Hodges looked up and saw the CAG, Captain Martin Vasquez.Vasquez was in charge of Carrier Air Wing 8, nine squadrons of attack and support aircraft.
“What’s up, CAG?”
“Just an update. We should have everything ready to launch by the top of the hour.”
“Good…I guess. No telling if this is going to be a go.”
“There was mention of Air Force tanker support, but it sounded a little aspirational. I’m having two Hornets loaded with full bags and a buddy store in case we have to manage the refueling ourselves.”
“Sounds like a good precaution. If we do launch, it’s going to be a hike to get there.”
They looked down to the deck, where four F/A-18 Hornets were being readied for launch. Each had been uploaded with eight GBU-38s—five-hundred-pound JDAM precision bombs.
“All that to blow up one hangar?”
“Yeah, seems like overkill, huh? But we haven’t got the final green light yet. I sense the brass are holding something back about this airfield.”
“I agree,” said Hodges. “The whole thing feels strange to me. The first message implied possibly obliterating this hangar. Then the follow-up suggested we might be needed for close air support in the area.”
“Good news is, there’s no mention of air defenses. The Libyans wouldn’t bother with SAMs that deep in the sandbox. That said, whatever is going on at this airfield, it’s got Sixth Fleet command tied up in knots.”
“Who’s on the roster?” the skipper asked, looking down at the jets.
“Lava’s gonna lead it. Id, Spanx, Gooch.”
Lava was Commander Dale “Lava” Harrison. A former TopGun instructor, he was the executive officer of Strike Fighter Squadron 31, the Tomcatters. On his wing would be Lieutenant Mike “Id” Ayotte, Lieutenant Commander Tom “Spanx” Hahn, and Lieutenant James “Gooch” Whittemore.
“That’ll work.”
“The way this thing popped up, and as sketchy as it sounds…I wanted my best on the job.”
Hodges nodded thoughtfully, then slapped the CAG on his shoulder. “Buy you a coffee?”
“I think you better. Sounds like it might be a long night.”
59
Situation Room
The White House
Washington, D.C.
1741 Local Time
“Yermilov has agreed to a call,” Mary Pat said. “Connection in five minutes.”
“Five minutes,” Ryan commented. “Quicker than I expected.”
He exchanged a knowing look with his DNI.
Diplomacy always had its nuances. When dealing with Russia, in Ryan’s considerable experience, it was something near an art form. He and the NSC had spent the best part of an hour getting their intelligence ducks in a row, and after some debate, Ryan had decided the best course of action was a one-on-one call with the Russian president.
It would be a cagey interaction, as they always were, but he wanted to get a sense for two things. Was the Russian Federation behind this plot? And whether or not that was the case, would Yermilov be willing to help end it?
Minutes earlier, the White House communications staff hadmade a request for immediate contact through formal channels. The quick response from Yermilov was the first signal to be parsed. It was the middle of the night in Moscow. Had they awakened Yermilov from a sound sleep? Would he be surprised, even concerned, about an urgent call from his American counterpart at such an hour? Or had Yermilov already been awake, perhaps following the events in North Africa? Maybe he was expecting a call.
Malenkov’s role in the pending radiological disaster was backed by rock-solid evidence. Yet it seemed highly unlikely that this plot was a mere grab for self-enrichment on the oil markets.Cui bono?No nation on earth had more to gain from a closure of the Suez than the Russian Federation. It was Ryan’s job in the coming minutes to tease whatever truths he could out of the Russian president. Or barring that, see through the lies.
