I nodded. The spectral analysis had shown a number of long-half-life compounds, and the prospects of that much refined atomic material seeping into the groundwater and gradually infiltrating its way into the world's oceans was not a pleasant one. It could very easily be a case of winning the battle but losing the war.
"So we'd have to go in and take it and hold it," I said, thinking aloud. "A long, bloody ground war ― one that we never really managed to win satisfactorily last time."
"There's something else," Lab Rat added. "You know how long it would take us to gear up for such an action. Sure, we might try Special Forces, try to get there quietly and eliminate the problems. Or it could be a surgical strike just like the Israelis are always pulling on their neighbors but then there's the groundwater problem. Whatever we're going to do, it has to be done fast."
"Why?" The shiver of alarm crossed up my spine. "Do you have indications that they're intending to actually use them sometime soon?"
Lab Rat shook his head. "No. Not use them. Sell them."
After Lab Rat dropped that little bomb on me and left, I hung around my office. There was no need for me to do so really. My pile of paperwork had been reduced to a manageable level, and I felt an urgent need to get out on the flight deck, to walk around and feel the fresh ocean air, see my aircraft ― my aircraft ― lined up hard and hostile in lines on the flight deck.
It doesn't take very long to reach anyone on a carrier. After all, they're not going anywhere. But even in this massive floating office building, it can take a while to find someone without using the 1MC. And if there were any news on the survivors from the E-2 ― I knew in my heart there wouldn't be, not after this long ― then I wanted to be right where they could find me. Immediately.
There was something else too, an issue I was trying to avoid thinking about. It was completely out of my cognizance, and I had no power to effect the end result one way or the other. But a wingman never forgets his lead, and I couldn't rub out of my mind the fact that Tombstone was on the ground in Vietnam right now.
I looked up at the clock on the wall ― the minute hand had moved slightly since the last time I'd done it.
Tombstone would be on the ground now, probably still stuck in meetings with the officialdom there. There was no way to reach him, no way sufficiently secure to talk this over with him, to warn him that he might be stepping into the beginnings of an American return to Vietnam. We'd never managed to establish a permanent peace there before, not with a massive military machinery behind it, and I doubted we could do it now.
If ever a man had demons, Tombstone did. When you first meet him, you think there's nothing behind that impassive face but good reflexes and a sharp tactical mind. It takes years of knowing him, mission upon mission in flight, before you know who he really is.
Still waters run deep, they say, and I've never seen it more true than with my buddy Tombstone. Two questions in particular haunted him ― how much effect his uncle had had on his career, and the loss of his father over Vietnam so many years ago. I thought someday he'd learn to live with both of those ― now it looked like he'd have a shot at answering the latter. He'd told me a little bit about the leads, and I'd felt my heart sink as I realized just how little he had to go on. These anonymous reports of evidence ― hell, POW families around the U.S. had been tragically bilked for decades with those. The commission set up in D.C. to track down the rumors was always chasing some bogus report of an American still held captive in Vietnam, or one who'd settled in the countryside with a native wife, or of a mass grave turned up. They never amounted to anything more than a few shreds of metal remains or maybe some bones.
But Tombstone had to go check it out firsthand. In his shoes, I would have done the same thing. But I would have been prepared for what was to follow, and I think that Tombstone probably had no idea at all.
Yes, his uncle had let him go with his blessings, even provided some military assets to aid him in the search, as well as points of contact. Only a few people in the Pentagon knew what was happening. And they were sworn to secrecy.
If Tombstone's mission failed, the details would be lost in the eternal shuffling of paperwork within the Pentagon. But if he succeeded in turning up any trace of his father ― ah, now there was the rub.
Tombstone had spent most of his career at sea, in command of squadrons or battle groups. He'd spent one obligatory tour in Washington early on, but hadn't been back for the extended tutoring in intricate politics that a flag officer generally receives. He couldn't see it coming ― but I could.
If Tombstone turned up evidence that his father had been abandoned in Vietnam, the public outcry and political scurrying for cover was going to be beyond anything he imagined. People would be passing the blame, pointing fingers, and wailing loud and long about how they'd not been the ones to abandon our men in Vietnam.
And that was just if Tombstone turned up remains. But I knew what he was really after, and what he thought he would find ― his father alive.
One of the hardest things about command is pushing aside things like that that eat at your gut and turning your attention back to business. With possible nuclear weapons in the hands of the Vietnamese, either for their own use or for sale to any one of a dozen rogue nations around the world, I had more to worry about than the fate of my best friend.
"Admiral, an update from the SAR helo." The Chief of Staff walked into my compartment carrying a brief summary of their last mission.
I looked at him, my hope evident on my face. "Any possibility?"
He shook his head sorrowfully. "It's been a long time, Admiral."
I'd known it, but even so, the report was a disappointment. Damn it, the U.S. had to take a stand ― had to. Let this pass and every tin-pot dictator around the world with a Stinger missile would be taking potshots at us. It was only the fear of massive, overwhelming retaliation that kept them at the bay now, and it was a threat we were ill prepared to back up at best.
"Keep me posted," I said finally. Not that I needed to ask him to.
The Chief of Staff nodded, hesitating as he started to leave the room.
"I'd like to schedule a memorial service, sir," he said hesitantly. "Nothing formal yet ― just to block out the time this coming Sunday."
"Do it." I stared down at the desk and shook my head.
On any cruise in the last twenty-five years, it could have been me or Tombstone. Only by the grace of whatever higher power looks out for aviators had we made it this far, although we'd both lost men under our command. And now, women.
"COS ― make it a good one. They deserve it."
COS looked relieved that I hadn't bitten his head off. That provoked a momentary shiver of chagrin.
"I will, Admiral." He pulled the door shut on his way out, and left me alone with my thoughts.
4
I heard the Tomcat even though I couldn't see it. The faint growl, as familiar to me as my own heartbeat, was barely audible above the constant whine of insects and the heavy harsh thudding of machete against jungle foliage. I would have known the sound anywhere, even if I'd been away from the cockpit for far longer than I had been.
I paused, waving a hand at our small troupe for silence. My command of the Vietnamese language was limited to a few polite phrases, some incredibly vulgar ones, and a few field commands I'd picked up since we left the hotel. Whether it was because of my butchered rendition of their native language or the expression on my face, the Vietnamese accompanying our small party fell silent.