something really stupid!”
Woods wasn’t going to force him. “If you don’t want to go, I can get somebody else to go. Easy would go.”
Wink looked at Big who was sitting on his bed listening carefully. “You in?”
“With both feet.”
“Why?”
Big jumped down. “For Boomer. For the kids he never had. If I got whacked like that I want someone to go take them out. I don’t care who, but someone. And no one else is going to do it. It’s up to us.”
Wink struggled. “We can’t even fire any missiles—”
“Yes, we can! The Major has taken care of it. I told you the plan.”
“How do we know he’ll actually do it? What if he’s setting us up for embarrassment? And what about on the ship? Won’t they know?”
“The Gunner is on board with us.”
“Shit! Who else? Everybody on the ship know?”
“Just who has to. He’ll take care of the missiles.”
“How?”
“He’s got access to the computer and the hard copies of the missile records.”
“This is right on the edge, Trey.”
“You coming?”
Wink stood silently. They all listened to the humming of the ship. “Yeah.”
Woods tapped lightly on the hollow stateroom door, leaning forward to listen for sounds of someone stirring. He tapped again, slightly louder. He looked at his watch, glowing in the low red light of the passageway — 0200. He tapped once more and heard someone shuffling to the door. Pritch opened it. She was wearing a baggy flannel nightgown, her hair sticking up in all directions. “What?” she asked angrily.
“Get dressed, please,” Woods said.
“What for? Do you know what time it is?”
“I need some help.”
“Help? What are you talking about?”
“Get dressed, please,” Woods said again.
Pritch groaned and turned back toward her bed, wanting desperately to crawl back into it. But she knew Woods — he wouldn’t give up so easily. She groaned again, opened her closet, and removed the fresh uniform she had set out for morning when she would be giving the 0515 intelligence brief for the first launch at 0700. She closed the door while she dressed.
Woods leaned on the bulkhead in the passageway. He had started to doubt himself. The chance to hit back was irresistible. He had to do it for Vialli. But for the first time he hesitated. While he waited, Woods glanced down the passageway. Three knee-knockers aft a sailor was waxing the deck. Half the passageway was taped off so no one would step on the fresh wax. Woods watched him as the handle of the rotating wax buffer pushed against his ample belly, causing it to shake under his soiled dungaree shirt. He shook his head, glad he didn’t have to wax floors. He had done it once, when he was a third-class midshipman on his summer cruise. That had been enough for him. Never again, at least not until he was court-martialed and busted to seaman for violating every Navy regulation known to man, international law, and good sense. The door startled him when Pritch threw it open.
“Okay,” she said with irritation.
“Let’s go,” Woods said, moving quickly down the passageway.
“Where are we going?” Pritch asked, trying to keep up.
“To CVIC,” replied Woods.
“What for?”
“You’ll see.”
They rounded the corner into CVIC, the carrier intelligence center, and looked into the one-way glass where the Duty Petty Officer sat. Recognizing Pritch’s face, he buzzed the door and Woods pushed it open. They stepped through and heard it electronically seal behind them. Woods walked deeper into CVIC and stopped. A seaman was buffing the green tile in one corner of the large room, and another walked by carrying a piece of electronic testing equipment.
“What are we doing here, Trey? I’ve got to give a brief in three hours. I need my sleep.”
“No, you don’t. Sleep is for chumps.” He turned to Pritch. “I need charts; an ONC and JNC of Israel, Lebanon, and Syria. Then I need you to pull out the Electronic Order of Battle for Lebanon and find all the SAM sights for me, and whatever we know about the AAA sights.”
Pritch didn’t bother to hide her astonishment. “What for?”
“It doesn’t matter what for.”
“It does to me.”
“Then don’t ask.”
Pritch lowered her voice to make sure the seaman couldn’t hear her. “The only reason you could possibly want them is because you’re going to be flying there. But we’re not flying there.”
“This is one of those times in your life when it may be best for you not to know, Pritch. Just do what I say,” Woods said with an intensity Pritch had never seen in him before.
Pritch walked to a metal chest in the corner. It had several long thin drawers and a flat top angled down. She pulled out a drawer close to the bottom and removed a chart of Lebanon. She opened it up and laid it flat on the top of the chest. They leaned over it and began examining the terrain. “This is Lebanon. Where are you going?”
Woods didn’t even hesitate. “I didn’t say I was going anywhere. This is just a research project. If I was interested in going to Lebanon, I might be interested in going” — he studied the chart, then pointed — “right here.”
21
Ricketts checked the rearview mirrors on the gray panel truck. He was pulling a trailer with five new Honda motor scooters in it, two purple, one white, one red, and one black. The truck had tools, and various Honda parts. He entered the main street of the town, scanning every window, alley, and rooftop as he went, checking for security. He wished Dar al Ahmar was closer to the coast.
Ricketts was in favor of having a talk with the Sheikh. He was interested and willing to have a very personal conversation with him. To let him know how the Americans felt about his murder of one of its Navy officers. But he had been overruled in the DO. We want him brought back alive, for trial. Only in America. Capture murderers, take them to Washington, give them room and board and attorneys paid for by American taxpayers, have some ACLU asshole find some reason to call a press conference, and sue the government because the murderer was discriminated against somehow, or deprived of his rights, or “captured” illegally in Lebanon or where the hell ever. They always spoke with great offense and outrage.