Qazi cradled the receiver. He stared at the listing in the telephone book and repeated the number several times to himself. Then he replaced the book in the nightstand.
“But he did not have the manual when he got off the airplane this afternoon,” Ali protested.
El Hakim set his jaw. “What did he do with it?”
“Your Excellency, he must have read it and destroyed it”
“Why?”
“He obviously has no further use for it, Excellency.” Ali shrugged helplessly.
I’m sure he doesn’t, El Hakim thought savagely. Qazi has just made himself the indispensable man. This little episode is his life insurance- El Hakim smote the table with his fist, then rose and went to his large world globe. He twirled it with a finger and watched it spin. He hated to be thwarted by anyone, but especially by one of his lieutenants whom he did not trust. It was infuriating. He slapped the globe and it spun so fast the colors blurred. He adjusted the collar of his fatigue shirt and his pistol belt as he watched the globe spin down. He pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger and tried to think like Qazi. Qazi was a devious man, a dangerous man. A far too dangerous man.
“Jarvis,” he muttered finally under his breath. He turned and grinned wolfishly at Ali. “Jarvis,” he repeated aloud.
10
Who wrote this piece of shit?”
The three officers on the other side of the desk sagged visibly.
Jake Grafton arranged his brand new glasses on his nose and read from the accident report in front of him. “‘It is believed that a failure in the liquid oxygen system led to the loss of this aircraft. However, due to the loss of the airframe at sea, the precise cause of this accident will never be known.’” Jake looked up. The three faces across the desk were blurred. He took off the glasses. “I won’t sign that.”
None of the three said anything.
“Has the Naval Safety Center got any record of any other F-14 lost this way? Have you torn down a LOX system and tried to identify possible components that might fail? What does the Grumman rep have to say? Maybe the connection from the oxygen container and the aircraft’s system wasn’t hooked up right. What connectors or filters or whatever could have failed and allowed ambient air to dilute a flow of pure oxygen? You guys have got to answer these questions.”
“Yessir.”
“Dolan and Bronsky are dead. I want to know what killed them.”
“A defective oxygen system killed them, CAG.”
Jake picked up the report and waved it at the officer who spoke. “This report doesn’t say that. This report hasn’t got enough facts in it to say that and make it stick. Right now this report is merely a guess.”
“We’re going to need more time, CAG.”
“Write an interim message report and send it to the safety center and everyone on the distribution list. Tell them what you think and what you’re working on and tell them when you hope to get finished. Then get cracking. I want answers. Not bullshit. Not guesses. Real answers.” He closed the report and pushed it back across the desk.
“Sir, the captain’s office says there will be some reporters out here in a few days to interview you about that boat you sank.” Farnsworth was standing at the office door.
Jake looked up from the maintenance report he was reading. “When?”
“About 1400 Wednesday, sir. They should arrive on the noon cargo plane from Naples.”
“Okay.”
“Lieutenant Reed is waiting out here to see you. Oh … and some congressmen are going to arrive on Tuesday. The XO is going to talk to you about it. I think he wants you to host them.”
Farnsworth always saved the worst for last. “Who stimulated that think?”
“YN2 Defenbaugh in the captain’s office.” The captain’s office was the administrative heart of the ship, sucking in paper and pumping it out in quantities that awed Jake. And still the yeomen there found time to tell Farnsworth everything aboard ship worth knowing!
“When should I expect the XO’s call?”
Farnsworth looked at the insulated pipes in the overhead and pursed his lips. “In maybe thirty minutes or so, sir. There’ll be three congressmen and a senator, and the captain’s office is gonna bunk ’em in the VIP quarters. Four squadrons will each furnish one junior officer as an escort. Captain James will meet ’em on the flight deck when the cargo plane arrives, then a trot to the flag spaces to meet the admiral. After that, lunch with the XO. Then I thought you might start them on a tour of the ship with the escort officers. We’ll set up a deal that afternoon down in the mess hall where they can meet their constituents. Politicians always want to shake hands with voters. Finally, dinner with Admiral Parker in the flag mess.”
“That schedule should let them find a ton or two of facts,” Jake agreed. “Firm it up and brief the escorts.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Send Reed in.”
Jake motioned the bombardier-navigator into a chair and leaned back in his own. He pulled out a desk drawer and propped his feet up on it. Wait. Where were Reed’s wings? He rummaged through his top drawer and took out the gold-colored piece of metal. He tossed it on the desk on top of the maintenance report and resettled his feet on the drawer.
Reed stared at the insignia. You could buy one in any navy exchange for about $4.50.
“You wanted to see me?” Jake prompted.
“Uh, yessir. I’ve been thinking and all. About our conversation. Maybe I should stay in the cockpit, at least until I get discharged.”
Jake grunted. He picked up the metal insignia and tossed it across the desk. It landed in front of Reed, inches from the edge. The bombardier palmed it.
“Still going to get out, huh?”
“I’ll have to think about it. Talk to my wife.”
Jake found himself searching his pockets for cigarettes and consciously grasped the arms of his chair to keep his hands still. “You may spend another twenty years in the navy and never get shot at again. It’ll be train, train, train, bore a lot more holes in the sky, kiss your wife good-bye for cruise after cruise.”
“It sounds like you think I should get out.”
“What I’m telling you is that this job isn’t Tom Cruise strutting along with his balls clicking together, ready to zap some commie before breakfast.” The movie
“We need people with brains and ability to fill these cockpits, but there’s no glamour. None. And you aren’t ever going to be the guy who helps win the big one for our side. If there ever is another major war, the first and last shots are going to be fired by some button-pushers in silos or submarines. Then the world will come to an end. Everyone who isn’t vaporized by the explosions, or who doesn’t die from burns, shattered skulls, or asphyxiation, is going to die slowly of radiation poisoning. And who in his right mind would want to survive? Civilization will be over. The birds and animals will all die, the seas will become sterile as the fallout poisons them … about the only creatures that will survive will be the cockroaches.”
Jake was feeling for cigarettes again. He stared at Reed dolefully. “What the navy has out here on these carriers are jobs for warriors. It’s an ancient and honorable profession, but just about as obsolete today as horse cavalry. The button-pushers who are preventing a nuclear war, and who will wage it if it happens, aren’t warriors.” Jake shrugged. “Maybe they’re professional executioners. Hangmen. Whatever the hell they are, they’re not warriors.”
