The workmanship was excellent, Qazi decided finally. Each wire was of equal length, each was connected with a conservative little solder dollop, nothing sloppy or makeshift.
“But it’s all an act, isn’t it, Colonel? Just an act to impress Jarvis and Ali and whoever Ali whispers to. You have no intention of really using a nuclear weapon.”
Sakol sensed movement behind him and turned to see that Qazi had an automatic pistol leveled at his face, a lethal little Walther PPK, Sakol noted professionally.
“El Hakim is insane, but you aren’t, Qazi. You know that Israel has nuclear weapons and, if pressed too far, will use them. You know that pushing the nuclear button would remove the Arabs from the human race. You know all that, Qazi. So what’s your game?”
“You talk far too much, Sakol. I understand now why the Americans left you to die in that prison in Afghanistan.”
“They were playing games, too.”
“Just one more word and I will finish what the Russians started.”
Sakol stared at him. Finally he said, “You would. I believe you.”
Qazi stepped forward and slashed the front sight of his pistol across Sakol’s cheek, then quickly stepped back. As the blood dripped from Sakol’s cheek onto his shirt Qazi pocketed the weapon. “You’ll be returned to the cell with Jarvis. You’ll ensure he performs as required.”
Just then the door opened and Ali stood there, framed in the opening. Qazi issued orders to Ali in Arabic as Sakol walked toward the door.
“How do we know,” Ali asked Qazi later in the corridor, “that the electrical outputs those instruments produce are the proper ones?”
“That is why we have Sakol working with Jarvis,” Qazi answered offhandedly, his mind still on Sakol and the possibility he might speak frankly to the wrong people. Keeping Sakol alive was a large risk, a much larger risk than he had previously believed. Sakol’s attitudes and opinions should have been anticipated. There was just no margin in the plan for errors of that magnitude. “Sakol has assured me Jarvis is giving us the correct voltages.”
“Can we not verify the voltages through other sources?”
Qazi stopped on the stairs and faced Ali. The black eyes were not evasive. “That information is classified Top Secret by the Americans. One would need the actual technical data manual for the weapon. That manual is one of the most closely held American secrets.”
“So we must rely on Jarvis and Sakol.”
Qazi resumed his descent of the stairs. “That would be a very slender reed, indeed. No, I have a source that will supply the manual.”
“I suspected as much, Colonel. And what is the source?”
“The traits that make you valuable to me, Ali, are your unquestioning faith and your discretion. Keep exercising both.”
The two men stepped into the desert heat and walked across the courtyard to the waiting Mercedes, where Ali slid behind the wheel.
In the car Qazi sat in the front seat with Ali.
“Why does Sakol hate you so?”
Ali laughed. “I call him a whore, selling himself for money. I ask him to do sexual things for me. He is not amused.” His face grew serious. “I think when he was a prisoner in Afghanistan, the Russians forced him to do sexual things with other men. Or the Russians did it to him. The Russians are such pigs.” He made a spitting motion.
Ali was on the main road now, heading north. To the west the afternoon sun caused the dust-filled sky to glow red. Perhaps they would reach the capital before the dust storm struck. Qazi turned off the air-conditioning and rolled down his window. The heat filled the car. He took a deep breath. He, too, loved the smell of the desert, the smell of purity, the smell of nothing at all.
Along the road ahead he saw a bedouin on a camel. The mounted figure shimmered in the heat as the car approached. As the car went by Qazi saw that the rider did not even deign to give them a glance. Qazi adjusted the rearview mirror on his door and watched the receding figure until it was lost in the heat mirages rising from the stony emptiness.
7
How long was Columbus at sea on his first voyage to the New World?” Jake Grafton asked Yeoman First Class Farnsworth, who pushed himself back from his typewriter and thought seriously about the question.
Abandoned by his mother at the age of five, Farnsworth had spent his youth shuttling between foster homes. He had enlisted in the navy at seventeen and earned his high school equivalency diploma during his first tour of sea duty. The navy, with its routine and tradition and comfortable discipline, was the only happy home he had ever known. There were times when Farnsworth wished the captain standing in the middle of the office and gazing about distractedly had been his father. Except that Grafton was about ten years too young. Still, he had an air of quiet self-confidence that Farnsworth found most agreeable. So Farnsworth tried desperately to recall if he had ever heard how long Columbus’ voyage had taken.
“Sir, I don’t remember.”
“Me either. How about running up to the ship’s library and looking it up? Better check on Noah, too.” And since he was not in the habit of giving frivolous orders, Jake added, “I need a good excuse to ask the powers that be for a day off for the troops. Maybe we could have a deck picnic when we equal Columbus’ time at sea.”
Farnsworth was out the door almost before Jake finished. The captain went into his office and tackled the contents of his in-basket. He was deep into the preliminary draft of an accident report, Jelly and Boomer’s crash, when Will Cohen knocked and entered.
“Sit down, Will.”
“Thanks, CAG. Thought I’d give you a report on the maintenance inspection.”
Jake leaned back and propped his feet on the open top drawer of the desk. “How’s that going?”
“We’ve finished both the F-14 outfits and one of the F/A-18 squadrons. Still working on the others. One of, the fighter squadrons”—he named it—“has been cheating a little. They’ve been robbing parts from down birds to keep the others flying.”
Jake knew about that dodge. You kept your aircraft available to fly by shuffling components, which increased the work load on the sailors. For every bad component that needed replacement, the mechanics had to remove two parts and install two more. The practice, known as cannibalism, increased the opportunities for a maintenance error, and it certainly didn’t help morale.
“Are parts all that hard to come by?” Jake asked as he watched Cohen take out a pack of cigarettes, Pall Mall filters, and light one.
“Supply says no. But that skipper and maintenance officer are doing their damnedest to keep their availability looking as good as possible.”
Jake grunted and watched Cohen look around for an ashtray. The maintenance officer settled on the trashcan and pulled it over.
“That’s a lot of work for the troops for a damn small increase in availability.”
“Yep,” Cohen agreed. “But when everyone wants a ‘walks on water’ fitness report, you want the numbers as good as possible.”
Jake knew all about the fitness report game, too. But this, he realized, was more complex than the natural desire of the skipper to look good. The skipper was under intense pressure to keep the maximum number of his aircraft ready to fly, and if the supply system failed to spew forth spare parts quickly enough, the temptation to cannibalize an aircraft that couldn’t be readily repaired was almost irresistible. The real challenge was making the supply system work properly. Jake Grafton’s primary responsibility was making the entire system — including supply — function as it should, and the effort absorbed the bulk of his time. There were moments when the sheer inertia of the bureaucracy daunted him. “I’ll have a little chat with that skipper. You give me a list of the parts he’s been
