Copyright:  Thursday, March 10, 2005 03:13:12 PM         U.S.S. JOHN F. KENNEDY CARIBBEAN OCEAN SUNSET - DAY 4               Under normal circumstances, Commander Steven Gates considered himself a fairly reasonable man.          His job duties as U.S.S. Kennedy’s Executive Officer were as extensive as the gigantic aircraft carrier herself. Captain Mercer gave the orders; Gates was responsible for carrying them out. He made sure everything ran smoothly, so that The Old Man, as Mercer was respectfully nicknamed, rarely needed to bother with trivial problems.           Whether Gates was overseeing the ship’s general cleanliness, securing needed supplies, or finding creative ways to improve morale, he took his duties seriously. No job was too big or small for the XO; everything onboard the Kennedy fell under his broad jurisdiction.           That included finding living quarters for occasional visiting dignitaries, a seemingly monumental task when every cabin was already in use. The Old Man had an entire aircraft carrier to oversee. He simply couldn’t be bothered by such insignificant matters. So Gates handled those administrative details himself, and took quiet pride in his ability to deal with unexpected crises.           Kenny Hewitt’s blunt demand for a meeting earlier this afternoon had been infuriating, doubly so because he’d had the gall to disrupt Captain Mercer’s busy schedule. One simply did not insist that The Old Man drop everything to attend a trivial impromptu meeting, especially not a Marine on special assignment to the Gulf!           Gates knew that his irritation partially stemmed from the timeworn, traditional rivalry between Navy and Marines. Each side took unholy delight in upstaging the other military branch. And sometimes their retaliatory pranks could get downright dangerous.           The Kennedy’s complement of troops included a squad of Marines under Kenny Hewitt’s command. Predictably, they kept to themselves whenever possible. That was fine with him; the less they mingled with his naval personnel, the fewer potential problems he faced.           Hewitt himself was a decent enough fellow, for a burly little jarhead with delusions of officerdom. No matter what the crisis, he could always be counted on to lend a sturdy shoulder. And he kept his squad in tight, disciplined command. Gates respected that.           But it was unheard of for a Marine, even a Chief Warrant Officer, to barge into the XO’s office with such an outlandish demand!           Granted, he’d never known Hewitt to cry wolf. He might have a bawdy, mischievous sense of humor--but when he meant business, he meant business. And when a CWO spoke, it didn’t matter whether you were a lowly seaman or The Old Man himself. You listened--if you felt like living another day.           Besides, high-ranking officials did occasionally visit the Kennedy while she was engaged in peacetime maneuvers. Senator Kensington’s proposed visit was simply more inconvenient than most, with the crew busy preparing for a long active-duty return to the Gulf coast.           Kenny Hewitt’s high-handed attitude infuriated Gates most. He had absolutely no right to bypass the XO’s authority and arrange matters himself, no matter what favors he might owe this particular FBI agent!           Bad enough that he was ignoring protocol by essentially sneaking Agent Doggett and his party aboard! This business about ‘borrowing’ a military-issue life raft to go searching for some mysterious island that didn’t even exist--well, it was beyond ludicrous!           To give him credit, Hewitt had been scrupulously honest with them. "We’ve already been through that patch of water a dozen times in the past three weeks, and there’s nothing there," Hewitt had conceded in his gruff, no-nonsense manner. "I told John he’s on a wild goose chase. But he’s convinced that he’s gonna find his people at those coordinates." And he kept his back ramrod-straight while he scowled at the wall behind Gates’ desk.           Captain Mercer laced his long fingers together, and leaned forward in his chair. "You’re willing to risk a court martial for this ‘wild goose chase’?" he demanded, studying the Chief Warrant Officer’s troubled face.           Hewitt met his cool challenge without faltering. "John Doggett saved my life back in Lebanon," he retorted. "He took a bullet that was meant for me, and nearly died himself in the process. I owe him! And if he’s willing to bust his balls finding those missing people, I’m damned if I’ll sit back and do nothing! I’ll swim to those coordinates with him, if I have to!"           Mercer listened to the stocky Marine’s impassioned outburst without reaction. Then he pursed his lips, and slowly leaned back in his chair again. Gates could practically hear his keen mind humming as he retreated into one of his famous ‘silences.’ One by one, the puzzle pieces would click neatly into place--and then heaven help the poor bastard who crossed him!           "You’ve already made plans to sneak them aboard today’s supply transport," he concluded. "Exactly how are you planning on reaching these coordinates, since allegedly they can’t be reached by normal means?"           The growing tension suddenly abated. A sly light gleamed in Hewitt’s eyes as he grinned down at Captain Mercer. "Lifeboat must’ve come loose in last night’s storm. Pesky things, always falling off!"           Gates stiffened with righteous indignation. "This is the U.S.S. Kennedy, not a garbage scow! Lifeboats do not just fall off this ship!" he growled.           To his dismay, Mercer lifted an authoritative hand that forestalled his irate protest. "It has been known to happen, Steven--even aboard the Kennedy," he conceded.           Then he leveled a piercing glare at Hewitt’s anxious face. "The less I know about this matter, the better," he warned. "If anything goes wrong, the sole responsibility will be yours, Chief Warrant Officer Hewitt. So pick your team carefully, and make it back before we leave this region. Otherwise I might have to court martial you en abstentia--and that’s always a messy ordeal."           Relief transformed Hewitt’s rugged face as he snapped off a grateful salute. "Yes, sir!"           Then he grinned again. "Don’t worry about kicking your flyboys out of their cabins, Exoh. Johnny and his party can bunk down with me and the boys back in Marine territory. We’ll head out before dawn with no one the wiser--but then, you weren’t wanting to know that, were you?" And he had the audacity to wink at both senior officers.           "Hewitt," Mercer warned as the cocky Marine turned to leave, "do try to bring the lifeboat back in one piece, will you? Government property is government property. And so are you, for that matter. Don’t do anything stupid that I’d have to write up in an official report."           The door closed on Hewitt’s cheery grin, leaving the two command officers alone in Gates’ small office.           He had to try, of course. It was his responsibility to examine every possible contingency, just in case The Old Man might have missed something. And by that time, he’d worked himself into a fine temper over Hewitt’s irresponsible behavior. That brazen Marine was breaking a dozen different rules, throwing military protocol to the wind, with no regard for the proper chain of command!           Mercer listened to his outraged tirade without comment; he nodded agreement with each of Gates’ persuasive arguments. Then he stunned the XO by sticking to his initial decision.           "There are times, Steven, when it’s necessary to bend the rules, and look the other way," he explained. "This is one of those times. Senator Kensington is one of us. Retired Naval officer, spotless service record, the epitome of ‘homeboy done good.’ He’s helped our cause more through his work on the Senate Armed Forces Committee than any other three senators I could name.           "Now his fourteen-year-old daughter is lost at sea. And against all the odds, the Marines are actually willing to work with us to resolve the situation. I say, grab the opportunity and run with it! To hell with the hidebound bureaucrats who disagree!"           And that was that.           Mercer calmly returned to the navigation bridge, as if nothing unusual had happened. And now Gates was standing outside on the broad flight deck, impotently fuming, waiting for the massive C-2 to arrive.           Air Traffic Control had already confirmed the Greyhound’s inbound speed and trajectory. Gates stared impatiently at the fading western sky. The transport’s sleek, familiar shape was still just a dark dot on the horizon, but it was approaching fast. Now it was up to the flight deck crewmen--and of course the C-2’s pilots--to land the big plane safely.           Four sturdy arresting cables were already stretched across the wide runway. Competition among the pilots was fierce to catch that second cable, since each landing was critiqued and graded by the Landing Signal Officer. Fighter pilots, in particular, strove to prove themselves on every landing. Pilots who could consistently snag the second cable with their plane’s tail hook were accorded the highest honors, the greatest responsibilities, and the largest pay grade increases.           The C-2 was slowing, dropping perilously close to the long runway. For just an instant, it looked like the pilots might swoop too low, and shear off the plane’s landing gear. But Gates knew they were experienced aviators who’d logged thousands of similar flights without mishap. He permitted himself a faint approving smile as they expertly caught the second cable, and screeched to an abrupt earsplitting halt.           The nearest LSO scribbled something on his pad while green-clad deck crewmen scrambled to release the C-2's tail hook and retract the arrestor cable. It had been a good landing, precise and on the mark. Gates threw the pilots a congratulatory salute, and saw a slight blur of movement behind the thick cockpit glass as they returned the gesture.           His first impulse, under the circumstances, was to rush across the deck and hurry his unexpected visitors into the ship’s towering superstructure. Instead, he bided his time. They’d be less conspicuous if he allowed them a few minutes to settle their stomachs and regain their equilibrium. Arrestor landings could rattle even experienced passengers.           The massive plane’s engines were shut down, and its long wings were folded back for compact storage below-deck. He waited while it was towed over to the number two elevator, waited while it was securely parked, waited until the cargo ramp was slowly lowered.           Then, finally, he stepped forward to greet the four unfamiliar figures making their unsteady way down the heavy steel ramp. • • • • • •           Doggett had been aboard the Kennedy several times before. Back in 1986, when the International Naval Review had helped celebrate the Statue of Liberty’s centennial birthday, he’d attended President Reagan’s historic speech on the flight deck. He’d toured the ship with a group of visiting foreign dignitaries in 1990, when she’d been docked at the Norfolk Navy Base for refitting. Two weeks later, he’d returned to see her leave harbor, bound for the Persian Gulf. And he’d welcomed Kenny Hewitt home again in March of the following year when the mighty ship had finally returned for refitting.           He’d hoped to visit Norfolk again last month, when the Kennedy was docked for its most recent overhaul. But his hectic new schedule, and a multiple rape/murder case involving six elementary school children, had interfered. He hadn’t seen his old scout-partner, he suddenly realized, for nearly two years now.           A tall officer was striding across the flight deck to meet them, his back ramrod-stiff. That would be the Kennedy’s Executive Officer, Commander Steven Gates. His personnel profile described him as a by-the-book career officer. Undoubtedly he’d disapprove of their current clandestine mission.           Yet Kenny had claimed that he had "a good heart under that flinty spit-and-polish exterior." And for Kenny, that was extravagant praise, especially for a Naval officer.           Could they reason with Gates, persuade him to help them?           "Welcome aboard, Senator!" Gates exclaimed, unexpected warmth in his voice, as Kensington moved forward to shake his hand. "It’s an honor to finally meet you, sir!"           The politician’s face was still pale, but he rose to the occasion with innate style. "The pleasure’s all mine, Commander!" he replied, pitching his voice to carry over the raucous clamor of nearby equipment. "May I introduce my companions, Alexander Stanwick of Stanwick Enterprises, FBI Special Agent John Doggett, and his partner, Special Agent Monica Reyes."           Gates politely clasped hands with each of them, then waved toward the massive grey superstructure. "If you’ll just follow me, Captain Mercer is expecting you up on the Admiral’s Bridge!"           He turned and trotted back toward the ship’s towering control center. Doggett lagged behind slightly, watching a squadron of VFA Gunslingers roar overhead on a close-knit practice run. If not for intercepting that sniper’s bullet in Lebanon, he mused with a sudden pang of longing, he might have ended up here with Kenny, on one of the greatest ships ever devised by man...           "That’s right," Gates was proudly informing Stanwick when he finally stepped through the narrow metal bulkhead. "The Kennedy has the finest service record of any ship in the Navy. My responsibility is to oversee operations throughout the ship, from the boiler rooms to the upper antennas."           They paused long enough to shed their flight gear, then followed Gates down a short passageway to the compact elevator. A deep, muted thrumming was barely audible on all sides as they stepped inside.           "The Kennedy’s voice," Gates explained, catching Stanwick’s quizzical glance. "She’s 1,015 feet long from stem to stern, and can travel at speeds exceeding 30 knots. What you’re hearing are the engines and propellers. Each prop weighs nearly 70,000 pounds, so of course they make some noise as they spin. We get so used to it, we hardly even hear it anymore. Unless something goes wrong, of course. Then we all sit up and take notice.           "Captain Mercer is waiting for you on level 08," he added, pushing the proper button. "You’ll have a fine view of the entire ship from there. I imagine that you were too preoccupied for sightseeing when you landed." The barest hint of a mocking smile curved his thin lips.           The small car rose, then stopped, and the elevator doors slid open again. A set of sturdy metal double-bulkhead doors faced them. Gates deftly swung them open, and ushered his charges into the compact Admiral’s bridge.           Captain Mercer and Kenny Hewitt were standing near the long starboard window, deep in conversation. They both turned and moved forward as Doggett and his companions ducked through the open hatchway.           "Senator Kensington!" Mercer cordially shook hands with the anxious politician. "My Chief Warrant Officer tells me you have a problem that we may be able to help solve."           Kensington’s tension suddenly drained away. He’d been dreading their reception, Doggett realized, and the very real possibility that Mercer might refuse to help them. "I can’t tell you how much Mr. Stanwick and I appreciate your assistance," he exclaimed. "We wouldn’t even have a chance of finding our children, if it wasn’t for you."           Mercer glanced away, embarrassed by Kensington’s earnest gratitude. "I have a teenage daughter myself," he admitted. "So I understand your position completely."           Hewitt exchanged a long look with Doggett as he stepped forward to clasp hands with his old friend. In that single glance, the FBI agent read a dozen different messages--gratitude to Mercer, an urgency to speak with Doggett alone, the need for continued secrecy. Outwardly Doggett remained oblivious to the subtle appeal in Hewitt’s deep-set eyes. But his firm handshake conveyed an unmistakable response.           "If this was a normal visit," Hewitt said aloud, in a bantering tone at odds with his silent message, "we’d have rolled out the red carpet, arranged a tour of the ship, the whole works. The Admiral would insist on it...but fortunately he’s not due to join us for another week. As it is, we’d better get you safely under cover before anyone else knows you’re here. You don’t mind bunking down with me an’ the boys, do you, John? We’ll keep you safe and secure!"           Doggett didn’t even bother to glance at his companions for confirmation. "It’ll be like old times," he agreed, clapping Hewitt on the shoulder.           "Captain Mercer," he added, turning to shake the senior officer’s hand, "it’s a pleasure to see you again, sir. Maybe when this is over..."           But Mercer quickly shook his head. "The less I know about this entire affair, the better," he warned. "What I don’t know, I can’t be forced to report."           "C’mon, John, let’s get you settled." Hewitt aimed a crisp salute at Mercer and Gates, then ushered Doggett and his companions toward the small elevator. "The Captain needs to get back to his post. An’ anyway, it’s almost chow time. We’ve scrounged some food for you--if your stomachs have settled after that wild ride!"