He took a deep, deliberate breath. "No, ma'am. It will not."
"Okay, then." Amanda grinned and made a quick cross-shaped gesture in the air. "I grant you absolution. Go forth and sin no more, my son. Now get back to work."
"Aye, aye, Captain." Beltrain grinned back, the weight on his shoulders starting to lift.
From up forward, the Aegis systems operator called out sharply, "Distant contact! Slow mover turning south-southwest off Isla Grande beacon. Range two hundred and twenty miles, altitude eighteen thousand feet, bearing zero degrees relative off the bow. Multiple contacts!"
Three fast steps took Amanda and her TACCO back to their workstations. A single fast look fixed the location of the air-target symbol drifting out of the Isla Grande ground clutter. There was no precise position hack for Retainer Zero One being displayed. The Sea Comanche was running fully stealthed and radio and radar silenced, invisible even to the Cunningham's advanced sensors. There was only an outlined block of space, indicating its estimated position, dead-on between the Duke and the advancing Argentine strike. A phantom guardian waiting for its enemies to cross its path.
"Bring up your LORAIN flights, Mr. Beltrain." All trace of humor and warmth had left Amanda's voice. "Fight's on."
One hundred and fifty miles off the Cunningham's bow and a meager fifty off the Argentine coast. Retainer Zero One circled just above the wave tops, her low-visibility paint merging into the color of the sea.
Arkady used the trackball on the end of his collective-control stick to call up the fuel-status chart on his engineering telepanel.
"Okay, Gus, fuel transfer complete. Internal cells to one hundred per. Stand by to get rid of the tanks."
"Rog."
Vince slid the cursor across the monitor face to the actions menu and into the "Exterior Tank Jettison" detente and squeezed the actuator trigger. He was rewarded with the clank of releasing shackles. The drop tanks scarcely caused a splash as they hit the water.
"Green indicators. Verify me."
In the air cockpit, the AC 1 twisted in his harness to port and starboard, peering aft and down at the helo's snub wings. "Tanks are clear, sir. Can't see any system leakage."
"Okeydoke. How's the downlink look?"
"Pickup is nominal and a clear board, and I hope it stays that way."
"Show a little spunk there, fellow. Here we are, a couple of Uncle Sam's fighting bluejackets, out 'mid wind and wave, volunteering to do some of that hero shit for Mom, apple pie, and the girl next door."
"Volunteer! I didn't volunteer for nothing!"
"You were busy. I did it for you."
"Fuck you very much, sir."
"What was that, sailor?"
"I said, 'Thank you very much, sir!'"
"You're welcome, Gus."
Grestovitch went back to brooding over his systems displays. He liked Lieutenant Arkady and enjoyed flying as his SO more than with any other pilot he'd ever been teamed with. The Lieutenant was a mustang; he'd started out as an enlisted man himself. He'd laugh and talk with you like you were both real human beings, and as long as you did your job, he wouldn't get in your face over the small shit.
The downside was that you could find yourself doing foaming-at-the-mouth crazy stuff like this.
For a moment, the AC considered the possibility that Arkady might be studding off for the benefit of their new lady captain, then he rejected the notion. If the Skipper had been fifty years old, male, and as ugly as a bucket full of assholes, they'd still probably be out here.
LAMPS systems operators didn't get the chance to train in air-search mode as often as they did for other missions. So it took Grestovitch several seconds to recognize what was taking place on his screens.
"Airborne contact! Just coming off the coast. Bearing one eight seven true. Altitude one eight triple oh. Range forty-eight miles."
"Speed, Gus?"
"Uh, one hundred eighty knots."
"Relative bearing?"
"Oh two five, relative bearing off the nose. Second target just coming on-screen, closing with the first."
"Okay! That's our boy! Tallyho!"
Arkady slewed Retainer Zero One around onto a course that would intersect with that of the Argentine strike.
Captain Alfredo Cristobal applied the last-minute burst of thrust that socked his Tornado's refueling probe into the drogue basket of the Hercules. The control lights on the tanker's wingtip shifted pattern to indicate "Solid Connection" and "Transfer On." A flick of his eyes downward to the fuel-transfer panel verified that jet propellant was cascading into the fighter-bomber's cells.
Another glance took in the threat boards, currently showing that the sky around them was clear except for a distant trace of American search radar. It was safe to back his concentration down a level. Cristobal relaxed into the padding of his ejector seat.
Obviously the problem with the first strike had been the involvement of the Air Force. This was a job best dealt with by the Aeronaval alone. He would personally command this operation to ensure its success. At the same time, he would take the opportunity to heal his own wounded pride.
Cristobal came from a culture that still primarily believed that women were to be protected, cherished, but above all else, dominated. This female Norteno captain had almost knocked him out of the sky during the harassment flight he had flown against her. She had humiliated him in front of his squadron and the entire fleet, and that brand had burned deep.
Amanda Garrett had come to both enrage and fascinate him. He had pulled the dossier that the intelligence section had assembled on her and had spent hours studying it. The photographs told him more than the text. One of them was currently taped into an odd corner of his cockpit control panel. A red-haired woman in naval uniform peered out from it, sternly beautiful, coolly sensuous, totally self-confident.
Alfredo Cristobal wanted to shatter that self-confidence more than he desired anything else on earth.
This time, they would send their Exocets blazing in behind a wave of Matra STAR antiradar missiles. It would be more than enough to suppress the Americans' point defenses and assure at least one hit.
For a moment he considered whether he should have incorporated another element of aircraft into the strike, one armed with iron bombs to finish the job the missiles might start. Too late now. Besides, all four of his Tornadoes were carrying a full load of armor-piercing incendiary ammunition for their 27mm Mauser autocannon. More than enough to give anything left afloat a good beating.
There might be survivors. That would be interesting.
With Cristobal's rage and fascination had come an unbidden fantasy. One in which he took this Garrett woman as his own personal captive, as the conquistadors of old would have done. He had visualized taming her as one; would a fiery mare, stripping her of her air of authority and self-control, heating that cool sensuality into hot passion.
He shook his head regretfully. This modern day and age, no longer permitted such things. He would have to be content with merely killing her.
"Raven's Roost is confirming the emission patterns of Tornado-type aircraft," Beltrain commented from his console. "Arkady called it right. They're coming right down the turnpike."
"Um-hmm," Amanda replied absently as she studied the Alpha display. The Argentine target hack was just crawling, across the line into the estimated intercept zone. A few miles more and they would pass into the range of the Duke's long-range SAMs. She would wait, though. She had' promised Arkady the first shot.
Amanda sank back into her chair and lightly bit her lower lip in thought. In her experience, there were two kinds of individuals capable of volunteering for a mission like this.