Final Flight

combat missions without the host nation’s approval, which they certainly didn’t have.

“We’re going to violate Italian sovereignty anyway,” Jake said wearily. “And if they’re pissed they can squawk about it later. That Qazi guy certainly didn’t sweat it. I suspect the Italians will have more serious things to holler about when this all comes out in the wash.”

“How are we going to do this, CAG?” Harvey Schultz asked. “We talk to the Gettysburg and the frigate south of Messina and try to sort out the traffic with their help. Then we arrive over Palermo. Then what?”

“Have someone make a low pass. He can call in an air strike if he sees that chopper on the ground.” Jake smote the arm of the captain’s chair. “Jesus …” It was so weak. It would never work. “You’re going to have to use your head, Harve, and do the best you can with what you’ve got.”

“What if they’ve loaded the weapons on a truck and driven away?”

“Then we’re screwed,” Jake roared. He swallowed hard and lowered his voice. “It’s going to be up to you, Harve. You’re going to be the man on the spot. You make the call on the spot and I’ll back you up. For whatever that’s worth. I’m probably going to get court-martialed anyway. Parker’s dead and I’m glad. I’m glad! He doesn’t deserve to be pilloried for this. Laird James is going to wish he were dead by the time the admirals and congressmen get through with him. Now it’s up to you. Don’t let those assholes get away with those bombs.”

Harvey Schultz kept his eyes on Jake. “I understand.”

“Harve, if those people use those weapons on anybody, the United States is finished as a power in the Mediterranean. This ocean will become a Soviet lake. The nations of Europe will be forced to come to terms with Soviet ambitions or face up to another world war, one they can’t win. This is for all the marbles, Harve.”

Schultz’s head bobbed nervously.

“Now get the hell outta here and get those planes into the air. Every minute that passes makes it less and less likely you’ll find those people. Get going!” As the officers departed Jake said, “OOD, when those guys start engines gimme thirty knots of wind right down the deck for launch.”

Jake slugged off the rest of the coffee and dropped the cigarette butt into the cup. A young enlisted man approached him. “Sir, I’m Wallace, signalman. The chief said to tell you we’ve established radio contact with Sixth Fleet on the MARS unit. The admiral wants to talk to the senior officer aboard.” MARS stood for Military Auxiliary Radio System. The radio set was in a cubbyhole in the signal shack behind the bridge. The sailors used it to talk to their families back in the States with the assistance of volunteer ham radio operators. Jake followed the signalman across the bridge and out the door that Gunnery Sergeant Garcia had worked so hard to get through earlier in the evening.

Jake settled into one of the two chairs in front of the radio. The chief perched in the other and pointed out the switch on the panel that had to be pushed up to receive and down to transmit. “This is a non-secure radio, sir. And people all over the world are probably listening.” He pushed the pedestal microphone over in front of Jake, who picked it up.

Jake pushed the switch down. “What’s their call sign?” The call sign for this set was written in black Magic Marker on the panel in front of him.

“W6FT, sir,” the chief said.

“W6FT, this is W74Y, over.” Jake flipped the switch to receive.

“W74Y, W6FT, say your rank and name, over.”

“Captain Jake Grafton, over.”

“This is Vice-Admiral Lewis. What in hell is going on out there, Captain?”

“I sent you a flash message via USS Gettysburg, sir. Have you got it yet?”

“No, and I want to know what the hell is going on. Why did you people sail?” He sounded furious.

“Admiral, this is a non-secure radio link. I’d rather you waited and read the message.”

“I want to know now, Captain.”

Jake stared at the radio. What the hell. The world would probably read all about it in tomorrow’s papers anyway, if Qazi’s bunch hasn’t already issued their own press release. Jake flipped the switch to transmit, held the mike several inches from his lips, and began to talk. It took him three minutes to describe the situation and his intentions. Finally he said, “Over,” and toggled the switch to receive.

“Wait.”

Jake set the microphone down on the desk and looked at the chief, who averted his eyes. Yeah. Well, I wish I could too, Jake thought.

“Grafton, this is Lewis. I don’t want you to do anything. Don’t launch. We just received the message from Gettysburg and are talking with Washington on the satellite net. This is something the National Security Council needs to make the decision on.” You ass, Jake thought, and bit his lip. “Clean up the ship, tend your wounded, and await further instructions. Over.”

Jake jabbed the switch to transmit. “Admiral, you don’t seem to understand the situation. We have a terrorist on his way God knows where with two nuclear weapons stolen from this ship — stolen from the United States Navy. And he has devices that he can use to trigger them. This man is capable, he’s committed, and he’s absolutely ruthless. We don’t have much of a chance to stop him, but we do have a chance and we had better take it. We may not get another. His attack on this ship was an act of war. We have the right and authority under existing Rules of Engagement to use as much force as necessary to thwart him. We have a duty to do so, sir.”

Jake set the microphone on the table and leaned over it. How to say it? “We have a moral obligation to stop this man before he murders innocent people. A lot of innocent people — hundreds of thousands. The world will judge us by our efforts to meet that obligation.” The future of the free world is at stake here, Admiral. Can’t you see that? “Over to you.”

Lewis’s voice dripped with fury. He was not used to officers arguing with him. “My orders to you are to wait, Captain. Do nothing! Do not launch aircraft! The president will have to meet with the National Security Council and decide how to handle this incident, which you people let happen. Outrageous incompetence and stupidity. Never have I seen the like. You have fucked this up from end to end, and there’s no chance you’ll do any better if you keep trying. Just keep that ship afloat until we get someone out there who is capable of bringing it into port. Over to you for a hearty ‘Aye aye, sir.’”

Jake reached for the transmit-receive switch. His thumb hovered an inch above it but then backed off.

Okay, so Lewis is a paper-pusher who instinctively covers his ass rather than stick his neck out on a hard decision. You knew all along he was a pygmy. Okay. What are you going to do?

“I said, ‘Over to you,’ Captain,” Lewis snarled.

So you did, Admiral. And Colonel Qazi still has two bombs and he’s still taking them somewhere. Jake’s eye fell on the on-off switch. He threw it and the static from the speaker stopped.

Jake stood. “Chief, this radio is out of order. Don’t turn it on again.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The chief looked sick.

Jake Grafton stalked out.

* * *

The lights on the hangar were off when Qazi’s helicopter settled onto the tarmac at the Palermo airport. A group of men came out of the darkness under two high-winged transports parked nearby and walked quickly toward the helicopter as the rotors spun down.

“Where are the other helicopters?” a major asked Qazi.

“The others were destroyed on the ship. This is the only one.”

The major stuck his head into the machine for a look. He grinned at Qazi and motioned his men forward. They began unstrapping the restraints that held the dollies on which the weapons rode. The three men who had gone to the ship with Qazi climbed around them and wandered off toward the transports. Noora and Jarvis followed them, arm in arm.

Ten men lifted each dolly from the helicopter to the pavement. Qazi walked behind the weapons as they were pushed the two hundred feet across the tarmac. The rear access doors of both aircraft were open. These were hinged portions of the after fuselage and consisted of two longitudinal doors that folded upward into the fuselage. A ramp led upward into the interior of the plane on the left, which was a Soviet-built II-76 Candid. In the dim light Qazi could just make out the jet engine nacelles on the wing. The other plane was smaller, a four-engine turboprop,