Much more maneuverable than the Tomcat, wouldn't you agree?"
"In all except one instance," I agreed amiably. "They can't pass a tanker without wanting a drink."
Ilanovich laughed. "Oh, of course. That is the problem with all of the smaller aircraft, is it not? Fuel consumption ― why, until we developed an in-flight refueling capability for the MiG-31, that very thing imposed serious limitations on our combat readiness. No, I was speaking of course about the weight-to-thrust factor."
"Of course," I answered, feeling a slight twinge of uneasiness. Just what was this admiral driving at? Everyone knew about the performance characteristics and differences between a MiG and a Tomcat ― no news there.
Nor any opportunity for any intelligence gathering ― anything I could tell him about that he would have already read in Aviation Weekly.
"And your young Navy lieutenant, his name was… Kyrrul?" I asked, changing the subject. "He will also be flying?"
"Yes, he is the one." Gregorio Ilanovich looked faintly amused. "A fine flyer ― with perhaps not as many kills as your young Skeeter, but very capable nonetheless."
Another small bit of intelligence ― while it was no great state secret, Ilanovich had made a point of telling me that he knew my young lieutenant's call sign. And my own, most likely.
"Tell me, Admiral," I said casually, "in naval aviation, do your aviators adopt call signs such as ours? I'm certain that you've heard mine ― Tombstone." I wondered how many hours of Russian intelligence it had taken to fight over the exact meaning of that one. Did it mean that I was a gunfighter, one who consistently reduced my opponents to graveyards? Or were they perhaps misled, as some were, by thinking it had to do with a gunfight at the O.K. Corral in Tombstone, Arizona? The actual answer was far less interesting ― some of my early squadron mates had simply thought that my face was as expressionless as a tombstone. They said I looked stern all the time, and hinted that I lacked a sense of humor. While nothing could be further from the truth, I didn't mind having most people believe that. It keeps them off guard.
"Something similar, and perhaps a good deal racier. We are not bound by considerations of political correctness." The admiral walked on for a few steps longer, his boots tapping out a staccato rhythm on the pavement.
"My own call sign, for instance ― it has changed several times, but the latest one I have had for fifteen years. Translated loosely from the Russian proverb from which it is taken, it comes out as ' Your Ass.'"
I laughed out loud, despite my resolution to maintain a somber and professional demeanor. "Watch Your Ass? Hell of a call sign, Admiral. I like it."
The admiral clapped me on the shoulder, obviously amused at my reaction. "We will see if you like it over the next several weeks. I think you will not be laughing then as much."
"Well, I guess we'll see. When is the first engagement scheduled?" I asked.
"This afternoon." The admiral noted my look of surprise with sardonic amusement. "Unless, of course, that is too soon? Perhaps you have maintenance problems with your aircraft, or need to rest up after your grueling journey?" The sarcasm was in the words, not in the tone ― it had been merely a forty-five-minute flight from Jefferson's windswept deck to this airfield.
"Not at all," I said immediately. "I'm ready to fly right now."
"We thought perhaps the younger men would begin." He motioned behind him, pointing out the young officer carrying on a conversation in broken English with Skeeter, a translator hovering behind them. "Ah, their endurance, their stamina ― it makes one wistful, does it not?"
I wasn't sure how to take this statement. Did he mean that the reflexes and stamina of our young pilots outweighed the experience that he and I undoubtedly possessed in equal measure? I wasn't certain, so I settled for an expression of vague neutrality. "No vodka at the reception, then," I said. "Not if we're flying." I raised my voice slightly to make sure that Skeeter heard me, and turned my head to see him nod in agreement.
"Well, then. A little refreshment, then back in the air." Admiral Ilanovich smiled.
I followed him into the crowded hangar and saw the large buffet tables covered with food, a cluster of aviators already well into the vodka by their appearance. Not for the first time, I wondered just what we'd gotten ourselves into.
Another flash of anger at the sight of so much food and drink. If my father had been brought here, odds were that he hadn't had quite such a sumptuous feast spread out in front of him, that the faces weren't smiling, slightly flushed with vodka and good cheer. For just a moment, I felt my father's presence so close and near to me that I could almost see him. I tried to make out his expression, but the details were too fuzzy.
I'll find out what happened, I swore as I stared at the welcoming Russian forces. I'll find out ― and I'll make them pay.
2
CVIC-pronounced "civic" ― is the Carrier Intelligence Center. It is located on the 0–3 level of Jefferson, just down the flag passageway from the admiral's quarters and battle stations. From the passageway, it looks like just another compartment, albeit a highly secure one with a window opening up onto a guard desk and a heavy steel cipher-locked door separating it from the rest of the world. Admiral Wayne makes jokes about the locks being designed to keep me and my herd of intelligence specialists in rather than the general public out, and I don't always disagree with that. The enlisted technicians and intelligence officers that work for me in this nerve center of the carrier battle group can be a slightly odd bunch.
Odd ― but very, very good at what they do. Like now.
One of the electronic warfare technicians had buzzed me in my office and asked me to step into the signal evaluation center. It was just two doors down from my administrative spaces, and I didn't waste time asking him why he thought it was important. The EWs ― earthworms as they are familiarly called ― know when it's important to jump the chain of command and get right to the decision maker. I give them a lot of leeway on this.
Now I was standing in front of the tall rack of Navy gray equipment boxes, some of them covered with patch cords going in and out, others with LED displays. The earthworm, a bright, smart young kid from Omaha, Nebraska, with that corn-fed, scrubbed-face, blue-eyed look that you associate with Midwesterners, was pointing at the high-frequency end of the spectrum. "There ― it did it again. You see it?" he asked excitedly.
I frowned, trying to turn the chatter of electronic signals into something that made sense to my eyes. It had been years since I'd stood watch in front of these very consoles, and developed an eye for what was normal and what wasn't in the electromagnetic spectrum. I was pretty good at it back then, but time and other responsibilities had kept me away from the equipment for a long time. Maybe too long, according to the look on the technician's face.
I glanced down at the hard copy chattering out from the printer, hoping that if I could see the same noise held still it would make more sense. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it ― it did, indeed, make a lot of sense.
"Communications burst," I hazarded, then glanced over at him to see if I was right.
He nodded, obviously pleased. "Of course it is ― and not just once.
There ― it's going again."
I nodded again, feeling my competence come back. "Classification?" I asked.
The technician looked thoughtful. "It sounds like ― feels like ― a routine communications data burst. But the frequency ― it could be ours, it could be theirs. It's probably theirs, in these waters. The intelligence summary says we don't have anything in the area." He left unspoken the possibility that our own intelligence sources weren't telling us everything they knew about the disposition of U.S. forces in the area. When you've worked in the intelligence field for as long as both of us had, that was a given.