"We both should have."
"That sneaky bastard," I muttered. "Not enough that he tries to trip me, but playing with a man's altimeter can get somebody killed." Summaries that I'd read of too many aircraft mishaps flashed through my mind.
Altimeter mistakes and lousy weather were responsible for too many pilots auguring into the side of a mountain. That I'd failed to catch that error pissed me off. "Wait till the admiral hears about this." "Are you really going to tell him?" Sheila asked quietly.
"You put yourself on report for that."
I shook my head, realizing that I was in a no-win situation. If I kicked up a stink about the altered altimeter, Admiral Magruder would know I'd screwed up on my preflight. Additionally, it would sound like I was whining. I couldn't prove that the Russians had tinkered with it, and I'd just look like a sore loser.
"What do you think?" I asked finally.
"We keep quiet and eat this one," Sheila said promptly.
"But now that we know, we double-check it next time. The altimeter, and everything else, including the fuel. Real, real, carefully. And then we kick some Russian ass."
"I'd like that," I said when she'd finished, rather gratified at her vengeful tone of voice. "I'd really, really like that."
"Skeeter, level flight ― no maneuvering!" Sheila said suddenly. "Don't twitch a muscle." "Why?" I asked, although I obeyed her command immediately.
"It's that little bastard MiG. Looks like he wants to play some games." Her voice was grim.
I craned my neck back around to see. I saw him immediately, the MiG-31, barreling down out of the sky toward me in a steep dive. He pulled up in front of me, maybe half a mile ahead, waggled his wings from side to side for a moment, then executed a series of flawless barrel rolls. He pulled out of that smoothly, gracefully, dived under me then reappeared on the other side, looping around and around me like some sort of insane porpoise.
I swore quietly. "He wants to see aerobatics, does he? Well, let me just show him-" "Not a twitch, Skeeter," Sheila warned again. "You don't know what he's doing. Two aircraft pulling unbriefed maneuvers in the same airspace is a guarantee that something's going to get fucked."
I kept on swearing, knowing she was right. Bad enough that the little MiG bastard was rubbing it in, but if I started pulling the same shit to show him what a Tomcat could really do, our chances of a mishap increased dramatically. So for now it was straight and level, vectoring back into the air base with my new altimeter setting and planning my revenge.
From inside a Tomcat, a Russian airfield feels pretty much like an American one. Easier to land on than an aircraft carrier, and international standardization of airfield markings and directions indicators makes getting around fairly straightforward. A white truck with follow-me lights was waiting to direct us to our assigned spot. Sheila and I ran the shutdown checklist quickly, but by the time we were finished, the admiral was already waiting for me just off the flight line.
I popped out a sharp salute and waited for the blast that was sure to come. To my surprise, Tombstone just stared levelly at me. "Admiral, about what happened up there," I began, and then let my voice trail off as I realized he wasn't looking for answers. I had the uneasy feeling this was going to be a one-way conversation. Just then, Sheila stepped forward.
She saluted, then touched Gator lightly on the elbow and drew him off to the side for some RIO-to-RIO talk, leaving me alone with the admiral.
"Good move, Skeeter," the admiral said finally. "I liked the way you suckered him into revealing more about his performance capabilities. I don't think we've ever seen a MiG pull that dramatic of a maneuver before."
"What? You mean you think I-"
The admiral cut me off before I had a chance to dig myself even deeper. "Exactly the sort of intelligence we're here to gather," he murmured, motioning me to follow him back to the air control terminal.
"Good work." I followed him, too stunned by his comments to start explaining. Was it possible that the admiral thought I'd really planned that maneuver just for that purpose? Or was he just offering me up a face-saving excuse?
And what did Sheila have to talk to the other RIO about that was so urgent? The altimeter, probably. While she might not want me making excuses to the admiral for my mistakes ― hell, it wasn't excuse, it was reason! ― she'd probably want to make sure that the admiral's own RIO double-checked their own altimeter before their first flight. Fool us once, shame on us; fool us twice ― I let the thought go, oddly reassured by the admiral's explanation.
Even if it weren't true.
The Russians' version of a bachelor officers quarters were no great shakes. It was more spartan than anything I'd run into in the United States Navy. Damn near as uninhabitable as my own compartment onboard Jefferson. Before the modifications we'd made, I mean. Over a period of months onboard a carrier, you get around to customizing your compartment so it's not quite as bleak. My roommates and I had come up with a TV, a VCR, and a bitchin' stereo system that routinely drove the people next to us batty.
The Russian BOQ room was more like a cell. It held a narrow, uncomfortable cot and a chair. That was it. The head facilities were down the hall. Two showers, and I didn't hold out much for a good supply of hot water, judging from how grimy they looked. There were windows to the outside, no curtains or blinds, and I could already feel the cold radiating in through the thin, single-paned window. The shower curtains in the head looked slightly mildewed, and the toilet bowl was rimmed with rust stains inside.
I changed, sponged off the sweat as best I could, and got ready for the evening meal. The admiral had said it would be a formal affair, and I wasn't looking forward to it.
At the prearranged time, an escort picked us up to go to the banquet in the Russian officers club. Sheila, I was surprised to see, was tricked out in her skirt and heels. I was in my dress blues, the two stripes on my dress blue sleeves outnumbered by her two and a half.
We slipped into the overcrowded, stuffy room like we owned it. It was packed with Russians, all in what I figured were probably their best dress uniforms. There were aguillettes, medals dangling, and more brass than I'd ever seen in one place before. After the debacle of earlier that day, I felt like everyone was staring at me. Not only was I the most junior of just about anybody around, I was the one who'd screwed the pooch.
Or at least I was supposed to think I was. For now, Sheila and I were going to let them think that they had us fooled.
"I know something," I heard a female voice slightly behind me say. I turned to find a woman, a civilian by her dress, standing just behind me looking up at me. She was noticeably shorter than I was, her head barely reaching my shoulder level. Long auburn hair flamed in a crown on her head, spilling down her back in luxurious curls. Her eyes were brown, large and doe-like, and she stared at me with a look that was somewhere between lust and amusement. "About the flight today, I mean." She spoke English well, with only a slight trace of an accent.
I smiled at her. "A lot of people know a lot about today," I said.
"We haven't had the pleasure. Lieutenant Skeeter Harmon." I extended my hand.
"Anna Doysta," she answered, slipping her small, cool hand into mine.
Despite her slight size, she gripped my hand with surprising strength. "Of course, I know who you are. We all do. I was hoping for an opportunity to meet with you tonight." Her smile broadened, as though to leave no doubt about what she meant.