The Disciple

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The ready room of VFA-196, the Savage Horde, aboard USS United States, was packed, with an officer in every seat. The doors to the space were locked when the squadron commanding officer, Commander Harvey “the Fly” Burgholzer, walked to the podium and surveyed the crowd. Instantly the conversations stopped.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, this is a classified meeting. The information you hear in this ready room is classified Top Secret and will not be discussed with or repeated to anyone outside of this space.”

His audience, the officers of his squadron, well knew what classified information was, so Burgholzer continued. “One of the items of classified information is the name of our guest.” He nodded toward a man seated beside the executive officer, or XO. This man was wearing a khaki shirt and khaki trousers but had no rank insignia or name tag, which meant he was a civilian. “Let’s give Rear Admiral Jake Grafton a rousing Savage welcome.”

As Grafton got out of his chair and made his way to the podium, carrying a small wooden box, the officers let out a tremendous, “Helloooo Asshole!”

Grafton set his box on the podium and gri

Almost as one, the junior officers roared, “He’s the Fly in the Wine.”

When the laughing ceased, Grafton got serious. “Folks, I want to reiterate, everything said in this room is classified. As you know, loose lips sink ships, and loose lips will destroy a naval career.” He glanced at the faces in his audience. Apparently satisfied, he muttered, “ ’Nuff said.”

He opened the box and pulled out two instruments. One was merely a black box, about six inches square, and the other was an instrument with a faceplate on it that obviously was intended to be installed in the instrument panel of an airplane. He held up the instrument bearing the faceplate. “This cockpit instrument probably looks familiar,” he said. “It’s driven by an early version of the ALQ-199, the ALQ- 198.” He held up the black box for them to see, then put it back on the podium. “With your help, we are going to give this thing to the Iranians.”

A murmur swept his audience.

“We’re going to put the ALQ- 198 in one of your planes in place of the 199, ensure it is working, then the pilot of that plane is going to jump out of it in such a way that the plane crashes in Iran.”

Dead silence.

“There were several possible ways to handle this operation,” Jake Grafton continued. “I believed the best way to stop tongues from wagging and keep the secret was to just tell you, the officers of this squadron, the truth, so that is what I’m doing. Any questions so far?”

One hand went up. Jake nodded at the owner of the hand, a female in a flight suit who asked, “Who do you work for, Admiral?”

“CIA.”

Another question. “Why do you want the Iranians to have this box?”

Grafton tugged thoughtfully at his ear. “I’m tempted to pass on that one, but I think I’ll put it this way: They don’t know we have a better one, nor do they know that the better one is actually put together differently and uses different algorithms.”

He pointed at another hand.

“What is the plan, sir?”

Grafton’s face brightened into a smile. “Well, the first requirement is that the Iranians believe a U.S. Navy F/A-18 crashed accidentally in their territory. Second, they have to believe we don’t want them to have this box. Finally, and most importantly, we have to get everyone involved back alive and in one piece.” He looked thoughtful again. “I hope that your skipper and ops officer can help me put together a scenario that is realistic enough for the Iranians and yet doesn’t cost us any American lives. It’s a tall order, and it’s going to take some guts and finesse to pull it off. By necessity, we are going to violate Iranian airspace. Once we have a script for our passion play, we’ll run it by your battle group commander, Rear Admiral Stan Bryant, and the folks at State. If we can get their blessing, we’ll give it a go.”

“Who gets to fly this puppy?” one of the junior officers asked.

“I thought I was going to,” Grafton said dryly, “but my boss in Washington thought that I wasn’t.” That one drew a laugh. “So I’ve talked with the Fly, and he tells me he and your XO can come up with an equitable way to pick the lucky person. Skipper?”

Jake sat down, and Burgholzer arranged himself at the podium. “Any volunteers?” he asked.

Every hand in the room shot up.

“That’s what I thought would happen,” the Fly said, gri

The squadron ops officer was Lieutenant Commander Harry Lampert. He was about six feet tall and ski

If the plane had much fuel in it when it crashed, everyone agreed, the wreckage might well be destroyed by fire. On the other hand, if the plane lacked fuel, that might give suspicious Iranian minds something to chew upon.

Then there was the issue of where the pilot would eject. If over water, the plane would have to be on autopilot to reach land. If over land, an in-country rescue situation would develop.

The best option, they decided, was for the pilot to eject over water and the plane to continue on autopilot into Iranian airspace and run out of fuel somewhere over the Iranian desert.

“Why does the pilot need to eject?” the Fly asked. “The Iranians are going to ask that question.”

“It’s going to be a pile of rubble,” Lampert argued. “The people who examine this wreck won’t be able to figure out why it crashed.”

“Never underestimate your enemy’s technical savvy,” the XO said. “That’s usually a mistake. After all, they can get Russian help any time they ask.”

“How long do you need to fool them, Admiral?” Burgholzer asked Jake Grafton.

“A while,” he said and smiled.

“That’s what I like-a man who keeps his cards close to his vest,” Burgholzer told his officers.

Eventually they had a plan, and Jake asked each of the squadron officers to sleep on it.

He was a guest that evening of Admiral Bryant in the flag mess. The two renewed an old acquaintance and, inevitably, found themselves discussing the situation in the Middle East. “Forty million barrels of oil a day come out of the Persian Gulf into the Arabian Sea,” Bryant said, “on its way to ports all over the earth. That’s just a smidgen less than half the earth’s production. Any disruption for any significant period of time will have a huge impact on the world’s economies. What happens in this corner of the world matters to everyone on the planet.”

When they were alone, they discussed Jake’s plan. “Should work,” Bryant said. “There’s a frigate stationed in the Gulf of Oman, just outside the entrance to the Strait of Hormuz. She has a helo on board. I can make sure she has that helo on alert or in the air when your guy goes out, and we can run one of ours partway up there, having him practice smoke hovers.”

The admiral also decided who would need to know what was going down. He named the captain of the ship, the commander of the air wing, his chief of staff and a couple of other officers. “Tell me when you’re going and I’ll brief them,” Bryant said.

They sliced and diced it, two professional naval aviators talking carrier aviation, then moved on to discuss mutual friends and naval matters.

For Jake Grafton, it was all very pleasant. Being at sea on a carrier again, smelling the smells, hearing the sounds, walking through the endless passageways, thinking about flying-all of it brought back pungent memories. He walked out of the flag spaces after di