“That we do not know, Excellency. The United States is now patrolling off the coast of Lebanon. How long she will be there no one can say. As you know, the Moslem factions, with Iran’s backing, will do all in their power to embarrass the Americans. And embarrassment is about all they can accomplish.”
El Hakim nodded his head a thirty-second of an inch and his jaw tightened. He did not appreciate being reminded of the limited options open to a group with few political assets and still fewer military ones. He had spent too many years in that position. “We must be ready when the ship enters port, whenever that is.”
“We’ll be ready, Excellency. We are monitoring the commercial hotels and airports at various possible ports of call. The longer the ship is at sea, the greater the likelihood that many wives will come from America to visit their husbands when the ship enters port. Advance hotel and airline reservations will give us ample warning.”
“We must not fail, Qazi. We cannot fail.” El Hakim’s voice was soft, yet hard, like a thin layer of sand over desert stone.
“I understand, Excellency.”
“The stakes are too high to allow my genuine personal affection for you to have any bearing on my decisions.”
It was Qazi’s turn to clench his teeth and nod.
“Keep me advised of the state of your preparations.” El Hakim rose and left the apartment, leaving the door open behind him.
5
How much longer before we go into port?”
Jake was still in his flight suit and stared at the admiral, Cowboy Parker. They were seated in the admiral’s stateroom on the 0–3 level, immediately below the flight deck.
“I don’t know.” As usual, Cowboy’s angular face registered no emotion. In his mid-forties, he had been identified years earlier as one of the finest young officers in the navy and had been sent to nuclear-power school after his tour as commanding officer of an A-6 squadron. He had served two years as executive officer of a nuclear-powered carrier, then as commanding officer of a fleet oiler. When he finished his tour as commanding officer of the Nimitz, he had been promoted to rear admiral. In spite of that, Jake thought, his ears still stuck out too much.
“We can’t keep flying around the clock like this. We’ve just lost one plane, and if we keep it up, we’re going to lose more. These men have been working like slaves.”
Cowboy sighed. “I know that, Jake.”
“If we can’t go into port, at least let’s pull off a couple hundred miles, say down south of Cyprus where we can get some sea room, and stand down at five- or ten-minute alert. It’s keeping airplanes aloft around the clock that’s wearing these guys down to nothing.”
“Jake, I don’t have that option. You know that! As soon as I get that authority, we’ll go down there.”
Grafton stood up and began pacing the little room. “Well, maybe we can drop our nighttime flights to just the E-2, a tanker, and a couple fighters. Maybe use the Hornets as fighters during the day and the Tomcats at night. Keep the A-6s in five-minute alert status at night, armed for bear.”
“Sit down, Jake.”
Jake eyed Cowboy. They had served together during the Vietnam War in an A-6 squadron aboard the Shiloh and had remained good friends ever since. When Cowboy had had his tour commanding an A-6 squadron in the late seventies, Jake had been his assistant maintenance officer.
“Sit down. That’s an order.”
Jake sat.
“This is like Vietnam, isn’t it?”
Jake nodded. “Yep,” he said at last. “Just another set of damn fools pulling the strings. And we’re grinding people into hamburger. It’s frustrating.”
The telephone rang. Cowboy picked up the receiver. “Admiral Parker.” He listened for a moment or two, grunted twice, then hung up.
The two men sat in silence. A plane slammed into the flight deck above their heads and the room vibrated slightly as it went to full power. Then the engines came back to idle and faded into the background noise. A minute later another one hit the deck. On the television in the corner the landing planes were depicted in a silent show filmed from a camera high on the island and one buried in the deck, aimed up the glideslope. The picture alternated between the two. The only audio was the very real sound of the planes smashing into the steel over their heads.
Jake massaged his forehead and ran his fingers straight back through what was left of his hair.
“You don’t look very well,” Parker said.
“Hell of a headache.”
“The head quack tells me you’re over a month late getting your annual flight physical.”
“Yeah. He’s been after me.”
“Go get the physical.”
“Yessir.”
“What do you think went wrong with that plane tonight?”
“Don’t know. My guess is a malfunction in the oxygen system, but we may never know. Depends on how much wreckage that destroyer pulls out.”
“They haven’t found much.” Parker jerked his thumb at the phone. “Just a few pieces floating. Most of it went to the bottom.”
“Did they find the bodies?” A postmortem on the bodies might reveal an oxygen malfunction.
“Nope.” Cowboy searched the younger man’s face. “What are you going to do now?” Jake knew he was referring to the leadership problem.
“Remember the last month of the war in Vietnam, after I was shot down? Camparelli hung a helmet in the ready room and said anyone who couldn’t hack the program could throw his wings into it.”
“I remember.”
“I’m going to hang up a helmet.”
“As I recall, no one quit.”
“Yeah. That’s why Camparelli did it. He was smart. I’m going to give the helmet a try, but with my luck I’ll have a dozen crews quit on me.”
Cowboy laughed. “Your luck will hold, Cool Hand. Keep rolling the dice.” He stood up. “I better get back to flag plot.” That space, a part of the combat decision center, depicted the task group’s tactical situation to the admiral on computerized presentations. It was his battle station. “They get nervous if I’m gone too long. Hell, I get nervous if I’m gone over ten minutes.” He paused at the door and turned back toward Jake. “If it’ll make you feel better, I have a ‘Nixon in ’88’ T-shirt I can let you steal.”
“It may come to that.”
Admiral Parker stuck out his hand and Jake pumped it.
When Jake entered the air wing office, Chief Harry Shipman was sitting at his desk.
“Heard we lost one.”
“Yeah. Call Mister Cohen and ask him to come to the office.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Jake walked between the desks and entered his office. For some reason known only to the ship’s architect, he had a sink in his small office. He took three aspirin from a bottle in the desk drawer and washed them down by drinking from the sink tap. Then he soaked a washcloth in cold water, raked the papers away from the middle of the desk, sat in his chair and tilted it as he arranged his legs on the desk. He draped the wet cloth over his forehead and eyes.