Читать книгу Damage Control - Gordon Kent, Gordon Kent - Страница 39

The flag lieutenant, resplendent in whites and chicken guts, cut straight to the head of the morning line in the hotel lobby. “Is Admiral Pilchard in the hotel, please?” he asked. A full commander in the line glared at him, and Spinner smiled back. You may be some shit somewhere, pal, Spinner’s look said, but not with me. Not right now.

“He’s in the pub, sir.” The woman behind the desk smiled. Spinner was used to that smile, but right now he had other fish to fry. Ignoring the outraged stares of the line, Spinner marched across the lobby of the Gulf Hotel and into the pub.

Pilchard was planning to play a round of golf with the new ambassador and an old buddy; he was wearing an ancient navy sweatshirt and jeans and Spinner thought he looked old and undignified. He and his buddy were laughing, the only patrons in the bar; just two ill-dressed old men drinking coffee.

Pilchard’s head came up as soon as he saw Spinner’s uniform.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir.” Spinner paused for dramatic effect. This was what he liked best, center stage. “There’s been a serious accident on board the Jefferson.”

“How serious?”

Spinner felt as if he were watching Pilchard age, as if it was some cheap horror 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.”