PREPARE FOR LANDING.” THE anonymous voice on the public address system woke him up, and Swanson tightened the belts holding him in the uncomfortable seat. He was aboard a twin-engine Grumman C-1A, technically called a Carrier On-board Delivery System, but familiarly known to all as a COD. Many of the twenty-eight passenger seats were occupied by young sailors and Marines returning to the huge CVN-71 after spending a shore leave as drunk as skunks. The seats faced the rear of the plane, which created a disoriented feeling of flying backward and severe cases of motion sickness and a need for extra barf bags. A hangover combined with a COD ride is just too much for most human stomachs to handle at dawn on Sunday morning.
The pilot lowered his flaps and gunned the twin Allison engines, and the COD fell out of the sky, the tailhook catching the three-wire across the deck of the USS Theodore Roosevelt. Swanson was jerked hard against the seatbelts as the plane went from 120 knots to flat zero in only 60 feet. Since the insides of the passengers underwent the same rate of instant deceleration, it felt like the stomach was coming out of the mouth, and a young sailor down the aisle puked noisily, starting a chain reaction.
It took a few minutes for the COD to be released from the wire and taxi to a parking place on the broad deck; then the side door opened and sea air poured inside to remove the stench of fresh vomit. The awkward-looking CODs ran regular missions out to the carriers to deliver personnel and supplies, and Swanson was just part of the day’s cargo being hauled from the U.S. Air Force Base at Injerlek, Turkey, out to the carrier battle group steaming in the western Mediterranean Sea.
Shari had received her summons to return to Washington two hours before a duty officer called on Kyle on his cell phone, ordering him to return to the fleet as soon as possible. All leaves were cancelled. Shari pointed out that she was called first because she was much more important to world peace and protecting the nation. Sir Jeff had directed the Vagabond to Naples at a speed that would allow Shari and Kyle to catch flights out first thing Saturday morning, yet slow enough to make time for a final fantastic dinner aboard and a night together. The yacht trip had been a balm for both of them, a rare occasion that stitched their relationship even tighter, and leaving her in Naples had been difficult, but they parted knowing they would have plenty of tomorrows. For now, it was time to get into a warrior frame of mind and concentrate on business.
He waited until everyone else was off the COD before waddling down the aisle, carrying Excalibur in a gun case in one hand and a Val Pak suitcase in the other. Swanson stepped out through the hatch and down the small metal stairway. Wind howled across the flight deck, which was busier than a Wal-Mart at Christmas and smelled like jet fuel and oil.
“Are you one Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson?” The question was yelled in a deep voice that pierced the chaos of the flight deck by a Marine top sergeant whose head was scraped clean of hair.
“Who the fuck is asking?”
“I am God Almighty as far as you are concerned, you piece of pond scum. Fear me!”
“Fear. Right. Here, Double-Oh, catch.” He tossed him the Val Pak. The other Marine grabbed it with one big paw, laughed, and clapped Kyle on the shoulder.
“Come on. We ain’t waiting around on this barge. They sent me over from the Wasp to fetch you, and our chariot awaits over yonder.” Master Sergeant Orville Oliver Dawkins of Pratt, Kansas, pointed across the deck to where a boxy UN-1H helicopter was warming up, the big rotor whomping the air around it. They went over to the port edge and down a couple of ladders and entered the subterranean, pipe-laced caverns that were filled with planes and busy crew members in different-colored jerseys. Mechanics and technicians burrowed into the parked aircraft.
The two Marines did not speak openly with so many people about, but Kyle’s curiosity was running away with him. He had learned in Turkey that for some reason he was a high-priority item, and now he had been met personally by a top sergeant with a private helo. Kyle thought for a moment that maybe he was as important as Shari after all.
“So what’s this all about, Double-Oh?” Their boots thudded on the steel deck.
“I didn’t catch the whole conversation, but the colonel said something about either giving you another Navy Cross or finally kicking your skinny little ass out of my beloved Corps. I forgot which.”
“Some god you are. A top who doesn’t know what’s going on? What is our world coming to?” Swanson said.
“I know all. The beasts of the field and fishies in the ocean do not move without my knowing.”
“It’s just ‘fish,’ not ‘fishies.’ ‘Fish’ is both singular and plural.”
“‘Fishies’ sounds better, and since I am God, I can say it however the fuck I want to.” They stepped out of the way of a little yellow tractor that crawled toward them, pulling a wings-folded F-14 Tomcat.
“So you really have no idea what’s going on, do you?”
“Not a clue, Kyle. Just bet your ass something big league is coming down involving your old pal General Middleton. Why else would you get a private whirlybird ride?”
Dawkins looked back over his shoulder long enough to give him a smile that contained no warmth whatsoever. “And a ‘special guest’ is waiting for you.”
They started up the stairs and ladders to the main deck. “Shit. A spook?”
“Spooky as Freddy Krueger on Halloween. As Jason with a chainsaw. As Scary Movie 3. CIA dude straight from Langley. Got here last night.”
By the time they reached the deck, the Huey was ready to go. The bird was primarily used as a command-and-control platform, which meant it had cushioned seats. Neither Double-Oh nor Swanson buckled in, because they made a living jumping out of helicopters and hated being confined inside one. The Huey smoothly lifted away, the open doors letting the fresh morning air swoosh through the cabin. The giant Roosevelt grew small in size, and then disappeared behind them as the green Med rolled gently underneath, five hundred feet below.
On the way over to the Wasp, Kyle considered the unexpected appearance of the “special guest.” Last he had heard from the CIA, he was standing at attention in front of some civilian and a bird colonel and being told that he had fucked up the border mission, that he was more trouble than he was worth, and that he would never get to play with them again.
“What?” he had asked the spooks. “Did that asshole Ali bin Assam come back to life or something? You wanted him dead. He’s dead.”
He was then chewed on for a while for constantly violating accepted doctrine in the field, and told that the agency had no room for renegades. Kyle shrugged it off. He had heard it all before, just the usual complaints made by the office weenies when they had given him their unspoken blessing before the black mission began to do whatever was required. They were just covering their asses for the files, and he knew those loud threats to absolutely, positively, never, ever use him again would last only until the next time he was needed.
Now it seemed that time had arrived. Something had changed their little bureaucratic minds, which probably meant he was going to get shot at and that a snatch raid was planned to get Middleton back. Kyle reached between his boots and gave the gun case an affectionate pat, quite happy that Sir Jeff and Tim insisted that he take Excalibur along and give it a real field test. Somebody shot at him, he was going to shoot back.