Damage Control. Gordon Kent

movie. The laugh was gone; the face looked gray. Time to retire, old-timer. “We don’t know for sure, sir, but the first look is that a plane, possibly Indian, hit the deck of the Jefferson. Her flight deck is on fire and she has fires on the O-2 level and above. Captain Rogers is dead and Admiral Rafehausen is badly injured. Captain Lash of the Fort Klock has taken command. He’s ordered the fleet exercise canceled.” Spinner was keeping his voice very low.

      “Jesus,” Pilchard’s guest murmured.

      “I have to go,” Pilchard said, pulling a windbreaker from the back of his chair. “You drive?” he asked. Spinner winced.

       “Yes, sir.” Kiss the afternoon goodbye.

      “Get me out to HQ.” Pilchard waved to his friend and started out to the lobby, Spinner hurrying to keep pace.

      Pilchard had his phone open and was dialing. He glanced up at Spinner, who pointed at the waiting car. “Shelley?” Spinner wished he could hear Captain Lurgwitz on the other end. She was Pilchard’s flag captain and she didn’t like Spinner, thus kept him out of a lot of good information. “Yeah, Spinner’s here. I got it. Was it Indian? What do they say?” There was a pause. By now, Spinner was at the wheel and Pilchard was folding his height into the cockpit of Spinner’s BMW. He nodded at something.

      “How long have they been off the air?” A low buzz as Lurgwitz spoke. “You tried calling Al Craik at Mahe?”

      Spinner’s stomach growled at the mere mention of Craik, who had reprimanded him for some trivial message attachment once and didn’t seem to play the game the way the other staff officers did. Blow-hard glory hound.

      Pilchard glanced over at him, and Spinner wondered what showed on his face. The admiral was still gabbing on the phone. “I’ll look at the rest when I’m in. No press till we know, right. Yeah, Shelley, I remember the Forrestal. If you can’t get Mahe, get me HQ Delhi or even their attaché here, okay? And get me Al Craik.”

      Near Jodhpur, India

      A cell-phone tower rose from a dusty plain like a damaged tree. A poorly paved road ran by it. A motorbike came down the road, two people on it, a man and a woman, the woman riding behind.

      The motorbike stopped by the cell-phone tower, and the driver dropped it in the dry grass. He looked up and down the road—people walking, four cyclists, a distant truck—and removed two blocks of C-4 from the bike’s saddle bags. The woman was already wrapping wire around two of the tower’s supports.

      They attached the C-4 and connected wires buried in it to a cellular phone by alligator clips. Then they got back on the bike and putt-putted along the road for half a mile, where they stopped and made a cell-phone call, and the tower collapsed. Joke: the tower handled the call that triggered the explosives.

      Bahrain

      Admiral Pilchard came up a corridor in Fifth Fleet headquarters with his flag captain beside him and his flag lieutenant running interference. All three looked grim: they had just come from a meeting about the Jefferson.

      “Spinner!”

      “Sir!”

      “Get me the Public Information Officer—my office. Now!”

      “Sir!”

      That’s what Spinner seemed to do best—do things to please people. He was almost running in his eagerness to get the PIO.

      Pilchard turned into the flag deck, waved a hand at people who were perfunctorily rising, and banged right through into his private office, a whirlwind pulling Lurgwitz in his wake. She was a stocky, intense woman who would one day have stars on her collar like Pilchard’s.

      “What d’you think?” he demanded, throwing himself down in his chair.

      “I don’t see the pony yet.”

      Pilchard put his forehead on the heel of one hand. “What a mess! Jesus, Shelley—” He looked at her. “Sit down, for Christ’s sake!” He blew out breath. “Okay. I want CAP for the carrier, even if we have to go to the goddam US Air Force for it. Two, I want liaison with the embassy about the Indians and whatever the hell is going on over there. A, there’s the question of relations with their navy—get their attaché, what’s his name? Roopack, Jesus, what a birdbrain, but he’s what they sent—calm him down if need be, make sure he gets the message and relays it home that we deeply regret, etcetera, not our doing. A full investigation—make that a full joint investigation—will follow. Don’t mention the Jefferson unless he does; if he does, not word one that we think it’s one of their birds that went into our deck or whose fault it was. Okay? B, put intel on finding out what the hell is going down in India itself. Find out why we haven’t heard from Craik and get on his ass if you can find him. Then—”

      He looked up at a knock, bellowed to come in. Spinner put his pleasant face around the door, waited to be signaled in, and then let the Public Information Officer go first. Then, even as the admiral started speaking, Spinner was arranging chairs, making sure there were notepads, and fetching coffee from the admiral’s pot.

      “We have a situation,” Pilchard said to the PIO. “Your job is to put a wall around it.”

      The PIO, a commander with degrees in journalism and mass communications, nodded.

      “The Jefferson, that’s the BG flagship, has had an accident. It’s bad. We don’t know how bad, but the boat’s crippled and people are dead. Right now, the deck’s closed and she’s got no air cover.” Pilchard picked up a pen and tossed it back on the desk. “We can’t let word about it get out until we know just what we’ve got and how we can cover. If the media pick up on it, we’re going to have every hardhead in the Middle East trying to pick off the BG. Understand?”

      “You want a soothing-syrup story or no story at all?”

      “No story today. Maybe syrup tomorrow. No press briefing.” He picked up the pen again. “Can we keep five thousand sailors on the Jeff from phoning home about it? So far, maybe—acting BG CO is ‘taking steps.’ If that holds, we’ll be okay for a day.” He cleared his throat. “If the story gets out—if you’re asked, volunteer nothing—then you say that the ship is underway and doing its job. Got it? That’s the bottom line—the ship is still the biggest piece of force projection in the world, on station and on duty.”

      “Uhh—” The PIO cleared his throat. “What’s Washington’s spin on it?” By Washington, he meant not the Navy, but the politicians in the executive branch.

      “Washington doesn’t know yet. I’m reporting to the CNO as soon as this meeting ends. From there, he can do what he wants with the civilian spin-doctors.” He didn’t add, And if I had my way, they’d never find out.

      Radio Pakistan

      “Alert Bulletin—Alert Bulletin—Alert Bulletin!

      “Forward elements of the Pakistani Army have been put on alert along the border in India. Unconfirmed reports present a wave of violence sweeping across India. Gunfire, including heavy weapons, has been heard in many places. Monitors of Radio India report accounts of murder, arson, and vandalism. Attempts by this reporter to contact India have failed, suggesting massive damage to the telephone system. Our army and air force reserves have been alerted to stand ready. Bulletins will be issued as more is known. Fahd Firadawsi, Lahore.”

       7

      Mahe Naval Base, India

      They had mud-clotted shoes and calves by the time they had reached a clump of trees that promised shade, if not protection.