He settled his new glasses on his nose and flipped a few pages of the maintenance report.
“I understand,” Reed murmured.
“I don’t think you do.” Jake closed the report on a finger and eyed the younger man. “The people in the navy are first-rate. Our enlisted men are the smartest, best educated, best trained on the planet. You’ll never work with better people. The flying is pretty good. The pay is adequate. The family life sucks. Most officers get squeezed out of the service after twenty years or so because they can’t all be captains and admirals. Now that’s the stuff you should be talking over with your wife. But … while you wear that uniform I expect you to fly when you’re scheduled and to give it the best you’ve got. Use every ounce of knowledge and brains and ability you have. You owe that to your country.”
Jake gestured toward the door. “I have work to do.” He spread the report open on the desk and began to read as the lieutenant departed. When the latch clicked shut, the captain leaned back and stared over the top of the glasses at the gray metal door. At length he shook his head slowly, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and picked up the report.
Ali held the door open for Colonel Qazi. Ali wore a chauffeur’s uniform, and after Qazi had passed into the real estate office, he went back to the limousine, took a rag from the trunk, and began to wipe off the few flecks of dust that had accumulated on the car in the ten-minute drive from the agency where he had just rented it.
Inside the real estate office, Qazi stood impassively as the receptionist whispered hurriedly into her telephone, then gave a barely perceptible nod to the office manager when he came rushing out. He was a breathless, corpulent man with only a fringe of hair remaining, one lock of which had been carefully placed so as to run back and forth across his shiny pate. The manager guided him into his office while the receptionist stared after him.
As Qazi sat on the overstuffed sofa and removed his sunglasses, the manager settled behind his desk. The manager saw the visitor staring at his overflowing ashtray, so he whisked it away. He placed it in a bottom drawer of the desk, then crossed his hands and beamed at his visitor.
Qazi wore a white caftan and burnoose. Black whiskers flecked with gray adorned his chin. He looked, he hoped, like a young King Faisal.
“I wish to rent a villa, Signor Livora,” Qazi said in very British English.
“Ah, you know my name.”
“You are highly recommended, sir.”
“You have come to the right place,” Livora beamed. “We have several fine villas to rent, from … how you say? … modest? To quite large. What are your requirements, Signor …?”
“Mister Al-Sabah. The villa is not for me, you understand. I am merely an executive secretary.” He flicked his right hand, on which he had three rings with rather large, conspicuous stones. The real estate man’s shiny, decorated head bobbed knowingly. Ah, yes. He had heard all about those filthy-rich Arab sheiks and all the money they threw around. No doubt he even dreamed of them, sitting here in Naples surrounded by poor Italians and vacationing Europeans and Americans who watched every lira.
Qazi outlined his needs. His master needed ample quarters. Perhaps an estate. Something with grass and gardens. Of course he had his own staff of servants, including a gardener. Something in the country, available for at least three months, beginning next week.
“What are you going to say to these congressmen and reporters?” Vice-Admiral Morton Lewis asked.
Jake fought the impulse to squirm in his chair. Admiral Lewis was the commander of the U.S. Sixth Fleet and had flown out to the carrier with the congressional delegation. He and Jake sat in the flag offices beneath the flight deck. The Public Affairs Officer from Lewis’ staff had earlier provided Jake with a list of probable press questions and suggested, “sterile” answers.
“I’m just going to tell it like it was, sir.”
“They’re going to grill you on policy.” With even, regular features, perfect teeth, and a trim stomach he maintained with a forty-five minute ride on a stationary bicycle every morning, the admiral looked every inch the professional sea dog, 1980s edition. His three stars gleamed on each collar. It was no secret that he wanted a fourth star.
“Yessir. But I plan to refer them to Washington for questions about policy.”
“Don’t be evasive. We’ve nothing to hide and we don’t want these people inputting that we do. Don’t reference them anywhere.”
“I understand.”
“The distance the task force maintains from the Lebanese shore, that’s a policy matter. It will be questioned. As the air wing commander and as a professional aviator, your opinion as to the wisdom of the employment of this task group will be asked. There is just no way to avoid the fact that if this task group was two hundred miles away from Lebanon, that boat attack would have been impossible. Or at least highly impractical.”
“Yessir.” Jake grasped the arms of his chair with both hands and kept both feet on the floor. “But isn’t that a matter for Washington to comment upon?”
The admiral rubbed his lips with his forefinger. “I recommend the location of this task group in light of the results Washington expected, and Washington concurred. The reasons for the recommendation don’t concern you.”
“If I’m going to have to give an opinion, I should know your thinking, Admiral.”
The admiral’s forefinger tracked back and forth along his chin. “I think that what you are going to say is this: ‘U.S. Navy ships have an absolute right to navigate freely in international waters, and they will defend themselves against attack in international waters, attack from anyone, any time.’”
“Yessir.” Jake couldn’t object to saying it, since it was true. “But that isn’t going to satisfy the reporters. They’ll want to know why we chose to navigate where we did.”
“And you will repeat your answer,”
“Yessir.” Because if Jake told them to ask Washington, someone there just might say that the ships were where they were because the navy recommended it. Which would put Vice-Admiral Lewis rather firmly on the spot. Of course, the folks in Washington had approved the recommendation — they could have ordered the ships to any location on the map — but Admiral Lewis well knew the games that could be played when Important People did not wish to publicly defend their policies, the very same Important People that he had tried to please — or impress — with his recommendation. There were sure a lot of ins and outs to the admiral business, Jake reflected.
“By the way, you handled that boat attack well.”
“Someone on that boat got trigger-happy. Lady Luck won’t spread her legs like that for us again.”
A look of distaste flickered across the distinguished face above the admiral’s stars. Jake felt grubby. “Is the accident report finished on that F-14 loss?”
“It’s about finished, sir.”
“Hmmm. Pilot error?”
“Probably an oxygen system failure. The crew obviously didn’t recognize it, if that was what it was.”
“Have someone transcribe your press conference. I’ll chop the transcript, then forward it to Washington.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“My PAO has a statement about the boat incident that was just released in Washington. You interface with him.”
“I understand.”
“Don’t contradict anything in the press release.” The admiral’s gaze held him pinned. “And don’t go beyond it except for personal data that these reporters always want, like hometown, names of children, etc. Use the PAO’s prepared answers whenever you can. The less the bad guys intel our operation, the better off we’ll be. Read the press release and strategize your conformity.”
Jake nodded.
The admiral traced a pattern on the desk with a forefinger. “Senator Cavel fancies himself as something of an expert on naval affairs.” He made a steeple with his fingertips. “He’s on the Senate Armed Services Committee and wants to be president.” His top front teeth came to rest on his fingertips. He looked at Jake speculatively.
“I’ve read about Senator Cavel.”
