I was willing to bet my counterpart in the Russian Navy didn't live quite so well. Reports had surfaced for months that the officers had not been paid for almost six months, and I wondered at the tenacity and devotion to duty that kept them serving even without that. I supposed supporting their families and maintaining living quarters was a different matter under the Communist state, but still ― I tried to imagine Tomboy's reaction should my paychecks suddenly cease, and shuddered.
There was a polite tap on the door, followed by scuffling of feet. I downed the rest of my coffee, then, still clad in my bathrobe, went to the door. I opened it a crack and peered out.
Admiral Ilanovich's aide was standing at attention a respectful distance from my doorjamb.
"With compliments from the admiral," he began, his voice stiff and correct. "If the admiral so pleases, would you care to join the admiral for breakfast?"
"Sure. Give me a couple of minutes to get cleaned up and get some clothes on." I opened the door a bit wider. "Come on in, have a seat while you wait. Want some coffee?"
The young Navy officer's face paled. Whatever he expected from the devil American capitalist admiral, it wasn't this. "May it please the admiral," he began, then fell silent as the need for tact exceeded his language abilities. I could see on his face that he was trying to puzzle it out, how to politely and respectfully refuse my invitation without offending this important American visitor.
I sighed. If I insisted, he would come in. Even have a cup of coffee. But the entire event would no doubt be followed by a series of increasingly aggressive interviews by the KGB, GRU, Border Patrol, or whatever else passed for internal security in the Russian society today. I wouldn't force that on him.
"I'll be right out," I said, and shut the door firmly behind me. I thought I heard a sigh of relief as I did so.
I hurried through my morning routine, not skimping but not overdoing it either. This was a breakfast between equals, not a command performance on my part. I would go, I would talk politely with the admiral, but I would not be intimidated. Not even after yesterday.
I paused while shaving, and reviewed the results of Skeeter's first engagement the day before. He'd been a fool, a damned fool to violate the imaginary floor set for the engagement. I'd been ready to scalp him alive, until I realized how that would look to our Russian hosts. I was glad I resisted that first murderous impulse when my RIO took me aside and quietly explained what had actually happened.
The altimeter ― well, we'd make doubly certain we checked mine today, along with everything else that I had learned could go wrong in over twenty years of flying Tomcats. I doubted that the Russians wanted to kill us ― or to seriously sabotage our aircraft in any way. But if there were ways to subtly make us look inferior, to insure Russian superiority in each flying engagement, I wouldn't put tricks like the altimeter past them.
I had more to worry about than altimeters, though. Skeeter's little friend had made that clear. In a few quickly whispered phrases, she'd indicated that she knew why I was here. And, moreover, that she was going to help me.
It was her last sentence that worried me the most. Worried me, and at the same time sent a thrill of joy skittering down through my guts. He's alive.
How could she know? What could she know?
I finished shaving, then stared at the small array of clothes I'd brought with me, deciding what to wear. Finally, I settled on my favorite ― a worn, well-washed flight suit, its fabric softened to the texture of chamois cloth by repeated trips to the mangling machinery of the ship's laundry. Maybe too informal, but it's what I would have worn every morning given a choice.
I reconsidered at the last moment. The khakis, perhaps. Ribbons, my wings ― yes, the khakis. I slid the flight suit back into my closet with a small sigh of regret and slipped into the khakis.
The young guard was still standing at attention outside my doorway when I finally emerged ten minutes later. He stiffened, clicked his feet together audibly, and rendered another sharp salute. I returned it casually and said, "Lead on, son."
"At once, Admiral." He hesitated, as though waiting for me to precede him, until I pointed out, "I'm not sure I know the way. Would you please go first?"
He nodded, and led the way down a passage to the front door of the quarters. The reception area was furnished in the same style as my quarters, improbably elaborate for a bastion of Communist virtue. A Zil sedan was waiting outside for us, a driver standing at attention next to the backseat passenger's door. The engine was running and gouts of steam spewed from the tailpipe in the frosty air.
I slid into the backseat, grateful for those perquisites of rank that allow one to insist on a preheated car in the morning. Nice in Washington, D. C., almost critical here in northern Russia.
The sky was still brilliant and blue, the air cold and thick. Perfect flying weather if there were no danger of icing. Aircraft love cold air, since it's more dense and provides more lift.
Ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of Admiral Ilanovich's residence. Before I could even start to get out, the young Navy officer had popped out of the front seat and rushed to open my door. He saluted again as I emerged, and again I acknowledged the courtesy. The driver stayed with the car. I wondered if he would keep the engine running until breakfast was over.
Admiral Ilanovich was waiting for me, in a small, bright room at the back of the house. As I walked into the room, he gestured to a cook, who disappeared from the room, and returned shortly with steaming covered platters and fresh coffee.
We exchanged morning pleasantries, comments about the weather, and I expressed appreciation for his invitation and remarked on the luxury of my accommodations. Admiral Ilanovich gestured expansively. "We are honored at your visit. It is the least we can do, to show our appreciation for your participation in this opportunity to strengthen ties between our two services." Tactfully put, I thought. I sipped the cup of coffee his steward had placed in front of me, noting it was a better quality than that stocked in my room. Evidently the lack of normal paychecks was not having a serious effect on the admiral's own lifestyle, though I wondered about that of his subordinates.
"So, we fly today, yes?" the admiral said pleasantly. "I am quite looking forward to it." "So am I," I said, reaching out to take another biscuit from the warm, cloth-covered bowl. "It must be the same for you as for me ― entirely not enough time flying, is there?"
Ilanovich chuckled. "Our duties ashore take up far too much time, do they not? I wonder, my friend ― I may call you that, I hope ― if you've ever considered whether it might be possible to decline a promotion? Have you ever been so tempted, as I have been?" He leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach appreciatively at the breakfast. "After all, we joined our services to fly, not to sign our name to what must be every piece of paper required to run our great fleets."
I had to laugh at that. "Of course, I've considered that. But it was no more a possibility, not really, for me than for you. Rank has its responsibilities, does it not?"
"And its privileges." Admiral Ilanovich leaned across the table to stare at me. "For instance, I was allowed to nominate myself for this particular goodwill mission. As a result, I was able to justify much more time flying this last month than I normally would have had. After all, it would not do for me to be out of practice when meeting so formidable an adversary as the famous Tombstone Magruder."
"I'm afraid my reputation is overestimated," I said slowly, not sure where the conversation was headed at this point. What point was he trying to make, that he'd researched my career and knew a bit about my flying?