Final Flight

He had gotten his ship underway in record time, getting the anchor up in seventeen minutes from the time the capstan had began to turn. Due to the sonar dome under the bow, he couldn’t move the ship until the anchor cleared the water. The United States had been seven miles ahead, but he had managed to close the distance because she had stayed at seventeen knots for almost twenty minutes. Then she accelerated to thirty-three. Now, with the larger swells here in the open sea, he was hard-pressed just to match her speed. Sooner or later he would close on her; if she turned port or starboard he would turn inside her and close, providing he didn’t have to back off some turns to keep the screws in the water and could stay with her.

Something was seriously wrong aboard United States. He tried to imagine a combination of circumstances in peacetime that would justify a capital ship weighing anchor unannounced in the dead of night and steaming off alone, without her escorts, at high speed through crowded shipping lanes with radar and radios silent. When, or if, he caught up with her, it wouldn’t hurt to be ready for anything. “Lieutenant Epley, sound general quarters.”

* * *

Meanwhile, aboard United States, Jake Grafton was huddled in engineering with the ship’s department heads and every squadron skipper who was aboard, plus about half the executive officers. His operations officer and the flag ops boss were also present. Jake had told Qazi when he called the second time that restoring power to the elevators would require half an hour, and Qazi had given him half that time. Still, twenty minutes had passed and the new circuit had not been energized. All that remained was the throwing of a switch by the load dispatcher in Central Control. Jake had not yet told him to throw the switch.

“Goddammit, Captain,” the weapons boss shouted, “We can’t just let that terrorist take some bombs and fly off this ship. We can’t.” This statement was merely a rehash of arguments voiced for the last ten minutes by desperate, angry men crowded around Jake.

“Now you listen,” Jake said calmly, “All of you. This is going to be the last word. I’ve listened to all your arguments. We’ve hashed and rehashed this for ten minutes. In my opinion, we’ve got no other choice. This man has us by the balls. None of you has suggested a viable alternative course of action.”

“Goddammit—”

“No! Don’t you cuss at me! I’m the man responsible and I’ve made the fucking decision. End of discussion!”

“I still don’t see why we can’t zap his choppers with missiles when they are about five miles out, after the bomb is disarmed.” Everyone assumed that Qazi would leave an armed weapon on deck that he could explode by radio control if he were pursued.

“Bullshit. We’ve got no radar.” Jake pushed his way to the engineering watch officer’s desk and picked up the 1-MC microphone. “Central Control, this is Grafton. Energize the emergency circuit to the forward weps elevators.” He threw the mike on the desk.

“Now when these people get gone, I want every E-2 and F-14 on the flight deck that can fly fueled and armed for an immediate takeoff. You skippers, get your crews suited up and briefed. Weapons, get ready to bring missiles up from the magazines. And get some senior people to inspect those magazines as soon as the terrorists get out of them. Qazi may leave something ticking down there. Air Department, get your people ready to go. We’re going to shoot down Mr. Qazi and his friends when they’re the hell and gone away from this ship.” They stood and stared. “Do it now.”

“Jesus, CAG,” the weapons boss said. “You should have told us that ten minutes ago. We thought you were just going to let them get away.”

Jake shooed them out. He bummed a cigarette and sat down with shaking hands to smoke it. These guys weren’t using their heads. Qazi had had all the answers up to this point; he probably had an answer to the possibility of aircraft pursuers. The likeliest answer was just to detonate the bomb aboard ship when he was five or six miles away at fifty feet over the ocean, tail-on to the blast. Still, in war nothing ever goes the way you’ve planned it, so the name of the game is keeping options open. The ship’s officers just don’t realize how few options we have. He had decided earlier, when the discussion started, not to stress the fact that there was a 90 percent chance no one on this ship would live another hour. So now they have a straw to grab for, something to do to keep them and the men busy while the last minutes tick by.

“CAG,” Triblehorn said after the others had filed out. “Maybe you should let the crew know what this terrorist is up to? Make an announcement on the 1-MC.”

“So everyone can have a final moment to polish their soul before they get cremated alive? Nope. We don’t need any panic. They’ll have to go meet their maker with the tarnish still on. Death’s a come-as-you-are deal, anyway.”

What a great naval leader you are, Jake Grafton. Here you are, twenty-three years in the navy, presiding over a naval debacle that will make Pearl Harbor look like a minor traffic accident. And if by some miracle you survive, the admirals and congressmen will cram your nuts into a vise and take turns on the handle.

“How come you don’t have any ashtrays down here?” he asked the engineering watch officer.

“The XO made us take them out. Smoking’s bad for you.”

“No kidding. Look where it’s got me,” Jake said. “Call the master-at-arms shack and have them bring me a big bolt-cutter. One of those things they use to cut padlocks off. Tell them to hurry.”

“You sent for me, CAG?” The speaker was a senior chief petty officer wearing glasses. His name tag read “Archer, EOD.” EOD meant Explosive Ordnance Disposal.

“Yeah. Pull up a chair and drop anchor.” The senior chief did as requested. He was of modest stature, with intelligent eyes and even, regular features. His uniform hung on him as if it were tailor-made. He had fine, delicate hands. He looked as if he were really a banker or an accountant, except for the bare legs of a tattooed woman on his upper arm which peeped out from under his short-sleeved khaki shirt.

“Senior Chief, I need some answers about nuclear weapons. We’ve got a little problem.”

26

The United States pitched gently in the corrugated sea as she charged onward through the night at flank speed, a gentle seesawing of the bow and stern that her crew, accustomed as they were, ignored. They did notice, however, the vibration as her four thirty-three-ton screws thrashed the sea to foam. Inside the ship one could feel the vibration in the decks and passageways and half sense it in the air, a dynamic tension of ominous power and urgency.

The wind had veered more to the east. It was fresh and crisp and empty of rain. Through the opening rifts in the clouds stars were visible, had anyone on the flight deck taken the time to glance upward. From force of habit Jake Grafton did as he stepped on deck trailed by four armed marines in camouflage utilities and helmets. In his right hand he carried a walkietalkie. Beside him Senior Chief Archer carried his toolbox in one hand and the bolt- cutter in the other. Jake sniffed the sea wind and saw the stars’ brightness in the inky tears in the clouds above. The temperature here on the flight deck was fifteen degrees or so colder than inside the ship. He shivered and peered about the deck.

He and his companions stood amid a forest of aircraft with wings jutting upward at crazy angles. Ahead of him on the right the island loomed with its band of red and white floodlights around the top combining to cast a soft, reddish glare on the deck and aircraft. Behind the island and nearer to him a mast reached up into the blackness. On this mast were numerous antennas. He stared at it a second, slightly puzzled. Oh yes, the radar dishes weren’t rotating.

He walked forward, toward the bow, between the aircraft until he could see the helicopters parked on the angle. He moved in beside a plane and waited, hoping his night vision would improve. Sentries lay on the deck around the choppers, facing outward. Behind the prone men a supervisor walked slowly back and forth with an assault rifle cradled in his arms. The rotors of the choppers were still and the engines silent.

A row of E-2s were parked athwartships between the helicopters and the island, their noses pointed at the helicopters. Forward of the Hawkeyes, Jake could see the rows of aircraft that were parked atop the bow catapults facing aft, with nose tow bars attached so they could be quickly towed aft and spotted for a launch. Beyond the airplanes on the bow and to the left, outboard, of the helicopters on the angle the blackness of the night made a