‘Looking forward to getting back to your Secret Squirrel outfit, Spook?’ In the dining room located across the corridor from the Wardroom on Five Deck, Roger Black grinned at Paul Richter over the remains of his dinner.
With the exception of the Captain and Commander (Air), nobody else on the ship actually knew what Richter did or how he was normally employed, but a rumour had quickly spread that he worked for one of the deniable outfits – MI5 or SIS – and the nickname ‘Spook’ had been attributed to him almost as soon as he had arrived on board.
Richter looked back at him, speared a final carrot, then put down his knife and fork and shook his head. ‘You mean, am I looking forward to traffic fumes and miserable weather, and the pointless paper-shuffling that passes for my normal employment in London? Meanwhile you and the rest of the WAFUs can get comprehensively laid in every brothel in Athens and Piraeus, once we’ve finished whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing on Crete.’
‘WAFU’ is a less than complimentary term used by non-naval aviators to describe aircrew officers: it stands for ‘Wanked-out And Fucking Useless’.
Richter paused and looked up and down the long table at the grinning faces of most of 800 Squadron. ‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘The only thing that keeps me going is the thought that at least some of you will get the clap or worse, and have a hell of a time explaining it to your wives when you get back to Yeovilton.’
Black shook his head. ‘I’ll have you know we’re all officers and gentlemen.’
‘And that means what, exactly?’
‘That we never pay for it. The Captain’s Secretary has assured me that there’ll be tons of available crumpet at the cockers-pee in Athens – if we ever get there, that is – and all we’ll have to do is decide what shape and colour we want and take it from there.’
‘Dream on, Blackie,’ Richter replied to the gathering at large. ‘He said the same thing about the cocktail party in Trieste, remember, and the youngest woman there was fifty-five if she was a day, and had a face like a Doberman – all nose, teeth and attitude.’
‘Well, you should know best. Somebody told me you left with her.’
‘That,’ Richter said, ‘is a lie. I retired to bed alone, with an improving book, and well before midnight.’
‘And we believe that, of course.’ Black smiled. ‘Anyway, all kidding aside, when are you off?’
‘The day after we dock at Piraeus, probably. I’ll hop a flight from Athens to London and be back at work the next day, I suppose.’
‘No long weekend, then?’
‘Well, maybe.’ Richter grinned. ‘I’m in no hurry, no hurry at all. And I’ll probably need a day or two to recover from the rigours of about four hours in a 737, enduring that new British Airways crap-class seating.’
‘Well, now that you’ve flown your last sortie with us, and managed to return our Harrier more or less in one piece,’ Lieutenant Commander David Richards, the 800 Squadron Commanding Officer, spoke up, ‘I would just like to say that it’s been good having you here as a temporary squadron member.’
‘Thanks,’ Richter said, sincerely. ‘I’ve really enjoyed being back in the saddle, even for just a few days. Maybe I’ll be able to do it again some time.’
‘Hang on,’ Richards said, frowning. ‘We didn’t enjoy having you here as much as that.’
Mike Murphy was known to his few friends as ‘The Double M’. His given name was actually George, but ever since high school he’d been called Mike because, apart from anything else, he didn’t really look like a George. And the reason he had few friends, he told anyone who asked, was because of his job.
He’d joined the Central Intelligence Agency straight out of college and immediately gravitated into the Directorate of Operations, more commonly known throughout the Company as Clandestine Services, and he’d spent the next fifteen years working pretty much everywhere except mainland America. Then he’d abruptly retired, ostensibly on the grounds of ill health. In fact, he’d received what amounted to a better offer.
Mike Murphy’s personal specialization was cleaning things up – he sometimes even referred to himself as ‘The Cleaner’ – and the offer he’d received was to continue working for the Agency but as a freelance operator under contract, at a substantially increased salary and with a complete absence of the bullshit invariably associated with any organization funded by any government. The downside was that, as a contract employee, the CIA could legitimately disavow him if the manure impacted the air-conditioner. If Murphy made a cock-up, he had to face the consequences without the protecting hand of the US Government to help him. Even so, it hadn’t been a difficult decision.
The call from John Nicholson had reached him as he was heading out to do some grocery shopping, one of the more boring tasks faced by any bachelor, and he’d happily postponed that one when he heard what Nicholson had to say. Ninety minutes later he was walking down the hallway of the Arlington safe house, instructions memorized.
He was going to return to his apartment in Falls Church to pack what he needed before getting a cab to Baltimore to catch a transatlantic flight. Nicholson had calculated that Murphy would arrive in Crete about twelve hours after Krywald, Stein and Elias, which was just about right.
But before he went home, he had an extra job to do for Nicholson, immediately.
The Operations Officer stood waiting for them at the front of the room, a clipboard of notes in his hand. Before him, in tiered seating that ascended towards the rear, sat most of 814 Naval Air Squadron. Some looked interested, some looked bored, but most just looked irritated. Their run ashore in Athens had been keenly anticipated.
‘Commander (Air),’ the Operations Officer announced as the heavily built, bearded officer walked into the briefing-room and down the steps to the front row. Everyone not already standing stood up, then relaxed back into their seats as the Commander himself sat down.
‘Carry on, please.’
‘Thank you, sir. Gentlemen, this will be an outline briefing only, as we have yet to receive detailed tasking instructions, and we have no confirmed start time for any flying operations. For this reason I have dispensed for the moment with the meteorological briefing and other detailed information on the area. You will be briefed on terrain, high ground, safety altitudes, inbound and outbound routes, operational frequencies and so on, before your individual sorties.
‘This briefing will cover five topics: ship’s position, other forces present in the area, operational background, anticipated tasking and forecast operation timing.’ He picked up a pointer and turned to the bulkhead behind him, where a large map of the island of Crete was displayed.
‘
‘
‘We’re not concerned about the surface vessels they may have, because we are unlikely to become involved with them, but you should be aware of the range of air assets they can deploy. Currently, the Americans have based their Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron Two Detachment at Souda, flying two EP-3E Aries II aircraft. Their Patrol and Reconnaissance Squadron Five, operating P-3C Orions, and Detachment One of the 95th Reconnaissance Squadron, flying RC-135s, are also based there. Additionally, there’s an Air Mobility Command weekly trooping flight from the Naval Air Station at Norfolk, Virginia, to Souda Bay and back again for personnel
