After the Cobra completed a sweep, meeting no opposition, both choppers settled onto the sloping brown terrain.
A dozen men in combat gear spilled out of the Huey. A fire team armed with MP-5N submachine guns took the lead while the six men behind them fanned out, walking through the littered terrain, turning over and examining pieces of wreckage.
Fragments of the destroyed MiG-29 were strewn for half a mile. The officer in charge, marine Capt. Barry Weaver, snapped pictures with a Nikon digital while the others turned over hunks of metal, looking for clues.
“Over here, Captain,” yelled Gunnery Sergeant Chavez. “Looks like part of the cockpit.”
It was. There wasn’t much left — the remnants of an instrument panel, part of a radio console. Weaver took several shots; then he turned the pieces over and took more. When he was finished, a Navy medical corpsman poked around, filling several plastic zip bags with samples and scrapings from the twisted metal.
They continued searching. The corpsman took more samples from likely hunks of wreckage. After half an hour, Weaver said, “That’s it. We’ve seen enough of this place.”
After the Whiskey Cobra did another periphery search, the Huey lifted off. The helicopters skimmed the ridge, heading eastward before making the turn toward the coast.
Weaver, standing between the two pilots in the Huey, saw it first — something metallic, glinting in the sand.
“There.” He pointed down and to the right. “Check it out.”
The pilot nodded and slewed the Huey around into a turn. While the Huey hovered fifteen feet over the spot, Weaver and two marine riflemen fast-roped down.
Even before he reached the object, Weaver knew what he was seeing. He pulled out the Nikon and began clicking.
It was evening, and they were taking one of their walks — promenades, Claire used to call them — on the flight deck. the Reagan’s warplanes looked like museum exhibits, all tied down, intakes and tailpipes plugged with protective covers.
“Sam, do you think we’ll get married?”
He stopped and looked at her in surprise. It was another of those questions out of the blue. She’d been doing that a lot lately.
“What kind of a question is that?”
“A perfectly simple one.” She kept his hand clasped in hers. “Do you or do you not think we’ll get married?”
“I don’t… I guess I really haven’t given it that much thought…”
“That is impossible to believe. You say you love me, but you haven’t thought about whether you want to marry me?”
“I didn’t mean that.” He sounded flustered, and he hated it. “Where’d this come from? Do you want to get married?”
She smiled. “Is that a proposal?”
“No. I mean… it’s a question. It sounds like you’re asking me if I want to get married.”
“Well, do you?”
“I don’t know. I mean, yes, but not yet.”
“You mean yes, you want to get married, but no, you haven’t made up your mind to do it.”
He stopped and looked at her. “Did I say that?”
“More or less. I’m just helping you out.”
“Is this how you interview people on your television reports?”
“No. Sometimes I have to get pushy.” Then she laughed, which was his clue that she was yanking him around again.
For a while neither spoke, watching the brown coastline of Oman slide past the carrier’s port side. A pair of Seahawk helicopters skimmed the water between the Reagan and the shoreline.
She took his arm. “How long will the Reagan be in Bahrain?”
“Long enough to patch the hull. Two or three weeks; then we’ll head to the States so the ship can get a major refitting.”
She seemed to be mulling over this information. “That means, if we’re going to be together, I’ll have to be in the United States.”
“Until the Reagan deploys again. Wherever that might be.”
“Sam, have you ever thought of another line of work?”
“No. Have you?”
“No.” She waited a moment. “But I’m open to suggestions.”
“Bandar Abbas,” said Gritti, “on the starboard side.”
Maxwell looked through the thick panes of the flag bridge. the Reagan was transiting the narrow Strait of Hormuz, returning to the Persian Gulf. He could make out shadowed outlines on the Iranian shore — buildings, cranes, docks.
“Do you think they’ve figured out what happened to their missing submarine?”
“I hope they paid cash for it,” said Gritti.
It was five past eleven, and they were waiting for the admiral to appear for the 1100 meeting he had called. On the opposite side of the compartment, Red Boyce was staring thoughtfully in the direction of Iran, a half-gnawed cigar jutting from his jaw. Guido Vitale was on the phone with Stickney, who had promised to drop into the briefing as soon as they’d passed the strait. Cmdr. Ed Mulvaney, the Reagan’s XO, was standing in for Stickney.
Two of Boyce’s other squadron skippers were there — Rico Flores of the VFA-34 Bluetails, and Gordo Gray, who had taken over the Tomcat squadron after the skipper, Burner Crump, was killed in Yemen. The two commanders were talking quietly by the coffeepot in the corner of the compartment.
Admiral Fletcher burst into the room, trailed by his aide, a baby-faced lieutenant named Wenck. “Sorry, gentlemen.” He tossed his hat onto the plotting table. “I just got off the line with SECNAV and CNO.” He went to the head of the conference table. “Seats, please.”
Maxwell was struck again by the change in Fletcher. Even after the calamitous events in Yemen and the Gulf of Aden, he still managed to exude command authority. Perhaps, he mused, Fletcher was one of those officers like Grant or Eisenhower who metamorphosed into leaders in the heat of war.
“I’ve been instructed to warn all of you, and each of your subordinates, that everything that happened during this campaign is classified. We will have selective memories about the events of the past week.”
The officers all nodded.
For your information,” Fletcher went on, “when the Reagan drops anchor in Bahrain, I’ll be immediately relieved of command. Until my successor shows up, Captain Stickney will be the acting Battle Group Commander.”
This caused murmurs around the table. No one was surprised, especially after Fletcher had assumed full responsibility for the action in Yemen.
“I’m informed that there will not be a court-martial.” He paused and looked around the table. “The truth is, I was rather looking forward to testifying about what happened out here. About who was taking orders from whom.”
Fletcher let this sink in. The unwelcome presence of Whitney Babcock still pervaded the room.
“As it turns out, no one — not the Joint Chiefs, the Secretary of the Navy, certainly not the White House — wants the world to hear how our chain of command was short-circuited. So I will be let off with a letter of reprimand — and a peremptory retirement.”
Boyce spoke up. “That’s a coverup, Admiral. They just want to suppress the truth about the deal between Babcock and Al-Fasr.”
“You said it, not me. There are other things they’d like to suppress. The spy on our battle group staff, for one.”
At this, everyone’s eyes went to the empty chair next to Fletcher — the seat usually occupied by Spook Morse.
Mulvaney asked, “Has anyone figured why Morse sold out to Al-Fasr?”
Guido Vitale spoke up. “The FBI is working on it. Morse became acquainted with Al-Fasr about four years ago, when he was on Fifth Fleet staff in Manama. I was there, and I remember that Spook was going through a bad time. His wife had left him, run off with some Brit she met playing tennis. About then he was passed over for promotion to captain, and he was bitter. More than bitter, as I remember. Spook had a dark side to him. That was probably when Al-Fasr got to him.”