Brent brushed the chart away. "You hit a civilian village. There's no way around that one, mister. And I don't care what you say ― after yesterday, we all know how careful you are about regulations and briefed restrictions."
"But look." I tried again, waving the chart around in the hope that I could get someone ― anyone ― to look at the info we'd been given for mission planning, our approach plan, and every other detail. "Look."
Stone-cold impassive Russian faces stared back at me. It finally sunk in that no matter how right I felt, Sheila and I were in big big trouble.
"Was… was anyone killed?" Sheila asked. "How much damage was there?"
Brent studied her for a moment, then shook his head. "You were lucky.
Everyone was out in the fields, watching for the aircraft to fly by. When they saw you making an approach on their village, they ran. The damage to the structures is pretty bad, but no one was killed."
I felt a surge of relief, then suspicion. "Wait ― everyone was out of the houses and buildings? Absolutely everyone? No one stuck in the can, or working overtime, or trying to filch something? Even the crooks were out watching?" My turn to shake my head. "Doesn't compute, buster. Don't tell me you're buying that load of crap."
"You bet I am. And you better, too. Because if one person ends up dead, one person seriously injured, there's going to be all hell to pay.
You can count on it. So irregardless of how improbable you find it, you count your lucky stars that they were all outside."
I was just about to tell him that irregardless isn't really a word ― what he meant was regardless, and if he had any sort of education beyond which fork to use on salad and which one to stick up his butt, he'd know that. I'd almost gotten the last comparison worked out when the Russian pilot got free from his buddies.
Kyrrul bolted past Sheila and Brent like a tornado. I started to move too late.
The first punch landed square in my gut, knocking the air out of my lungs. I doubled over, caught the second punch with the underside of my chin, and felt my feet leave the ground.
Russians were all over us now, pretending that they were trying to pull Illya off of me, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it. Trying to help me up, they kept nailing me in the gut again. Somebody stepped on my fingers, and another one landed a boot in my ribs.
I shouted, and finally made it to my feet. My lungs were starting to work again. Sheila and Brent were peeling the Russians off of me one by one, but making slow progress.
"Stop it. Now." The voice was so cold it froze every one of us where we stood. It took a moment for it to sink in with me that it was Admiral Magruder.
Another command echoed out in Russian and, if I had to guess, said exactly the same thing. No one was moving now, not even Illya.
I tried to straighten up as Admiral Magruder walked up to me. He might have found a clever way to cover up the altimeter/altitude screw-up, but I had a feeling this one wasn't going to go away that easily. I made it straight enough to at least look like I was standing at attention.
Admiral Magruder bent down close to me. He's a little taller anyway, and I was hunched over. "Shut up. Not another word, you understand. Follow me."
I know orders when I hear them, and I was relieved to have to obey those. If he could get me off that flight line without being lynched, I was going to be real grateful. And surprised.
We made an interesting little parade. Admiral Magruder leading, me limping along behind and trying not to vomit. Sheila was behind me, sort of keeping one hand on my back to make sure I didn't keel over. Behind her was Brent, I think, although I couldn't have sworn to it. Gator Cummings, who'd turned up somewhere around the same time as the admiral, brought up the rear. Anna had disappeared into the crowd sometime after the first punch was thrown.
The admiral herded us all into a military transport vehicle of some sort, the Russian equivalent of a Jeep or Humvee. We rode back to his quarters in silence. He motioned us out of the vehicle and we followed him into his quarters. He still hadn't said a word.
Finally, back in his sitting room, the admiral seemed to calm down.
He pointed at a chair. I sat. Next thing I know, he's handing me a stiff drink. I took it, held it for a minute, not entirely sure that he really wanted me to drink it.
"Drink. It's not poison. I brought it with me." The admiral's face didn't even flicker, although everyone except maybe Brent knew how much against most Navy regs that was.
I drank. Bourbon ― not my favorite, but it'll do. The liquid coursed down my throat, smooth and friendly, and finally hit the pit of my much-abused gut.
"The rest of you?" the admiral asked. He received a chorus of no's from Brent and Sheila. He poured one for himself, then sat down on the couch across from me. "Tell me what happened."
I let Sheila do the honors while I nursed my bourbon. She got it all right, but left out a few details. Like what an astounding job she'd done getting us back on the proper approach path. I filled those in, and was kind of hurt when she looked like she didn't appreciate my help all that much.
"I see," the admiral said after she'd finished. He shut his eyes for a moment, then said, "And what is State's opinion?"
Brent mumbled something about diplomatic relationship, the usual crap you hear from State. The admiral listened to him for a while, his eyes still shut. He was so still that I thought for a moment he'd fallen asleep.
Then he sat straight up, nodded at Brent, and said, "Thank you for your assistance. We'll take it from here."
"Admiral, I-" Evidently no one had ever explained to Brent about arguing with admirals. There's really just one rule ― you don't.
"That will be all." The admiral said it quietly, but he made it damned plain to these military ears that Brent was expected to pop tall then quickly haul butt. I was hoping the admiral might have to make it even clearer than that, but Brent disappointed me by getting the word. He was out of there with a quick "we can talk tomorrow," and then the door shut behind him.
For once, I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut. I opened it once, caught Sheila's look, and figured out that I'd been right the first time.
Finally, the admiral spoke. "For what it's worth ― not much right now, I suspect, not at least to the Russians ― I believe you. Something went wrong, just as it did with the altimeter. When we finally track down the error, it'll be something that we didn't understand ― the distance in meters instead of yards and miles, something the Russians can use to absolve themselves of the blame." "Why?" Thank God Gator asked the question. Sheila and I were in too much trouble to be talking. "Why would they invite us here and then set us up?"
"I can think of a couple of reasons," the admiral answered. For a moment, something dark darted behind his eyes, a look of grief and pain that I'd never seen on a flag officer's face before. Just a flash, then it was gone. "Some of them concern the United States and our diplomatic relationship with Russia and the former Soviet states. Nothing like being magnanimous about a screw-up to make us in their debt."
"I don't call getting beat up magnanimous," I said.
"A little higher level issue than what happens to your carcass," the admiral answered. "There are other reasons as well, some of which may concern you. And some of which may have to do with me alone. I don't think we need to go into them right now. But until we're back safe on an American flight deck, I want your mouths shut. Completely. Not even a ' comment.' You understand?"