Balance of Power: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

this.” Messer’s smile was infectious. He was regarded throughout the squadron as an extremely competent RIO for a first-tour officer. Even though he was a junior grade lieutenant, he was at least as skilled as the lieutenants in the squadron. He also was easygoing and funny. As much as the other officers in the squadron liked Messer, Messer worshiped Caskey. For him, the opportunity to fly with the squadron commanding officer was an honor. It was also a tremendous responsibility, and a chance to screw up right in front of the guy who would write his fitness report. Messer wore his curly blond hair as long as he could under Navy regulations, in contrast to virtually all the other officers. It was the only thing that ever got him in trouble with Caskey.
    “Check the route?”
    “Of course I checked the route,” he said, looking up at Caskey, miffed he would doubt him.
    “What jet we got?”
    Messer glanced at the schedule board. “Haven’t assigned us one yet.”
    The second crew on the low level sat down next to them for the brief—Lieutenant Commander Larry Landretti, the pilot, and Lieutenant Bill Warber, the RIO. Landretti and Warber made quite a sight. They were, respectively, the smallest and largest officers in the squadron. Landretti was five feet six and bald; Warber was almost six three and constantly fighting his weight at twohundred forty pounds. Warber was called Beef for obvious reasons.
    They settled in for the usual brief: the weather, where not to fly, what not to do, what really not to do, and miscellaneous other information.
    Suddenly the 1MC, the ship’s loudspeaker, came alive. “All Squadron COs to CVIC. All squadron COs to CVIC.”
    Caskey raised his eyebrows and looked at the others with some surprise. They looked back with equal curiosity. He stood up and shrugged, pulling down the sleeves of his olive flight suit with the blue Pukin’ Dog patch on the shoulder. “I’ve got no idea,” he said. “But I’m about to find out.” He walked down the starboard passageway to CVIC, the carrier intelligence center. He was the last one there.
    Captain Zeke Bradford, commander of Air Wing Seven, strode into the room. He was a handsome black man with a deep and authoritative voice. Loved by the entire air wing, officers and enlisted men alike, he had the reputation of being a great pilot and a gentleman, but one who didn’t suffer fools gladly. He had flown A-6s in the old days, then F/A-18s.
    “You’re not going to believe this,” Bradford said. “You’re just not going to believe it.” He shook his head. “You heard about that Ford deal where they were going to open a dealership in Jakarta? Joint venture, co-ownership with Indonesians or something? ‘Diplomacy through commerce,’ and all that?” He held up a piece of paper. “I just got a copy of this mayday transmitted in the clear from the Pacific Flyer ….” He looked at their blank stares. “That’s the name of the ship carrying all those Fords to Jakarta—a U.S.-flagged vessel. Someone hijacked the ship.”
    The COs looked at each other, puzzled.
    “How’d they do that?” Caskey asked.
    “Walked aboard,” Captain Bradford answered.
    “What do you mean ‘walked aboard’?”
    “Get this,” he said, reading from the message in his hand. “ ‘Mayday! Mayday! This is the Pacific Flyer in Jakarta. As soon as we pulled in, a bunch of men in blue Ford coveralls came aboard. They have bags with them, and guns. They are taking over the ship. We are being hijacked. I don’t know what their intentions are…hold on for a second’ ”—Bradford looked up at them, then continued reading—“ ‘I can hear us getting under way. We are backing away from the pier. There are at least twenty of them, maybe thirty. I have no idea what is happening, but we need help fas—’ ” Bradford stopped reading. “And then he was cut off.”
    Caskey shook his head. “Who are the guys in the coveralls?”
    “We don’t