Читать книгу Top Hook - Gordon Kent, Gordon Kent - Страница 17

His first official act on the carrier was supposed to have been a brief to the admiral on the purpose of his detachment. The briefing was out the window, however, because of the Trieste mess, and when he showed up on the flag deck at 0800, he was met, not by Admiral Kessler, but by Maggiulli and the flag captain.

“Have you reached your NCIS guy yet?” Maggiulli said. He looked as wasted by lack of sleep as Alan, but he was certainly more nervous.

“I filed a contact report at the NCIS shack on the boat. I keep missing my guy when I call—I got the runaround in Bosnia, where he’s detached to a war crimes unit, and I just found out ten minutes ago that he’s in The Hague. I’ve got a call in to him there.” He turned to the flag captain. “Am I briefing on the MARI project this morning, sir?”

“The admiral would prefer that you straighten this other matter out first. Commander, it still appears that you’re withholding evidence from the Italian police. You haven’t offered us any reasonable explanation. People were killed, Commander.”

“This is a change from two hours ago.”

“It is not a change!” Maggiulli looked at the flag captain, thus proving that this was a change.

“John, I will continue to make contact with the special agent in charge of the investigation my first priority. He’s at a hotel in The Hague, and I expect to talk to him as soon as I leave this meeting.”

“Admiral Kessler wants somebody with some authority at NCIS to explain this matter to him, as you don’t seem prepared to do it yourself. It looks like you’re jerking us around, Craik.”

His anger almost exploded, and his face went white.

Clenching his fists, Alan said in a dead, rigidly controlled voice, “It looks like you’re jerking me around, John. Two hours ago, you seemed to accept my explanation and told me to call my guy; now you don’t accept my explanation! Listen to me—and you, too, sir—because I’m in the right on this and I know the code, too! I am doing my goddam level best to satisfy you and the Italian police and my responsibility to a classified investigation! If you want to take me to the mat on it, you do it! Call me on it!”

With a gesture, the flag captain silenced Maggiulli. To Alan’s surprise, he spoke quite gently, as if, all along, he had simply been hearing how it would play. “I’ll forget the tone of voice you just used, Mister Craik, but you gotta remember the seriousness of this from our point of view. We got a capital ship here in a foreign port where we’re not deeply loved to start with. So you just do nothing but work at getting on the blower to your man and make it right, okay?”

“Sir, I also have a detachment to run, and I haven’t even met all my officers yet.”

The flag captain nodded. “I think that can wait for twenty-four hours.”

The man seemed to be saying that his whole detachment could sit on their thumbs until he got hold of Mike Dukas. And then he got it, through the fog of fatigue and anger: if he didn’t get Mike Dukas and satisfy the admiral, there wouldn’t be any detachment—at least not for him. That’s why Maggiulli was the attack dog—to give legal cover if Kessler decided to kick his ass off the Jefferson. That really would end his naval career. And Kessler knew that, too.

“Sir, with all respect, I request permission to continue with my detachment while trying to locate Mister Dukas.” He rushed on almost boyishly. “There’s no point in me sitting on a phone if he’s at breakfast and doesn’t have a telephone handy.”

The flag captain thought about that and actually smiled. He picked up his hat, a signal that the meeting was about over. Again, his voice was almost soft. “I appreciate your position. You please try to appreciate ours.” He put his cover on and came close, as if he wanted to shut Maggiulli out. “You better satisfy the admiral today, or you’re toast.”

Fifteen minutes later, Alan was in his stateroom, looking at the black heel-mark on a bulkhead where he had just thrown a dress shoe. Mike Dukas had not been at the hotel in The Hague—he had just checked out.

He had tried Dukas’s office in Sarajevo again, and, although he had got an English speaker this time, she hadn’t known anything, either.

Mike Dukas was in transit.

Now, shaking with anger, Alan tried to talk himself down. He was about halfway there when a knock sounded on his door and he whirled, ready to explode on anybody suggesting that the admiral wanted him to hurry. Flinging open the door, he saw first the captain’s eagles on the collar, only belatedly the face above it.

“Hey, Al!” A big hand descended on his shoulder. “Hey, man, I like for my officers to check in with me when they come aboard, what gives?”

Alan’s anger deflated like a leaky balloon. It was “Rafe” Rafehausen, friend from his first squadron, onetime nemesis, now the CAG—commander of the Jefferson’s air wing.

“You going to ask me in, or do I have to push?”

“Oh, Jeez—Rafe, am I glad to see you—Christ, man, I haven’t had time to report; see, last night—”

Rafe waved a hand. “I know all about it. Everybody knows all about it—James Bond Meets Rambo. You don’t do things by halves, do you, Craik?” He pushed a duffel bag off the only chair and threw himself down. “Don’t let me interrupt, if you were doing something important. You look like shit, by the way, anybody told you that?”

“I shot a guy yesterday. How you think that makes me feel?”

“I don’t know how it makes you feel, but it makes you look like shit. Come on, what’s up—trouble?”

“Kessler.” Alan raced through a summary of his meeting with the admiral and then Maggiulli and the flag captain. To his surprise, Rafe laughed. “Hey, Kessler’s got a bug up his ass about good relations with foreigners and the media; you come in and shoot up a liberty port, what d’you think he’s going to do, kiss you? So call your friend at NCIS, for Christ’s sake!”

“I can’t get hold of him!” Alan started to rant, and Rafe cut him off.

“Get a grip. First things first—the reason I came here, besides wanting to welcome you aboard, was to get you to grab hold of this fucking detachment you’re supposed to command. Your detachment sucks—clear?”

“Rafe, I only met the guys two days ago; Jesus Christ, give me a break.”

“I can’t give you a break. And I wouldn’t if I could; I need your aircraft in the air and I need them today. Between you, me and the shitter, Kosovo’s going to go ballistic and holy hell is blowing up in the Indian Ocean, and the CAG doesn’t have time for one of his commanders to dance around the telephone. You get with your det, buddy, and you start to kick ass; they’re a mess.”

“Kessler’s captain gave me an ultimatum.”

Rafe blew out a breath in exasperation. “I’ll handle it. Kessler listens to me; he’s not an aviator, so he needs me. I’ll tell him you’re God’s gift to the US Navy; I trust you like a brother; if you say it’s national security, it’s national security. Give me the name of the guy you’re trying to reach on the fucking phone and I’ll have him found by the time you’ve done an honest day’s work with the det. Deal?”

“The flag captain’s word was ‘toast.’”

“Yeah, yeah, his bark is worse than his bite. Friel’s a pussycat. Come on, gimme the data and get your ass out of here and go to work. That’s an order, Craik!”

Alan stared at him and then began to laugh. He reached for his flight suit.

Rafe put a hand again on Alan’s shoulder.

“One more thing. There’s talk, so watch your step.”

“Talk? What—last night—?”

“That, and—you know the boat, everybody cooped up. There’s just talk about you taking over the det on such short notice. They say you got bounced from another assignment.”

Alan’s face went rigid. “I did. And no reason given.”

Rafe patted his shoulder. “Guys talk. Just let ’em.”