“They’ll kill you for this,” Tombstone said levelly. His eyes searched the commando’s face, looking for any break in the passivity he saw there. “What’s more, there’s nothing you can do with this ship. I will give no orders on your behalf, and none of my staff members will obey you. What will you accomplish by this?”
Rogov stepped into the compartment from behind the commandos, and Tombstone immediately recognized that he was the man in command. The Cossack stared at Tombstone for a moment, as though assessing him. Finally, he spoke.
“For your purposes, Admiral, what we want is not nearly as important as what we have. That is to say,” he said, making a gesture that included the entire room, “your people and your ship.”
“What the hell’s taking them so long to clear us?” Bird Dog grumbled. All he wanted now was about six hours’ uninterrupted rack time, followed by a couple of sliders, the carrier version of a hamburger. And some autodog, he decided. Yes, that sounded good — a whole ice cream cone full of the soft brown ice cream that had earned the disgusting slang name. He sighed, settling in to do what all Navy officers learned to do early in their career — hurry up and wait.
“Wonder what the hell’s going on back there?” Gator said curiously. Bird Dog glanced in the mirror an saw his RIO had turned around in his seat and was staring at the helicopter landing spot. “Awful lot of people around there. Hell, we’re at General Quarters.”
He turned around and settled back in his seat. “You hearing anything?” he asked, putting his own helmet with its speakers back on.
“Oh, shit,” Bird Dog said softly. “Gator, they’re gonna launch us again.”
“Launch us? But we just got here. What the hell-” Gator fell silent as he listened to the instructions coming over his own headset. “Armed terrorists on the ship?” Gator said disbelievingly. “I don’t believe — Bird Dog, at least get them to put some weapons on the rack before we launch again,” he finished, resigning himself to the inevitable. “Although what good it’s gonna do with terrorists in the ship, I’ll be damned if I know.”
“Start the checklist,” Bird Dog ordered, all traces of his earlier fatigue now vanishing in a fresh wave of adrenaline. “I don’t know either, but if the air boss wants it, we’re out of here.”
Gator complied, and began reading the prelaunch checklist from his kneeboard. Before he was finished, Bird Dog started taxiing for the catapult. Ordnance technicians scurried about the aircraft, short-cutting most of their standard safety precautions to slap Sidewinders and Sparrows onto the wings.
“No Phoenix?” Gator asked.
“No. And just as well, if you ask me.” Shooting the long-range Phoenix missile was okay for making long-range aircraft go on the defensive, but for what he had in mind he preferred a knife-fighting close-in load out.
“That tanker’s still in the air, at least.” He glanced down at the gauge. “We’ve got enough for a launch, with some time overhead, but I’m going to want to be going back for a fill-up real fast.”
“Air boss says they’re in TFCC and CDC,” Gator reported. “We’ll have to get the air boss to coordinate it.”
“He mentioned that earlier — said the tanker’s in the starboard marshal pattern already, waiting for us. They’re gonna shoot us off, and then get as many of the ready aircraft launched as they can. Although where we’re supposed to go if they don’t get our airport sanitized, I’ll be damned if I know.”
Four minutes later, only partially through the checklist, Tomcat 201 hurled down the flight deck on the waist catapult and shot into the air.
“Where to now?” Gator said.
Bird Dog shrugged. “First we go get a drink, amigo,” he said. “Then we see if Jefferson is getting her shit together, then we worry about where we go. A CAP station, maybe, in case there’s adversary air inbound.”
“It’s a plan. Not sure I can come up with anything better at this point,” Gator agreed. “I’ll help you spot in on the tanker.”
Rogov leveled his weapon at Tombstone. He took a deep breath, and when he started speaking, his voice was firm and forceful. “You will turn this aircraft carrier toward the west,” he ordered. “Due west. Heading for Petropavlovsk.”
“Petro?” Tombstone said, stunned. “Surely you don’t think you can force us to attack Petro.”
“It’s been in your war plans for twenty years, now, hasn’t it?” Rogov countered. “That was one premise of the entire Cold War scenario — that the Pacific Fleet would attack and capture the Soviet Union’s easternmost stronghold, containing the submarines there and destroying the amphibious forces and air-power. After so many years, I would hope you knew how to do that.” He stopped and considered Tombstone’s shocked look. “I will know how, at least. And with an operational American carrier under their control, no Cossack will ever have to curry favor with a foul Russian bastard.”
“You’d turn the Jefferson into a Cossack carrier?” Tombstone asked, dumbfounded at the idea.
“And why not? A cohort of Roman soldiers, a platoon of mounted Cossack — men of war have always had their methods of taking the war to their opponents. Today, the modern equivalent is the aircraft carrier. Who better to understand how to use this vessel? We’re not putting your own war plans to a real test. Instead, you will approach to thirty miles off the coast of Petro, and wait for further instructions.” He fixed Tombstone with a steely glare. “Do not test me on this, Admiral. If necessary, I can have two hundred more Spetsnaz on board within eight hours, more than enough to assist me in controlling your crew. Additionally, if you force me to such measures, we will begin executing one of your crew every five minutes until you agree to comply. We will begin with the women,” he ended, gesturing toward a woman dressed in a flight suit standing in the corner of TFCC. “With her, I think.”
Tombstone felt the blood drain from his face. He resisted the impulse to turn and look at that bright red hair on the diminutive form one last time. Tomboy had returned to the ship.
“I see I have your attention,” Rogov observed. He glanced from Tombstone to Tomboy, and then back at Tombstone. A careful, considering look crossed the Cossack’s face. “So it is like that, is it?” he murmured. “Guard him.” He pointed at two Spetsnaz.
The designated men swiveled around and trained their weapons on Tombstone. Rogov crossed the room quickly, grabbed Tomboy by her hair, and yanked her head back. He pulled her to a standing position and twisted his hands to turn her to face him. “So this is an American pilot,” he noted, touching the gold wings over her left breast.
“I’m not a pilot,” she said sharply. “I’m a naval flight officer — a radar intercept operator, if you must know.”
Rogov’s hand flashed out, and he smacked her across the face. “Then you have learned some bad habits, riding always in the backseat. While I am here, you will speak when spoken to, and at no other time. Is that clear?”
Tomboy stood mute, her face pale except for the red mark on her face where Rogov’s hand had landed. He jerked her up sharply by the hair, causing her to wince.
“Is that clear?” he repeated slowly.
“Yes,” Tomboy spat.
“Good.” Rogov shoved her back in her chair. “In my tribe, a woman is not permitted to wed until she has killed. A pity you have no such customs here.” He turned back to Tombstone. “And that you have so little control over your face and emotions, Admiral,” the Cossack sneered. “it is always dangerous to expose one’s weaknesses to an enemy, is it not?” Rogov turned back to his squad. “If the admiral does not order the ship to turn west in the next thirty seconds, you are to shoot her. Take her into the conference room, since I do not want a ricochet to damage the equipment.”