"Please do," the JTF commander said, happy to have a fresh voice shoehorn its way into the dialogue.
"The rules of engagement prohibit attacking Eritrean surface targets unless a JTF asset is fired upon," the analyst said. Everyone nodded. This was a well-known given fact.
"We're also prohibited from attacking the Iranian ships that deliver the hardware."
"We certainly wouldn't want to offend the poor Iranians," Harris said sarcastically.
"But there is nothing to stop us from attacking extra-national ships in these waters," the CIA man continued. "Thanks to the data we have now, thanks to the 334th, we know that the barges go in and out from Dhuladhiya Island. There's miles of water between there and the mainland."
"That's territorial water, Eritrean territorial—" the State Department man interjected.
"Under the UN resolution on piracy," the analyst retorted. "I think we are not prohibited from attacking extranational vessels engaged in—"
"Then I think we have our work cut out for us," the JTF commander said, happy to have a plausible resolution to the problem. Turning to Harris, he asked, "When can you…?"
"The 334th will have 16s armed and ready to go by this afternoon," Harris asserted happily. "But it's probably best to go at night; they're not used to us flying at night, and that's when they're more likely to be at sea with their garbage scows… I'll have an attack plan by the end of the day."
"I'll have to run this past State," the under-undersecretary said cautiously. Things were suddenly moving fast, and he did not like being out of control.
"Do you want me to look up the pertinent resolution number?" asked the CIA man.
Chapter 12
Troy Loensch had a rare and unexpected day off.
It was the first time since he was grounded that he had time to himself. It was the first such time in weeks without it being overshadowed by a reprimand. The 334th Operations Center was abuzz with the upcoming action in the Dhuladhiya Channel. Harris had all the F-16 crews who flew strike missions pulled into a big briefing, and this left Falcon Force sidelined for the next forty-eight hours. They were, as people say in recon circles, snoopers, not shooters.
He thought about calling home, but it was the middle of the night in California. He thought about reacting to his status as not a shooter by going to the primitive Atbara 0-Club and shooting pool, but decided to go shoot some hoops instead. He realized only as he started scrimmaging with a couple of other guys that he had unconsciously made the decision to play a team sport rather than a solo sport.
What had come over him? Had the self-centered asshole become a team player?
For Troy, the realization that Falcon Force had melded into a team had come on the same day that he had first gotten an inkling that his teammates, Jenna Munrough and Hal Coughlin, were more than teammates. Why hadn't he seen it earlier? He guessed that either they had done a very good job concealing their "special relationship" or it had only just started.
Once again, he was the outsider in the small group of three — not that he really wanted to be a third party in a three-way relationship of that kind.
As far as his relationship with Coughlin and Munrough as pilots went, Dhuladhiya had been the turning point, although the turn had begun over the desert north of Al Qadarif. When he'd gotten his fuel tank punctured, they had stayed with him. There was little they could do for him, but they had stayed with him.
Then, Dhuladhiya. It was a place name that none of them had ever heard until that morning when the mission was briefed. Troy didn't have to double back to provide the coverage that Jenna could not — but he had, and he did so immediately. It wasn't that he had done her a huge personal favor, but he had displayed the action of a team player.
It was new for him. In football, wide receivers don't really have to be team players. They catch what the quarterback throws, but other than that, they don't have to be team players. Their job is to run, catch and run. They don't have to do for others. They have other people blocking for them. Their job is not to worry about covering for a teammate whose AN/AKR-13 craps out.
Today, out on the court — which was just a dusty patch of asphalt with a pair of mismatched hoops — he found himself passing as much as he was shooting.
Why not?
He was as good as he was, and he was not the best player on the asphalt. He was better than most, though not as good as the new guy with the short, blond Mohawk. The guy was good, he knew it, and Troy had no interest in proving he wasn't.
"This a boy's game, or can a girl play?"
Troy turned; it was Jenna Munrough. He almost didn't recognize her in shorts and shades rather than a green flight suit.
Someone passed the ball; Troy caught it, dribbled once, and snapped it off to Jenna.
She caught it and shot it in with almost a single motion. One of the other players grunted his approval as it went in.
The guy with the short, blond Mohawk got the rebound and slammed the ball through the hoop.
This time, Jenna was under the hoop.
She scooped up the rebound as one of the guys grabbed and missed.
She passed it to Troy.
He found himself wanting, more than ever in this game, to make this shot. What was it about boys and girls that makes a guy want — no, need — to make the shot while the girl is watching?
The ball bounced off the rim and Mohawk reached for the rebound.
Suddenly, Jenna was between him and the ball.
As he leaped up and came down empty, she shot up and slam-dunked the ball.
Troy seized the rebound and scored, and suddenly the two Falcon Force teammates were teammates on the dusty patch of desert.
jenna missed her next three shots in a row, but Troy scored two. This was not to say that anyone was really keeping score as Troy and Jenna scrimmaged against three other players. Ultimately, the trio of others probably outscored the two Falcons, but everyone played well. Jenna startled the guys with her skill at first, but soon they were treating her not as a girl in a boys' game, but as just another player to be guarded.
When it was finally over, and as everyone shook hands and said "Good game," it was Troy's turn for a surprise.
"Buy y'all a beer?" Jenna asked as she wiped the sweat from her face with the T-shirt she had been wearing over her tank top.
"Umm… thanks… but I got some stuff I gotta take care of… Rain check?"
He had no "stuff." He did have an aversion to this sort of camaraderie with a teammate — a female teammate — especially one with whom his relations had, until very recently, not been good.
There had long since ceased to be a gender gap on the court, but the ritual of "having a beer" meant something completely different when two people were from opposite. Sides of that gap. Beyond that was Troy's sense of that "something" that apparently existed between Jenna and Hal.
"Rain check." Jenna smiled broadly as though her suggestion had been far less complicated than what Troy had read into it. "See you at the briefing in the morning."
With that, she was gone.
As he picked up his gear, Troy noticed his watch. It was still too early to phone California, but by the time he finished his shower, he figured that his mother would probably be up.
Nobody was home when he called home, so Troy decided to phone his father at work. "Office Tech, this is Carl."
"Hi, Dad, what's up?"
"Troy… is that you? Good to hear you. Where are you?"
"Sunny Sudan. Actually, the sun's down, but it's still Sudan," Troy said. His father seemed to be in a good mood. After the usual exchange over what time it was, Troy asked his father about how business was.
"Little slow," Carl said. "Y'know, ups and downs, but everybody still needs paper… and ink for those damned computer printers. You have to spend more on the damned ink than you do for the printers….. What are you doing? Are you flying much?"