A dead end, he decided. He walked back toward the lighted passageway.
Williams called after him. “Just a minute, sir.”
“Yeah, Chief?”
“Sometimes the spooks down in Surface Plot monitor the Battle Group’s transmissions to make sure we aren’t breaking EMCON or broadcasting any classified information. They’re the guys who monitor the spectrum and report EMCON violations. Maybe they could help.”
“Good call, Chief. Thanks a lot.”
Maxwell’s mind went into high gear. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The spooks were equal opportunity spies, he thought. They didn’t just eavesdrop on the enemy; they did it to everyone.
Surface Plot was almost as bad as the CATCC cave — dark and lit mostly from the glow of the various wall-sized electronic boards. Maxwell asked a dungaree-clad petty officer where to find the surface watch officer.
“Through that hatch, sir, and buzz in at the entry portal. He’s back in the SCIF.” SCIF stood for Special Compartmentalized Information Facility. It meant beyond Top Secret classification. Eyes only, need-to-know.
Maxwell was out of his element. He was far below decks, down in the spaces of the carrier’s Surface Plot, called Alpha Sierra. They called this black shoe country, and it was occupied by surface navy officers, who wore black shoes with their khaki uniforms. The black shoes looked in disdain at the brown-shoed aviators who, they were convinced, were incapable of rowing a canoe.
Maxwell stood in front of the remote camera and pressed the buzzer.
A voice from an invisible speaker said, “May I help you?”
“Commander Maxwell, VFA-36. I’d like to see the Surface Watch Officer.”
“Present your ID card.”
Irritated, Maxwell removed his ID. He wondered if the spooks knew the carrier had been under way now for three weeks and that not a single spy had been seen swimming out from the shore.
“Place the card in the drawer.”
Maxwell placed his card in the drawer next to the buzzer switch. After several seconds, the voice said, “You may enter, Commander.”
The door buzzed and popped open as the electronic latches released.
It was chilly inside the darkened space, and Maxwell rubbed his arms for warmth. A bespectacled, khaki-clad commander strode up and extended his hand. “Chris Foley, Surface Watch Officer,” he said. “What brings an airedale down into the bowels of the Reagan? Too hot on the flight deck?”
“We ran out of ice cubes and heard this was the coldest place on the ship.”
“You heard right.” He smiled and waved his arm. “This stuff is extremely temperature-sensitive. What can we do for you?”
“We’re investigating the F-18 mishap the other night. I heard that you sometimes monitor the Battle Group radio frequency emissions, for content and such.”
“We monitor a lot of frequencies — and not just our battle group.”
“Do you keep track of airborne transmissions from our aircraft?”
“Sure. Especially when the BG is under emissions control. The admiral wants to know if we’re keeping strict radio silence, and if anyone breaks it, he wants to know who. The command ship Blue Ridge does most of it, though. We’re sort of the auxiliary.”
“Were you guys keeping track of the upper UHF spectrum the night of the Hornet crash?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. You’re the second air wing officer to ask that question today.”
Maxwell stared at the watch officer. “Someone else was down here?”
“Your skipper, I think. You know, the one who shot down that MiG —”
Maxwell felt sick to his stomach. “DeLancey?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“What did he want?”
“Same thing you’re looking for.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“The tape? Oh, sure. We were about to throw it out anyway.”
Maxwell tried to sound calm. “You mean you didn’t keep a copy?”
“No, we don’t keep that stuff unless there’s some level of intelligence interest.”
Maxwell felt a pall of gloom descend over him. He knew he had been on the right trail, but he was too late. The trail had gone cold. Now he was out of ideas.
He thanked the watch officer and left.
Outside the frigid Surface Plot area, the air seemed hot and stagnant. As Maxwell turned down the long passageway he saw DeLancey standing four or five hatches away. DeLancey nodded and gave him a smile.
Maxwell returned to his room. He put on a Vivaldi CD, then turned on the computer and checked his email.
Nothing. No surprise, he thought. It was over.
He tried again to make sense of the Spam Parker accident. He remembered again what he had learned about accident investigations when he was in test pilot school. They liked to compare an investigation to an archeological dig. You worked with an event that was frozen in time, and you tried to recreate what actually happened. It was like looking at the remains of a fossilized dinosaur and guessing how it died. You could invent theories about why this or that happened, but in the final analysis that’s all you really had — theories.
But this wasn’t archeology, he reminded himself. They weren’t dealing with ancient history. This was a recent event, and they damned sure ought to be able to come up with credible evidence. The trouble was, you could gather as much good evidence as you wanted — and still come up with the wrong answer. Especially if someone was hiding the critical piece of evidence. Or planting a red herring.
For a while Maxwell ruminated, listening to the bright, warbling sound of the baroque music. Then, abruptly, something else came to him. It was an old adage — one they used to teach back in test pilot school about accident investigations: Remember your first impression; it’s almost always the right one.
Well, he remembered his first impression about this accident, unthinkable as it was. He had nothing else to go with it, just an impression — a hunch, really. It was too bizarre, too inconceivable to even discuss it with the other members of the board.
No evidence, no clues. Just an impression.
His mind was clicking forward again. Maxwell turned off the CD player and picked up the phone.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Noose Tightens
Tyrwhitt was afraid.
He had been afraid before, but this time was different. In every situation before, he had possessed a sort of cockiness. He knew he could outwit them. It was all a game, and he was a superior gamesman.
But now the game had changed. Before, it had been easy to lose the mush-witted agents assigned to tail him. They were amateurs, always attired in the same drab safari suits, too slow to anticipate his sudden detours through the teeming marketplaces and whorehouses. Sometimes he would let them stay on his trail just to lull them into thinking he was unaware.
No more.
The agents who were trailing him this afternoon from the Rasheed Hotel weren’t wearing the same old brown safari suits. And they hadn’t been fooled by the sharp turn at the whore house. These were trained operatives. They were watching every move he made.
Why?
Darkness had settled over Baghdad. The streets were bathed in a dirty yellow light. Tyrwhitt hailed a passing taxi, a beaten-up Toyota. He jumped in and urged the driver to move out, leaving the two Bazrum trailers gawking from the sidewalk. Seconds later, he saw a black Fiat swing out of the alley across the street and fall behind.
Tyrwhitt directed the taxi driver across town, all the way to the northern souk, then southward again toward downtown and the Ba’ath building. The lights of the Fiat remained behind them, several hundred meters in trail. They passed over an ancient arched bridge that spanned the Tigris River. The bridge was narrow, with barely enough room for two opposite-direction vehicles. Looking back, Tyrwhitt saw the Fiat slow to allow a rickety panel truck to pass.