Tombstone turned toward Flight Operations and slapped the Marine Corps major on the shoulder. “Come on, son,” he said mildly. “I think you’ve got some flying to do. I’ve never been up in one of your birds — it’ll be a pleasure to get a look at it.”
“Yes, sir.” The major took off at a trot toward his aircraft.
“How far can this thing go?” Pamela Drake asked. She pointed to the battered commercial helicopter sitting out on the tarmac.
The pilot shrugged. “Far enough, if I put on the additional fuel tanks. We could get you to Juneau, no problem, ma’am.”
“Juneau, huh?” She looked him over carefully. “Were you in the Navy?”
A look of disgust crossed the pilot’s face. “No, ma’am, not hardly. The Marines.” He pointed at the battered helicopter. “Taught me my trade, they did, flying helicopters off of amphibious assault ships. After a couple of tours, I got out, joined the Reserves, and bought this puppy with the money I’d saved up. Slap a couple of missiles on her and she’d be just as good as anything they’re flying in the Corps today.”
“Amphibious assault ships, huh?” Pamela looked thoughtful. “You’re not in the Reserves or anything right now, are you?”
“No, ma’am.” The pilot grinned. “Not many Reserve units drilling out this far. I do mostly scouting for commercial fishing vessels, some medical emergencies — that sort of thing.”
“Well, sir, I believe we might just have a job for you.” Pamela grinned broadly. “Just how much do you remember about shipboard landings?”
“Welcome aboard, Admiral.” Ben Carmichael held out his hand to the officer standing in front of him. They’d met several times socially, but their professional paths had never crossed. Not that it mattered, he supposed. He’d heard enough about Tombstone Magruder to think he knew what he was dealing with.
Admiral Carmichael studied the younger admiral carefully. The same dark hair, clipped close to his head now, and dark, almost black eyes. No, he decided on reflection, they were brown, but only by a hair. He repressed a smile, remembering how Tombstone had gotten his nickname. Not for the famous shoot-out in Tombstone at the OK Corral, but for the invariably solemn expression on his face. He’d heard rumors that someone on Admiral Magruder’s staff had once seen him smile, but Carmichael wouldn’t be betting on it. Especially not under the circumstances.
“Thank you for having us, Admiral,” Magruder said politely. “And I appreciate the opportunity for a fly in one of your Harriers.”
“Don’t be saying that too loudly, now,” Carmichael said, finally chuckling. “That they’re my aircraft, I mean. Marines take that mighty personal, they do.”
“As rightfully they should.” Tombstone shot a pointed look at Major Killington, no trace of amusement in his face. “Major Killington has gone to some length to point that out to me on the flight out.”
Admiral Carmichael turned to survey the young Marine Corps major. “He has, has he?”
“Major Killington was quite informative.”
Admiral Carmichael looked sharply at Tombstone, then smiled. The stories about the man’s impassive face might be true, but nothing else could account for the slight twitch of the wrinkles around Tombstone Magruder’s legendary basilisk eyes. Obviously, he’d enjoyed the flight out — as well as maybe a little harassment of the young Marine Corps officer.
“Thank you, Major,” Tombstone said. “Perhaps we’ll have another chance to fly that Harrier of yours. I wouldn’t mind taking the controls myself sometime.”
The Marine Corps officer stiffened, turned slightly pale. “My pleasure, Admiral,” he answered, neatly sidestepping the issue of Tombstone flying his aircraft. The major executed a smart about-face and exited the Ready Room. After he’d left, Admiral Carmichael turned back to Tombstone.
“I take it the young man has a sense of pride in his service?”
Tombstone nodded. “Always encouraging to see in a young officer.” His tone was noncommittal.
“Well, I think you may know the rest of the people here. Hold on, I’ll have the chief of staff hunt them down.” Admiral Carmichael picked up the telephone, dialed a number from memory, and spoke briefly into the receiver. As he put it back down, he turned to Tombstone and said, “The rest of the team is just getting on board.”
“The rest?” Tombstone asked.
“How about some coffee, Admiral?” Carmichael offered him a guest mug, and motioned toward the coffee mess. “Make yourself at home. You want something to eat, just ask the mess cook. I’ll be right back.” With that, he strode toward the hatch, jerked it open, and disappeared into the immaculate passageway beyond.
Tombstone filled the coffee mug and set it down on the table. He stretched his hands up over him, feeling the muscles and bones in his back complain. The Harrier had managed to come up with a lumbar support system even more uncomfortable than that in the Tomcat, a feat he had not thought possible. Still, he had to admit the flight over to USS Coronado had been worthwhile — educational in many ways, not the least of which had been the opportunity to talk tactics with a Marine officer. Despite the initial impression he’d made on Tombstone, Major Killington had proved to be an exceptionally knowledgeable aviator, one as skilled in the tenets of ground warfare as he was in the air. Tombstone had found himself liking the young major, despite the irritating undercurrent of Marine Corps pride that underlay almost every comment.
The door to the compartment opened, and Admiral Carmichael stepped back through. Two figures trailed him, both carrying flight helmets.
“I believe you already know these two,” Admiral Carmichael boomed.
Tombstone stared at the lead figure, and a smile finally did cross his face. “Batman! How the hell are you?” He put down his coffee cup again and crossed the room quickly. His old wingman grinned back at him and held out a hand. The warm, strong, two-handed handshake, held a moment longer than politeness absolutely required, was evidence of the strong friendship between the two men.
He’s aged some, Tombstone thought, studying his old friend. But commanding a battle group does that. Dark circles ringed Batman’s eyes, and the laugh lines at the corners of them were deeper than Tombstone remembered. Since relieving Tombstone nine months earlier, Batman appeared to have lost weight. Tombstone noted new hollows carved out of the cheekbones, a bagginess in the flight suit around Batman’s waist that had not been there before. “How’s the tour going?” Tombstone asked, certain he already knew the answer.
“It’s super,” Batman responded immediately. “More work than I ever thought possible, but you left me a sharp team. The stuff that makes it past COS isn’t easy, though.”
“It never was.” Tombstone shook his head from side to side. “He’s pulled that line on you before, I bet — that if it was easy, you wouldn’t be seeing it?”
Batman laughed. “You bet.”
“And you’ve brought-” Tombstone’s throat suddenly went dry. The smaller figure that had been hidden behind Batman now stepped forward, a polite expression of interest on her face.
Her face. Tombstone stared, trying not to let his excitement show. “Lieutenant Commander Flynn,” he said formally, holding out his hand. “Good to see you again.”
“And you, Admiral,” she said, shaking his hand briefly. The smooth, warm feel of her fingers seemed to linger on his palm. Tombstone turned back to Batman, praying his friend had not noticed the color he could feel creeping up his neck. “And how did you manage that?”