Sea of Crises (36 page)

The plan had been to guide the pickle into the north face of the rock. Timmons, however, had, at the last moment, re-directed the bomb away from the tiny island when he’d seen the figures below. Whoever the people down there were, they owed their survival to the keen eyesight and quick reactions of the junior officer.

But, it begged the question: Who the hell were they? And who in the world would be inhabiting a rock out here in the middle of nowhere?

They were at the outer edge, but still within, an area known informally as the Pacific Range, a desolate patch of ocean northwest of Hawaii in which the U.S. military from time to time conducted training exercises using live munitions. Though the vast majority of the Range was technically within international waters, and, therefore, foreign nationals couldn’t be excluded from sailing or flying through it, there was no particular reason why anyone would want to, and most nautical charts and aviation maps clearly delineated the area as one to be avoided.

The figures he’d seen a moment before - there looked to be three of them - must have arrived by boat, though he’d seen no sign of a vessel. They were playing a dangerous game. If Timmons hadn’t reacted as quickly as he had, or if Budnarsky had elected, as originally proposed, to have the bomb launched from altitude, those people would be dead now, and no one would be the wiser.

“Tangier Leader to Top Hat,” Budnarsky called, “we are on station at the primary target.”

“Roger Tangier Leader,” came the reply from the combat air control center. “Has the target been destroyed?”

“That’s a negative,” Budnarsky replied. “There are unknown persons occupying the target.”

“Stand by.”

There was a minute of silence from the other end, and Budnarsky assumed his report was being routed up the chain of command. Finally, the controller came back on.

“Orders are to destroy the target.”

That surprised Budnarsky. Something had to have been lost in the translation.

“I repeat,” Budnarsky said, “there are people down there.”

“That is understood. The orders are to destroy the target. No exceptions. Colonel, these orders are flagged Juliet Charlie. And that’s ‘Actual.’”

Jesus, thought Budnarsky. These orders came directly from the Joint Chiefs of Staff? He’d never heard of such a thing.

Off to his right, Timmons eased his Raptor into formation. They were at 10,000 feet, flying a wide circuit around the tiny islet. Budnarsky checked his radar display. No contacts. Old instincts being what they were, however, he glanced around. They were alone in this remote patch of the sky. He took slow, deep breaths.

Budnarsky had never disobeyed an order. Never considered disobeying an order.

“What are we going to do, skipper?” Timmons asked.

Budnarsky didn’t answer right away. He absently tapped a gloved finger on the side-stick controller. His eyes flicked across the cockpit display, noting their fuel status. All systems were functioning properly.

He was, he knew, stalling. Finally, he made a decision.

“I’ll tell you what we’re not going to do,” he said firmly. “We’re not going to drop our bombs on that rock. My gut tells me there’s something wrong with that order.”

A new voice sounded in his earphones.

“Your instincts have always been good, Bud.”

Startled, Budnarsky demanded, “Who’s this on my frequency?”

The voice came back immediately. “This is General Bryce McConnell, and I’ll bet that bucket of bolts you’re sitting in right now is called the King of Clubs. And, for the record, I’m still not buying that inside draw.”

The words came as a surprise. And, despite the tense circumstances, Budnarsky had to laugh out loud. After a moment, he said, “Still can’t get over that, huh, General?”

“Nope,” came McConnell’s reply, “never will.”

As a young second lieutenant, fresh out of advanced fighter school, Budnarsky had been roped into a game of five card draw late one night with several of the senior officers in his squadron. Playing conservatively, mainly because he couldn’t afford to lose the kind of money being thrown around by the other pilots, he’d managed to pretty much break even throughout the evening. Then, on the last hand, something extraordinary happened.

He was dealt the ten, jack, queen and ace of clubs, along with the three of hearts. The initial round of bets hadn’t been too bad, and Budnarsky had decided, what the hell, he’d stay in and see if he could catch lighting in a bottle. Putting the three face down on the table, he’d called for a single card, which drew hoots from the other players. He was hoping, of course, to fill the straight or complete the flush, but he was ready to settle for a decent pair.

What he got was the king of clubs, giving him a royal flush. An unbeatable hand.

One of the other players, his squadron commander, then-Lieutenant Colonel Bryce McConnell, had the misfortune of being dealt three sevens and then drawing the fourth. It gave the colonel a hand that wasn’t as good as Budnarsky’s, but one that had to have seemed unbeatable to the senior officer.

McConnell and Budnarsky raised each other so many times Budnarsky lost count. At first convinced the junior pilot was trying to bluff him, it took the squadron commander far too long to finally realize his opponent had to have a pretty damn good hand. By the time he called, the pot had swelled to an amount in excess of two months’ pay for the young lieutenant. When McConnell learned that Budnarsky had won by filling the royal flush with an inside draw, he was beside himself.

Ever since, Budnarsky had christened each of the planes he’d been assigned to fly the “King of Clubs.” That included the stealth fighter he was flying today. And, whenever he’d encountered his former squadron commander, now the highest ranking officer in the Air Force, Budnarsky had taken good-natured grief. Happily.

“If it’s any consolation, General,” said Budnarsky, “my wife still wears the ring I bought with your money.”

McConnell laughed. “In that case, I feel better.”

“General,” Budnarsky said after a moment, “what do you know about this order?”

“I just learned about it myself,” McConnell said, “monitoring your transmissions. I think I know how it was generated, though. We’ve recently dealt with an issue I can’t go into here. This was obviously something that got out before we corrected the situation. You were right to question the order. And I’m hereby countermanding it.”

As Budnarsky took a relieved breath, he noticed that, on his cockpit readout, a blip had appeared to the east. It was unidentified, but coded friendly. “Sir, don’t tell me that’s you in the slow moving aircraft at the far east edge of my radar.”

“Well,” McConnell replied, “I’m not sure I like the ‘slow moving’ part, but, yep, that’s me.”

“What are you flying today, General?”

“I’m not in the driver’s seat, Bud. I’m catching a ride out of Pearl in a Sea Stallion.”

Budnarsky whistled softly to himself. The unidentified blip to his east was a Sikorsky CH-53 helicopter. It had a range of about 540 nautical miles. “Sir, you’re a long way from nowhere out here. What’s your fuel situation?”

“We just topped off.”

Budnarsky whistled again. They’d done at least one mid-air refueling. Of course that would be the only way for a land-based helicopter to be this far out. But this wasn’t just any helicopter. It happened to contain the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Something extraordinary was going on.

“If I may ask, sir,” Budnarsky said, “where are you headed?”

“We are inbound your position,” McConnell replied. “ETA fifteen minutes.”

“Why in the world would you be coming out here?”

McConnell’s answer was surprising.

“We’re coming to collect the men on that rock.”

#

“Can you see them?” Cartwright asked.

He and Kruchinkin were hunched down just inside the entry to the bunker. Dayton stood outside, head up, eyes and ears alert. Cartwright felt a little foolish hiding in the enclosure, but there was no way he’d be able to hear either aircraft before it was on them. They’d decided Dayton would perform the reconnaissance just outside, ready to dive in if the planes returned.

“No,” Dayton said, “but I can still hear them. Near as I can tell, they’re circling.”

Kruchinkin looked at Cartwright. “Maybe this is a good thing, yes?”

Cartwright was overwhelmed with an irrational fear that he’d get his hopes up only to have them dashed horribly. Still, he couldn’t completely tamp down the excitement. He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Kruchinkin’s eyes shone. “Yes, I am certain it is.”

Dayton spun around suddenly. There was a new tension in his body language.

“What is it?” Cartwright asked.

“I think,” Dayton said slowly, “it might be…” He was silent for a long moment. Suddenly he turned and looked intently at Cartwright and Kruchinkin.

“A helicopter.”

Cartwright’s heart missed at least two beats, but it didn’t matter, as adrenaline surged through him. “I’m coming out.”

He stepped out of the bunker, Kruchinkin behind him. He looked around, but saw nothing but the sea and sky. He strained to hear something, anything. But the only thing registering was the muffled beat of his own heart as it pounded blood to his head.

Dayton had taken a few steps down the path leading to the Parade Ground. He was looking east, in the same direction from which the re-supply plane had come. Cartwright focused his attention in that direction. And then he heard it. Faint. Distant. But unmistakable.

“I’ll be damned.”

Dayton looked back at him with a questioning expression.

Cartwright shrugged. “We’re either rescued or we’re dead. Either way,” he waved a hand in the direction of the Parade Ground, “we might as well.”

Quickly, the three hurried down the path. At the bottom, they stopped and stood, side by side, squinting to the east, Cartwright’s heart doing a fair impression of a jack hammer.

“There,” Kruchinkin exclaimed, pointing.

Low on the distant horizon was a small black spot. Cartwright could now clearly hear the rhythmic slapping sound of helicopter rotors. The spot grew, not as quickly as the re-supply plane had, but still steadily until Cartwright could make out a blunt nose with a long horizontal line above it, extending far out to either side. He dared not move or blink for fear of it suddenly vanishing.

As the aircraft approached the island, the sound became overwhelming. And then the massive thing loomed above them, the downward draft of its rotors washing off the bare surface of the Parade Ground and over and around the three men. From beneath the fuselage, small landing gear appeared, and the pilot slowly eased the large ungainly-looking craft down, settling onto the ground with a slight bounce, her nose pointed at the men huddled together a few feet away. There was an abrupt change in noise as the roar of the engines faded away, leaving a residual high pitched sound that, in turn, began to fade slowly.

On the right hand side of the fuselage, just behind the cockpit, the lower half of a door swung downward, forming a set of steps. A trim man in a blue windbreaker stepped out and began walking toward them. Something about the man seemed familiar to Cartwright. And then it hit him.

Oh my god, he thought. Damned if the son of a gun hadn’t gone and gotten old. Cartwright took a couple of awkward steps in the man’s direction. A huge smile split the man’s face and he opened his arms. Cartwright reached out and, when he was near, pulled Rick Delahousse to him, wrapping his arms around the man. Emotion overwhelmed Cartwright, his knees buckled slightly, and he had to hold on to his old friend to avoid falling. He wanted to speak, but his throat was suddenly constricted, and he realized with some embarrassment that there were tears running down his face.

Delahousse planted his feet and clung to Cartwright. They stayed that way for a long time.

Finally, still leaning against Delahousse, Cartwright reached up with his left hand and wiped his eyes. Then he relaxed his grip, took a deep breath and stepped back. Delahousse, he saw, had tears on his own face.

“Rick,” he managed to croak, “what…” He didn’t even know how to ask.

Delahousse shook his head. He seemed at a loss for words himself.

Cartwright suddenly remembered his companions. He glanced back. Dayton had come up behind him. Delahousse took a step toward the man, and they embraced. When they let go, Dayton looked as unsteady as Cartwright felt, and he, too, seemed unsure what to say.

Kruchinkin, who had held back, now stepped forward. “I do not know who you are,” said the Russian, his voice trembling, “but I love you.” And he grabbed Delahousse and enfolded him in a huge bear hug. It caught the Texan by surprise. After a couple of seconds, his startled look gave way to a laugh. It seemed to break the spell, and suddenly all four men were laughing.

Stepping back from Kruchinkin, Delahousse used both hands to brush the tears from his face, then he gave Cartwright a direct look. “Sorry it took us so long, Bob. Honestly, we thought you were dead all these years. We only just figured it out.

“We wouldn’t have,” he added, “if not for your sons.”

The weakness returned to Cartwright’s legs. “My sons,” he said faintly.

Behind Delahousse, another man had emerged from the helicopter. Cartwright looked at him and experienced a moment of lightheaded disorientation. It was as if, for the first time in thirty-six years, he was looking in a mirror, his own dark countenance peering intently back at him at eye level, a look of concern mingled with excitement.

Cartwright’s breath came rattling out of him along with a single word. “Nate.”

“Dad,” his son said quietly. And then they were in each others’ arms, and again Cartwright’s throat wouldn’t allow him to say anything for a long moment. Still clinging to Nate, he was finally able to get out, “Peter and Matt?”

“We’re here, Dad.”

Cartwright glanced up and saw Peter, brows furrowed. From behind him, Matt emerged. He had a smile on his face. My god, Cartwright thought, his boys had become men.

He reached out his left arm, and the twins stepped into the embrace. For how long Cartwright couldn’t say - but a wonderfully long time - the four of them remained there, no one saying anything. Finally Cartwright straightened and looked at each of his sons in turn. “How did you…” He was again at a loss for words.