Besides, this was going to be his big move, wasn’t it? No point in not showing the admiral he had a little bit more on the ball than the average lieutenant commander pilot. The sick uneasiness he felt over Callie was merely a background throb of pain now, constant yet submerged in his consciousness under the driving need to finish the operational plan. He kept his eyes riveted on the spreadsheet, not certain that he wanted to release it for review by the Air Ops chief.
Every minute he kept himself distracted with that prevented him from having to deal with the issue of Callie.
Finally, he noticed one small improvement he could make on the plan, one that just might lift his spirits a bit. He moused over to the relevant cell and added an additional flight of aircraft, one he knew that the squadron was not capable of providing on short notice they simply didn’t have enough pilots. With a little cooperation from Gator, he just might be able to pull it off. Now if only the Ops ACOS didn’t read the details too carefully….
Staff work was demanding, but it was usually finished by the time the aircraft went into the air. No point in not taking the extra manpower into account when planning for strikes, particularly since there were aircraft that would be sitting empty on the deck otherwise. He smiled, wondering how Gator was going to be feeling about that.
“No way.” Gator’s voice was cold and adamant. “I’m not climbing into a cockpit with you right now, not after that bitch just jilted you.”
“She’s not a bitch,” Bird Dog said, defending Callie unwillingly. In truth, he himself thought that she might be.
There was no other explanation for her complete lack of taste in dumping him in favor of a submariner.
Despite Bird Dog’s intentions of keeping his pain to himself. Gator had wormed the story out of him in less than five minutes flat. After hearing it, and noting the anguish in Bird Dog’s voice. Gator had flatly refused to fly with him again.
“I’m not unsafe in the air you know I’m not.”
“Even on the best days, you have an interesting interpretation of the standard rules of flight,” Gator said caustically.
“But now, with your heart down around your asshole, I’d be crazy to get in the cockpit with you. Plumb crazy.”
Bird Dog tried again. “Look at it this way. Gator. Who’s got more experience in combat than us? You and me, remember? The Spratlys?
The Aleutians? Now that was a helluva ride, wasn’t it? And if I can bring you back safely from that, flying twenty feet above ice with no radar and limited visibility, I can get you back from a normal, ordinary strike during daylight hours on a big island, don’t you think?”
Gator shook his head. “You ain’t been flying much, buddy.”
“That’s the problemGator, come on. I need to get back in the cockpit, and I don’t want to miss out on this one. That bitch dumped me-there’s gotta be something more to life than that. Please?” With all the bravado dropped and his soul exposed bare for Gator to see, there was something terribly appealing about the young aviator. Despite his best intentions. Gator felt himself giving in.
“We’ll get caught,” the RIO said.
“No we won’t. All pilots look alike in helmets and flight suits, and the squadron doesn’t know the admiral grounded me. Even Tomboy doesn’t have a clue.”
“Bird Dog, of all the idiotic schemes you’ve gotten me into, this is” “Please?” There was quiet dignity and plaintiveness in Bird Dog’s voice.
Gator sighed. “I’m an idiot. Okay, count me in.”
Bird Dog smiled.
TWELVE
“That’s it, then.”
Tombstone Magruder scrawled his initials in the upper-right-hand corner of the message, releasing it for transmission. He leaned back in his chair, tossed the pencil on the table, and looked impassively at the men surrounding him. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll take the heat for it.
You people are just following orders.”
The SEAL OIC-officer in Charge shook his head.
“That plan’s got my name all over it. Admiral. With all due respect, I wouldn’t mind getting hung for that one little bit.”
“You may get your chance,” Tombstone snapped. He glanced at the standard Navy-issue black clock up on the bulkhead. “And sooner than you want.”
“Admiral, at the risk of sounding like an optimist,” Batman broke in, “this is a damned fine operational plan.
It’s classic. We get our people out, take ownership of the airspace, then proceed inward to strike our objectives.
They’ll be studying this one at the War College.”
“They study Grenada, too, for what it’s worth.” Tombstone shifted his gaze to Bird Dog. “They do, don’t they?
And Beirut as well.”
Bird dog nodded, “i think this one will work, Admiral.
Tombstone stood and started pacing back and forth. Had it been any other officer. Batman decided, it would have been a sign of nerves.
But with Tombstone it was more an indication of the pent-up rage and anger seething through him, a physical release of that which kept him from exploding in temper. It was from such small physical activities that Tombstone got his reputation for being utterly unflappable and granite-faced.
“We need to get going,” Sikes said finally. “If we want to leave on time.” He glanced uncertainly from Batman to Tombstone.
Batman nodded slightly, giving permission. “Get your people ready.”
With another gesture. Batman cleared the room of the rest of the personnel, indicating that they should go to their racks and get some sleep while they could. When they were alone, he walked over to his old lead and said, “Don’t sweat the load. Tombstone. You know this has got as good a chance of working as anything.”
Tombstone wheeled on him. “If it were simply a matter of taking out those missile structures, do you think I’d be worried? Hell, even that damned Bird Dog could figure out how to do that! There’s no mystery to how we operate.” His mouth clamped into a thin, taut line.
“Yeah. What? What is it that’s got you so wound up about this plan?”
Batman pressed, already suspecting that he knew the answer. Should he say it? No, with a man like Tombstone, it was better to let him come to his own conclusions about when to publicly air a matter. If Batman mentioned Pamela first, it would simply drive his old lead against the wall, cementing his silence for good.
Batman felt Tombstone’s eyes searching his face, looking for something there. The younger admiral willed himself into immobility. Finally, Tombstone nodded, and the tension seemed to drain out of his body. He flung himself down on the flat leatherette couch against one wall, onto his back, feet propped up on the far armrest. The sudden change in posture was as disconcerting to Batman as having Tombstone actually smile.
“Don’t get diplomatic on me. Batman,” Tombstone said finally. He turned his head and stared over at his old wingman, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“We’ve known each other too long for this. You know what it is.”
“Then you say it first. Tombstone,” Batman challenged.
“Anytime I bring it up, you start back pedaling on me.”
“Pamela Drake.” Tombstone pronounced the name quietly, neutrally.
“That’s what it is. And that downed pilot, too.
Thor. Both of them but especially Pamela.”
“Can they get her out?”
Tombstone shrugged. “The SEALs seem to think so. And if they can’t damn it. Batman, you know I’ll do it. I’m going to quit thinking with my dick. She’s there illegally, against all U.S. policy, and interfering with our operations.