Admiral Wayne keyed the microphone in his hand. "They should be almost to you. Have you got a visual yet? Same altitude, dead ahead."
"No, not yet. TACCO's got them on LINK, but I don't ― wait, there they are."
"Expand the picture," Admiral Wayne ordered. The TAO's fingers danced over the keyboard, zooming out on the one small piece of sky crowded with fighters and one lone S3. The scale grew larger, reducing the area displayed on screen. I could see them now, the two fighters moving slightly away from the S3, the two friendly Tomcats boring in on them.
Our Tomcats were in combat spread, one high and one low. It was an effective fighting formation, and one the U.S. Navy had perfected over the decades.
"Doesn't look like they're going to scare that easy," Rabies said.
"But as long as they go pick on someone their own size, I'm happy."
A new voice broke in. "We'll take it from here."
"What the hell do you think I've been trying to do?" Rabies answered.
"Play patty-cake?"
The lead Tomcat pilot arched in toward the MiGs, bearing down on them with the rest of his flight behind him. Just as they were within short-range-missile distance of the MiGs, the Russian aircraft veered away.
The Tomcats followed them, closing on their tails now, in perfect firing position, but the MiGs ignored them.
"What the hell was that all about?" the TAO wondered aloud. Batman just grunted.
We watched until the MiGs were back in Russian airspace. The Tomcats broke off as they reached the twelve-mile limit and turned back to the boat.
A training mission, perhaps. Or maybe just a reminder. We might never know which one.
"Admiral?" I asked. "Sir, about the American submarine-"
"No discussion," Batman ruled.
"One other question, then?" I asked.
"Shoot."
"What do we tell Tombstone about this? The subs, the MiGs?" Batman was silent for a moment, then said, "Nothing."
9
Vladimir was right on time. I'd already dressed and stretched out, and was ready to go.
"It is very important to keep moving," Vladimir said, running in place just outside the front door. "Even if you slow to walk, you will stiffen up too fast. Run ― we will not go far, just three miles perhaps. This will be acceptable?"
"Three miles is fine." I could feel the cold seeping in through the long underwear and head covering. "I'll keep up."
At first, it was excruciating. The cold bled up through the soles of my running shoes, through two pairs of socks, and I lost feeling in my feet. Vladimir appeared unaffected, so I pressed on, struggling to extract oxygen from air so frigid it felt sterile.
Fifteen minutes into the run, I started warming up. A sense of well-being and euphoria flooded me, all the more startling for the circumstances. Vladimir set a brisk pace, but not a difficult one.
Eight-minute miles, I figured. But from what I could tell, he'd made one small mistake in his English. This was not three miles total, it was three miles out and three miles back.
No matter. By now I could feel my muscles sliding easily over me, and I'd learned the trick of taking shallower breaths as my body settled into the rhythm of the run.
One of those ungainly Russian transports followed us but stayed well back. The noise of its engine was annoying in the cold, silent, dark morning, but it gradually faded to background as Vladimir cut off the road and led the way into the woods down a path too narrow for the transport to follow. When I could barely hear the Russian truck, Vladimir slowed to a walk.
"We have not much time," he said, his voice slightly ragged from the run. "Your father ― there are circles within circles here in Russia, Admiral. Too many sides are trying to play this card with you."
"And you?"
He gave a short laugh. "You can trust me ― I sent the photo." I'd not mentioned it to anyone other than my mother and my uncle, and I felt relatively sure they'd kept it quiet. "But you have no way of knowing that, do you?" he continued. "No reason to believe me. Still, later today someone will try to convince you that you are meeting your father. Please, test the man they present to you. Convince yourself ― do not let them convince you with their statements alone."
"Where is he, then? And why will they try to deceive me?" I asked.
The anger that was always below the surface surged back. I wanted to smash his face into the cold ground, feel his neck crushed between my hands.
Vladimir shook his head, and picked up the pace again. "It will take some time to arrange it. But first, you must let them make their play for your belief. Otherwise, you will not understand when I show you."
I reached out and grabbed him by the arm, spinning him around. "Who's working with you? Anna? Brent? Ilanovich?"
Vladimir pulled away easily, and I was aware of the immense power in his sculpted muscles. "All of them ― but sometimes not with their knowledge. They think they do one thing, for one reason, but it has… repercussion." He paused, as though uncertain of the word. "Ripples."
"Who will try to trick me, then? Can you at least tell me that?"
Vladimir shook his head. "When you see the truth, you will know it.
You are closer to it than you know. I have shown many families what has happened, and they all know. You will, too. Now, let us finish this run before we both turn to cement in the woods."
We reemerged from the woods onto the road and turned to head back to the quarters. I tried to regain the easy sense of timelessness I'd had on the first leg of the course, but the questions Vladimir had raised in my mind would not be silenced. When we finally reached the barracks, I was more troubled than when I'd left. Vladimir refused to answer any questions, thanked me for accompanying him, and let my security detachment take charge and hustle me back inside.
I showered and breakfasted lightly on the fresh pastries and fruit that had been delivered at my request. By now, I should have been accustomed to the intricacies of dealing with Russians, but if anything I was even more frustrated. Why would my search for my father raise so much interest ― and for evidently different reasons ― in various factions in Russia today? I could understand wanting to keep it a secret, to hide the fact that they'd done what they'd denied to the world. But if what Vladimir said was true, then more than one group wanted to be the ones who fessed up and tried to repair the damage. Some sort of maneuver by someone to demonstrate that they were the new Russian leadership determined to atone for past sins, I finally decided. My own personal agony was merely a pawn in some deeper game.
Was it even possible that my father was still alive? It had seemed so eighteen months ago when I'd first met the Ukrainian officer. In a way, I had believed it more readily then than now.
Perhaps it was something like the way an aviator never really believes he's going to die in his aircraft. Sure, it happens to others, pilots who aren't as careful. Or as good. Or as touched by the gods, as most pilots seemed to feel. Under the same circumstances, you're certain you would have been smarter, faster, tougher ― seen the problem earlier, done the right thing the first time, or, barring all that, you would have been smart enough to punch out before it was too late. Sometimes, that attitude bleeds over into the rest of your life.
But no matter how good I was, this was all out of my control. It was like sitting in the backseat if you didn't have an ejection handle ― which, thank God, a Tomcat RIO does, a little fact that has saved my ass more than once ― with a pilot who's dead. You always need a way out. In fact, that's a major teaching point in most training syllabi. Always think one step ahead, plan what you're going to do if things go to shit.