Lieutenant Junior Grade Phil Cobb of Woods’s squadron was the Boat Officer he was to relieve. Woods looked at the boat and then at Cobb. “Hey, Phil. How’s it been?”
“Usual drunks.”
Woods noticed the lights from the Washington reflecting off Cobb’s green nylon flight jacket. “How’d you get so wet?” he asked unenthusiastically.
“Swells are getting worse. The whole way out you’re going right into the waves. A couple made it all the way back to us.”
“Great,” Woods said.
“You’ll have a blast. I’ll bet it isn’t below forty degrees.”
Woods noticed Cobb was wearing gloves. “Mind if I borrow your gloves?” he asked.
Cobb shrugged. “I’ll pick ’em up tomorrow.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You got your long johns on, Trey?”
“You bet,” Woods said, as a chill caused him to shiver suddenly. “Wish I’d worn my green flight jacket.”
“Use mine.”
“Thanks.” Cobb was taller and bigger than Woods, who was thin. People thought he was skinny, which he hated. He worked out all the time to get bigger, but only seemed to get stronger without adding any mass to his frame.
The sailors started down the ladder and filled in the seating areas quickly, anxious to go ashore.
“That’s it for me,” Cobb said cheerfully. “She’s all yours, Trey.”
Woods saluted Cobb and said, half jokingly, “I relieve you, sir.”
Cobb smiled, returned the salute, and said, “I am relieved.” He turned and dashed up the ladder to the well-lit hangar bay.
Woods watched as the sailors in their civilian clothes eagerly filled the boat, sitting close to each other so that there was no unused space. Liberty expired at 0400, except for those who had a special chit authorizing an all-night stay ashore. Woods knew most of the sailors would wander off the quay, past the Hey-Joes who would try to sell them something they didn’t want, past the prostitutes who would try to sell them something they did want, past small restaurants they didn’t like, only to end up at the USO club a few blocks from the waterfront listening to the same music they listened to all the time aboard the ship, and talking to the same people they talked to every day. But they could drink. They would consume more alcohol than any straight-thinking person would consume, stagger back to the quay, and get back aboard his boat just in time to throw up on someone, preferably someone they knew, or a fistfight would ensue and they would get written up for being drunk and disorderly and have to explain their conduct to the ship’s captain. Woods pulled his collar up more tightly around his neck. The night was getting colder by the minute, that Naples-on-the-water-bone-chilling-coldness that seemed to settle in when it was overcast and windy.
“Ready to go, sir?” the coxswain asked.
Woods nodded his head as he looked around for other shipping traffic that could be a factor on the trip in to the harbor. A twenty-minute ride, then a ten-minute wait on the quay. Then a twenty-minute ride back. The first of many. “Let’s go.”
The coxswain threw the throbbing diesel into reverse and backed away quickly from the Washington, turned into the waves, and started for shore. As he stood in the boat and strained his eyes ahead in the night, Woods felt like Washington crossing the Delaware. Except he had a motor. And Washington had a mission.
4
Kinkaid panted slightly as he counted the rings at the other end of the line. He was using the STU-III phone in his office, the encrypted phone that was cleared for conversations up to Top Secret if the person on the other end of the line had his STU-III properly encrypted, which was certainly the case this morning. Kinkaid checked his watch. Pick up, he ordered. Kinkaid had waited until midnight to catch the person he was calling at seven o’clock in the morning, when he was fresh.
The man on the other end answered. “Shalom,” he said.
“Shalom,” Kinkaid responded. “How have you been, Efraim? It is great to talk to you again.” He already felt awkward.
“It has been a while.”
“Yes, it has, I… It’s a busy time.”
“Which is, no doubt, why you called.” His deep voice was soothing and threatening at the same time. It depended on what you were expecting.
“I am looking into the Gaza strip incident.”
“Of course.”
“We wondered if you knew who was involved.”
“We are just beginning our investigation.”
“Who do you think it was?”
“Why are you so interested?”
“It’s my job to care. You know that.”
“Yes. But this seems to be our problem.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“We’re just trying to find out who did it first. Our response would depend on that, wouldn’t it?”
“Do you have anything?”
Efraim paused. “There is so much we don’t know.”
“I’ve got to put together what we know over here. If you hear anything, or come up with anything, let me know. Anything, Efraim.”
“Yes, obviously I will think about it. Right now I must go.”
“Get back to me.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You have no idea? Really?”
“A few.”
“Who?”
“It’s too soon.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Kinkaid warned. “If we’re going to help, we need to know who we’re dealing with.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said again.
Woods walked into the ready room fifteen minutes before the scheduled brief. The Commanding Officer of VF-103, Fighter Squadron 103, Commander Mark Barnett, also known as Bark, was sitting in the first row reading through the message board in the front of the room. He glanced down at his watch. Woods knew what every other aviator in VF-103 knew — you were late to a brief only once in this squadron. Then you got to be Squadron Duty Officer for a week. No flying, just watching.
“Morning, Skipper,” Woods said casually.
“Trey,” Barnett replied, looking closely at Woods. “You ready to go?”
“I was born ready,” Woods said.
“Right. I forgot,” Bark said. “What kind of hop you on?”
“Strafing the spar.”
“Don’t hit it.”
“Don’t worry, Skipper.”
“Did you see we got our new Intel Officer?”
“You’re kidding me. Where is he?”
“It’s a she. She’s in the back, in the briefing area. Watching a brief from the receiving end first.”
“What’s her name?”
“Charlene Pritchard.”
“She got any experience?”
“Yeah. She graduated from intel school at Dam Neck. And she has a gold bar on her collar.” An Ensign, the lowest officer rank in the Navy.
“Damn good thing they send these Ensigns to tell us what’s going on. Too bad Bruno had to go. He was just getting productive.”
“Come on, Trey. You know you can’t stick around here once you know what the hell is going on. That’s what triggers getting replaced.”
Sean smiled as he looked toward the back. “She got a call sign yet?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” he said. He was one of the few officers in the squadron who could give someone a call sign and make it stick. He looked at the television. “Is she good-looking?”
“Trey,” Bark said without looking up.
“Just making conversation. I’d better go brief. See you later, Skipper.”