Exit Alpha (8 page)

He banged his fist on the bulkhead. ‘Shit.’

‘I put you on alert. It’s just unfortunate.’

‘Now I have to face the others and play hero.’

‘I’ll tell them she’s ill — been transferred to the ship’s hospital. Zuiden can clean this tomorrow when they’re all in the lecture room.’

‘Shit, what a stuff-up.’

‘You don’t mind sleeping with a corpse in the room?’

‘It’s not that. I feel sorry for her, damn it.’

‘Fortunes of war, love. Sweet dreams.’

Spencer prefaced Cain’s presentation using rear-projected maps, beginning with a view of the Indian Ocean.

‘Most of the Arabian Peninsula’s oil bases and population are littoral — within 100 miles of the coast. Before Afghanistan, the Soviets were 700 miles from the Gulf. Now, they’re 235. A direct Soviet move on Iran and things get sticky. But right now it’s manipulate, not march.’

Cain was grateful for the introduction although it had little to do with what he intended to say. He could still see the dead woman, staring at him from the floor that morning as he’d dressed. He tried to tune the picture out, concerned about yesterday’s fracas at lunch and the impression it had given the cadets.

He glanced at Rhonda. Her sober face revealed how important it was to pull things together.

‘The North Arabian Sea,’ Spencer continued, ‘is within range of Soviet aircraft, so our carriers are deployed there to cover any air-strike on the Gulf. Both fleets are in the Indian Ocean projecting forward presence and forward pressure. It’s political, vastly expensive and supply lines are long.’

Cain glanced around the room but couldn’t see Zuiden. Had Vanqua grounded him or was he cleaning?

Spencer was winding up. ‘There’s a CentCom stockpile at Oman and they allow recce flights to operate from Masirah. But Diego Garcia’s the nearest US base. It can handle carriers but it’s a three-and-a-half-day steam from the Gulf. That’s the strategic outline. Now let’s hear it from the coalface.’ He stepped down and Cain mounted the podium.

He surveyed the expectant audience. He had to go for the gut.

‘I’ve just finished my assignment so this is off the cuff. For most of you here, I’m your future. And Rhonda makes that sound impressive. But she’s also told you I’m through.’

He looked at the worried faces, the young ones in his ‘family’. He took them through his years of training and told them he’d worked for an aim — had suffered the punishing schedule because he believed EXIT’s credo to be true.

He moved on to his time in the field, the complexity and detail needed to convince scores of people that an impostor was the person they knew. The need to act a part and probe into the target’s life. The need to replace friends with facsimiles, to pay off others. He then gave specifics about the replacement of Zia ul-Haq, the stress, the dangers. The cadets sat enthralled.

He finished with an appeal. A rock was needed to stand against the waves of national selfishness. He believed in EXIT and its credo because he believed in humanity and the attempt to be impartial. As he concluded, several cadets were close to tears. Allah be praised, he’d done it, got the thing back on track. He felt emotional himself. He turned to Rhonda, shrugged. ‘Enough?’

She stood up, ‘Thank you, Ray,’ came forward and hugged him.

The cadets were up. A storm of fervent clapping.

She smiled and gestured for quiet. ‘Well, we intended to have questions but we’re now over time, so you can talk to him individually later.’

Although the cadets were sitting again, a score of hands waved in the air.

‘All right. Three questions?’ She looked at him.

He nodded and pointed to an intense-looking Chinese girl. ‘Yes?’

‘You’re at the top. A Grade Four. Now you have to leave. Isn’t that an enormous waste of training?’

‘It’s not restricted to us. It’s a typical situation in the services. Consider the captain of this ship. He may have trained all his life for the job and he might hold it . . . how long, Commander?’ He glanced at the sailor.

Spencer piped up. ‘Two years.’

He turned back to the girl. ‘And remember, when you’re my age, you won’t have the physical drive you feel now.’

‘But won’t you miss this?’

He laughed. ‘I’ve slaved nonstop for thirty years. Constant stress. You burn out. Yes . . . ?’

A Malaysian-looking youth with a punk haircut. ‘The thought of killing people still grosses me out. How do you cope when you actually have to do it?’

‘Yes.’ He paused, last night raw in his gut. ‘I’ve been taught how to kill but it still sickens me. You could say I’ve absorbed the techniques but not the attitude. The short answer is that combat readiness requires compassion fatigue. But it’s a long conversation with many aspects. I’ll be glad to discuss it with you privately. Yes . . . ?’

A thoughtful-looking cadet with a beard. ‘One hears rumours that several of our projects aren’t quite as impartial as you paint them. There have been instances that don’t stack up lately. Has Tigon’s vision been subverted?’

A murmur went around the room. Vanqua was standing up quickly.

‘Do you have any comment?’ the cadet persisted. ‘For instance, why are we on a participating vessel?’

Cain locked eyes with him, ‘I’m trying to find out.’

His reply wasn’t the evasion they expected but a deliberate affirmation. The cadets looked at each other.

‘Already too many questions,’ Vanqua cut in. ‘Enough.’

Zuiden appeared at lunch. After the meal he brushed by Cain and drawled almost admiringly, ‘You’re some messy sleeper.’

D
inner was early that evening to accommodate the first tour of the ship. Spencer handed half of them security tags and told them to sign out. As Cain joined the line of cadets he saw the sandy hair of Zuiden ahead.

Then Hunt joined the line in a jumpsuit that fitted her disturbingly. Were they mad?

He dropped back two places to talk to her. ‘Why not give it a miss till tomorrow?’ He flicked his eyes toward Zuiden.

‘I can’t. Vanqua insists I go tonight. Something about things looking right.’

‘Rhonda went along with that?’

She nodded.

‘Then you’d better stay close to me.’

‘She said I had to.’

Great, he thought. Now I’m nurse.

First stop was a tour around the hangar bay conducted by a black chief petty officer. ‘We’ve got two acres in here but as you see we don’t waste space. Ship’s so big no one ever sees all of it and even if you had your own brother on board, you’d be lucky to run across him in a year.’

Beyond the closely parked, chained aircraft was a vast oval in the hull. A rating stood in the middle of it, outlined against moonlit wave-crests, arms spread wide and down, hands pointing to the deck. A klaxon sounded twice then kept on sounding as a plane with ugly splayed landing gear descended on a huge exterior platform.

‘Deck-edge elevator, one of four,’ the petty officer yelled. ‘Can strike down aircraft in 30 seconds. He pointed out features of the bay. ‘Refuelling outlets over there. Hangar control. Bomb-proof doors. Conflag station up near the overhead. Fire control’s a big deal here, when you consider all the go-juice and ordinance . . .’

Cain stared at drop tanks cradled in racks far above. He’d noticed that the cadets glanced at him admiringly and found it disconcerting. Hunt stayed by him. Fortunately Zuiden was still up front.

‘This is a Tomcat . . .’

The group stopped to examine the fighter which was being maintained by blue-shirted mechanics on a work stand. As questions started Cain walked around the dirty-looking plane, reading instructions written on it. COOLANT ELECTRICAL DISCONNECT. ADAPTOR INSTL. UMBILICAL ACTUATION HOOK. COMMAND SIGNAL DECODER. There were vanes behind the engine exhausts — one set open, one closed.

‘What are these for?’ he asked.

‘Turkey feathers,’ the man said. ‘New GE engines. You take off closed down. No afterburner. Melt the blast shield. Just military thrust.’

He didn’t understand or much care. He touched Hunt’s arm and fell back behind a fork-lift to talk to her unheard. ‘What exactly did Rhonda say to you?’

‘We can’t talk here.’ She walked ahead.

‘This is a Hornet,’ their escort explained. ‘A strike fighter we convert to attack role by adding weapon racks. Heavy on juice. Always looking for plugs . . .’

Cain trailed the group, keeping an eye on Zuiden, who was asking a question about repairs. Their guide was keen to inform him. ‘We keep the down birds back this end. Got aircraft shops, spare parts stowage. Engine maintenance astern. Planes are cranky, like babies. When we get to the fantail, you’ll see the . . .’

Spencer glanced up from his watch. ‘Sorry, chief. Pushed for time. Got to get on the roof for the launch. Can we muster them on an elevator?’

They were herded out onto the platform that jutted from the hull. Cain stared at the water creaming below, then up at the great bulk of the ship. Canisters for inflatable life rafts festooned its sides like grapes on a vine. Sponsons, catwalks, splayed safety nets jutting angles and protrusions, made it a citadel overhanging the sea.

The klaxon sounded. They rode up and joined the flat-top. Posts holding a safety cable slid smoothly into the deck. He walked over the cable which fitted into a groove.

‘We’ll take a short cut through the bomb farm.’ Spencer led them behind the island. ‘Some climbing ahead. In here.’

‘Isn’t there a lift?’ Zuiden asked.

‘Sure, but so small you’ve got to be married to ride in it.’

‘Do we get to see Pri-Fly?’

‘They’re a bit busy right now.’

They had to climb six levels before they reached the steel walkway high above the flight deck. By then, the vanished sun was a glow on the horizon. Looking down at the now yellow-lighted deck, Cain was surprised to see planes stacked with tails projecting over the sea. He could feel the huge vessel listing to starboard and looked aft to a curving wake. Behind them and to the side, he saw the running lights of a ship and another light far astern.

Spencer said, ‘She’s coming into the wind. It’s no fun being the plane-guard destroyer captain — watching a floating airport charging in every direction. Carriers are notorious for unannounced turns and speed changes.’

‘So why don’t they communicate?’

‘Because the carrier’s got this permanent can of worms. And the junior grade lieutenant on the greyhound is too intimidated — too scared to pick up his primary tactical circuit handset and front the admiral. Meanwhile the carrier’s fighting the crosswind. For instance, it’s okay for launching one plane but out of limits for another in the pattern. So the PIM’s out the window because she’s got to chase the wind for the birds.’

‘Uh-huh.’ It was double-Dutch to him. He looked at the organised bedlam below. Hurrying figures carrying flashlights, waving light wands. Power cables festooning the deck, yellow plane-handling equipment being moved into position. A chopper took off further aft. ‘What’s the significance of the jacket colours?’

‘The red guys with the carts are ordies — ordnance.’ Spencer pointed down. ‘Blue guys are plane handlers, tractor drivers and so on. Purple are “grapes” — fuel guys. Green’s catapult and arresting gear crews. Yellow for officers handling the show.’

‘And this thing’s powered by a reactor?’

‘Eight — two for each shaft. Driving thirty-two heat-exchangers. Welcome to the world of the supercarrier — grandest expression of the American Empire.

A PA system roared, ‘Stand clear of intakes . . . check positioning of huffers . . . check again for FOD. Aaaaand . . . start ’em up.’

Cain watched, feeling the vibration of the ship. Dim red glows from the cockpits. Plane captains on the deck, waving their blue lights. The whine of a turbine from the deck. Then others, as starter-carts came to life. The racket of the first aircraft engine starting. He took out his earplugs, rolled them into grubs, inserted them.

‘Turkeys are cooking.’ Spencer inserted his own plugs as more engines spooled up. The ground crews were checking control surfaces and hydraulic pressures.

Cain glanced along the line of faces gazing down. He poked Spencer, yelled, ‘Where’s Hunt?’

Spencer got it, more by lip-reading than sound, looked around. Cain walked back along the steel balcony. No Hunt. And no Zuiden. Spencer turned back, shrugged, then went forward through a door at the end of the walkway.

Cain followed him in. The noise level dropped. It was a dimly lit, glassed-in eagles’ nest that protruded from the island. The air boss sat on a raised chair in front of intercoms and consoles, controlling the launch.

Spencer asked his assistant, ‘Did a big fair-haired man and a woman come in here?’

‘No, sir.’

The commander’s face tightened. He looked across at Cain. ‘Must have gone back down the way we came up.’

Cain said, ‘I’m on it.’

He ran back on the walkway to the hatch and half-slid down the ladders, surprising other sailors coming up.

‘See a fair-haired guy and a woman come down here?’