“Yes? That’s good. That’s what they like. Can you confirm that?”
He shook his head. “I know the A-6 squadron’s doing low-levels because I heard the pilots talk. Plus they’re doing refueling with S-3s from the other carrier. So, you know, we could be way down the Gulf and still hit Iran.”
“Or Iraq.”
“Yeah, but there’s no reason. Iran, everybody says we owe them one. For the German club.” He wriggled on the bench. “Frankly, Carl, I think we owe the fucking ragheads one for that. That could’ve been me, sitting in that club when they bombed it.”
“So, one A-6 squadron and refueling from the other carrier. And?”
“Cover, that’s all. It’s small.”
“A surgical strike, then. You don’t know where. But you will know—won’t you, Sheldon?”
“I—I—That’s not my—modus operandi. I don’t like that shit. I’m a specialist.”
“But, for once, I think we must work this way. The Iranians want a gesture. Between you and me, they would like to test the IFF before they surprise your Navy with it—specifically, they want to test using the IFF to target missiles. We have given them the system; they have the technology; what they will need is the frequency.”
“We change it all the time.”
“I know.” Carl joined his hands. “But if you put a prearranged frequency into the aircraft, and the Iranians targeted their missiles for that frequency, then they should be able to shoot down the aircraft. Shouldn’t they?”
His face became stubborn. “It wouldn’t work.”
“I insist it would.”
Sheldon turned his head toward Carl, daring him to contradict, angry again. “The first thing they’re airborne, they make a test pass and flash IFF. If you put in a different frequency they go negative and they abort. Great idea! A whole squadron makes one pass around the carrier and lands. Brilliant.”
Carl’s face darkened and his hand slipped back into his pocket. “Think of something, then, Sheldon. Your future depends on it.”
“What the hell!”
Carl shrugged. “They want results.”
“They’re Nazis. Fucking lot of Nazis!”
Carl merely looked at him. “Think of something.”
Bonner looked up and down the road. It would be almost a relief to have some NCIS goon walk in on them. No, it wouldn’t. It would be the end of everything. Carl, he knew, was his only chance to make it big.
“One aircraft,” he said. “One aircraft, you might get away with it. Some of these hotshots, they’ll lie when they test the IFF, because they don’t want to scrub. Especially a real mission. Some of these guys piss themselves they’re so hot to go. Like—” He was thinking fast. “The skipper of the A-6 squadron. A fucking kamikaze. He wouldn’t abort if the wings fell off his fucking aircraft.” He shifted, began to get interested. “And if it was only one, see, they wouldn’t trace it back to whoever put the codes in. A whole squadron, Christ, they’d know in three seconds it had to be something like the IFF, even if you could get around the test run. They’d put every sonofabitch who has access to the aircraft on a polygraph. Or they wouldn’t even have to. They got us all on lists, computers. Big Brother is watching.”
“Can you do it?”
“Me! Get some other sucker.” Bonner folded his arms. “That’s not my specialty. I’ve never done stuff.”
“Can’t you do it?” Carl’s voice was soft and pleading, almost feminine. “Sheldon, I need you to do it. Only this once.”
Bonner started to whine again. “I’d have to find out which plane he’s gonna fly, and that can be tricky; then I gotta get at the plane, but I gotta nick the gun that inserts the codes and reset it. It’s too much!”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“I’m not a saboteur! I’m a—a—” He shrank into himself. “Specialist.”
“I need you to do this for me, Sheldon. For both of us. The Iranians will be charmed to shoot down the CO of an attack squadron. They will love us! We will have years and years with them, Shel.”
“I need more money.”
Carl frowned. “I might get you thirty-five. I can try. I promise I will try.”
“That’s it? Tops?”
Carl nodded.
Actually, thirty-five was more than he’d dared think about. He owed about fifteen. Still, it would be a horrible effort. His gut would be a mess until it was over. He continued to object. “You’d have to get the frequency to me. So I’d know what to set in the plane. I’d try to give you the target. The timing’s all wrong.”
“I’ll have a frequency for you when you put into Mombasa. Then you should know the rest by the time you reach Bahrain.”
“What if we make the hit before we get to Bahrain?”
“We’ll take that chance. These people understand that such a thing is not easy. They have a good idea what the potential targets are, anyway.”
“I oughta get my money either way.”
“That is understood. I think there will be a bonus for a confirmed kill. Yes, I think it is a very good idea, this one. They will be able to test their system and the Navy will have no idea it has happened. Then, the next time—” He fluttered his fingers in the air like disintegrating aircraft.
Bonner felt sweat trickling down his ribs. “I’ll be shitting bricks until it’s over,” he said.
“Yes, but when it’s over, think how good you’ll feel. Money, Sheldon!”
They spent some time talking over the details, and the longer they talked, the more familiar it seemed to Bonner, therefore the more workable. This was a trick he would have to play on himself, making it familiar, so that after a few days he would not come to with a start and remember that he was going to do this thing, feeling his colon lurch. Actually, even now, once he got a little used to it and the chill of fear had passed, he liked the planning, and he liked sitting here with this important man, who had been a big gun in Moscow and now was going to be a big gun in Tehran. He liked being wanted. And he liked the money.
“How is your son?” Carl said when they were done.
“Good. He writes, like, once a month.”
“He is still in the satellite communications school?”
“Yeah. Four months, he comes out, he’s an E5, one bump down from his old man.”
“Tehran are very interested in him. They are mad for communications technology. You will speak to him?”
“The time isn’t right. When it’s right, I will.”
“Maybe, the slow approach, Sheldon—little by little—”
“Don’t tell me how to handle my own son! I’ll do it. In my time! He’ll come around. I gotta put it to him just right—father and son, doing it together. He’s very idealistic. He doesn’t know I do this, I’ve told you that. I’ll bring him around, but—Just don’t tell me how to handle my own son.”
“Well—Of course. It