Top Hook (6 page)

“Hey, Al!” A big hand descended on his shoulder. “Hey, man, I like for my officers to check in with me when they come aboard, what gives?”

Alan's anger deflated like a leaky balloon. It was “Rafe” Rafehausen, friend from his first squadron, onetime nemesis, now the CAG—commander of the
Jefferson
's air wing.

“You going to ask me in, or do I have to push?”

“Oh, Jeez—Rafe, am I glad to see you—Christ, man, I haven't had time to report; see, last night—”

Rafe waved a hand. “I know all about it.
Everybody
knows all about it—James Bond Meets Rambo. You don't do things by halves, do you, Craik?” He pushed a duffel bag off the only chair and threw himself down. “Don't let me interrupt, if you were doing something important. You look like shit, by the way, anybody told you that?”

“I
shot
a guy yesterday. How you think that makes me feel?”

“I don't know how it makes you feel, but it makes you look like shit. Come on, what's up—trouble?”

“Kessler.” Alan raced through a summary of his meeting with the admiral and then Maggiulli and the flag captain. To his surprise, Rafe laughed. “Hey, Kessler's got a bug up his ass about good relations with foreigners and the media; you come in and shoot up a liberty port, what d'you think he's going to do, kiss you? So call your friend at NCIS, for Christ's sake!”

“
I can't get hold of him!
” Alan started to rant, and Rafe cut him off.

“Get a grip. First things first—the reason I came here, besides wanting to welcome you aboard, was to get you to grab hold of this fucking detachment you're supposed to command. Your detachment sucks—clear?”

“Rafe, I only met the guys two days ago; Jesus Christ, give me a break.”

“I can't give you a break. And I wouldn't if I could; I need your aircraft in the air and I need them today. Between you, me and the shitter, Kosovo's going to go ballistic and holy hell is blowing up in the Indian Ocean, and the CAG doesn't have time for one of his commanders to dance around the telephone. You get
with your det, buddy, and you start to kick ass; they're a mess.”

“Kessler's captain gave me an ultimatum.”

Rafe blew out a breath in exasperation. “I'll handle it. Kessler listens to me; he's not an aviator, so he needs me. I'll tell him you're God's gift to the US Navy; I trust you like a brother; if you say it's national security, it's national security. Give me the name of the guy you're trying to reach on the fucking phone and I'll have him found by the time you've done an honest day's work with the det. Deal?”

“The flag captain's word was ‘toast.'”

“Yeah, yeah, his bark is worse than his bite. Friel's a pussycat. Come on, gimme the data and get your ass out of here and go to work. That's an order, Craik!”

Alan stared at him and then began to laugh. He reached for his flight suit.

Rafe put a hand again on Alan's shoulder.

“One more thing. There's talk, so watch your step.”

“Talk? What—last night—?”

“That, and—you know the boat, everybody cooped up. There's just talk about you taking over the det on such short notice. They say you got bounced from another assignment.”

Alan's face went rigid. “I did. And no reason given.”

Rafe patted his shoulder. “Guys talk. Just let 'em.”

George Shreed was leaning on his metal canes by his office window, watching a hot wind blow fast-food wrappers through the CIA parking lot. He wasn't seeing them; he was only turning his eyes on them, occupying his vision, while his mind, numb, could not shift his focus from his wife's death. He thought of himself as
a hardass, but he wasn't hard all the way through; somewhere in there, he bled. He had prepared for the death, had used the word, had said it would happen, must happen, was unavoidable—and now he was as devastated as if it had come as a surprise.

His door thumped under somebody's knuckles.

“Yes.”

Ray Suter came in, first his head, then a shoulder, then half his body. “You want to be by yourself?”

“Come in, come in.”

“I wanted to say how bad I feel. All of us feel.”

“Thank you.”

Shreed hadn't turned around. He could see Suter's reflection in the window, beyond it, the trees bowing in the hot wind of a June day. Tonight there would be thunderstorms, a cold front, a change. Even in his grief, he found himself thinking that Suter looked different today.

“Can we
do
anything?”

It was the kind of question that Shreed usually pounced on:
What did you have in mind, resurrection? Did you want to hold a seance in the canteen?
But the acid had gone out of him for a little while. Instead, Shreed said, “Maybe somebody could plant a tree someplace. No flowers.”

“Right, right. I heard that. The Cancer Society, right. There's a collection—the girls are taking it up—”

Shreed's back moved, straightened. Was he going to make some comment about the futility of collections as an answer to death? He exhaled slowly. “Thank them for me.”

“Sure. Absolutely. Can I do anything for you? You sleeping?”

Shreed turned, made his way to his desk and leaned
the bright canes against a spot he had used so long that the varnish was worn from the wood. “Pick up the slack on the five-year report, if you will; I've dragged my feet there. Yeah, I'm sleeping okay.” He never slept much, anyway. “There's a memorial service Thursday. You might let people know.”

“Right. Right, absolutely.” Suter stood there, well into the room now but still somehow not of it—keeping himself separate. “I feel so helpless.” Yet he didn't look helpless to Shreed; he looked—
gleeful
?

Shreed shot him a look. Suter's eyes looked funny—was he perhaps hung over? They were too bright, too—excited. For an instant, a bizarre thought flashed across Shreed's mind:
He knows.
Then it was gone, the idea that Suter could know about his spying too ridiculous to consider.

“I've got a task for you,” he said when he had sat down. “One that won't make you feel helpless. Something you'll enjoy, in fact—screwing an old friend.” He grinned. “Alan Craik.”

“No friend of mine!” Suter cried.

“Old enemy, then. What's the difference? Craik's wife is under investigation. Security violation on the Peacemaker project.”

Suter scowled. He had been on the Peacemaker project, too, and had in fact tried without success to get Rose Siciliano into bed.

“I want you to make sure the word gets out that they're security risks. Both of them—where there's smoke there's fire, that sort of thing. If she's in it, so is he. Get it?”

“This is official?”

Shreed started to answer him with acid, then stopped. Suter usually didn't question his orders.

“She's proven herself an enemy of the Agency,” Shreed said. “Is that official enough for you?

“And Suter became Uriah Heep, all but wringing his hands, saying, “Right, right—oh, right—”

And Shreed thought,
Not right,
but then he remembered Janey's death, and Suter became unimportant.

“It's you, Rose. Not Al. And it's the CIA, not the Navy.”

Abe Peretz looked like a casting director's idea of a Jewish professor, with a balding head, unfashionable glasses, and eyes that were mostly dreamy but now and then as hard as diamonds. He was deaf in one ear, the result of a mugging two years before, and so he normally talked now with his head slightly turned so that his good right ear was toward other people.

“What the hell's the CIA got to do with me?”

“And not just the Agency—the Agency's
Internal Investigations Directorate
.” The innocent eyes became hard. “They're hard-nosed and they're ugly—leftovers from Angleton and Kill-a-Commie-for-Christ—and they'd send their own mothers up if she was dicking the Agency. So how come they're on your case? There can be only one reason—you've spun off from an internal investigation.”

“I'm not even in their chain of command!”

“Think of it as walking by when somebody pissed out the window. There's a rumor floating around they've got another mole. You don't understand the relief they'd feel if they got a positive on somebody who
isn't
Agency. It means they can say to each other, ‘We dodged the bullet.' And it means that they can go public, at least within the intelligence community, and say, ‘See, it isn't us—it's the Navy.' And so they went back-channel, probably through the NSC, and sandbagged you.”

“Abe, what the hell do I do?”

“You fight.” He pushed a piece of paper across his desk. “You've got an appointment at three at Barnard, Kootz, Bingham.” She looked her question with a frown, and he said, “Law firm. Heavy hitters—sixty partners, big-bucks political donors to both parties, lots of media savvy. The woman I'm sending you to is the best they got.” He grinned. “She just beat us in court. That's how I know how good she is. Unhh—this ain't pro bono work they do over there, Rose. Justice is blind, but she ain't cheap. Bea and I'll help if we can.”

She had a quick temper, at best; now it gushed out, pushed by the fatigue and a hangover and the hurt, and she cursed; she said they could shove it; she said she didn't want to be part of a Navy that could treat her like this. And she cursed some more.

He grinned again. “Stay mad. You're going to need it.”

USS
Thomas Jefferson
was an old friend, and Alan walked through the passageways with the familiarity of a man visiting a childhood home. The ship was preparing to get underway, and the noise was oddly calming to his own tension. Maybe, as Rafe seemed to believe, it really would all work out once they were at sea.

His detachment had its own ready room, the lack of an A-6 squadron in the air wing having left one vacant. Ready Room Nine, all the way aft and almost under the stern, was the noisiest one; landing aircraft hit the deck just a few feet overhead, and, during flight operations, conversation was all but impossible. Heavy iron cruise boxes filled the front of the room below the chalk-board, but at least, he thought, it was
theirs
.

He wanted to speak to his division chiefs and the officers acting as department heads, but the ready room was nearly empty. He also wanted to find Stevens, the former acting det commander, who probably believed he should have been given the command, even though it was so screwed up that the CAG had made a special point of it. Getting Stevens on his side was an important priority, if it could be done.

The det also had a long list of maintenance problems that Alan thought had been gundecked too long, but, stepping in late and starting behind, he had to trust the
chiefs to get the planes in the air until he could find what was really wrong and fix it. As it was, his unit had one aircraft scheduled to launch in four hours, and he wanted to prove himself to Rafe by making sure it was airborne on time.

Alan put his own name on the flight sked for that first event, scratching a jg named Soleck, whom he hadn't even met.

“Where's Mister Soleck?” he said to a chief who was overseeing the unpacking of the maintenance gear.

“Who's that, sir? He our missing officer?”

“
Missing?
”

“Last I heard, there was one hadn't reported aboard, sir.” The chief was very businesslike; if he had heard the talk that Rafe had referred to, or if he had ideas about the new CO who had got involved in a shooting onshore, he said nothing.

But an officer who hadn't reported aboard? And where the hell was he? Alan reached for the only solid ground he could in the uncertainty of the det: a senior chief he knew and trusted. “Where's Senior Chief Craw?”

“Senior's gone down to VS-53 admin, sir.”

Alan ducked out of the ready room and swung down the steel ladder to the S-3 squadron's admin section, his bad foot giving him a hippity-hop rhythm. Craw was sitting at a computer terminal with another officer hovering by him, but Alan pushed past.

“Senior Chief?”

“Commander! I thought I'd wait till we had some privacy, but, damn! it's good to see you, Mister Craik.”

Alan tried to smile. “It's great to see you, Martin.” The use of the senior chief's first name caused them both to look at the other officer, by some ingrained reflex
of training and custom that said that officers should not call enlisted, however senior and however close, by their first names. “Lieutenant-Commander Craik, this is LTjg Campbell. His part of the translant ran like a top.”

Campbell stammered a greeting and looked embarrassed. They shook hands; Alan had missed meeting him at Pax River. He turned back to Craw. “How bad was the move?”

“Nothing we couldn't handle. The planes were flying off empty and we were leaving half of our spare parts on the beach, but I sort of fixed that first.” Martin Craw's sentences implied volumes.
Sort of fixed that first
suggested an argument won.

“What else?” Alan and Craw exchanged a look that meant
Tell it like it is.

“The inventory was crap and the acting CO released the fly-off officers at 1500. Plus a new guy from flight school wasn't informed that we had an immediate movement and went on leave straight from Pensacola.”

“Is that LTjg Soleck, by any chance, who's on the flight schedule in four hours?”

Craw sighed. “Roger that, skipper. I'm trying to reach him. See, nobody ever sent him an info packet or a schedule or anything, so he has no idea we're looking for him, either.”

“Do we still have land lines tied in?”

Craw glanced at his watch. “About ten minutes longer.”

“Give me a phone. Then I've got to start meeting people.”

He called the listed number in Pennsylvania twice. It rang through, but no one answered and there was no machine. Then he called the duty desk at NAS Pensacola
and asked for a contact number for LTjg Evan Soleck. The petty officer at the other end shuffled papers for a few minutes and asked to call back. Alan hung up, feeling defeated by telephones in his every attempt, and started helping check the maintenance inventory with Craw and Campbell.

“Why isn't somebody from maintenance doing this?” Alan was looking at lists of parts and numbers that meant nothing to him.

“Not my place to say, sir.”

“Fuck that.”

“The acting maintenance officer is in his rack getting his crew rest.” Alan winced. Rafe had been right: this detachment was a mess.

The phone rang. The petty officer in Pensacola said that he had Soleck's leave papers in his hand and read off the Buffalo phone number listed for contact. Alan thanked him to a degree that clearly surprised him and called the new number, looking at his battered Casio. Past four a.m. in New York.

“Hello?” The voice was thick with sleep.

“May I speak to LTjg Evan Soleck?”

“Yeah?”

“Mister Soleck, this is Lieutenant-Commander Alan Craik, your detachment officer-in-charge. I need you to report for duty immediately.”

“Hey, Corky, fuck off, okay? You might have woken my parents.”

“Mister Soleck, I'm Alan Craik and this is not a prank.”

Long pause.

“Uh, sir? Is this for real?”

“Welcome aboard, Mister Soleck. We flew off from Norfolk thirty-six hours ago and right now we're about
to weigh anchor from port Trieste. Do you know how to get travel orders?”

“Uhh—”

“Get your ass down to Pax River today and tell the travel section to get you here ASAP.”

“Uh, sir? I have these tickets for a concert in Buffalo? And a date?”

Despite himself, Alan smiled. “Tell her to wait, Mister Soleck. You'll be at sea.”

Then he walked down to the hangar deck, getting the feel for his men. No women in the det. Old habit made him start to think,
Just as well,
and then he remembered what Rose would have said. And that made him think of her, and he felt a pang of absence. All this telephoning, and he hadn't even tried to reach her, but that had been their arrangement: she would be on the road to Houston, and they would talk when he got to Naples. He glanced at his watch again. Past four in Utica, too, where in another hour she would be waking, saying goodbye, getting the car and heading west. Without a care in the world.

Down on the hangar deck, he was surprised to find aircraft number 902, due to fly in the first event, with her port engine dismounted and a swarm of maintenance personnel covering her. Several men looked his way; they looked at each other, and then they got very busy. Alan smiled at one he knew.

“Hey, Mendez! What're you doing, still in the Nav?”

Mendez, Gloucester-born, Portuguese sailors in his genes, smiled a little reservedly and climbed down from the wing. He wiped his hand several times on his coveralls before presenting it to be shaken. Alan had served with Mendez during the Gulf War; Mendez had introduced him to the methods of loading the chaff
and flare cartridges in the S-3's underbelly. Looking at Mendez, Alan felt younger. “You made first class,” he said.

“Up for chief this year, sir.” Alan nodded and pumped his hand. “Still married?”

“Yessir, with two kids.”

“Introduce me, will you?” Alan walked around the plane, and Mendez, always a popular sailor, introduced him to the men working there. Now they weren't a swarm; now they looked at him with interest rather than—what had it been? Suspicion? Alan could feel their questions, the ones Rafe had warned him about—
Why had he lost a posting and got this? What was this guy doing here?
Even Mendez seemed wary, but Alan pressed on. “Remind me when your chief's board is coming up, will you, Mendez?” He looked around. “Okay, help me out, guys—what's the story here?”

In spurts, from various men, he was made to understand that 902 had a bad engine, that “everybody” knew that a new engine had been ordered so that this one could be sent in for rehab. Mendez dug out the sheets and showed him that this engine was two hundred hours overdue for rehab. Alan started to ask why and realized that he could only put Mendez on the spot with such a question, even if he knew the answer. Then he saw Stevens, a short, thick officer in a flight suit, come in with a chief, and he thanked Mendez and the others and moved toward the new pair.

Stevens turned his head, saw Alan, and went right back to his conversation. Alan smiled, an angry tic that never moved his lower lip. They had met for two minutes at Pax River; now, Stevens chose to be a horse's ass.

“Lieutenant-Commander Stevens?”

“Hey, Craik.”

Alan excused himself to the chief, who moved a few feet off. “You in charge of this?” he said to Stevens. Alan raised one hand. He did not say “this mess,” but the motion accused.

“If you're the new boss man, I guess
you're
in charge.”

“Well, the new boss man would like to see the launch plan. And a flight sked that doesn't include officers who haven't reported aboard yet.”

“I didn't write either one of them.” Stevens hitched at an imaginary belt, as if he was pulling up his guns.

Alan sighed. “Mister Stevens, why don't you call me ‘Alan'? Or you can call me ‘sir.'” He looked around. “Who's running maintenance?”

Stevens jerked his head at the chief he had come in with, a short, intense man in khakis.

“Senior Chief Frazer runs maintenance, with Mister Cohen as department head,” the chief said. “He's up topside. I'm Navarro, sir. Intel chief.”

“Linguist?” Alan looked for a handle to remember the man.

“Farsi and Hindi.” Alan let part of his mind chew over the implications of those two languages.

“You following the traffic on India and Pakistan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is this the same crap they do every time?”

“Sir, this is from the hip, but I'd say it looks fucking serious.”

“More serious than Kosovo?”

Stevens cut in.

“You done with me? I'm on the flight sked later today.”

“So am I.” Alan looked him in the eye, enjoying Stevens's surprise. “Just walk with me a minute.” He
shook hands with Navarro and said he'd see him later, then walked Stevens a dozen paces away and turned on him. “You're the senior pilot in this outfit, right?”

“Yep.”

“Got a problem?”

Stevens hitched up the imaginary belt again. He talked to the air just off Alan's right shoulder. “This divided command shit. You don't like my ops plan? Tough. It shouldn't be two guys, one in the air, one on the ground. I'm just being straight with you.”

“There won't be any divided command. I'm in charge. I expect the cooperation of my officers. I'm just being straight with
you.
”

Stevens kept his voice low, but the tone was bitter. “
Your
officers! Some of us have been working on this project for a year. You walk in like we're all dicked up and you're gonna save us. Or is it that maybe you didn't want this job in the first place? Maybe you were going someplace better?”

Alan set his jaw, controlled his hands, his temper. Rafe had been right—there certainly had been talk. “Mister Stevens, I'm your commanding officer—”

“Craik, everybody's heard of your father. He was a pilot. He might have belonged here. You don't!”

Alan didn't blink, and his eyes didn't move. Stevens couldn't hold that look for more than two seconds. Alan became very cold and very formal. “Mister Stevens, I don't have time right now for you to have a tantrum. It looks to me as if we're way behind and we have to get a plane off the deck in less than four hours. That's my priority. I haven't got time to dick around with you.” He leaned a fraction of an inch closer, his eyes still fixed. “If you can't serve under me, get out. Stay or go, I don't care; just say which!”

“You know they'll cream me if I go!”

“You have three minutes to decide whether you're my senior pilot or a man looking for a new job. If you want to leave, you leave today. I'll square it with the detailer.”

Stevens, red-faced, tried again to stare him down and lost. “I'll stay, goddamit—I've always wanted to work for a fucking ground-pounding spy!”

Heads turned throughout the hangar bay.
Spy
came out loaded with connotation, and Alan was briefly back in his first days at the squadron, dealing with the aviators as an outsider, an enemy, where intel guys, “spies,” were second-class citizens. He hadn't been there in years.

Stevens started to move away under the wing of 902. He followed and grabbed Stevens's arm.

“Start getting this unfucked. You and I are flying together in four hours.”

It all certainly took his mind off Mike Dukas and the admiral.

The lawyer's name was Emma Pasternak, and she looked like an under-developed photograph of herself. The dress-for-success clothes did nothing to hide her essential anonymity; she wore no makeup, no jewelry, and her hair was cut so short and so awkwardly that Rose suspected the woman cut it herself.

“We're expensive,” she said. “We're worth it—but can you pay?”

Rose hesitated. “How much?”

“A lot.”

“We're naval officers, for Christ's sake!”