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  They sat in the cockpit, Wink four feet behind Woods, canopy up, arms hanging over the sides. The sunshine felt gloriously warm through their green Nomex flight suits. Woods looked at the sky for any signs of coming weather but saw nothing but clear blue sky. He gave the signal for electrical power. In short order the plane captain hooked up the electrical cord from the yellow tractor-like vehicle that also served as the huffer—the high-speed air that turned the jet engines to get them started.

  “Coming down!” Wink yelled as he pushed the lever forward to close the double-length canopy.

  Woods moved his arms inside the cockpit. The canopy came down slowly, hesitated, then slammed forward into the locks.

  Woods gave the signal to hook up the huffer to send in high-pressure air and quickly started the two turbofan engines. He and Wink silently prepared for flight as each checked the weapons and aircraft systems.

  Woods gave a thumbs-up to his plane captain, who returned the signal. The chains were removed from the plane and the chocks were pulled away from the wheels. His oxygen mask was tight on his face, feeding him pure oxygen. Woods looked over at Boomer in the Tomcat next to them, also facing forward and nodded. Vialli nodded back as he pushed the bayonet fittings of his mask to his yellow and black helmet with the skull and bones on the sides.

  The yellow-shirt aviation boatswain’s mate signaled to Woods to taxi. “I’m going hot,” Woods announced to Wink, activating the microphone in his oxygen mask. Wink did likewise. They were both hot mike—they could hear each other breathing.

  Wink turned the rear seat radio to the frequency used by the Air Boss, the commander six stories above who ran the flight deck like a dictator. The frequency was quiet. Everyone knew what to do; talking wasn’t necessary.

  Woods taxied forward to cat 3—one of the waist catapults on the angled deck. The two F/A-18s on the bow cats would go first. Woods watched carefully as he taxied slowly toward the plane director and onto the catapult. The yellow shirt straddled the catapult track and steam rose up all around him. There were men in different colored shirts running all around, looking at innumerable things on the airplane. If anything was wrong they would signal that the airplane was down, and they weren’t going to go anywhere. A man ran up to their plane on the left side and held up a board with a number on it—62,000. Wink gave a thumbs-up and the man took the weight board and turned it to the catapult officer sitting at the side of the flight deck with only his head showing above the deck level. The officer acknowledged the Tomcat’s weight, and dialed it in to the catapult.

  On the signal, Woods brought the wings out of oversweep and put them into automatic. The wings swiftly swept to their full forward position, 20 degrees back from straight out. It was one of the truly remarkable things about the F-14, that it could sweep its wings back and forth, either manually or automatically. It made the large airplane very maneuverable, and a serious fighter. Woods continued to taxi forward slowly, steering the nosewheel with the rudder pedals, and touching the brakes at the top of the rudder pedals to keep from going too fast. As the F-14 approached the shuttle the yellow shirt gave the signal to kneel. Woods hit the switch and the nosewheel collapsed on schedule. The plane crouched down and the launch bar dropped to the deck, working its way over the shuttle as they taxied forward. The yellow shirt signaled Woods to slow the plane down and he felt the familiar clunk as the bar dropped home. Automatically, Woods hit the brakes. The yellow shirt took a quick look and stepped to the side, looking down the track and at Woods. Another man crept under the plane, careful to stay out of the suction of the jet engines. He attached a hold-back bar to the rear of the F-14’s nosewheel to keep it from rolling forward too soon. The bar in place, Woods took his feet off the brakes. Everything looked normal. The yellow shirt raised his right hand at the same time that he slid his left hand toward the bow of the ship. The shuttle jerked forward and put the plane in tension—pressure from the catapult—but not enough to launch them yet.

  Woods put the throttles at full military power and pushed the handles outboard into the detent to keep them from coming aft on the cat shot. “Checklist,” he said calmly, running through it from memory. “Fuel pressure, fuel flow, engine rpm, and TIT all good. No caution or warning lights. Full aft stick.”

  “Clear.”

  “Forward stick.”

  “Good,” Wink replied.

  “Left,” Woods said.

  Wink looked at the port wing to check all four spoilers.

  “Right . . . and rudder.”

  “All good,” Wink said.

  “Ready?” Woods asked.

  “Ready,” Wink said immediately.

  Woods checked his instruments once more. He put his head back against the seat and saluted with his right. The catapult officer, from his glass bubble buried in the flight deck; looked down the deck, examined his instruments, and pushed the launch button.

  Woods felt the immediate jerk of the plane as it was pulled down into the flight deck then hurtled forward by the catapult. The rapid acceleration was thrilling. The shuttle pulled the F-14 from a dead stop to one hundred thirty-five knots in two seconds.

  “Good speed,” Wink said calmly in the same voice he always used when he was sure they had enough airspeed to fly and didn’t need to eject from a cold cat shot.

  Woods rotated the nose up gently above the horizon and climbed away from the carrier, banking hard left into a clearing turn to get away from the ship. An F-18 had been launched off one of the bow cats just before them and had turned to the right, away from them, for the same reason. Woods raised the landing gear and flaps and set his speed at two hundred fifty knots. He climbed to five hundred feet and leveled off.

  Wink changed the radio to Strike and called to report airborne. He strained to look around and saw Boomer being shot off the catapult behind them.

  When they were seven miles out from the ship Woods pulled back hard on the stick and the plane climbed quickly. The wings threw off trails of vapor as the moist air condensed under the pressure.

  “Going cold,” Woods said as he deselected the hot mike setting on their Internal Communication System, the ICS.

  “Ditto,” said Wink, throwing an identical switch in the backseat.

  “Where are we going anyway?” Woods said, keying his mike with a button on the throttle.

  “Overhead rendezvous at 12, then descend to tank at 6, then we’re cleared into the gunnery pattern at 0845.”

  “Right. Two or four planes in the pattern?”

  “Just us and Boomer. I think the F-18s have it after us, but I’m not sure. We have it until we run out of bullets. Roger, Strike,” Wink said, responding to Woods and the radio at the same time.

  Woods climbed to twelve thousand feet and leveled off. He dipped his left wing and saw the carrier two miles below. As large as it was, it looked impossibly small from two miles up, far too small to land a helicopter on, let alone a 60,000 pound jet. Just as Woods set up a gentle banking turn to circle over the carrier he saw Vialli approaching him from behind. “There’s Boomer.”

  “Tally,” Wink said.

  Vialli approached from inside the turn and slightly below Woods. He was doing a perfect rendezvous—not too quick, and not dangerous. As he closed to fifty feet or so, he lowered his right wing and slipped underneath Woods, taking up a perfect position on the outside of the turn, exactly as he was supposed to do.

  Woods looked over at Vialli, thirty feet away, and nodded. “He’s a natural,” he said to Wink.

  “He’s still got a lot to learn.”

  “Don’t we all.” Woods put his left hand on the stick and with his right motioned for Vialli to take a trail position, farther back and directly behind Woods. Woods waited until Vialli was in position and then pushed his throttles to the stops without using afterburner. The F-14 accelerated quickly. “Anybody scheduled to be above us over the ship?”

  “Not a soul,” Wink replied, smiling, looking forward to pulling a few Gs as he used his radar to
scan the empty skies ahead of them.

  As the plane accelerated through four hundred fifty knots Woods pulled up quickly, away from the dark blue sea to the paler blue sky. He watched the accelerometer steady at six Gs and eased off when they were pointed straight up. Glancing in his mirror, he saw Vialli right behind him. He rolled the plane over onto its back and leveled his wings to complete an Immelman, immediately pulling up again to continue climbing. Vialli was still right behind him.

  “Heading 067 for 6,” Wink said to Woods, reporting the course to the carrier as he changed radio frequencies back to Air Boss, the tower of the carrier. “Morning, Boss. Victory 201, flight of two, 6 miles out for the spar,” he said.

  “Roger, 201. Spar trailing. Cleared into the pattern. Report 3 miles.”

  “Wilco,” Wink replied. “Checklist,” he said to Woods.

  They went through the gunfire checklist in preparation for their strafing runs.

  Woods looked down at the carrier now five miles away and headed for it. “Which way is she going?” he asked Wink.

  “Don’t know. Hold on . . . Boss, say ship’s course.”

  There was a pause, then the response came. “Course 355,” Air Boss answered.

  Woods headed starboard of the ship so they would end up three fourths of a mile or so behind it, just the length of the cable towing the spar.

  “Victory 201, flight of two, 245 at 3 miles,” Wink transmitted.

  “Roger, 201. Pattern clear. You’re cleared in to the spar. Call when in last run.”

  “Wilco.”

  Woods lowered the nose again and descended to fifteen hundred feet. He checked his gun sight and switches, Wink searching the air with his radar for any stray airplanes the Boss might not be aware of. Everything was clear. “Looks good, Trey.”

  “Roger.”

  “Passing through one thousand—four hundred fifty knots.”

  Woods made no reply. He saw the spar, a telephone pole being dragged behind the carrier, one mile away, making its own wake like a periscope. He placed the gun sight on it and continued his descent to five hundred feet, glancing over his shoulder at Vialli, knowing he would be right where he should be. Vialli was an instinctive pilot. Woods never had to tell him where to go. It was like flying with yourself in two airplanes at once. He had to admit Vialli was better than he had been himself when he was in Vialli’s position, his first cruise. Woods’s first squadron tour had been in VF-103 three years before. He had gone to Topgun before returning to the fleet. This was his fourth Mediterranean cruise. It was Vialli’s first.

  Woods flew directly over the spar at five hundred feet and looked at the carrier to his left. He trimmed the plane to fly perfectly straight and level at four hundred fifty knots, then slammed the throttles forward and pulled up hard to start the gunnery pattern.

  Vialli waited ten seconds, then followed suit.

  Woods pulled the nose up at a 45-degree angle then turned sharply to the left until the plane was going in the opposite direction. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vialli, his nose also up at a 45-degree angle. Woods flew down a ways, then began a sharp turn toward the spar. “One’s in,” he transmitted. He bunted the nose of the F-14 until his wings were level and he was pointed directly at the spar, moving his aiming point to twenty feet behind it. He was only supposed to shoot close to the spar, not hit it. They wanted to be able to use it again.

  “Four-fifty, two thousand feet,” Wink called out, looking at the instruments. He noted that Woods had guns selected.

  Woods raced downhill at a 20-degree angle and brought the throttles back to maintain exactly four hundred fifty knots.

  “Two’s in,” Vialli transmitted behind him.

  “One thousand feet,” Wink said.

  Woods pressed in toward the spar, then pulled the trigger on the stick and felt the Vulcan cannon in the left side of the nose of the Tomcat spool up and spit out twenty-millimeter bullets at six thousand rounds per minute. It didn’t sound like a gun really, more like a very large and angry sewing machine with a cold.

  The deckhands watching from the deck saw the smoke come from the nose of the plane, then saw the bullets strike the water behind the carrier in a furious white foam, then heard the report of the gun firing. The bullets were supersonic, reaching the water long before the sound.

  Woods bottomed out at five hundred feet and pulled up hard, pulling five Gs as the plane strained to go skyward again. “One’s off,” he transmitted without letting more than the required air out of his mouth, bringing the nose up high to head the other way in the racetrack pattern.

  “Boomer’s too steep,” Wink grunted.

  Woods glanced over his shoulder to his left at his diving wingman. His heart jumped. Wink was right, Vialli was way too steep. Woods watched, hoping to see some recognition by Vialli of the hole he was getting into. The Tomcat raced down toward the spar.

  “He’s too fast,” Wink said, seeing the danger building. If Vialli got his nose too low with too much speed on the plane, it didn’t matter what he did, he would be dead. He would be unable to pull out before hitting the water, and he would be outside the ejection envelope. Even if he realized what was happening and tried to eject, it would only mean that he would die in his ejection seat instead of sitting in the airplane.

  Woods waited as long as he could before keying his mike for the front seat radio. “Boomer! Throttle back! You’re too steep!”

  The nose of the F-14 turned up suddenly as Boomer was startled into action by the shock of the unexpected voice of his section leader. He pulled hard and cloud-like water vapor appeared on the tops of the wings from the pressure. He leveled out at about the height of the flight deck, seventy feet off the water, still way too low, but pulling up quickly to follow Woods.

  Woods shook his head and rolled back in on the spar. “One’s in,” he transmitted.

  “Two’s off,” Boomer transmitted, well after he should have.

  “He sure dicked that up,” Woods said.

  “Hasn’t he ever strafed the spar before?”

  “Maybe not. We’d better watch him.”

  “We’d better tell the Skipper about that.”

  “No, I’ll handle it.”

  Vialli followed Woods religiously through the remainder of the runs on the spar. They cycled through the gunnery pattern again and again, shooting their bullets in fifty-round bursts, until they were both out of ammunition. “One’s winchester,” Woods said after his last run.

  “Two’s winchester,” Vialli replied, following him up again.

  “Victory 201, flight of two exiting the pattern directly overhead, Boss,” Wink said.

  “Roger, 201. Good shooting.”

  “Fifteen minutes till we have to be overhead,” Wink reminded Woods. Wink looked back to see Vialli closing in to join up.

  Woods accelerated away from the carrier and climbed to fifteen thousand feet. “Let’s woodshed our wingman a little,” Woods said. Without warning, he jerked his plane to the left and hit afterburner. He had waited until Vialli wasn’t looking at him, and Vialli didn’t notice until he was nearly a half-mile away. Vialli turned to catch up. Woods came out of afterburner and turned sharply into Vialli. “Fight’s on,” he said over the squadron frequency, the universally recognized declaration of the commencement of voluntary air combat. Woods loved air-to-air combat, and loved taking advantage of his unsuspecting wingman. A few more times like this and he wouldn’t be unsuspecting again.

  6

  Sami looked around the conference room. He was just starting to get to know the other members of the task force. All were members of the CTC, the Counter-Terrorism Center of the CIA. The CTC had been in operation for years on the ground floor of CIA Headquarters in Langley. There were two hundred men and women permanently assigned to the CTC, and their cubicles were separated by “streets.” Signs hung from the ceiling that spoke volumes of what they were about: Abu Nidal Blvd, and Tamil Tiger Terrace, and Osama bin Lane, named after Osama bin La
den, one of their greatest and longest running frustrations.

  Sami had walked through the area a few times before, but only to answer a specific question. He was not a member of the CTC. He was just an analyst from the Middle East Section who happened to research emerging terrorist groups. But Kinkaid knew about him. He had insisted on Sami and Cunningham joining the new task force.

  The conference room that had been set aside for it was in the middle of the CTC, surrounded by people who spent every waking minute tracking terrorists and dreaming of the day when another one would be caught or somehow defanged.

  Sami’s analysis was still raw, and might be shown to be ridiculous at any moment. He was uncomfortable briefing anyone about it. He didn’t even know what he believed yet. It was just speculation. But Kinkaid had looked ill when Sami had first brought his ideas to him. He had insisted he tell the task force immediately.

  He wasn’t sure exactly how to begin. Almost all of his work ended up in reports or memos. He had never given a brief to anyone from the DO, the Directorate of Operations, the ones who actually went out into the world and put their lives on the line to accumulate intelligence or effect things. He felt like the water boy to the football players.

  The task force had assembled early. They had a 7:30 a.m. meeting scheduled, but Kinkaid had asked them all to be there at 6:30 to hear Sami. They were interested, but skeptical. They drank coffee and sat in their chairs around the large table, waiting. Kinkaid signaled Sami, who got up from his seat in the front and walked to the podium.

  “As some of you know, I’ve been looking at emerging terrorist groups in the Middle East for a long time. My job is to recognize a new group before they know they’re a group. You get all kinds, the young boys who have delusions of grandeur, people who want an Islamic state, people who hate the West, or Israel, or the ones who want money and are trying to figure out what they need to say to get that. You’ve heard about them all.”