"Get that out of your system before we shut down," I ordered.
"They've put some effort into it and the last thing we need to do is start off by pissing them off laughing at their personnel."
"Yes, sir, Admiral. I kind of figured that out, sir, and there ain't a trace of a smile showing on this young black man's face." Skeeter sometimes fell back into a sort of uneducated slang whenever I made the very dangerous mistake of underestimating him. This time, I figured I deserved it.
"I'm talking to myself as much as you, Lieutenant. We're all on new ground here ― you see something that looks like an opportunity to step on our dicks, I hope you'll be pointing it out real quick. Got that?" I said.
"Yes, Admiral." This time, Skeeter's voice was back to normal. "You hear that, Gib? No dick stepping."
"Kind of you to worry," Sheila answered angrily.
I laughed in spite of myself. If the KGB or GRU or whatever weird collection of initials that was Russia's current intelligence agency was listening in, they were going to have fun figuring that one out. Skeeter's RIO was markedly short of the required equipment.
The Russians have always done ceremonies well. Massive, forbidding shows of force imbued with the ancient dignity of a grim warrior society.
Ahead of us, at the edge of the airfield, Army troops were massed in formation, almost a brigade's worth I estimated. Twenty tanks flanked the formation, each with its barrel elevated only slightly above the arc that would put a missile directly on our assigned parking spot. Officers and dignitaries were festooned in the drab olive-green-accented-with-red Army uniforms, the darker, more traditional blue-black of the Navy, and a few uniforms I couldn't recognize right off. No doubt they'd changed some since the days of the Soviet Union's breakup ― at least in name.
Many brass, as befitted the historic nature of this occasion. For just a moment, I wondered whether or not we'd made an error in not following suit and ferrying in an aircraft load of dignitaries of our own.
Just for balance, if nothing else. How did the Russians see that lack? As a sign of disrespect, an American insult in the refusal to take these games seriously? Or would they take it as a sign of weakness, this deploying of two advanced fighter aircraft to Russia's own soil without the appropriate formalities and dignitaries?
It all seemed too trivial, given what my real mission was. For a moment I felt the fury again, but I was no longer certain whether it was directed at the Russians for taking my father or at my own country for letting it happen. Two betrayals ― my father's trust that the U.S. would come and get him, and my own for believing what I'd been told for so many years.
I taxied in, stopping neatly on the spot indicated by the technician.
Skeeter pulled in behind, slightly aft and to my right just as he was in flight. I twisted around, trying to catch a glimpse of the COD, but it was still too far out.
We ran through the postflight and preshutdown checklists quickly, not wanting to keep our hosts waiting. Finally, our engines spooled down, and I popped my canopy. I could see the COD now, barely visible on the horizon.
The rush of air was bitterly cold, condensing immediately into clouds as I breathed out. It bit hard into my exposed skin, and I jammed the fingers of my gloves down a bit more securely. The icy air found a thin exposed strip of skin between the glove and the sleeve of my flight suit, burrowed into it, and tried to race up my arm.
"Let's get the hell out of here, Boss," Gator said. "Colder than a-"
I cut him off with a gesture. "Remember, we're in Russia now.
Anything you say can and will be used against you. And not in a court of law either, buddy. Quiet, now ― here they come."
A rickety ladder was pushed forward to our Tomcat. I motioned it away after I noted that the edges were not coated with any padding to prevent it from scraping the fuselage. The technicians paused, uncertain, and I beat them to the punch by popping out the footholds on the Tomcat, the boarding ladder, and clambering down myself. I jumped lightly off the last step, flexed my knees as I hit, and felt the shock of the cold concrete start to seep into my boots. My RIO hit the deck a few seconds after me.
There were three officers approaching me, flanked by what looked to be a translator. I recognized the two in front from the intelligence briefings Field Marshal Gorklov and Admiral Ilanovich. I snapped up a formal, correct salute, holding it until they'd returned it. Then I held out my hand. "Vice Admiral Magruder, General. An impressive reception ― thank you."
I saw that both Gorklov and Ilanovich understood, but they waited until the translator finished. Then Gorklov held out his hand and said, "Welcome," in heavily accented English. "Field Marshal Gorklov. And this," he continued, gesturing to his right, "is Admiral of the Fleet Gregorio Ilanovich."
I tendered another salute, then a handshake to the admiral. In the scheme of things, he technically outranked me, but I was certain that a three-star admiral in the United States Navy had far more firepower under his control than Admiral Ilanovich did. Still, he had home court advantage ― one rarely gets in trouble for being too courteous.
Ilanovich's appearance puzzled me for a moment, and it took me a couple of seconds to dredge up the information from Lab Rat's briefing.
The Russian admiral was clearly not a pure-blooded Russian. His eyes were narrowed and dark, and the high cheekbones and coloring hinted of an exotic mixture of Cossack and Asiatic blood. Probably some Ukrainian as well, since that country is noted for producing the very finest naval officers.
Enough Ukrainian, at least, to compensate for the general prejudice against the Far Eastern blood.
Ilanovich himself was part of the Russians' attempt to demonstrate their similarity to American culture. My team had two white men, one black man, and one white woman on it. The admiral was Russia's attempt to cover all bases in one body.
Well, almost all.
I made the introductions of the rest of my team quickly, first my RIO, then Skeeter and Lieutenant Commander Kennedy. We'd been through this drill a thousand times, and each one followed my lead, a salute followed by a handshake.
"It is very cold out here," the admiral said finally. He gestured toward the hangar. "We will tow your aircraft inside, and if you will come with us ― a brief reception, nothing formal. No need to change, you will be meeting with fellow aviators." He shot me a sidelong glance, rich with sly amusement. "They, like yourselves, dislike undue formality." I smiled politely, realizing that it was probably true. Aviators the world over are renowned for their lack of the traditional military courtesies and ceremonies that mark every important event. Given a chance, about 99 percent of us would rather be in a flight suit and airborne.
Admiral Ilanovich fell into step beside me. "I think I know much more about you than you know about me," he began. He looked at me, as though waiting for a response.
"I'm sure you're correct," I said neutrally. It was an amateurish sort of foray into the world of intelligence, a quick attempt to find out just exactly what I knew about him. And what I didn't. "I hope we will have the chance to remedy that over the next several weeks."
Admiral Ilanovich regarded me with quiet amusement. "Oh, I am sure we will. Especially in the air."
"I look forward to it."
"They told you, did they not?" he continued without missing a beat.
"That I will be flying the MiG-31 against your Tomcat." He gestured back in the direction of the hangar, vaguely indicating my aircraft. "The Hornet ― now, that would have presented a real challenge. I would like to do that someday," he continued. "Go one-on-one with one of your Hornets.