Flash Point by James W. Huston

there?”
    “Boomer. Tony Vialli.”
    “Why do they call him that?”
    Woods put his finger to his lips so he could hear the weather portion of the brief, then turned toward Pritchard. “Came into the break at the ship supersonic once. He was late. Busted a window on the bridge. That’s the kind of thing you don’t live down.”
    “Why do they call you Trey?”
    “When I CQ’d in F-14s, I got all three wires.”
    “What’s CQ?”
    Woods tried not to roll his eyes. “
Carrier
quals. Landing on the carrier to qualify in that airplane.”
    “What are three wires?”
    “Later,” he said, listening to the television suddenly. He started writing information down on a five-by-eight card.
    “What kind of flight are you going to do?”
    Woods looked at Pritchard with an expression of curiosity, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him, and then shrugged. “Don’t know. Wink’ll take care of it. I’m just driving. He’s the mission commander.” He paused. “Have you done your squadron check-in card yet?”
    “Just started.”
    “Don’t forget to get Lieutenant Curly Crumpacker’s signature.”
    “Who’s he?”
    “Lots of hats. RIO to the Air Wing Commander, Squadron Morale Officer, F-14 Simulator Officer, lots of things.”
    “I’ll get him.”
    Woods nodded and sat down. He looked across at Vialli and said quietly, “Did you hear from her?”
    Vialli smiled and nodded. “E-mail. Confirmed she’ll be there in Venice.”
    “I
knew
I shouldn’t have left you alone with her for even a minute.”
    “She’s interested.”
    “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
    Boomer got up to fill his coffee cup. “Hey,” he said to Pritchard.
    “Hi,” she replied.
    When he returned, she asked, “You know where Lieutenant Crumpacker might be?”
    “Huh?” he said. “Trey tell you to find him?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I’m not sure where he is. He’s awfully hard to find. Busy guy. I’d look in the forecastle.” He just couldn’t tell her Crumpacker was a longstanding squadron fiction used against all kinds of people who were unsuspecting, especially new officers.
    “Thanks,” she said, truly grateful. “By the way, what’s a three wire?”
    He raised his eyebrows, surprised she didn’t know. “Third of four arresting wires on the flight deck. The one we aim for. Why?”
    “I asked Trey how he got his call sign.”
    “What did he say?” Vialli asked skeptically.
    “During carrier qualifications, CQ, I think he called it, he got all three wires.”
    “Hah!” Vialli guffawed. “How about he didn’t get
any
three wires! Take
everything
he says with a grain of salt.”
    When the intelligence brief was concluded and the television went dark, Wink stood behind the lectern. “We’re event One Alpha . . .”
     
     
    The men walked slowly through the path in the boulders so narrow their shoulders rubbed both sides. Their black attire was hot, but caused them no more discomfort than they were used to. There was no way off the path once on it; it was a mile long and required dedication to reach the end. No one would venture down the path without knowing where it led — it was too claustrophobic. The path wound through craggy rocks that jutted upward at odd angles. At almost every step, anyone walking could be observed by someone in the right position higher up in the rocks. And there was always someone in the right position. This path had been perfected through centuries of use.
    After thirty minutes of walking through the labyrinth the men reached their destination. They waited outside an opening in the stone wall that was hidden by the angle of the opening, almost going back the same way they had come. A man approached them speaking softly in Arabic.
    The leader of the group, which had obviously traveled a long way, nodded wearily. “Please tell him we have returned.”
    “He said you should spend some time in the garden. He will call for you.”
    The man nodded again. Then to the others