Flash Point (39 page)

Commander Whip Sawyer had enjoyed his first month as the Naval attaché at the U.S. embassy in Paris, one of the choicest jobs in the entire world. There wasn’t a lot of intelligence gathering or analysis, but there was the opportunity to live in Paris. Sawyer had brought his entire family along with him on this choice assignment. His children, however, ages seven, nine, and eleven, had been nervous about the change. They had spent the last five years in Coronado, California, where Sawyer had been an Intelligence Officer on the staff of a SEAL team, and then for SPECWARCOM, Special Warfare Command. He spoke passable French, and had placed his children in French school. The children had come home teary-eyed for the first two weeks, but were now getting used to it. His wife was still unsure, but overall his family was settling in. They had found a wonderful small apartment in the fourth arrondisement, not too far from Notre Dame.

Sawyer was content. He had already discovered what he considered to be one of the best jogging paths in the world — from his apartment, down to the Seine riverbank, then along the river toward the Eiffel Tower. He could run along the Seine as far as he wanted, sometimes on the sidewalk above, where artists sold paintings and booksellers sold used books, sometimes down the stairs on the cobblestone quays along the river where the barges pulled up. It was quieter there, less traffic, and no intersections.

Sawyer had been starting his run earlier each morning so that he was now beginning in the semidarkness, although he could see well enough to keep from tripping. He dashed across the street onto the sidewalk that paralleled the river, keeping his running pace consistent, a moderate pace that would allow him to go five miles or so without overdoing it. Today he decided on the lower route and turned down one of the stone stairways to the cobblestones below. He took the stairs rapidly and headed toward the Eiffel Tower. He wanted to get in a good long run.

The Seine was beautiful in its quickly flowing darkness. Sawyer had been surprised at how clean the city was, and how few homeless people there were. He wondered how France had solved the homeless problem. But there were a few pathetic homeless winos who populated the underbelly of Paris by the river, usually under the bridges. It was one of the unfortunate realities of running on the quay.

Sawyer approached the second of many bridges. It was one of the prettier ones, although some thought it gaudy. It had gilded nudes on the side with Roman-looking soldiers beside them. There were black figures and gold ones, emphasizing the contrast, and the city obviously kept the bridge in good condition. It was a wide bridge and provided cover for several people beneath. Sawyer recognized all of them, except one. The person looked like a puddle of humanity in large clothes full of dust and leaves. An old woman’s head stuck out the top of the puddle of clothing, her arm protruding at an odd angle holding a cup out to him. Her witch-like voice called to him for money. As he got closer he glanced at her again. The woman was a big lump with no obvious spine, and seemed to have no legs at all. Sawyer tried not to show his revulsion. As he reached her, he accelerated just slightly. He never saw the leg come out from under the dark mass of clothing, the strong leg of a man. Timed perfectly, it caught him in the shins as momentum carried him forward. Sawyer slammed to the cobblestones, instinctively putting his hands out in front to catch himself but he was falling too hard. He smashed his cheekbone on one of the cobblestones, lights shooting through his head as he groaned and tried to get back up. The young man who had been hidden under the pile of clothes threw off the black cape and the woman’s face and jumped on Sawyer, still lying on the stones. He pulled out a knife, jerked Sawyer’s head back, and cut his throat. As the blood spurted onto the cobblestones, the man rolled Sawyer’s body into the Seine.

Woods and Big were surprised by the loud knock on their stateroom door. It was after midnight.

Bark stormed in, closing the door loudly behind him.

Woods stood up as Big jumped down from his rack.

“Hey, Skipper.”

Bark looked at them without speaking. Finally he said, “Can I sit?”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“So, I need to get the straight story.”

“What straight story?” Woods asked.

“You know
exactly
what story I’m talking about.”

“The Syria thing?”

“Right. Talk to me.”

Woods and Big eyed each other, wondering who was going to go first. Then Woods spoke. “What is there to say?”

Bark was not impressed. He wanted this to be easy, not something he would have to work for. “Guess what I’ve been doing?”

Woods felt a chill race through him. “What?”

“I’ve been watching the PLAT films from the day of the attack.”

Big tried to look casual. “What for?”

“One thing that has puzzled me. If anyone was involved in the attack, it had to be you, now that they’ve given us a time when this supposedly happened. But I couldn’t figure out how you could have returned to the ship with all your missiles. I was checking for that.”

“We had all our missiles.”

“That’s right.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You know how when you shoot a Sidewinder it leaves carbon deposits on the missile rails?”

Woods tried not to look away from Bark’s intrusive stare. “Sure.”

“Can you explain to me how it is that each of you had missile exhaust on your Sidewinder rails coming aboard the ship that day?”

Woods felt trapped. He wanted to confess, to brag, to tell Bark everything. He knew Bark would understand. But he also knew Bark would do his duty. And that meant Leavenworth. “That’s impossible, Skipper. Can’t have missiles and exhaust at the same time. Unless the exhaust is old.”

Bark shrugged. “That’s what I still can’t figure out. . . . Well, I thought I’d just stop by and see if you guys had any ideas.” He had great respect for his two Lieutenants, but he knew they were capable of a lot of things. “Either of you have anything to say?”

“Not me,” Woods said.

“The exhaust could be from the missile shoot at Roosevelt Roads.” Big said. “We shot a lot of Sidewinders there.”

“You think so?” Bark asked.

“Sure,” Big said. “Probably was.”

Bark’s eyes focused on Big. “Except the two Sidewinder shooters at Rosy Roads were 200 and 201. I checked.”

“Oh,” Big said, feeling exposed.

“And I went down to the hangar bay and looked at your two airplanes. You know what? You can still see some faint missile exhaust marks on the rails. It’s still there.”

“How can that be?” Woods asked.

“I was hoping you two could tell me. Anything else you want to say?”

“About what?”

Bark frowned. “About anything.”

Woods couldn’t speak. Anything he would say could imply something. Finally he said, “Not really.”

Bark waited, then stood up, opening the door. “See you in the morning.” The door slammed behind him.

Woods waited and heard Bark’s footsteps on the tile as he strode quickly down the passageway toward the ready room.

Big said, “We’re busted.”

“If we were busted, he would have said so. He’s not sure.”

“He may be very sure. He might have just been giving us the opportunity to prove we’re honest. . . . I guess we aren’t.”

“We didn’t lie.”

“That wasn’t a lie?”

“Not really—”

“Shit, Sean! What do you think we’re doing here? We just deceived our Squadron Commander!”

Woods eyes were darkening. “Did you really think we’d go into Lebanon, or Syria, or wherever, and kill some people and not
lie
about it?”

“I don’t know. It just feels so dirty. Lying to your CO is just so unbelievable.”

“You’d better get used to it, Big, unless you want to go to Leavenworth.”

“You’re okay with all this?”

Woods wasn’t okay with it at all. He had never felt worse in his life. He had broken laws, serious laws, and he had killed for the first time. Now he was falling down the laundry chute of lies and covering. “No. I’m not okay with it. I feel like shit, and I’m yelling at you because I don’t know what else to do. I want to just go on with my life and be a Naval officer. I want to get back to complaining about Navy paperwork, or the night’s movie. Or Bernie the Breather. . . . What can we do about it now, Big? We can’t undo it.”

“Nope.”

“If we confess, we’ll just go right to Leavenworth.”

“We never should have done it.”

“So what now?”

“I don’t know.”

“I guess we repent and go straight. We don’t rob any more banks, and we don’t go on any more air strikes into Lebanon.”

“I’m not sure that’s enough.”

“It’s all we’ve got.”

Ronald Pope enjoyed his work as the Assistant Secretary of State for Middle Eastern Affairs. It was very interesting, and allowed him to travel, but he was growing tired of his job. He wanted to move back into academia where the demands were substantially less, and he could write to his heart’s content. He thought a life of writing would be just the thing. His mind was full of book ideas and articles. Even driving to work with the radio on, he was thinking of what he could write about the Middle East. There was so much to say, the area was so complex and difficult. Maybe one day.

He shifted his briefcase to his left hand as he put his key in his car door to lock it. It jammed slightly and he grew annoyed. He had chosen not to get an alarm or keyless entry on his new Taurus, and now regretted it. He was sick of having to lock the door with a key. He knew he could just push the button on the inside of the door to lock all the doors at once, and then just close the driver’s door, but he didn’t want to take the risk of locking his keys in the car. So every day he shifted his briefcase to his left hand and put the key into the door.

“Excuse me,” a man said, who suddenly appeared next to him.

“Yes?”

“Are you Ronald Pope?”

“Yes. Who are you?” His eyes darted around for help, in case he needed it. But no one else was there. He always arrived before his peers.

“It doesn’t matter.” The man pulled a gun with a long silencer on it out of his jacket. Pope stared at the gun. He had never even seen a silencer, but he knew what it was.

“What are you—”

The gun jerked as the man shot Pope in the stomach. He fell, his blood spilling out onto the ground. The man moved closer to Pope, now writhing and groaning. The gun barked quietly as the man shot him again in the chest. Pope lay still. The killer put his gun back in his jacket and leaned down next to Pope, shoving his body underneath the Taurus.

The club in Naples had often been used for squadron functions. The F-18 squadron had reserved it long ahead, knowing that it booked up early when the carrier was in port. The Mediterranean usually contained at least one American aircraft carrier, sometimes two. One was almost always at sea. The
George Washington
was in the eastern Mediterranean and the
Dwight D. Eisenhower (CVN-69)
was in port in Naples. VFA-136, an F/A-18 squadron, had decided to have a Dining-In, an officers-only party, where the officers wore their dress white uniforms and enjoyed the Naval traditions of roast beef, port, and toasts. It was a highly regimented, scripted event. The officers had been anticipating the night for a month, dreading it because they had to wear their dress uniforms, but looking forward to it because of the Navy mythology that rose around the dinners. Stories of great excesses and drunkenness, toasts given and regretted, food fights, general mayhem and craziness. Few had seen such things, and the legends went back several decades, even centuries, but there was always great anticipation of legends in the making.

Commander Gary Witt, the F-18 Squadron Commanding Officer, was by definition the president of the mess. He was, therefore, required to do certain things and behave in a certain way. Very savvy, he knew what was expected of him and so far he had been doing his job beautifully. He caught the signal from the Lieutenant who was acting as the Officer of the Mess with a sword on his side that it was time to parade the beef. Witt stood and asked for attention. “As you all know, it is now time for that great moment where we begin our feast by bringing in the main course for all the red-blooded Americans seated at these tables. I call your attention to the parading of the beef!”

With that the doors opened in the back of the banquet room and two large Italian waiters entered. Walking solemnly, they carried an enormous platter between them on their shoulders. A bagpiper followed them, odd moaning sounds coming from his instrument as he puffed up the bladder in preparation for playing. Finally, in keeping with the tradition, “Scotland the Brave” screamed out of the pipes. The waiters and the piper made their way slowly around the room, allowing each officer to gaze longingly at the beautiful side of beef as their eardrums were pierced by the deafening bagpipes.

Suddenly the doors on the side of the room flew open. A man in a hood and black clothing appeared with an assault rifle with a scope at his shoulder. He glanced around quickly, saw Witt standing at the head table, and sighted through his scope. Several officers cried out at the same moment so that the Officer of the Mess reached to his side for his sword, but it happened too fast; no one could stop the shooter. He fired and Witt fell forward, his head slapping against the lectern as he dropped to the floor, dead. Some of the men jumped to their feet, ready to rush the gunman. The Officer of the Mess had pulled out his sword and was moving toward the gunman when the man saw him and immediately fired three bullets into him, killing him instantly. The gunman stood quietly, waiting for anyone else to move. No one did. The pilots wanted to charge out and attack the gunman but they all had seen what happened. The man began backing up slowly, moving toward the door where he had entered. Two other gunmen, also wearing hoods and carrying assault rifles with scopes appeared, opening the two doors for the killer, and he backed out unmolested. As the room erupted in shrieks of horror, revenge, and anger, the three gunmen disappeared.