Top Hook. Gordon Kent

my place to say, sir.”

      “Fuck that.”

      “The acting maintenance officer is in his rack getting his crew rest.” Alan winced. Rafe had been right: this detachment was a mess.

      The phone rang. The petty officer in Pensacola said that he had Soleck’s leave papers in his hand and read off the Buffalo phone number listed for contact. Alan thanked him to a degree that clearly surprised him and called the new number, looking at his battered Casio. Past four a.m. in New York.

      “Hello?” The voice was thick with sleep.

      “May I speak to LTjg Evan Soleck?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Mister Soleck, this is Lieutenant-Commander Alan Craik, your detachment officer-in-charge. I need you to report for duty immediately.”

      “Hey, Corky, fuck off, okay? You might have woken my parents.”

      “Mister Soleck, I’m Alan Craik and this is not a prank.”

      Long pause.

      “Uh, sir? Is this for real?”

      “Welcome aboard, Mister Soleck. We flew off from Norfolk thirty-six hours ago and right now we’re about to weigh anchor from port Trieste. Do you know how to get travel orders?”

      “Uhh—”

      “Get your ass down to Pax River today and tell the travel section to get you here ASAP.”

      “Uh, sir? I have these tickets for a concert in Buffalo? And a date?”

      Despite himself, Alan smiled. “Tell her to wait, Mister Soleck. You’ll be at sea.”

      Then he walked down to the hangar deck, getting the feel for his men. No women in the det. Old habit made him start to think, Just as well, and then he remembered what Rose would have said. And that made him think of her, and he felt a pang of absence. All this telephoning, and he hadn’t even tried to reach her, but that had been their arrangement: she would be on the road to Houston, and they would talk when he got to Naples. He glanced at his watch again. Past four in Utica, too, where in another hour she would be waking, saying goodbye, getting the car and heading west. Without a care in the world.

      Down on the hangar deck, he was surprised to find aircraft number 902, due to fly in the first event, with her port engine dismounted and a swarm of maintenance personnel covering her. Several men looked his way; they looked at each other, and then they got very busy. Alan smiled at one he knew.

      “Hey, Mendez! What’re you doing, still in the Nav?”

      Mendez, Gloucester-born, Portuguese sailors in his genes, smiled a little reservedly and climbed down from the wing. He wiped his hand several times on his coveralls before presenting it to be shaken. Alan had served with Mendez during the Gulf War; Mendez had introduced him to the methods of loading the chaff and flare cartridges in the S-3’s underbelly. Looking at Mendez, Alan felt younger. “You made first class,” he said.

      “Up for chief this year, sir.” Alan nodded and pumped his hand. “Still married?”

      “Yessir, with two kids.”

      “Introduce me, will you?” Alan walked around the plane, and Mendez, always a popular sailor, introduced him to the men working there. Now they weren’t a swarm; now they looked at him with interest rather than—what had it been? Suspicion? Alan could feel their questions, the ones Rafe had warned him about—Why had he lost a posting and got this? What was this guy doing here? Even Mendez seemed wary, but Alan pressed on. “Remind me when your chief’s board is coming up, will you, Mendez?” He looked around. “Okay, help me out, guys—what’s the story here?”

      In spurts, from various men, he was made to understand that 902 had a bad engine, that “everybody” knew that a new engine had been ordered so that this one could be sent in for rehab. Mendez dug out the sheets and showed him that this engine was two hundred hours overdue for rehab. Alan started to ask why and realized that he could only put Mendez on the spot with such a question, even if he knew the answer. Then he saw Stevens, a short, thick officer in a flight suit, come in with a chief, and he thanked Mendez and the others and moved toward the new pair.

      Stevens turned his head, saw Alan, and went right back to his conversation. Alan smiled, an angry tic that never moved his lower lip. They had met for two minutes at Pax River; now, Stevens chose to be a horse’s ass.

      “Lieutenant-Commander Stevens?”

      “Hey, Craik.”

      Alan excused himself to the chief, who moved a few feet off. “You in charge of this?” he said to Stevens. Alan raised one hand. He did not say “this mess,” but the motion accused.

      “If you’re the new boss man, I guess you’re in charge.”

      “Well, the new boss man would like to see the launch plan. And a flight sked that doesn’t include officers who haven’t reported aboard yet.”

      “I didn’t write either one of them.” Stevens hitched at an imaginary belt, as if he was pulling up his guns.

      Alan sighed. “Mister Stevens, why don’t you call me ‘Alan’? Or you can call me ‘sir.’” He looked around. “Who’s running maintenance?”

      Stevens jerked his head at the chief he had come in with, a short, intense man in khakis.

      “Senior Chief Frazer runs maintenance, with Mister Cohen as department head,” the chief said. “He’s up topside. I’m Navarro, sir. Intel chief.”

      “Linguist?” Alan looked for a handle to remember the man.

      “Farsi and Hindi.” Alan let part of his mind chew over the implications of those two languages.

      “You following the traffic on India and Pakistan?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Is this the same crap they do every time?”

      “Sir, this is from the hip, but I’d say it looks fucking serious.”

      “More serious than Kosovo?”

      Stevens cut in.

      “You done with me? I’m on the flight sked later today.”

      “So am I.” Alan looked him in the eye, enjoying Stevens’s surprise. “Just walk with me a minute.” He shook hands with Navarro and said he’d see him later, then walked Stevens a dozen paces away and turned on him. “You’re the senior pilot in this outfit, right?”

      “Yep.”

      “Got a problem?”

      Stevens hitched up the imaginary belt again. He talked to the air just off Alan’s right shoulder. “This divided command shit. You don’t like my ops plan? Tough. It shouldn’t be two guys, one in the air, one on the ground. I’m just being straight with you.”

      “There won’t be any divided command. I’m in charge. I expect the cooperation of my officers. I’m just being straight with you.”

      Stevens kept his voice low, but the tone was bitter. “Your officers! Some of us have been working on this project for a year. You walk in like we’re all dicked up and you’re gonna save us. Or is it that maybe you didn’t want this job in the first place? Maybe you were going someplace better?”

      Alan set his jaw, controlled his hands, his temper. Rafe had been right—there certainly had been talk. “Mister Stevens, I’m your commanding officer—”

      “Craik, everybody’s heard of your father. He was a pilot. He might have belonged here. You don’t!”

      Alan didn’t blink, and his eyes didn’t move. Stevens couldn’t hold that look for more than