Coyote started to ask whether it could wait so that he could devote his full attention to the transit. But he choked the question off, knowing Coggins would not have tracked him down unless it had been urgent. And besides, Captain Bethlehem was on the bridge one deck below, personally overseeing the transit. How would he have felt when he was a skipper of the Jefferson if Batman had been riding his ass at a time like this?
He did. It took a long time for him to turn you loose and trust your judgment, didn’t it? I thought I wasn’t going to repeat his mistakes.
Coyote motioned them forward. Without speaking, the chief stepped forward and held out a bundle of wires, the ends encased in electrical connections, the other ends cut jaggedly. Coyote recognized it for what it was, a wire bundle from an avionics box from a Tomcat. He took the wire bundle and examined the cut ends. They were snipped raggedly, the insulation stripped off in spots.
“They found it on the preflight of 101,” Coggins said soberly.
“In the aircraft?” Coyote asked. “Not in the work center?”
Bird Dog shook his head. “No, Admiral. One-zero-one was on the flight schedule this morning for surface surveillance after we complete the canal transit. The plane captain went out to check it early — he’s a new kid, pretty compulsive — and found it. We checked with avionics. No one was supposed to be working on this bird.”
“That’s not how they would do it, even if they were,” the maintenance chief put in. “A mess like this — no way. And even if they had cut the wires while the gear was still installed, the whole aircraft would have been tagged out. And nobody in avionics knows anything about it.”
Coyote studied the wire bundle, trying to avoid the conclusion that was staring him in the face. “Any chance somebody made a mistake and was just too stupid to admit it?”
All three of the other men shook their heads in the negative. Coyote sighed.
“Somebody cut this deliberately,” the chief said, speaking slowly, as though to give the officers time to catch up with him. “This was no maintenance action.”
Coyote turned bright, hard eyes on Bird Dog. “Sabotage. That’s what you’re telling me.”
Bird Dog’s face was cold and hard, and he looked older than Coyote had ever seen. There was no trace of the young lieutenant who had reported on board Jefferson so many years ago for his first cruise, a happy-go-lucky pilot who had since then seen more than his fair share of combat. No, there was a new expression of maturity and command in Bird Dog’s face. Coyote felt relieved to see it, and at the same time a bit sad. That’s what we do, turn youngsters into men. Takes longer with some than others.
“I’ve ordered an investigation,” Bird Dog said, his voice tight. It was clear that he took this personally. “And I want to get the master-at-arms involved in fingerprinting the bird right away, just on the off chance that something turns up.”
“There are a lot of people whose fingerprints ought to be on the bird,” CAG commented. “Be tough eliminating them.”
“I know. But it’s a step we have to take.”
“But why?” the chief said, angry. “Oh, sure, we have a few troublemakers, but those kids all know that something like this would risk the pilot’s life. None of them would go this far — or at least I would have sworn they wouldn’t. I guess I don’t know them as well as I thought.” A new note of bitterness was in his voice.
Coyote held up one hand. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Like Bird Dog said, we’ll print it. Everybody’s prints are on file. Maybe it will turn out to be a mess cook or a yeoman. But how they would know where to cut, what would do the most damage — hell, I would’ve bet a lot of them couldn’t even find the flight deck. It’s not necessarily somebody in your squadron, Chief,” he said, including Bird Dog in his comments with a glance. “But you’re right, this is surely and truly fucked. We will find whoever did it, and I’ll make the bastard wish he’d never been born.”
The deck shifted slightly under his feet. The Jefferson was incapable of making the hard, tight turns of a destroyer or frigate, but she was fairly nimble, given her size. The movement was noticeable, and Coyote darted to the bridge wing to look out.
Far below, a ragged fishing boat was chugging up the starboard side, apparently oblivious to the tons of steel blocking its way. The vessel came astern, and moved so close that it disappeared in the shadow cast by the flight deck.
“General Quarters,” a strong female voice announced on the 1MC. As she spoke, the ship’s horn blasted out five short blasts, the international signal for immediate danger. The fishing boat appeared to take no notice.
Coyote swore violently and grabbed a bullhorn mounted along the bulkhead. “Fishing vessel on my starboard quarter, this is the captain of the USS Jefferson. Be advised you are standing into danger. Come right immediately to open distance and decrease your speed to fall astern of us.”
His words seemed to have some effect where the ship’s whistle had not. Coyote saw darkly tanned faces turn up toward him, a look of surly anger on the face of what appeared to be the vessel’s master. A few of the deckhands extended a middle finger at Coyote, then turned their backs to him. One sauntered to the edge of the deck, unbuttoned his fly, and took a leak over the side, aiming in Coyote’s direction.
For moment, Coyote was seized with the overpowering desire to either grab his.45 and let them know just how serious he was on a one-to-one basis, or jump over the side, swim over to the boat, and personally throttle its master.
A large hand descended heavily on his shoulder, and he turned to face CAG, who had a grim expression on his face. No words were necessary. Coyote let out his breath, tried to drain the tension out.
“You’re not the captain of Jefferson, Admiral,” CAG said quietly, his voice reaching only Coyote. “Bethlehem’s got it under control.”
FIVE
Griffin was not particularly hungry, but in four hours he was supposed to meet his squad in the weight room, and it was better to carb out now rather than try to choke down food after a workout. Still, as he contemplated the chili mac and overcooked vegetables, he wasn’t convinced that he really wanted to eat. The Jell-O and the ice cream down at the far end of the food line looked far more inviting.
The mess cook dumped a large ladle of chili mac on his plate and shoved it at him. Griffin eyed it suspiciously. “A little small, isn’t it?”
“You want more, you can come back,” the mess cook said. “We got plenty.”
“Then give me some more now and save me a trip,” Griffin said, one part of his mind wondering why he was even bothering. He wasn’t so sure he was hungry. Still, it was the point of the thing. The mess cooks knew they were supposed to give the Marines bigger portions, knew that they’d work it off during the day. Every Marine knew that and so did this mess cook. So why bother with this bullshit about coming back?
“That’s the portion size,” the mess cook said, his voice taking on a whining note. “Or, like I said, you want more, come back.”
“Chill, Barry,” the Marine behind him said. It was Gonzo, his team partner. “Not worth the hassle.” Griffin knew what he meant — brawling in the mess hall would bring the captain’s anger down on them, and it would be even worse when the top sergeant got ahold of them. Still, this squid was trying to shortchange him, wasn’t he? Griffin had just started to open his mouth to take the next verbal shot, intending to follow up with physical action within the next twenty seconds or so, when the nausea hit.