Balance of Power: A Novel by James W. Huston Page A

stared at him. “Why not?”
    “I just haven’t sir, sorry.”
    “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Barry. Make it happen.”
    “Yes, sir.” Thacker copied down latitude and longitude and crossed to the chart on the sliding cork board in the front of the ready room. “We’re right here, sir,” he said, sticking a pin in the ocean north of the island of Java.
    “How far are we from where the Pacific Flyer went down?” Caskey asked.
    Thacker measured the distance on the chart with his pen. “About two hundred miles,” he answered confidently.
    “No sweat,” MC said. He looked at his watch and turned to Messer. “CVIC brief in five minutes. They’ll tell us which radials we’ll be searching. We’ll go to the last known location of the Flyer, turn outbound, and start looking. We’ll look for anything fast, and after that, we’lllook for anything at all. But we’ll have to be careful of flying into controlled airspace. Little islands that are part of Indonesia are all over the place. Last thing we need is for them to get mad at us for flying into their country with armed airplanes without permission. Capiche?”
    They all understood perfectly. They also understood it was an exercise in futility.

    “I’ve got lots of ships and boats, MC,” Messer said, leaning toward his radar repeater as the F-14B turned southeast at five thousand feet. They could see other Constitution airplanes turning outbound on other radials at different altitudes, probably saying the same things either to themselves or the other aircrew.
    “Anything fast moving?”
    “Can’t tell.”
    “Well, let’s just start looking.”
    “Roger that. First contact—is five degrees left, ten miles.”
    Caskey banked the Tomcat gently to the left and headed for the first ship on the radar. The first of hundreds. They approached it carefully, mindful of CAG’s warning that the terrorists might have shoulder-fired missiles aboard and their own, more vivid memories of flying past the Flyer . They flew down the side at one thousand feet and looked carefully at the ship. It was clearly not a cigarette boat. Not even close. A hundred times too big. Just another tramp steamer.
    The next ship was less remarkable, and the next less remarkable still. Their enthusiasm softened gradually, imperceptibly, as they went from one target to another, all equally unlikely to hold any key to the cigarette boats.
    They flew outbound again and again, then turned around and headed back and looked at every ship or boat in their sector. It was always the same story. Too big, too slow, too something. Not even a good candidate as a mother ship—although Caskey had no idea how theymight know if the cigarette boats had been hoisted aboard one of these ships.
    “Well, Messer, this has been a flail,” MC said as he turned back toward the ship for the last time. The sun set behind him toward Malaysia and Singapore. He raised his dark-colored visor to get a better picture of the darkening sea ahead of them.
    “Flail ain’t even the word,” Messer said, frustrated. “Never had much chance of finding these guys anyway. Too small.”
    “Too small, and we got too late a start.”

    It was another beautiful day on the equator, just as hot as the one before, just as hazy from the humidity and oppressive heat, and just as comfortable in the air-conditioned cabins and staterooms of the world’s largest warship. Comfortable in temperature but not temperament. Billings stewed as he thought of the men that had done this and tried to imagine why. It would be some “cause,” no doubt, some supposed reason to commit murder.
    The air wing had continued the search for the three elusive cigarette boats all through the night. As dawn approached, Admiral Ray Billings realized his one mission for the last twenty-four hours had been a failure. It hadn’t been a particularly tough mission: Find the three cigarette boats that carried off the men that murdered the Americans. Didn’t have to do