“He got his revenge,” said Boyce. “Sucked us into Al-Fasr’s trap.”
“We still don’t know how much damage Morse did,” said Vitale. “We know that he gave our op plans away, and it was he who relayed our points of intended movement, which enabled Al-Fasr to position the submarine.”
“Another lesson learned the hard way,” Fletcher said. “We spent forty years learning how to beat Russian nuclear attack submarines. Then an obsolete diesel/electric boat sneaks into our battle group and damned near sinks us.”
“What was the point?” asked Commander Mulvaney. “What was Al-Fasr trying to accomplish?”
“The same thing terrorists all want to accomplish,” said Fletcher. “Revenge. An eye for an eye.”
“This time it bit him in the ass,” said Boyce. “Brick scraped him off on that ridge in Yemen.”
Fletcher and Vitale exchanged glances. Fletcher nodded, and Vitale picked up a file folder. “Early this morning we inserted a marine recon team into the crash site of the MiG. They determined from the serial number that it was definitely the same one Al-Fasr was flying. They also searched the wreckage, looking for human remains that might be identifiable from the DNA. They didn’t find anything — until they were airborne and egressing the area.”
Vitale withdrew an eight-by-ten color photograph from the folder. “Then they found this.”
He passed the photo around the table.
Maxwell peered at the object in the photo. A chill passed through him. He handed the photo to Boyce.
Boyce removed his cigar and stared at the photo. “Oh, shit.”
“The ejection seat,” said Admiral Fletcher. “Notice that it’s been used. Successfully, according to the experts who analyzed this photo. It was found about a mile from the main crash site.”
Maxwell’s thoughts were already back in the late afternoon sky over Yemen. He could see the canyon, the eye of the needle, the shadow flitting over his canopy that saved his life. In his mind he relived the vertical scissors engagement, the energy-depleting maneuver that brought both their fighters perilously close to the earth. Pulling out of the dive, the older Fulcrum was unable to match the pullout radius of the F/A-18.
Al-Fasr’s jet struck the ground. The wreckage was scattered over a square mile.
He couldn’t have survived.
Or could he? Maxwell had not seen the final impact. His own jet had been pointed away, turning back to counter the scissoring MiG.
At the instant the Fulcrum scraped the ridge, the pilot, if his reactions were quick enough, might have realized his jet was doomed and pulled the ejection handle.
The Zvezda K-36 ejection seat was good, better perhaps than anyone else’s. At the 1989 Paris Air Show, a Russian demo pilot ejected at 250 feet while his jet was in a vertical dive. He survived.
Maxwell placed the photograph back on the table. For a moment he stared out the window at the dark coastline passing on the starboard side.
“He’s still out there,” he said to no one in particular.
Claire needed a nap. The stress and fatigue of the past week were weighing on her like a leaden mantle.
When she let herself in the stateroom she noticed the thick manila envelope atop the foldout desk. She wondered who had placed it there. The room steward? He had a key for all the staterooms.
She kicked off her shoes, noticing again the gray sterility of the stateroom. If she had to spend any more time aboard Navy warships, she would decorate. Oriental carpets, some decent prints on the bulkheads, photographs for the desk. And she’d have music, not that stuff they played on the ship’s entertainment channel for the teenage sailors. She would bring CDs of light classical and soft jazz like Sam had in his stateroom.
She popped open a warm Diet Coke and settled into the straight-backed desk chair. That was another thing she hated — this damned spartan furniture. She’d get a decent padded chair, one with a little fashion to it that she could get comfortable in and do some serious reading.
The manila envelope lay in front her. It was sealed, no address, no marking.
She ran her fingernail under the flap and opened it. The stack of paper was half an inch thick. Each page bore a copy of a stamp: SECRET.RESTRICTED DISTRIBUTION. She found nothing to indicate the source of the document.
Not until she was through the second page did she realize what she was reading. It was a transcription of some kind of message traffic. By the conversational dialogue, she guessed that the parties were communicating via a telephone or radio. She also guessed the identity of the speakers.
“You have not kept your word.”
“I gave my word that we would not retaliate after the air strike if you did not send in an assault force. But then you sent in an assault force.”
“That was not an assault. You already know that the marine team was sent in for no purpose except to retrieve the downed pilots. They had no other objective. Now the situation has become very complicated. The President has authorized a strike.”
Claire felt her skin prickle. The document in her hand was potent enough to destroy a political career. Perhaps an administration.
She read on.
“This can still be resolved. My agents in San‘a report that they are almost ready to initiate the coup. When they give the signal, my troops will immediately seize the military headquarters and the government broadcasting station. We expect no resistance. I will control the Republic of Yemen.”
“That is good. What about our marines on the ground? They have to be lifted out.”
“Soon. It will be possible within a day or so.”
She lowered the sheaf of papers for a moment. Vince Maloney’s words came back to her: We protect his new government from all his resentful Arab neighbors, and Yemen becomes an American colony. Does that make sense?
Yes, it made sense now. Vince had it right, and it had cost him his life.
Al-Fasr wanted Yemen, and someone in a high office was helping him get it. None of the material was date-stamped, which meant that authentication would be impossible. She couldn’t prove anything. All she had was paper, copies of documents without attribution, nothing verifiable.
On a yellow legal pad, she drew a time line, beginning with the killings of Admiral Dunn and Admiral Mellon and Ambassador Halaby, connecting them with all the events in Yemen. Then she began overlaying them with the transcribed conversations.
When she was finished, she was sure. The connection was unmistakable. Even if the documents did not provide legal proof, the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming. The sequence of transcriptions matched the events perfectly.
An anonymous donor had just delivered to her the most explosive news story of her career.
Why?
As she thought more about it, the answer came to her, like the pieces of a mosaic. She knew who had sent the documents, and she understood what she was supposed to do with them.
Thank you, Admiral, Claire thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
YELLOW RIBBONS
That bitch, thought Whitney Babcock.
He was into his third Scotch, no ice, when the special segment of The Nightly Report began. When the face of Claire Phillips appeared on the television screen, Babcock felt his headache intensifying. I should have thrown her off the ship when I had the chance.