Free Flash Point by James W. Huston

of the wings from the pressure. He leveled out at about the height of the flight deck, seventy feet off the water, still way too low, but pulling up quickly to follow Woods.
    Woods shook his head and rolled back in on the spar. “
One’s in
,” he transmitted.
    “
Two’s off
,” Boomer transmitted, well after he should have.
    “He sure dicked that up,” Woods said.
    “Hasn’t he ever strafed the spar before?”
    “Maybe not. We’d better watch him.”
    “We’d better tell the Skipper about that.”
    “No, I’ll handle it.”
    Vialli followed Woods religiously through the remainder of the runs on the spar. They cycled through the gunnery pattern again and again, shooting their bullets in fifty-round bursts, until they were both out of ammunition. “
One’s winchester
,” Woods said after his last run.
    “
Two’s winchester
,” Vialli replied, following him up again.
    “
Victory 201, flight of two exiting the pattern directly overhead, Boss
,” Wink said.
    “Roger, 201. Good shooting.”
    “Fifteen minutes till we have to be overhead,” Wink reminded Woods. Wink looked back to see Vialli closing in to join up.
    Woods accelerated away from the carrier and climbed to fifteen thousand feet. “Let’s woodshed our wingman a little,” Woods said. Without warning, he jerked his plane to the left and hit afterburner. He had waited until Vialli wasn’t looking at him, and Vialli didn’t notice until he was nearly a half-mile away. Vialli turned to catch up. Woods came out of afterburner and turned sharply into Vialli. “
Fight’s on
,” he said over the squadron frequency, the universally recognized declaration of the commencement of voluntary air combat. Woods loved air-to-air combat, and loved taking advantage of his unsuspecting wingman. A few more times like this and he wouldn’t be unsuspecting again.
     
6
     
    Sami looked around the conference room. He was just starting to get to know the other members of the task force. All were members of the CTC, the Counter-Terrorism Center of the CIA. The CTC had been in operation for years on the ground floor of CIA Headquarters in Langley. There were two hundred men and women permanently assigned to the CTC, and their cubicles were separated by “streets.” Signs hung from the ceiling that spoke volumes of what they were about: Abu Nidal Blvd, and Tamil Tiger Terrace, and Osama bin Lane, named after Osama bin Laden, one of their greatest and longest running frustrations.
    Sami had walked through the area a few times before, but only to answer a specific question. He was not a member of the CTC. He was just an analyst from the Middle East Section who happened to research emerging terrorist groups. But Kinkaid knew about him. He had insisted on Sami and Cunningham joining the new task force.
    The conference room that had been set aside for it was in the middle of the CTC, surrounded by people who spent every waking minute tracking terrorists and dreaming of the day when another one would be caught or somehow defanged.
    Sami’s analysis was still raw, and might be shown to be ridiculous at any moment. He was uncomfortable briefing anyone about it. He didn’t even know what he believed yet. It was just speculation. But Kinkaid had looked ill when Sami had first brought his ideas to him. He had insisted he tell the task force immediately.
    He wasn’t sure exactly how to begin. Almost all of his work ended up in reports or memos. He had never given a brief to anyone from the DO, the Directorate of Operations, the ones who actually went out into the world and put their lives on the line to accumulate intelligence or effect things. He felt like the water boy to the football players.
    The task force had assembled early. They had a 7:30 a.m. meeting scheduled, but Kinkaid had asked them all to be there at 6:30 to hear Sami. They were interested, but skeptical. They drank coffee and sat in their chairs around the large table, waiting. Kinkaid signaled Sami, who