Batman grinned. “Pax River was pretty eager to get some more operational time on those JAST birds,” he said. “You remember, the one I flew out to Jefferson in the Spratlys?”
“How could I forget?”
“I thought you’d remember. Anyway, Tomboy did such a good job as my RIO against the Chinese that Pax River picked her up as a test pilot for the next version of JAST. They’re at that same point again — too much data, not enough information. The program manager asked me if I would take two birds on board for a couple of months, see how they worked under field conditions. When I found out Tomboy was one of the aircrew, I couldn’t resist.”
“And what brings you out to Coronado, Lieutenant Commander Flynn?” Tombstone said, turning his attention to the diminutive RIO.
“Sounded like there might be some action here, sir,” she said immediately. “Pax River is something else, but nothing beats the real thing. If we’re going to buy these birds, we need to see how they perform in an operational environment. Just like the Spratlys.” She smiled happily.
“When Batman — Admiral Wayne, I mean-” she amended hastily, seeing clouds gather in Tombstone’s face, “-offered me the opportunity to come over to Coronado with him, I jumped at the chance. Sound operational experience. Besides, if the JAST birds were going to be flying any missions, I thought it best if I got the inside scoop. Sir.” Her voice trailed off as she saw the expression on Tombstone’s face.
Tombstone turned back to Admiral Carmichael. “I should have warned you about Admiral Wayne,” Tombstone said neutrally.
“No harm done, Admiral,” Carmichael said heartily, deliberately misunderstanding. He’d heard the rumors, as had all the flag community, about the youngest admiral, Magruder, and his attractive RIO. Gossip Central held that both were stand-up officers, and that nothing improper had occurred on board USS Jefferson. It also noted with some malicious glee that both officers had disappeared for several weeks shortly after Tombstone’s arrival in D.C. While there were no hard data points, it was a foregone conclusion that the two had taken the opportunity of their overlapping transfers to escape from Navy life for a while. Looking at the two of them, Carmichael hoped they’d made it worthwhile. “There’s always room for another good officer at the briefing. You won’t be staying on board, will you, Commander?” he concluded pointedly, looking back at Tomboy.
“Of course not, Admiral,” Batman said hastily. “Commander Flynn and I will be returning to Jefferson later this afternoon. I wouldn’t feel comfortable being away much longer than that, not under the circumstances.”
Admiral Carmichael nodded sharply. Message sent, message received. “Well, speaking of tactical situations, let’s get this brief started.”
“No moving around back here,” the helicopter pilot said sternly. “This bitch is going to be damned heavy for a while until I burn off some fuel. I don’t want you shifting my center of gravity around.”
Pamela nodded, resisting the impulse to point out to the man that she’d been on more than one helicopter flight in her life. Although, she had to admit, never one exactly like this. Up close, the helicopter had proved to be somewhat dinged and battered, and the interior spaces were in no better shape. Still, all the moving parts seemed to be well-oiled and clean, and she suspected that the mechanics and avionics got a good deal more attention from the technicians than the creature comforts. “When are you ready to go?” she asked.
“Anytime. You say the word, we’ll be airborne five minutes later.”
“And you understand what we’re going to do?” she asked again.
The pilot grinned. “You just leave it all up to me, ma’am.”
Five minutes later, as the helicopter careened away from the ground and settled into level flight, Pamela had her first doubts about the mission.
Ninety feet above Lieutenant Commander Brandon Sikes’s head, the outward curving mass of USS Jefferson’s concave hull hung over his head like a massive gray cliff. The storm had abated, and the seas were ominously placid. Jefferson’s bow was pointed into the light swell, her two outboard engines turning just enough to keep her on course. In contrast, the docking platform lowered from her starboard elevator pitched and rolled markedly. The flat-bottomed floating structure drew only two feet of water and rode the swells heavily, the forward edge trying to bury itself in oncoming swells while the trailing edge lifted free of the trough between the swells.
Sikes planted his feet firmly apart, riding the pitching motion easily. Compared to what he’d be doing in a few minutes, this was a piece of cake.
The boat moored to the starboard side of the ship was just slightly more than thirty feet long. Twin inboard engines, heavily muffled for silence, drove it through the water at speeds in excess of seventy knots. Fifty-caliber guns mounted fore and aft provided additional protection, but her speed was her main tactical advantage. It was the ideal platform for getting the SEAL team in and out of places they weren’t supposed to be quickly and covertly.
And that was exactly what this mission called for. Sikes turned his back on the boat and studied the men arrayed behind him. Four other men, each with his own particular deadly specialty. His eyes lingered for a moment on Petty Officer Carter, the newest member of the team. The young SEAL had graduated from BUDS only one year before, and followed that with a series of technical schools in the deadly arts that were the SEALs’ calling cards. Carter was a good-natured, raw-boned twenty-year-old from Iowa. Sikes shook his head. What was it about naval service that drew these men from their landlocked childhoods to the water? And why did they make such damned fine sailors? Carter was already showing the potential to be a superb SEAL.
“Let’s get them moving, Senior,” he said, pointing toward the horizon. “The sooner we get going, the sooner we’re back. All your men understand what the mission is?”
Senior Chief Manuel Huerta nodded. “Yes, sir, we briefed again this morning. Just a quick sneak and peek, nothin’ fancy. No heroics, no toys.” The senior chief, a veteran of twenty-two years in the SEAL forces, looked faintly disappointed.
“As long as everyone understands that,” Sikes replied.
“Depending on what we turn up, we may be going back.”
He turned back to the boat, confident that the chief had done his job. If the truth be known, he admitted to himself, the men didn’t really need him on this mission. They were more than capable of handling every aspect of it alone. Still, it was a matter of pride for the SEAL officer corps to be able to get down and dirty with the best of their enlisted men. Since Sikes’s cold-weather experience was limited, he’d made it a point to come along on this mission to watch the chief in action. Nothing beat firsthand experience, and what he learned on this relatively simple expedition might save his life later. You never knew, he thought, shaking his head, just what bit of arcane, novel or trivial fact made the difference between success and failure. And for the SEAL team, the latter outcome was completely unacceptable.
And to be working with Admiral Wayne again on board Jefferson made his current assignment as Officer in Charge of the Jefferson’s SEAL detachment all the more satisfying. The admiral understood Special Forces, Sikes reflected, watching the senior chief move easily around the bobbing platform. And, as a matter of fact, Sikes took credit for that.
Four years earlier, one of then-Commander Wayne’s squadron mates, Lieutenant Commander Willie “Coyote” Grant, had been shot down on a mission over Korea. Captured and tortured by the North Korean forces, only the intervention of a SEAL team made his escape possible. And although he’d been a boot lieutenant at the time, Sikes had been part of it. Senior Chief Huerta had personally snatched Coyote out of the firing zone.