You told him to close his eyes.
Murphy passed her the pencil. She thought for a moment, and scribbled “You’re welcome.”
Somewhere over the horizon was safety, safety in the middle of the ocean where none existed on land. USS Jefferson, the world’s most powerful nuclear aircraft carrier, lay waiting. As many times as she had schemed to get on board, done everything in her power to force the Navy to admit her to their innermost sanctums, had sworn and cursed at the massive ship, had damned the Navy for taking Tombstone Magruder away from her, it was to the Jefferson she was forced to turn for safety.
Pamela Drake leaned forward in the helicopter and strained her neck to see out the scratched and blurred window. Was that it out there, on the horizon? She squinted, trying to make the shape out, but what she had thought was Jefferson remained simply a ragged patch on the horizon. She turned to the air crewman. “How far out is she?”
He smiled and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Forty miles, maybe a little further. We’ll be on board in about twenty minutes. Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”
Pamela started to shoot back a harsh reply, angered that he could think she was concerned about her own safety. She bit off the words before they formed in her mouth, suddenly uncertain. If truth be known, she was afraid — more so than she had ever been in her life before.
“Peacock, get everyone strapped in.” The pilot’s voice over the ICS carried that hard, laconic note that Pamela had learned to associate with a pilot under pressure. She’d heard it too often in Tombstone’s voice to be mistaken.
“What’s going on?” she asked, even as the air crewman pressed her back in her chair and double-checked and tightened the seat harness. “What’s happening?”
“Seems we got a little company out here,” the pilot’s voice came back, calm and casual. “Nothing to worry about yet. Listen to Peacock — he’s going to review ditching procedures with few. You’ve been on a helicopter before, haven’t you, Miss Drake?”
“Ditching procedures?” She repeated his words in a stunned tone of voice. “Who is this company you’re talking about?”
There was a long pause, then the pilot said, “There are three groups of fighters inbound on our location. From the IFF and link picture, they’re Greek, Macedonian, and American. Right now, I suspect they’re more interested in each other than they are in us. But when elephants dance, helicopters get out of the way.”
Peacock knelt down before her and began reviewing ditching procedures. “Find a handhold, know where it is in relationship to the nearest exit.” He pointed to the hatch at the side. “That will be yours. Stay in your seat until all motion ceases. We may sink quickly, but just because there’s water in the cabin, don’t try to leave it. You have to stay until the water slows the rotor blades down or they’ll cut you to pieces as you leave. Got that?” Pamela nodded, remembering previous helicopter safety briefs.
“Once all motion ceases,” Peacock continued, “unstrap yourself and pull yourself toward the exit. We may turtle — flip upside down. We usually do. Don’t let that disorient you. Keep one hand holding on to something at all times.” He held up the small air canister with a face mask attached. “I will be right here in case you get in trouble. Don’t worry, I’ll get you out.” He flashed her a cocky grin. “Haven’t lost a passenger yet.”
“Do you have comms with the carrier?” Pamela asked.
Peacock nodded. “Yes, this close we should be fine. But we’ll be there in—”
“This can’t wait.” She pointed at the man lying motionless on the helicopter deck. “There’s something they have to know immediately.”
Batman stared at the small symbols converging on each other just off the coast. “I don’t like this, not one little bit. Tell that helicopter to get the hell out of the way. Where are his fighters, anyway?”
“They were running out of fuel, Admiral,” the TAO said. “Should be finished with the tanker in just a moment. Bad news on the helo, too. He’s got a hydraulics leak. Can’t tell how bad yet. He’s still got all controls, but pressure to the system is slowly dropping.”
Batman stood and began pacing in the small compartment. “Why the hell are the Macedonians doing this, anyway? It’s not like they have a chance.” He pointed at the screen. “Are they completely insane? Between the Greeks and our own forces, they’re so badly outnumbered that there’s not a chance in hell that—”
“Home plate, Angel 103,” a voice came over tactical.
Batman brushed aside the TAO and picked up the microphone. “I’ll tell him myself.” He keyed the mike. “This is Admiral Wayne. You need to be at wave top getting the hell out of there because—”
“Admiral, with all due respect, sir, this can’t wait. There’s something you need to know immediately.” The pilot’s voice was calm and unbothered by the fact that he had just interrupted the admiral in command of the battle group. There was a strange rustle over the speaker, then the pilot’s voice, sounding distant now, said “Go ahead, Miss Drake.”
Every face in TFCC turned up to stare at the speaker. Batman’s jaw dropped, and he felt the blood rush to his face. Just as he started to speak, Pamela cut him off.
“Admiral Wayne, we found the sniper who was taking shots at your Tomcats. Both of us recognize him. He’s on Admiral Arkady’s staff.”
“What sort of nonsense is this?” Batman snapped. “He’s not Greek — he’s Macedonian. I realize that they may all look alike to you, Miss Drake, but mistaking our allies for the enemy is understandable under the circumstances.”
“Give me that,” a new voice said in the background. Another rustling noise, then a new voice on tactical. “Admiral, this is Captain Buddy Murphy, Marine Corps. Drake is right. I recognize him. The Greeks are shooting at our aircraft, Admiral. They’re probably the ones who shot me down as well.” There was no mistaking the anger in the Hornet pilot’s voice.
“Greek?” Batman turned to air at the tactical display. The three waves of aircraft were now only fifty miles apart. His mind raced furiously. With aircraft spoiling for a fight and wings loaded with weapons closing in on one another, there remained one critical, all important question left unanswered: Just who the hell were the bad guys?
SEVENTEEN
“Divert? No way, Jefferson. We’re inbound with casualties.” The SAR pilot’s voice was firm. “We’ll take a vector around the big boys, but—”
“Not an option,” Jefferson’s TAO replied. “Air’s clobbered with fighters for a hundred miles in every direction. You don’t have enough fuel.”
“I don’t have enough airfield, is what I don’t have,” the SAR pilot muttered, but Pamela could tell from the sound of his voice that he wasn’t transmitting. There was silence for a moment, then the circuit crackled back to life. “Roger, so do we have a bingo field?”
“We did. Until they started shooting at us.”
“Peachy. Just fucking peachy.”
“Can it, Angel 103,” a new voice said over tactical, one that Pamela recognized immediately. “It’s not like you’ve never landed anywhere except a carrier. Find a quiet spot, hole up for a while, and we’ll get you back onboard as soon as we can.”