“It won’t be good,” he said, matching her bluntness. “You may have embargoed trade, but many of us still enjoy the best cigar the world has to offer. Among other things sugar, of course.”
“It’s in our backyard,” she pointed out.
“And our backyard economically,” he countered. “Naturally, you’ll have our support, publicly and privately. I suspect Her Majesty wishes that you would just bloody well invade, solve the whole matter once and for all. Tiresome, this nattering back and forth. Ah, our food.” His face brightened as he saw the waiter approach. “Famished, absolutely famished.”
“What if we started giving you guidelines on how to resolve the Irish question?” she said quickly before the waiter arrived. She was silent while the waiter arranged her salmon salad in front of her, carefully setting a small flask of vinaigrette at the left-hand side of her plate. She waited until he’d left before continuing. “I suspect that we’d suggest that you simply quit forcing the issue, withdraw your troops, and let the status quo remain. Or even yield to Ireland.”
“Never. To both your solution and your intervention.” He looked up from the neatly boiled stuffed flounder to shoot her a piercing gaze.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“But the Cuba question is much easier than that, isn’t it?”
Finally, she saw him give up. “You asked me for my advice, and I’ll give you what I know. Europe will be most distraught. Do not count on automatic support from all the Allies. Cuba is an important trading partner to some, and there’s a large reservoir of anti-American sentiment still fomenting about the Continent. The Cuban Missile Crisis, all that sort of stuff. he dismissed it with an airy wave of his hand. “mere recent history. Nothing to compare with many nations’ conflicts. You won’t find much sympathy there, not with U.S. weapons still on European soil.”
“So what do we do?”
“Proceed very carefully. Very, very carefully, and play this very close to the vest.” His expression suddenly turned somber. “It’s not all that difficult to damage a warship, you know. Learned that in the Falklands. Primitive mines and rusting diesel submarines are deuced cheap solutions to a pesky little aircraft carrier or two. The last thing the United States needs right now is international embarrassment over a successful attack on one of her warships. Bear that in mind, Sarah.”
The unexpected use of her first name jarred her for a moment, then she assessed it for what it was a diplomatic exclamation point, a way of insuring he had her total and complete attention, as well as conveying the close and personal support the United States would always enjoy from Great Britain. It was a familiarity that encompassed a compliment, as well as an expression of trust. “Have you heard anything?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.
He shook his head. “I don’t need to.”
“Welcome aboard. Admiral,” Batman said, taking two quick strides toward his old lead. “Good to see you again, sir.”
Tombstone grasped the other man’s hand in a hard, warm grip. Life on board the USS Jefferson looked like it was taking its toll on his old wingman. A touch of gray, some lines around the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there a year earlier.
Still, the changes were more than physical; he could see it in Batman’s eyes. There was a new air of security and determination, the kind of command presence that only comes from single-handedly wielding the most powerful assets in the United States military inventory.
Commanding the squadron now, that had been sheer pleasure. A chance to finally shape a group of disparate people from an array of backgrounds into a single fighting force. But command of a carrier group was different, both in purpose and in its span of responsibility. Batman would have had to make the same shift he had, from a tactical perspective concentrating on fighter furballs and enemy weapons’ envelopes to a broader viewpoint. An operational viewpoint, one step above and encompassing tactics. It was a tricky transition, and some never made it. He’d known admirals who’d never gotten past that tactical focus, never been able to successfully integrate tactics to execute strategy, the heart of operational art.
And it was an art, not a science. It never would be, not as long as wars were started by people and ended by them.
“We’ve set aside the V.I.P quarters for you,” Batman said carefully.
Tombstone felt Batman’s eyes searching his face for any sign of disapproval. “Of course, my own quarters are always at your disposal.”
Tombstone waved aside Batman’s concerns. “No, you stay just where you are. You’re still in command of this carrier battle group. Admiral Wayne. You remind me if I forget that.” The corner of his mouth twitched. On any other man’s face, the movement would have been meaningless, but it was as close to a smile as Batman had ever seen Tombstone sport in public.
Some tension melted out of Batman’s face. “Maybe we’ll have a chance later to discuss exactly how you would like this task force organized.
Admiral. My people have a couple of ideas.”
“I’d welcome their help,” Tombstone said quietly. He let his eyes drift back to survey the faces arrayed behind Batman. “Bird Dog,” he said. “You’re still on board?”
The young lieutenant commander shifted uneasily. “I’m back, sir. I spent a year at the War College. Just reported back on board two months ago.” He hesitated as though about to add something, then fell silent.
“This is right up your alley, then. You make sure you share that expensive education with the rest of the staff, understand?”
Two years earlier, when Tombstone had had command of this very carrier battle group. Bird Dog had been a nugget pilot. Events had thrust him into the thick of the combat in the Spratly Islands, and later he’d played point man in a careful game of cat and mouse over the Aleutian Islands.
Yes, Tombstone thought, studying Bird Dog’s face, still young, still feeling his way through this mess. His first staff tour, of course, and he’s anxious to make a good impression.
And, remembering his own tour of staff, not getting enough flight time.
Tombstone let his eyes move on, careful to keep any trace of his thoughts from showing in his face. He greeted other staffers by name, reestablishing the bonds that had once drawn them together.
Finally, he turned back to Batman. “You got some time to talk?”
“At your disposal, of course. Admiral.”
Tombstone took a quick step closer to him and spoke in a low voice pitched for his ears only. “Don’t be polite, Batman, I know this job almost as well as you do. If you’ve got stuff that needs doing, let me know. We owe each other that much courtesy, don’t we? After all we’ve been through together?”
The final traces of nervousness melted away from Batman’s face. “Now would be very convenient. Admiral.”
The small tugboat churned through the gentle waves like a thrashing, injured fish. She was bow on to the swells now, making steady headway but heeling from port to starboard in a rapid motion designed to discomfort all but the strongest stomachs. Waves battered her gunwales and the deck was slippery and damp from condensing spray and early morning mist.
It had been dark when she had left port, the sky obscured by the perpetual mist and fog. Later, as the sun had burned it away, the sailors had peeled off their shirts and donned hats, weathered brown backs giving evidence of their experience with this climate.
This mission was more important than fishing for tuna, or pursuing any of the myriad activities that they used to supplement the income generated by their legitimate occupation. Jaime Rivera, the master of the vessel, stood in the pilot house, staring aft at the small contingent of Cuban navy officers on board. So like them, the arrogance with which they’d commandeered his vessel. The drug running, the smuggling, or even the normal routines of trolling for fish were merely memories now. The officers had arrived at 0500, in a battered, rusted jeep. Two deuce-and a-half trucks, on their last set of brakes and their suspension springs merely a distant memory, had followed.