“Right. Couldn’t be him. Nobody knew he was going to be there, including his Commanding Officer. That leaves her. What does the report say about her…” He read from the paper again. “Deformed hand. The report on the Navy investigation says—”
“What are you, an analyst all of a sudden?” someone called out.
“Just thinking out loud. Want me to stop?”
“Go on,” Kinkaid said.
“Says she told Vialli and a Lieutenant Woods her hand was deformed from birth. Now we learn she was involved in an accident of some kind a year and a half ago. What kind of accident? I don’t know. I’m just saying, maybe she’s the one they were after.”
“What does that do for us, though?” Kinkaid asked.
“If they were after her, the Israelis know why. And if they know why, then they know more about this guy than they’re letting on. I’ve read what they’ve given us. It’s something, but overall…” He stared directly at Kinkaid. “It’s a pile of shit. They’re holding back on us.”
Kinkaid had stopped listening. He hadn’t been able to think of anything else but Ricketts since he’d gotten the news. He had agreed to make the arrangements for the secret memorial service and to give a eulogy. It was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. Ricketts had always been the one Kinkaid fantasized about being. Of all the people at the CIA, Ricketts did what intelligence officers were supposed to do — he actually made a difference. Kinkaid could cite chapter and verse, but he wouldn’t be able to, because most of the people who would be at the service didn’t even know about the mission. Over the years Ricketts had become his friend, in a thorny, challenging kind of way, the only way Ricketts knew how to have friends. He thought everything was calculated to gain some advantage, even friendship… Suddenly realizing that he hadn’t heard what Sami was saying, Kinkaid forced himself back to the present. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“The Israelis — they’re holding back on us.”
Kinkaid mumbled, “Maybe…” Then he apologized again and headed for the door.
24
Meat erased the aircraft numbers on the grease board in the front of the ready room for the event that had just landed and began to put numbers up for the crew’s briefing. The board showed the ever-changing status of the flight schedule. Woods sat in the chair in the first row staring at the television screen. Most of the other officers in the ready room were watching the CNN report too, but none with his intensity. A reporter stood in front of a pile of rubble on a clear bright day in southern Lebanon. Several people behind her, their mouths covered, were sorting through the broken stones and pieces of building. On the bottom of the screen was the name of the town, Dar al Ahmar, Lebanon.
The officers in the ready room listened with skepticism. Any time the media reported on anything military, they held onto their wallets.
“… and here, as you can see, there has been substantial damage by some stray Israeli bombs. We have spoken to many local residents and all of them have said that there was no reason to bomb Dar al Ahmar. It has nothing of military value and is not defended by any antiaircraft guns or missiles. They are very upset that the Israelis were unable to aim their bombs correctly and killed several innocent people. According to the residents, the building was hit by two bombs almost simultaneously. It was a motorcycle sales and repair shop, selling mostly motor scooters and motorized bicycles. At the time of the attack there were approximately six people inside getting the shop ready to open for business, including one unlucky fellow who had just stopped in this morning to deliver some new Honda motor scooters to the shop. The attack occurred at approximately 8 a.m. Lebanon time, and was very short in duration. There were several other places bombed, and there were airplanes shot down, but details about the air battle are still unclear, according to what I have been able to piece together. Back to you, in Washington.”
Woods tried to look nonchalant. He was so glad Israel had done it. He was thrilled to have been in combat for the first time. He wanted to shout from the highest point on the carrier, “Got you!” He wanted to let everyone know that Americans would always protect their countrymen. But his exuberance was tempered by Leavenworth. He knew the chances of being caught were now less — they had made it back safely and on time, and the Gunner would take care of the rest. The Gunner assured him he knew how to fix the computer and paper records so no one could trace the replacement missiles.
The remainder of the day passed unremarkably. That night Woods lay awake staring at the overhead. He kept seeing the MiG that he had gunned go down and slam into the desert, undoubtedly killing the pilot. He tried to count. That MiG pilot for sure. The Flogger pilot with the Sparrow shot… the Sidewinder kill, no chute. Three. He had personally killed three men. At least three. Maybe more. It was such a blur, but a vivid blur. He had never killed anyone before. He had never even started a fistfight before. Been in a few, but never of his own making. Over and over again, he could hear the whoosh of the missiles coming off the rails. Sparrow. Sidewinder.
Bernie the Breather was making its curious gushh, cuh cuh cuh sounds, matching the images of the missiles going off the rails in Woods’s mind. He listened for several minutes to the mindless valve inside the pipe flapping up and down.
“You awake?” Big asked.
“Yeah,” Woods answered.
They lay in the dark, unable to see each other.
“What you thinking about?”
“The strike.”
“What about it?”
“Everything. Cat launch, going over the beach, the rendezvous, going north at low level, the air battle, the fight, the LGBs on the target, heading south, reloading, getting back to the boat on fumes. But most of all, pulling it off. By God, pulling it off,” Woods said. “We actually did it, Big.”
Big didn’t say anything at first. He had his arms behind his head under his pillow. Finally he spoke. “So far.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of people know about it, or know something about it. Somebody’s going to slip.”
“Nah. They wanted us to hit back as much as we did.”
“All it takes is one.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
Big wasn’t to be comforted. “How does it feel to have killed somebody?”
“How do you feel?”
“Sort of cold. I expected to be upset, or feel sorry for the guy or something. It hasn’t gotten to me at all.”
“The only one that keeps coming back is the Fishbed I gunned. The bullets went right through the canopy. He never knew what hit him. No ejection. Nothing. Dead as a doornail. Just drifted down and hit the deck. That was it for him.” Woods was quiet. “That’s the one that keeps coming back.”
Bernie breathed and flapped between their bunks and the bulkhead. Airplanes rushed down the deck above them, pulled off the carrier into the night by the catapults.
“Knowing what you—”
“Would I do it again?”
“Yeah.”
“In a second. And we got him, Big. Vaporized him.”
“The Israelis got him.”
“We were there. If I could have, I would have personally vaporized him.” Woods turned onto his side. “How about you?”
“In a second.” Big rolled over. “Do you know how great a screenplay this would make?”
“I’m telling you.”
“I’ll start on it tomorrow.”
“No, Big. You can’t tell anyone about this for twenty years.”
“Twenty years? I’ll be ancient by then. Forty-six.”
“Twenty years.”
“Not fair,” he said, rolling back to lie face up on the top bunk. “Probably best anyway. We don’t know how it ends.”