First the Tomcat to his left, and then the one to his right peeled away, shucking altitude as they did. Tombstone made a minor course change to correct for the effect of their jet washes.
“Well, look at that,” Bird Dog said. “Man, these people take their escort duties seriously.”
Tombstone glanced over at the Tomcat now streaking off to the north. “Lots of escorts carry weapons, Bird Dog. It’s just symbolic — probably training loads.”
“Maybe so, sir,” Bird Dog said, but Tombstone could hear the frown in his voice. “Only thing is, I wouldn’t pick iron bombs as the ordnance to slap on a wing just to impress us. Clumsy mothers to fly with. A couple of Sidewinders would have been better, wouldn’t they?”
Iron bombs. Tombstone had seen them, of course, wondered the same thing himself at the time, but hadn’t said anything. Now, with his escort detached unexpectedly, that old feeling started to gnaw at him, that sixth sense that had saved his ass so many times before.
“It is odd, Bird Dog,” he said slowly. “And I don’t think I like it at all. Anything else in the area?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Bird Dog answered. Tomcat 00 was still in the LINK, receiving the combined picture from all the ship’s radars as well is its own sensors.
“I wonder where the hell they were going?” Tombstone asked. And, more importantly, why bombs?
The Greek pilot maintained altitude until he was well clear of the American dignitaries he’d been escorting. This mission had been briefed and rebriefed as a contingency so many times over the last several months that he thought he could fly it in his sleep. There had been a final update before they departed on this escort mission. It could happen at any time, all of them knew it.
Why me? he wondered, as he glanced over at his wing man. Why not another pilot with another section of Tomcats? After all, any one of them could have flown this mission. To break him off escort duty — even though he welcomed the interruption — to undertake this mission hadn’t been the only option. When the Americans heard of the bombing run, of course they would make the connection. How could they not?
But perhaps that was exactly what General Arkady intended. To send a message to the Americans by using the escort forces to conduct this mission.
“Two minutes,” his backseater said. “On course, on time.”
He grunted an acknowledgment. He could see the first landmark now, the small village just south of the border. There, that water tank. Just as briefed, just as he’d flown before. He descended to one thousand feet, turned east and commenced his final approach. His wingman settled in behind him. At two miles out, he descended another five hundred feet. Then he bore in, mentally checking off the landmarks as his backseater called them off.
“Five seconds,” his backseater said. He continued to count off the seconds. At precisely the right moment, the pilot toggled off the bombs. His Tomcat jolted upward, suddenly relieved of the two thousand pounds of drag.
He rolled his Tomcat out hard to the right immediately, at right angles to his earlier course. He jammed the throttles forward and went into afterburner. The Tomcat climbed quickly, putting distance between his aircraft and the target. It was only a matter of seconds now.
He ascended to five thousand then continued his turn to the right, giving him a view of the impact point. The land was still and quiet, and for one cold moment he thought they’d missed the target. Then he spotted the iron bomb, curving down in a graceful arc toward its target. He experienced a mild surge of excitement.
The white building in the middle of the clearing exploded. He had one brief second to see the structure start to crumble, then the entire area was consumed in a boiling mass of flames and smoke. It billowed up, mushrooming in clear air and rapidly expanding. A second explosion then, followed by a third and a fourth. The entire area was now a flaming mass of destruction, details invisible inside the conflagration. Then the mushrooming cloud seemed to double its rate of growth — his wingman’s weapon had found its target as well. The tactical circuit filled with cries of congratulation and victory.
There was much to be proud of, that was true. According to the intelligence reports, they had just destroyed a major covert headquarters facility operated by the rebel Macedonians. The hurried briefing from the ground controller was that the mission had been authorized as retaliation for a terrorist bombing just hours earlier in Tavista.
Destroying the HQ now would save countless Greek lives down the line, both Greek and Macedonian. After all, the Macedonians were Greek as well, weren’t they? A small segment of them were rabid nationalists, misleading the rest of the populous with their inflammatory accusations of racial cleansing. But Greece — his Greece — would never engage in such conduct. No, it was the Macedonians that killed women and children, that brought their terrorist devices into peaceful towns and cities. And while he hoped and prayed that no civilians were killed in the bombing, as would any good Christian, the fact remained that they had brought it on themselves.
“Better than baby-sitting the Americans, is it not?” his wingman cried out. “It was beautiful — did you see it?” And he rattled on with another description emphasizing the size and quality of the blast.
The pilot nodded, made the right sounds at the right moments. But something else had replaced the joyous victory he felt initially. A premonition, perhaps, of what was to come. It seemed that the future held nothing but death, dying, and more bombing runs.
The prospect of that didn’t bother him nearly as much as the fact that he enjoyed it.
SEVEN
“The resolution condemning terrorist activities by Macedonian forces inside Greece and authorizing UNFORGREECE strikes in retaliation is hereby approved.” The secretary general’s voice made it clear that he was just reporting the results of the vote. His own arguments against military action were already on the record. “The ambassador from China has moved that all military forces be placed under direct UNFORGREECE command. The United States opposes the motion. China has the floor.”
Ambassador Sarah Wexler gazed out across the assembled delegates to the United Nations. The mood running through the room was ugly, a mixture of strident righteousness and false bravado that so often characterized the proceedings at their worst.
There was such potential for good in this organization, she thought, studying the faces of the delegates. At least half of the men and women in this room were possessed of an innate goodness that she cherished. The other half were solidly entrenched nationalists incapable of seeing any viewpoint other than that supported by their own narrow concerns. In a way, the latter were easier to work with. She could draw on the resources of the United States, promise them improved foreign aid or economic advantages, and generally get them to do the right thing… if not necessarily for the right reasons. The deals were made behind closed doors, out of the sight of the rest of the world. She regretted many of them, while simultaneously appreciating that the end result was for good.
The ambassador from China fell into the latter category. At least for now. As a growing powerhouse, China would soon be in a position to spurn those benefits that friendship with the United States offered. With nearly two billion people residing inside her boundaries, she possessed a military and economic power untapped at present time but intimidating in its potential. China was just beginning to wake, and she feared if the dragon ever fully uncoiled, the world would feel the consequences.