For one of the few times in his life. Tombstone was at a loss for words. To go back to seaGod, yes. He’d give anything to simply be around the aircraft that had been his life for the first twenty-five years of his career, to roam the flight deck again, listening to the hard thunder of finely honed jet engines and the squealing rake of catapult wires across the deck. “How probable is that?” he asked finally, not daring to ask the other questions hammering in his head.
The chairman leaned back in his chair. “From where I sit, very probable. You know the commander of the carrier group, don’t you?”
Tombstone almost laughed. “Yes, Admiral Wayne is an old friend.” And you damned well know that, you sneaky old bastard. But why be so coy about it?
“How do you think he’ll feel about it?” the chairman asked. “Because what we’ll want on this, quite frankly, is a positive spin. I don’t need any disgruntled admirals squabbling over seniority arguments, not if we’re going to rehabilitate you and resolve the situation at the same time.”
“Batman won’t be a problem,” Tombstone said. But, for a moment, he wondered. How eager would he himself have been to have an old shipmate turn up to take over tactical command of this scenario? “He’d stay as CARGRU commander.”
“Of course.” The chairman stood up abruptly. “Give it some thought.
What’s best for you; what’s best for this country of ours.”
“I will, sir.”
“Get back to me tomorrow. I should have more information then,” the chairman said in dismissal.
Santana walked across the open, muddy field. The thick black dirt clumped on his boots, moist and lumpy. Ahead of him, the partially constructed missile launcher was completely exposed, its sheltering shield of canvas pulled back.
He walked around the installation, two aides trailing in his wake.
From the daily reports he’d been receiving, he would have expected it to be much more complete much more looking like it was about to be operational. His gaze wandered to the long metal boxes arrayed next to the crane.
An impressive achievement, to be sure, but without the launchers they would be nothing.
“When?” he asked. He saw his two aides glance at each other uneasily before the more senior of them spoke.
“Two weeks, I believe. According to our Libyan technical advisors.”
Santana restrained the urge to spit in the dirt. “When have they been right about anything? Not the schedule, not the American operations, not anything.” He stopped abruptly, gazing at the stacked weapons, his eyes caressing them.
“The only thing they have managed to do correctly is deliver the weapons, and even those are worthless without the launchers.”
“Sir, the American battle group perhaps if we ignore them, they will leave us alone?”
Santana whirled on him. “You would allow them to continue to invade our territorial waters? To mock our very sovereignty?”
“No,” the aide said in a shaky voice, “not at all. However, I have an idea that might prevent further intrusions into our airspace. And I think you might find it particularly appealing, under the circumstances,” he continued, his voice gaining strength. “May I explain?”
Santana bit back angry words and nodded abruptly. The aide was the son of one of his oldest friends, and showed occasional signs of astute operational thought. It would not do to let his own temper prevent him from hearing what must be best for his mission, not at all.
“Continue.”
Ten minutes later, Santana’s earlier rage had vanished as quickly as the mist had over the water. “A fine plan, my friend,” he said, and clapped the man on the shoulder. “I think that will work just fine.”
“A week from tomorrow?” Bird Dog said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “That’s quick.”
The ACOS Ops glared up at him from his seat at the desk.
“You want to drag this out? I thought you hated being behind a desk instead of in a cockpit.”
Bird Dog swallowed hard. “Of course I want to get it over with. It’s just that” The ACOS cut him off. He spoke, his voice softer than it had been before. “Listen, son, it’s never easy going to a FNAEBa Fleet Naval Aviator Evaluation Board. I went once myself made a couple of bad passes at the boat back when they were starting to downsize, and a guy who didn’t like me decided he might try to railroad me. It was painful, but nothing you can’t survive. The basic question they’re asking is whether or not you’re safe in the air.” He stopped, and looked quizzically up at Bird Dog. “Are you?”
Bird Dog nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m a damned hot stick. It’s just that the other day …” His voice disappeared to nothing.
“You weren’t thinking,” the ACOS finished. “You just pulled a damned foolish stunt, and now you’re going to a FNAEB board. Okay, stand up and take it like a man.
Maybe it will make you think twice next time you get a wild hair up your ass.”
And maybe there won’t be a next time. Bird Dog added silently. The FNAEB had the power to revoke his designation as a naval aviator, leaving him permanently grounded.
Would he stay in the Navy if it came to that? Of course not absent the sheer joy of flying the F-14 Tomcat, the rigors of military life held no real attraction for him. Then there was Callie … ah, Callie.
He’d spend more time with her, maybe start a second career no, he decided, none of that would make up for losing his designation as a naval aviator. To know that he would never again fly the screaming Tomcat at Mach 1 plus, buzzing around the superstructure of an Aegis cruiser to annoy the captain, chasing MiGs through skies so blue they looked translucent, or screaming over the tops of waves with the spray flashing to steam in his afterburner fire. No, nothing was worth losing that nothing.
“I’ll be ready, sir. And thank you.
The ACOS nodded abruptly. “Get out of here. And be readythat’s all I can tell you.”
The night sounds of Cuba drifted in the front door, finally reaching Pamela Drake in the back room of the building.
The air was still warm, heavy and humid, scented with the exotic blooms and heavy vegetation around the base.
“How much longer?” she demanded of her guard. “I came here to report a story. I can’t do that stuck in one room.”
The guard shrugged. ‘We sea.” He eyed her carefully.
“You stay here,” he continued, evidently the entire extent of his English language abilities.
Pamela sighed and resumed pacing around the room.
Something to kick, she decided. No, maybe a scream. How did one say “rape” in Spanish? Surely that would bring someone with enough power to resolve this situation, she fumed.
Forty feet away, Mendiria was asking the same questions.
“You can’t keep her here forever.” He touched his mustache, smoothing the stiff bristles down against his face. They sprang back up as soon as he released them, producing a bushy caterpillar on his upper lip.
“And why not?” Santana demanded. “We have control over everything she releases from here. And when she cooperates …” He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. “She travels without notifying her own authorities, no doubt. If something happens to her, who will be able to say that we are at fault? An illegal entry into our country, during a time of so much turmoil? The guerrilla sone cannot trust them. They are, as the Americans say, unpredictable.” He smiled, too-large white teeth catching the light from the bare lightbulb overhead.