Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

A murmur swept his audience.

“We’re going to put the ALQ- 198 in one of your planes in place of the 199, ensure it is working, then the pilot of that plane is going to jump out of it in such a way that the plane crashes in Iran.”

Dead silence.

“There were several possible ways to handle this operation,” Jake Grafton continued. “I believed the best way to stop tongues from wagging and keep the secret was to just tell you, the officers of this squadron, the truth, so that is what I’m doing. Any questions so far?”

One hand went up. Jake nodded at the owner of the hand, a female in a flight suit who asked, “Who do you work for, Admiral?”

“CIA.”

Another question. “Why do you want the Iranians to have this box?”

Grafton tugged thoughtfully at his ear. “I’m tempted to pass on that one, but I think I’ll put it this way: They don’t know we have a better one, nor do they know that the better one is actually put together differently and uses different algorithms.”

He pointed at another hand.

“What is the plan, sir?”

Grafton’s face brightened into a smile. “Well, the first requirement is that the Iranians believe a U.S. Navy F/A-18 crashed accidentally in their territory. Second, they have to believe we don’t want them to have this box. Finally, and most importantly, we have to get everyone involved back alive and in one piece.” He looked thoughtful again. “I hope that your skipper and ops officer can help me put together a scenario that is realistic enough for the Iranians and yet doesn’t cost us any American lives. It’s a tall order, and it’s going to take some guts and finesse to pull it off. By necessity, we are going to violate Iranian airspace. Once we have a script for our passion play, we’ll run it by your battle group commander, Rear Admiral Stan Bryant, and the folks at State. If we can get their blessing, we’ll give it a go.”

“Who gets to fly this puppy?” one of the junior officers asked.

“I thought I was going to,” Grafton said dryly, “but my boss in Washington thought that I wasn’t.” That one drew a laugh. “So I’ve talked with the Fly, and he tells me he and your XO can come up with an equitable way to pick the lucky person. Skipper?”

Jake sat down, and Burgholzer arranged himself at the podium. “Any volunteers?” he asked.

Every hand in the room shot up.

“That’s what I thought would happen,” the Fly said, grinning. “Damn, you people make me proud.”

The squadron ops officer was Lieutenant Commander Harry Lampert. He was about six feet tall and skinny, with a crew cut and a chiseled profile. This was, he said, “an interesting problem.” He was huddled with Jake Grafton, Burgholzer and the squadron Executive Officer, the XO.

If the plane had much fuel in it when it crashed, everyone agreed, the wreckage might well be destroyed by fire. On the other hand, if the plane lacked fuel, that might give suspicious Iranian minds something to chew upon.

Then there was the issue of where the pilot would eject. If over water, the plane would have to be on autopilot to reach land. If over land, an in-country rescue situation would develop.

The best option, they decided, was for the pilot to eject over water and the plane to continue on autopilot into Iranian airspace and run out of fuel somewhere over the Iranian desert.

“Why does the pilot need to eject?” the Fly asked. “The Iranians are going to ask that question.”

“It’s going to be a pile of rubble,” Lampert argued. “The people who examine this wreck won’t be able to figure out why it crashed.”

“Never underestimate your enemy’s technical savvy,” the XO said. “That’s usually a mistake. After all, they can get Russian help any time they ask.”

“How long do you need to fool them, Admiral?” Burgholzer asked Jake Grafton.

“A while,” he said and smiled.

“That’s what I like-a man who keeps his cards close to his vest,” Burgholzer told his officers.

Eventually they had a plan, and Jake asked each of the squadron officers to sleep on it.

He was a guest that evening of Admiral Bryant in the flag mess. The two renewed an old acquaintance and, inevitably, found themselves discussing the situation in the Middle East. “Forty million barrels of oil a day come out of the Persian Gulf into the Arabian Sea,” Bryant said, “on its way to ports all over the earth. That’s just a smidgen less than half the earth’s production. Any disruption for any significant period of time will have a huge impact on the world’s economies. What happens in this corner of the world matters to everyone on the planet.”

When they were alone, they discussed Jake’s plan. “Should work,” Bryant said. “There’s a frigate stationed in the Gulf of Oman, just outside the entrance to the Strait of Hormuz. She has a helo on board. I can make sure she has that helo on alert or in the air when your guy goes out, and we can run one of ours partway up there, having him practice smoke hovers.”

The admiral also decided who would need to know what was going down. He named the captain of the ship, the commander of the air wing, his chief of staff and a couple of other officers. “Tell me when you’re going and I’ll brief them,” Bryant said.

They sliced and diced it, two professional naval aviators talking carrier aviation, then moved on to discuss mutual friends and naval matters.

For Jake Grafton, it was all very pleasant. Being at sea on a carrier again, smelling the smells, hearing the sounds, walking through the endless passageways, thinking about flying-all of it brought back pungent memories. He walked out of the flag spaces after dinner with a light step, certain that all was right with the world.

Up on the flight deck he found that the sun had set and the wind was up, a wind laden with salt and the smell of the sea. It tore at his clothes and messed up his hair as he picked his way between the tied-down planes and walked between the catapult tracks to the bow. There was a good sea running, so the bow was rising and falling at a rate that made it difficult to stand. In the darkness, the rising bow tried to throw him off his feet, and the descending bow, dropping out from under him, made him feel light.

These were old sensations, ones Jake Grafton had first known as a young man. Periodic tours on carriers through the years kept the sea and the ships fresh in his memory. You can never go back, they say… but if only you could!

After ten minutes savoring the sensual feel of the eternal wind and the ship riding the restless sea, he went below to the empty cabin he had been assigned. He undressed and lay down on the small bed, but in minutes he was thinking about the plan, about how it would go. When finally he drifted off to sleep, he found himself dreaming about it.

The ship was launching aircraft the next afternoon when Harry Lampert walked into the Mission Planning spaces with one of his pilots, a woman wearing a green Nomex flight suit. She was of slightly less than medium height, perhaps 130 pounds, with dark brown hair that she wore fairly short. She was trim and fit, solidly muscled.

“Lieutenant O’Hare, sir.”

Jake Grafton was in Mission Planning looking at the latest satellite photographs of the Iranian coast. Above their heads on the flight deck, planes were being launched. The subdued, muffled howl of the jet engines at full power reached them occasionally, then disappeared as the catapults threw the planes into the sky. The thuds of catapult spears slamming into the water brakes could be felt all over the ship.

Grafton nodded at each of the junior officers and said, “Commander Burgholzer told me he thought you two could pull this off if anyone could.” He handed them a single sheet of paper containing four paragraphs.