“I’m not sure where he is. He’s awfully hard to find. Busy guy. I’d look in the forecastle.” He just couldn’t tell her Crumpacker was a longstanding squadron fiction used against all kinds of people who were unsuspecting, especially new officers.
“Thanks,” she said, truly grateful. “By the way, what’s a three wire?”
He raised his eyebrows, surprised she didn’t know. “Third of four arresting wires on the flight deck. The one we aim for. Why?”
“I asked Trey how he got his call sign.”
“What did he say?” Vialli asked skeptically.
“During carrier qualifications, CQ, I think he called it, he got all three wires.”
“Hah!” Vialli guffawed. “How about he didn’t get any three wires! Take everything he says with a grain of salt.”
When the intelligence brief was concluded and the television went dark, Wink stood behind the lectern. “We’re event One Alpha…”
The men walked slowly through the path in the boulders so narrow their shoulders rubbed both sides. Their black attire was hot, but caused them no more discomfort than they were used to. There was no way off the path once on it; it was a mile long and required dedication to reach the end. No one would venture down the path without knowing where it led — it was too claustrophobic. The path wound through craggy rocks that jutted upward at odd angles. At almost every step, anyone walking could be observed by someone in the right position higher up in the rocks. And there was always someone in the right position. This path had been perfected through centuries of use.
After thirty minutes of walking through the labyrinth the men reached their destination. They waited outside an opening in the stone wall that was hidden by the angle of the opening, almost going back the same way they had come. A man approached them speaking softly in Arabic.
The leader of the group, which had obviously traveled a long way, nodded wearily. “Please tell him we have returned.”
“He said you should spend some time in the garden. He will call for you.”
The man nodded again. Then to the others with him, “Come,” he said, gesturing with his left hand, something not done in the Arab world — the left hand was for other things, and never part of conversation or polite gesturing.
They followed him into another opening in the rock face, walking in near darkness through a tunnel, wet with condensation. They could hear the underground river below them, the river that no one outside knew about, which had sustained those who had come here through the centuries — the flowing water feeding the lush gardens hidden in the inner paths of the mountain.
Coming out of the tunnel, they entered a green garden filled with waterfalls and ponds. Tired, their black robes dusty from their travels, they sat heavily on the stone ledge surrounding one of the fountains and waited. Two of the men drank from a spigot that spilled water into the fountain.
When a man appeared the group stood as one and followed him, moving across a small entrance so low they were forced to duck down. The room into which they were ushered was light and dry, its openings and doors facing a deep cavern. The only approach to the room, the central space of this invisible fortress, was through the small cave and garden from which they had just passed.
Here were thirty or so men, dressed in black like the newcomers, standing quietly around the room’s walls. A man in the middle of the room sat at the table studying a map. He made one final notation and rose. Six feet tall and solidly built, his weathered face was covered by a closely cut, stiff beard that was mostly black but had a hint of brown. His eyes were black and hidden in a shadow of his heavy brow. In his forties, he commanded the attention of everyone in the room, without protest or doubt. He spoke in beautiful Arabic, addressing the leader of the group that had just arrived. “Welcome back, Farouk. Your mission was a success. The reports preceded you.”
“Thank you,” Farouk said. He looked directly at his leader, his gaze intense. “It went better than we had hoped. We lost no one.”
“Excellent,” the bearded man replied. He glanced around, making sure no ears were present that shouldn’t be there. Satisfied, he continued. “You must rest and recuperate. In a very short time, I have another mission for you.”
Farouk waited.
“We have located the one about whom we spoke. We must strike first.”
Farouk nodded. “When?”
“Soon. And then it will be time to tell the world who we are. They must know. If they don’t fear us, we will never accomplish our goals.”
“We will leave now if we must.”
“Not yet. Perhaps tomorrow, but today, rest, refresh. For this will be the hardest thing I have yet asked you to do.” He pointed to the map on the table. “The plan is ready.”
5
Woods and Wink stepped onto the flight deck and lowered their dark visors at the bright sunshine reflecting off the blue Mediterranean. The George Washington (CVN-73) moved slowly westward through the water away from the climbing sun. Woods handed his knee board to the plane captain who stood by the ladder to the Tomcat.
“Morning, Benson,” Woods said, as he ducked under the wing to begin his preflight.
“Morning, sir,” replied Airman Reece Benson.
Woods knew Benson well. He was highly regarded in the squadron even though he was only nineteen. He cared a lot about his plane and the people who flew it. He took Woods’s knee board and Wink’s helmet bag, which never carried his helmet, just charts, navigation books, and knee board, and climbed up the ladder to store their gear in the cockpits.
The wheels of the Tomcat straddled the centerline stripe at the very aft point of the flight deck, the round down. The back third of the plane protruded past the deck and hung over the sea. Woods checked every panel, every hole, every place where something might go wrong. He bent over and continued aft as far as he could go on each side without falling into the water. He ran his hands over the live missiles and checked the long, red safety tags that were in place to prevent an accidental firing on the deck. Woods climbed up the ladder and once on top worked his way to the back of the plane. He moved toward the twin black tails that jutted majestically into the beautiful sky, checking the exterior panels, the spoilers on the wings, and the overall airworthiness of the plane. He saw nothing to worry him. His Tomcat was pointed straight down the flight deck. The ship had increased its speed to twenty-five knots to generate more wind for the pending launch. The wind swirled around Woods as he thought of the power under his feet, the Tomcat, the carrier. He made his way forward along the back of the plane and stopped next to his ejection seat.
He pulled out the six pins that were there to prevent an inadvertent firing of the seat. They were connected by one long, red nylon strap, ensuring that none of the pins was forgotten. Woods rolled up the strap and pins and jammed them into the map case in the cockpit.
He threw his right leg over the side rail to the right of the stick that dominated the center of the cockpit, jutting up with its handle and array of buttons and switches. Bringing his left leg over, he settled into the ejection seat, adjusting the rudder pedals forward. Someone short had flown the plane last.
Benson climbed up and placed the harnesses over Woods’s shoulders. Woods took each in turn and attached them to the two Koch fittings on the top of his torso harness. He then attached the lap belts on his two hip fittings and the two leg restraints to keep his legs in place in case of ejection. He pulled the lap straps tight and ensured the shoulder harness fittings were secure. The plane captain moved back on the fold-down steps seven feet above the steel flight deck and helped Wink strap himself in.