USS Ronald Reagan
1017, Wednesday, 24 March
Like most air intel officers, Commander Harvey Wentz had a low regard for the cognitive skills of fighter pilots. They were single-purpose gladiators who were dangerous if they knew too much.
At least that was the impression Maxwell had always received from Wentz. He wasn’t getting any different feeling now.
They were in the Reagan’s SCIF, buried deep in the interior of the ship, guarded by emission-proof bulkheads and two armed Marines outside the door. On one side of the long conference table sat Maxwell, with Boyce at his left. Opposite them were Wentz and two unsmiling CIA specialists who had flown out from their regional office in Riyadh.
One of the CIA men, a man named Perkins, wore tiny, round-rimmed spectacles. He scribbled continuously on a yellow pad. The other, who introduced himself as Lambert, tended a digital recording device at the end of the table.
They let Wentz ask the questions.
“Okay, Commander Maxwell, let’s do this again. Run through the sequence of events from the time you arrived at the village until you rejoined the TRAP team.”
“I just ran through it.”
“Run through it again. You may have omitted useful details the first time.”
Or you may trip yourself up, thought Maxwell. It was an old interrogation technique—get the subject to repeat his story, catch him altering the details, find out what he’s hiding.
He went through the events of the mission again, describing how he and Bronson delivered Al-Fasr to the village, how the firefight erupted, how he and Rasmussen escaped.
Wentz watched him thoughtfully. “And Mr. Bronson? What happened to him?”
Maxwell felt the eyes of the CIA officers fixed like lasers on him. “I told you that too. When the shooting started, he was hit.”
“By whom?”
“By someone with a gun.”
Wentz shook his head. “Don’t be flippant with us, Commander. Was it one of the snipers or someone else?”
“It was dark. There were several shooters.”
He saw the two CIA men exchange glances. Perkins jotted something on his yellow pad.
“But you were wearing NVG, were you not?” said Wentz.
“Over my eyes, not the back of my head.”
“What the hell is this?” snapped Boyce. He aimed his cigar at Wentz. “Are you guys running a debriefing or a goddamn inquisition? Get to the point.”
“With all due respect, Captain Boyce, I have to remind you that this is more than a debriefing. A covert mission was compromised, and a senior intelligence officer has been fatally wounded.” Wentz glanced at the two CIA men, who nodded back to him. “It’s critical to national security that we gather every piece of intelligence from this operation.”
“Then I suggest you act like an intelligence gatherer instead of a prosecutor. Brick isn’t on trial here.”
Wentz looked exasperated. They all knew that Boyce wasn’t supposed to be a participant in the debriefing, but he had inserted himself over Wentz’s objections. Wentz was also a pragmatist. Boyce was a Navy captain who happened to be the Air Wing Commander. He could turn Wentz’s life into a living hell.
“Okay,” said Wentz. “Let’s try this again. Who fired the first shot?”
“They did,” said Maxwell. “A sniper on one of the buildings.”
“And what was your response?”
“I shot one of the Sherji who had brought Raz. Bronson took out the two snipers with his SMG.”
“So what happened to Al-Fasr?” asked Wentz.
“Someone shot him.”
“Someone? Who?”
Maxwell hesitated, feeling the penetrating stares of the two CIA men. He had a clear vision of Al-Fasr’s shattered skull, Bronson standing over him with the Glock in his hand.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Someone who wanted him dead, I suppose. Who do you think that would be?”
Wentz shot him a baleful look. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, Bronson and company”—he nodded toward the CIA men— “were not thrilled about having to give Al-Fasr back, were they? Since Al-Fasr happened to get shot while we were giving him back, it might have some connection with Bronson getting shot in turn.”
“What are you suggesting?” Wentz removed his glasses and peered at Maxwell. “That Bronson shot Al-Fasr?”
Both CIA officers were leaning forward over the table, watching him. Maxwell hesitated. Careful, he told himself. Don’t go too far. “No, just postulating. Trying to make sense out of what happened.”
“So are we. We’re still trying to learn something from the bodies.”
Maxwell felt his heart quicken. “Bodies?
“The TRAP team commander sent a squad to recover Bronson and Al-Fasr’s bodies.”
Maxwell felt his heart quicken. He should have known. Of course, they’d try to recover the bodies. He wanted to know more, but he made himself remain quiet.
Wentz resumed the interrogation, but he said nothing more about the bodies. His questions seemed to lose their belligerence. The subject of Ted Bronson’s death didn’t come up again.
Finally, he announced that the debriefing had ended. The CIA men rose and shook Maxwell’s hand, then Boyce’s.
Boyce ignored Wentz’s outstretched hand as he led Maxwell to the door. He glanced back inside the SCIF, then closed the door behind him. “Dipshits,” he said.
< >
Manama, Bahrain
Claire awoke feeling the pangs of remorse and a searing headache. The events of last night were replaying in her mind like a bad movie.
Oh, damn. Why did I do that?
Rays of sunlight were streaming through the blinds, filling the bedroom with a painful yellow luminescence. For a while she didn’t move. Finally she forced herself to look to the other side of the bed.
It was empty.
Thank God. That was another thing about Chris Tyrwhitt. No matter how much he’d had to drink or how little sleep he’d gotten, he rose early. To his credit, he’d had the decency to get up and leave her alone this morning.
She went directly to the shower, trying to shut out the images of the previous evening. It didn’t work. Chris Tyrwhitt’s hypnotic voice kept inserting itself back into her mind.
Just like old times, darling.
Why not? After all, we’re husband and wife.
Her mistake was in letting herself fall under Tyrwhitt’s spell again. Her original assessment was correct. He was dangerous. Chris Tyrwhitt could charm the knickers off the Queen.
Admit it. You didn’t resist.
Not enough, anyway.
And that was the part that was causing her all this bad feeling. She didn’t love Chris Tyrwhitt, at least not in the way a wife loved a husband. She was finished with all that. Tyrwhitt was trouble. He was an ex-husband in every way except by signed and stamped divorce papers, and those were in process.
So why did you sleep with him?
That was what bothered her. Maybe, just maybe, she thought, there was still a tiny grain of love for the man who used to be her husband.
Love? Or plain old-fashioned lust?
She wrapped herself in the big white terrycloth robe and then ordered coffee from room service. Her headache was fading. So was the remorse, replaced now by a sober recounting. She had to give the guy credit, he still knew how to disarm her. It was classic Tyrwhitt—the drinks, the funny stories, the easy charm. And then, the pièce de résistance.
The roses.
She looked around. They were still there. She picked them up and smelled them again. The note from Chris lay on the sideboard.
She had to admit, it was a nice touch. Very romantic, very thoughtful.
And then she saw something else. On the floor, almost beneath the sideboard. Something crumpled.
She picked up the wadded-up card, smoothed it out, and read the note from Sam Maxwell.
In the next instant, all the charitable thoughts she had for Tyrwhitt vanished in a flash of rage.
That sonofabitch! That devious, sleazy bastard! That no good lying, deceitful asshole. That miserable, two-faced. . .
She slumped into a chair, clutching the card in her hand. She didn’t know whether to give way to uncontrollable weeping, or to laugh.
I can’t believe I’m still such an idiot. After all these years, I fell for it again.
She let several minutes pass. Gradually she regained control of her emotions. She was thinking again.
She rose and walked to the window. The sun was glinting off the white plaster of the buildings outside. The light no longer hurt her eyes, and her headache was receding.
Out of every bad experience, she believed, something good had to come. If anything good came from her dalliance with Tyrwhitt, it was this new clarity of thought.
It all seemed perfectly obvious. Tyrwhitt hadn’t changed. He would never change. He would always be the same charming lowlife weasel that he had been last night.
Nor would Sam Maxwell change. He was still the dashing, duty-bound, inarticulate guy she loved.
And had always loved.
Now she knew. Too bad she didn’t figure it out before last night. She hoped it wasn’t too late.
< >
USS Ronald Reagan
Something was wrong with Manson’s jaw.
Maxwell listened, trying to follow Craze Manson’s rambling story, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off his jaw. It was swollen, turning an ugly shade of purple.
“Seventeen years,” Manson was saying. “No retirement, no benefits. I’m throwing away seventeen years of my life. I hope you’re satisfied.”
Actually, thought Maxwell, he was very satisfied, but he just nodded and said, “Go on, Craze. Explain why you’re resigning.”
Manson gave him a baleful look and went on. “I don’t owe you any explanation. That letter on your desk says it all. I’m resigning from the Navy as of today. End of story.”
They were in Maxwell’s stateroom. He and Alexander were seated at the desk, while Manson stood facing them. He was wearing his service khakis, cap tucked in his belt.
Maxwell wanted to get this over with. Fatigue was oozing through him like a drug after the stress of the prisoner exchange mission. He was still in the camo flight suit he’d worn into Iran. In a corner stood his mud-caked flight boots.
Alexander had been waiting for him when he emerged from the intel debrief. The word had already spread around the squadron. Splat DiLorenzo and Petty Officer Carson were under arrest. Carson was in the brig and DiLorenzo was confined to quarters. Craze Manson was leaving the Navy.
Maxwell looked at Manson. “You may be called to testify at DiLorenzo’s court-martial.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Well, I guess that’s something.”
“The deal is, I resign, I won’t be charged.”
“The deal is, you won’t be charged with a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. That doesn’t mean you won’t be subpoenaed by DiLorenzo’s counsel.”
Manson shrugged. “If they expect me to tell them I knew about the corrosion inspection sign offs, they can go piss up a rope. I had no knowledge, and they have no evidence.”
Maxwell glanced over at Alexander, who was doodling on a yellow pad. They both knew Manson was probably right. The case against him was circumstantial, nothing more than DiLorenzo’s word that he had been following Manson’s orders. Court-martialing Manson would be a waste of manpower.
Alexander, for his part, was still furious about the deal. “That lying sonofabitch tried to kill me and the CAG,” he roared when he heard about it. The only good thing was that Manson would be gone from the squadron, which was a blessing.
Carson was another matter. The petty officer had let himself get sucked into helping DiLorenzo—and at the eleventh hour had searched inside himself and found a sense of honor. Carson was worth saving.
By stretching his authority as commanding officer, Maxwell would conduct a captain’s mast—a non-judicial form of military justice. Carson would receive a demotion and a censure, but he would be spared a court-martial. With an endorsement from both Maxwell and Alexander, Carson would be allowed to remain in the Navy.
“When can I get out?” said Manson
The sooner the better, Maxwell felt like saying, but Alexander answered for him. “As soon as your papers clear admin, you’ll get orders to report to the wing back at Oceana. They’ll process you out. You’ll be a civilian this time next week.”
Manson nodded, then looked at Maxwell. “One more thing. I want a letter from you stating that my departure from the squadron was under honorable circumstances.”
“Sorry,” said Maxwell. “I don’t write bullshit documents. That’s your department.”
Manson’s face reddened. “You’re the CO. You have to add an endorsement to my letter of resignation.”
“I already have. I endorsed it ‘approved.’’”
Manson stood there for another half a minute, working the muscles in his discolored jaw. “You’re pretty smug, aren’t you? Both of you carpetbaggers. You’ve been trying to get me out of the squadron ever since you came on board.”
Maxwell listened in silence while the venom continued to spill out of Manson. He thought again about the rule, dating back before the Roman Legions, he guessed, that required every military unit to have someone like Manson. Some flaming asshole, just to keep things stirred up. He hoped that Manson’s replacement wasn’t on the way.
Manson finally stopped ranting. Maxwell said, “Craze, tell me something.”
“What?”
“What happened to your jaw?”
The color deepened in Manson’s face, making the purple bruise even uglier. “Ask him,” he said, nodding to Alexander. “Will that be all?”
“I certainly hope so. You’re dismissed, Commander Manson. Close the door behind you.”
Manson spun around and left the stateroom, giving the door a vicious slam. They could hear his heels hammering like drumbeats down the passageway.
Maxwell looked at Alexander. “Do you have any idea what happened to Craze’s jaw?”
“Jaw?” Alexander seemed to be studying a flake of paint on the far bulkhead. “I didn’t notice. Was something wrong with his jaw? ”
< >
Boyce got a good ember going, then wafted a cloud of gray smoke across the room. “Cohiba,” he said. “Fresh from Havana, via Bahrain. Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Good. You wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.” For a while he rolled the cigar between his fingers, absorbed with some new thought. “I presume you told Wentz and the spooks everything you knew.”
Maxwell took his time. He could tell when Boyce was fishing. “Pretty much.”
“They were curious about what happened to Bronson. You’re the only guy who was in position to know.”
“Not the only one. There was the guy who shot him.”
Boyce nodded, still looking at him through the gray smoke. “Oh, yeah, him. Whoever that was.”
“And Rasmussen. He was there too.”
“Apparently he wasn’t any help to them,” said Boyce. “Said he had no idea who shot whom. He hit the dirt when the shooting started and missed the whole thing.”
“Too bad.” Good for you, Raz, he thought.
Boyce was giving him a look that he had come to recognize. Boyce said, “Now that Rasmussen has been freed, there are some things I’ve learned about our man Bronson that make me wish he was around to answer some questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like he was the case officer back in ninety-three when they received intelligence that an American prisoner might still be in Iraq. It seems pretty clear now that Bronson knew the truth— that Saddam Hussein was holding Rasmussen after giving all the other Gulf War prisoners back.”
“So why didn’t he pull out all the stops to get him back?”
“By ignoring Raz’s existence, the CIA could deny Saddam the use of the prisoner as a bargaining chip. For his part, Saddam couldn’t go public with it because it would be clear evidence that he was violating the terms of the cease-fire accord. And after enough time had gone by, the CIA couldn’t afford to admit that it had known about the prisoner all along or there would be hell to pay. It was a stalemate, and Raz was caught in the middle.”
“Until Al-Fasr came along.”
“Yeah. For Saddam, the prisoner became a liability, so he traded him to the Bu Hasa Brigade in exchange for a security deal on the eastern border. The Bu Hasa thought they could use the prisoner for their own bargaining purposes. Which, as you know, they did.”
“Rasmussen for Al-Fasr.”
Boyce nodded. “Except, as it turned out, the deal was rigged. Al-Fasr’s unfaithful lieutenant, a guy named Abu Mahmed, didn’t really want Al-Fasr back.”
“And Bronson didn’t want Rasmussen back.”
Boyce studied the end of his cigar. “You said it, not me.”
“So who besides Bronson knew that Rasmussen was alive?”
“Somebody a lot further up the food chain. Maybe quite a bit further. Probably better if we don’t know.”
More than ever, Maxwell was feeling the stress and fatigue of the all night mission. He hadn’t slept for—how long? Almost twenty four hours. His eyes burned and his joints ached.
He rose from the steel chair and headed for the door.
“Haven’t you wondered,” said Boyce, “why they haven’t determined who really killed Bronson and Al-Fasr? After all they have the bodies, and they ought to be able to trace the bullets.”
Maxwell was instantly alert. “Bullets? You mean—”
“Wentz and the spooks weren’t telling you all the story. They said they recovered the bodies of Bronson and Al-Fasr, but that wasn’t the whole truth.”
Maxwell turned to look at Boyce. “May I ask what the whole truth is?”
“The truth is that there are no bullets. Presumably, both men were shot in the head, but that’s the problem.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“Because there are no heads.”
Maxwell felt a roiling sensation in the pit of his stomach. “No heads. . .”
“They were decapitated. It seems that someone sliced off their heads. The TRAP team never found the missing parts. The Marine who told me the story had to stop and puke.”
Maxwell thought he might do the same. “Why would anyone do that?”
“Terrorists have reasons that are beyond our understanding.”
Maxwell was dazed. He was reaching for the door latch when Boyce said, “By the way, Brick, I was wondering something else.”
Maxwell stopped with his hand on the latch. “Sir?”
“I was just wondering whether it might have been you who shot Bronson. Was it?”
For a long moment he looked Boyce in the eye. “No, sir.”
“Good answer.” Boyce returned his gaze through a cloud of smoke. “But even if you didn’t, you should have.”
< >
A hush fell over the Roadrunners’ ready room. The visitor entered and peered around. He wore starched khakis and the gold leaves of a lieutenant commander. He carried a newspaper beneath his arm.
“Who’s in charge here?” he said.
Leroi Jones, the squadron duty officer, looked over to Maxwell, who had just come in to pick up his mail. Maxwell gave him a formation hand signal—touching his forehead and pointing to Jones. You’ve got the lead.
Jones shrugged and said, “Guess I am, sir.”
The visitor said, “I’m Lt. Cmdr. Scudder, the Reagan’s new Public Affairs Officer.”
“What happened to the old PAO?”
“He’s been relieved, shipped back to the states. I was sent out here to clean up some public relations problems.”
“Public relations? What’s it got to do with us?”
Scudder gazed around the ready room. His jowly face wore a look of disapproval. “It has to do with the call signs you people are so fond of using.” He held up the front page of the newspaper. It was yesterday’s New York Herald Tribune, and on it was a photograph of flight operations aboard the USS Reagan. A figure in a flight deck vest and cranial protector headset was pointing down the deck as a jet was launching.
“Look at the man in the picture,” said Scudder. “See the name on his vest?”
Jones took the paper and peered closely at the photograph. “Hey! That’s our man Dog Balls.”
Scudder winced. “That photograph has been seen by something over a hundred thousand readers.”
“Cool,” said Jones. “Ol’ Dog Balls is gonna be famous.”
Scudder snatched the newspaper back. “There’s nothing cool about it, Lieutenant. Things like this tarnish the Navy’s public image. This is a public relations disaster.”
“So why are you telling us about it? If you don’t like it, just make him to get rid of the call sign.”
By now the pilots in the ready room had all maneuvered their way to the front, following the conversation.
“That is the problem,” said Scudder. “He claims this squadron gave it to him, and he’s not allowed to get rid of it.”
Jones grinned. “Dog Balls really said that, huh?”
“It seems that Mr. Harvey actually likes the. . . disgusting name. He says he won’t change it unless you give him one just as good.”
Cheering broke out in the ready room.
“Attaboy, Dog Balls!”
“Good for him!”
“What a guy!”
Scudder’s face reddened. He glared at the pilots in the room. “Listen. You people don’t seem to understand the facts of life. This is the new Navy. The Tailhook scandal is behind us. We have to do everything we can to portray a clean and wholesome image to the public.”
“Clean and wholesome,” repeated Jones, nodding his head. He was peering at the wings on Scudder’s uniform. They were the gold wings of a naval aviation flight officer. “Hey, what kind of flying job do you have?”
“None anymore. I was a tacco on a P-3 during my first tour.”
“So what was your call sign?”
“We didn’t use call signs in our squadron.”
“Well, now that you’re here on the Reagan, Mr. Scudder, don’t you think you oughta have a call sign like the rest of us?”
A wary look flashed over Scudder’s face. “No, I don’t think—”
“After all, you’re working with fighter pilots now. If you want us to help you, then you really oughta get a call sign.”
“Never mind that. I came down here to talk about—”
“In fact, we’d love to come up with one for you, wouldn’t we, guys?”
Another chorus of cheering erupted from the back of the ready room.
“Hey,” yelled Bud Spencer. “We’ll even get you a vest with your new call sign stenciled on it.”
Scudder sensed calamity rushing at him. He began backpedaling toward the door. “Well, this has been interesting, gentlemen. Thank you for your time. I have to go meet—”
“Scrotum!” yelled Flash Gordon from the back of the room.
Scudder stopped. His eyes filled with horror. “Scrotum?”
“That’s it!” said Jones. “It’s perfect. That’ll look great on your vest. Scrotum Scudder!”
At this a fresh round of cheering and whistling reverberated from the steel bulkheads.
Scudder bolted for the door. He slammed the door behind him, but he was too late. Jones and half a dozen others were right behind him. The chorus followed Scudder all the way down the passageway and up the ladder to the next level.
“Scrotum! Scrotum Scudder! Hey, come back, Scrotum!”
< >
Manama, Bahrain
I hate this business, Claire said to herself.
The red message light on the telephone was blinking like a fire alarm. It was the third urgent message from Phil Granley in the New York headquarters of the World News Syndicate. Each was the same. Return this call immediately.
She knew what Granley wanted.
She poured herself a coffee and stood staring out the window of her room in the Gulf Hotel. To the west she could see the sprawling harbor of Manama and, in the distance, the gray mass of the USS Reagan. The smaller ships of the battle group were assembled like chicks around a mother hen. On one of the ships was an American named Allen Rasmussen.
Finally she picked up the phone and dialed Granley’s number.
“Where’s the prisoner?” he said. “Have you got an interview yet?”
“What prisoner?”
“You know damned well what prisoner,” he roared. “The one you had me stick my neck out a mile for. He’s been freed, right?”
“I don’t know. The Navy’s not saying.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? The story’s already been leaked to every news bureau in the Middle East. After what we did to make this happen, I expect you to get an exclusive on this one.”
“They’re keeping him secluded, Phil. The guy’s life has been shattered. He’s not on display.”
“Lean on your military connections. You can do it, I know you can. Get in to talk to him.”
“No.”
A silence fell over the telephone line. Through the crackle of the satellite connection, Claire could hear Granley’s deep breathing.
“What the hell’s this all about?” he said.
“Ethics, Phil. It’s called conducting ourselves like responsible journalists. We did something decent by helping get Raz Rasmussen out of captivity. Now let’s do the decent thing by leaving him alone.”
“Where are you getting this Mother Theresa shit? You’re in the news business, not the goddamned sisterhood of bleeding hearts.”
“Oh, and another thing, Phil. Tell our reporters to stay away from his wife. She’s going through her own hell now, and she also deserves some privacy. If you want us to get credit for something, let’s get it for doing the right thing.”
Several more seconds passed. She could sense the heat of Granley’s anger through the phone. She knew what was coming next.
It took five more seconds. “You’re fired,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Whaddya mean, okay? You just blew what was once a very promising career.”
“You’re angry, Phil. You’ll get over it.”
“Not in your lifetime I won’t.” She heard the tinny sound of the satellite connection change. The line was dead.
She returned to the window. In the gathering dusk, the long gray shapes of the warships looked like fish feeding in a stream. A serene image in a world at war.
Granley would get over it, she thought. He’d get over it first thing in the morning when she called him about the exclusive story she did get.
It came from out of the blue. An agent—an Iraqi named Mustafa Ashbar—had come to her, he said, on the advice of a trusted friend. In exchange for a reasonable payment, he was willing to share the details of a most incredible story, one that would eclipse the human interest story of the returning prisoner of war. Yes, it could be verified, he said. It concerned the Bu Hasa Brigade and a certain deceased CIA station chief.