“We sail to Turkey, the southern coast. They want us to go ashore without being noticed.”
“ETA?” Ding inquired.
“We should arrive just after daybreak. Charlie will be waiting with two cars.” He was referring to Charlotte “Charlie” Adams, the highly capable Aussie intelligence officer attached to the task force. For this op, she had been handling shoreside logistics.
“Any idea what we’re doing when we get there?”
“No clue. I’ve been told we’ll get further instructions once we’re ashore.”
Clark surveyed the room, such as it was, and saw the usual reactions. Disappointment at the stolen days off. Trepidation about what new five-alarm fire awaited. The thrill of another challenge. There were no more questions.
Aphrodisia’s bow swung sixty degrees to starboard, and soon she was tracking straight and true toward the Levantine Sea.
8
Tactical Operations Center
Naval Air Station Sigonella, Italy
0806 Local Time
Lieutenant Commander Kathleen Ryan walked into the TOC in a hurry—more of a hurry than usual—only to freeze once she was inside. It had nothing to do with security measures or indecision. She simply had to let her eyes adjust; the subdued lights of the cloistered workspace were a stark contrast to the brilliant Sicilian sun.
Once her vision adapted, she scoped out the room and saw the man she was looking for on the far side. Lieutenant John Conza was wearing standard Navy khakis and an uncharacteristic frown.
“I got your message,” she said as she came up behind him.
He looked over his shoulder and the frown flipped to a smile. “Hey, Katie. Yeah, I hope you weren’t busy. Looks like some new orders are coming down the pike for both of us—I’m trying to download ’em now.”
“Any clue what’s up?”
“Not sure, but it’s bound to be a downgrade.” His easy smile held fast, a smile that belonged on a movie poster. Conza was ajunior officer, but before receiving his commission he’d spent eight years as an enlisted Navy SEAL. The loss of a leg in combat operations in Syria had forced a career change, but it hadn’t dampened either his enthusiasm for life or his country-boy nature.
Katie and Conza had been working together for months, and Sigonella was the high point, a sweet temporary-duty assignment. The three-week rotation to sunny Italy was ostensibly to take part in an ONI exercise with the Sixth Fleet—gaming out joint force and surface warfare scenarios across northern Africa and the Med. Now halfway through the assignment, they had given three PowerPoint presentations, sat through twice as many, and spent hours in the TOC. But there had also been wine, authentic Sicilian pizza, and journeys to the beachfront corniche in Messina. Katie was still suffering the aftereffects of the most recent beach visit—she’d gotten an embarrassing red sunburn that JC, as he was known, hadn’t stopped ribbing her about.
Conza said, “I suspect it has to do with that Air Force C-17 out on the ramp.”
Katie had seen the jet on the distant tarmac, a beached gray whale in the sun.
“Here we go,” Conza said as two messages downloaded. The first popped to the screen and they read it in unison. It was a flash notice about the crash of a C-32A in southern Turkey.
“Damn,” he said, “no survivors.”
“Yeah, and an Andrews airplane. Looks like the secretary of commerce was on board.”
“And one Navy officer.”
The second message turned out to be amended orders for them both. Sixth Fleet war-gaming was out, crisis response in.
“There it is,” he said.
“You were right about the C-17. Looks like it’s hauling a team of investigators to the crash site.”
“And now two of ONI’s finest are getting an invite to the party.”
They exchanged a look.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” prompted Conza.
