There wasn’t much, not in the way of original source material. A report from an intelligence specialist debriefing a defector, two satellite shots with attached photo intelligence interpretations. The longest item was a three-page analysis by — she glanced at the end page — yes, Captain Hemingway herself. She skipped through it, going straight to the last page: recommendations. She read through quickly, and then laid the folder on a corner of her desk. “Not much to go on, is there?”
Hemingway shook her head. “No, ma’am. There’s not. But I’ve been following this region for a significant period of time, and you develop instincts. Everything I know about this area of the world screams at me that this time it’s real. The timing, for one thing — you don’t know how stretched thin we are, particularly in that region. And this defector — I interviewed him myself.” She spread her hand in a supplicating gesture. “Obviously, I can’t go into some details. But I found myself personally persuaded by his story. And when I add his data up with the rest of the things I see, it only spells trouble.”
Wexler frowned. “When?”
“Next month, I think. They have a couple of major surface combatants still in outfitting, as well as a major upgrade on some fighter avionics. They’ll finish that before they make a move.”
“Not much time, then.”
Hemingway smiled. “More advance notice than we’ve had a lot of times, though. The question is what we’re going to do about it.”
“I suspect this is primarily a State Department and DOD issue,” Wexler said.
“Yes, of course. But if things go down the way I think they will, it’s going to be happening fast. If I give you a background briefing now, I believe you’ll be better prepared to deal with what comes up over here.”
Wexler waited for a moment, then asked, “That’s it? That’s all you want to do, give me a heads-up?”
Hemingway looked faintly amused. “Astounding, isn’t it? But yes, that’s all. No favors to ask, no politicking, no trying to enlist you to confirm or deny our intelligence. It’s just a briefing, ma’am. One that I hope will be the first of many.” Hemingway picked up her file from the ambassador’s desk, stowed it in her attaché case and locked the case. “With your permission?” she asked.
“Wait,” Wexler said. “Do you like tea? Not the grocery store stuff — I mean really, really good tea.”
A speculative look crossed Hemingway’s face. “Why yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”
Wexler smiled. “I thought so. Unless you’ve got some pressing business, Captain, why not sit down and have a cup with me. I need a break from my paperwork and you can tell your boss I’m a slow learner.”
Thirty minutes later, the two had established that they had a good deal in common. After they’d talked, Hemingway finally asked, “Who handles your electronic security around here?”
“Brad, my aide. You met him when you came in.”
“But who actually handles it?”
Wexler frowned. “I don’t know. That’s always been his department. Why? Do you have some reason that I ought to be concerned?”
“Yes, I do.” Seeing Wexler’s look of consternation, she added, “And I can’t tell you why. But if you want, I’ll bring a team over here tomorrow and double-check your aide’s work. I’m not trying to imply anything about him, of course… but… well… what could it hurt?”
“His feelings.”
“And that matters?” Hemingway asked.
“No. Not if it’s a question of security.” Wexler drained the last of her tea, suddenly weary. “All right. Bring your people over tomorrow. Around one p.m.?”
Hemingway stood. “At one, then. And I hope I’m wrong about what I suspect.”
SIX
Within twenty-four hours of starting sea trials, every man and woman onboard the ship was convinced in their heart of hearts that there would never, ever be a problem with this ship. They were invincible, invulnerable — the ship met and exceeded every performance characteristic tested. Her acceleration was significantly above what was predicted, her emergency crash backs virtually bone-jolting in their ability to reverse propellers and generate full reverse power. Her turning radius was tighter, her electronics more reliable — hell, even the radars look like they worked better. There was something special about being on a brand-new ship, one that had never known combat.
Each plank owner had been through numerous schools and rigorous training during the pre-commissioning days. Now, when they were finally allowed to strut their stuff on their new ship, they shone.
This morning would be the first test of the flight deck systems. For the first few days, the ship had tested engineering and damage control without the burden of having the air wing onboard. No aircraft would come onboard until Coyote and the carrier’s skipper were convinced that they could effectively fight a flight deck fire and provide power to the ship under casualty conditions.
Most of the aircraft technicians had walked on from pier side, but the actual aircraft and flight crews themselves were waiting patiently onshore.
Coyote left the flag bridge and headed for Vulture’s Row, three decks above, to watch the first trap. While everything might look great on paper, and even in trials, there was no real test of flight deck operations other than actually doing it.
CAG had elected to be the first one to land onboard the pristine flight deck. He was flying a Tomcat, his weapon of choice, with a tail number of zero zero, otherwise known as the double nuts bird. Coyote wondered briefly who the backseater was, then dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter — this was completely a pilot’s show.
In addition to the dangers of there being an undetected mechanical problem, taking the lead for the first landing brought with it other worries. Everything had gone so well so far — indeed, had gone perfectly. If the first landing was screwed up in some way, even in a minor one, that might shake the confidence of the crew. A wave off, or God forbid, a bolter, would be a bad omen.
No, to do it right, CAG had to make it onboard on his first pass, and had to catch the three wire.
Coyote listened in to the approach chatter on a headset. CAG had to know how critical this first landing was, but he could detect no hint of nervousness in the man’s voice as he made his final approach on the ship. The landing signals officer, or LSO, sounded just as casual — slightly bored, professional, with no trace of nervousness.
He could see the Tomcat in the distance now, sunlight glinting off her wings.
“Tomcat double nuts, say needles,” the LSO said.
“Needles show on course, at altitude,” the CAG said.
“Roger, concur with needles. Fly needles. Tomcat double nickels, call the ball,” the LSO concluded, indicating that the CAG should let him know when he had the Fresnel lens clearly in view.
“Roger, fly needles.” There was a short pause, then the CAG said, “Roger, ball.”
The litany continued, the careful phrases and measured interaction that characterized most routine landings. “Looking good, sir, looking good, watch your attitude, attitude,” the LSO said quietly, coaching the senior officer onto the deck.
Final was only two miles long, and the Tomcat was looming over the flight deck almost immediately. The deck was rock steady, the weather perfect, clear visibility unlimited.
CAG executed a perfect carrier deck landing, catching the three wire neatly. The noise on the flight deck immediately increased as he shoved the throttles forward to full military power. That was standard operating procedure, in case the cable snapped or the tailhook somehow skipped out of it, the latter being known as a kiddy trap. Full military power ensured that the pilot could get the aircraft off the deck again and airborne in order to come around and make another pass.