Spiros glanced back at the plane captains who had taken charge of his aircraft. The senior-most nodded reassuringly, giving him a thumbs-up. They probably thought that the general was going to honor him in some way, Spiros thought. None of them knew what had happened.
Spiros managed a jaunty wave, and strode off after the colonel, who was already seated in the back of the vehicle.
“What did I tell you?” the general demanded. “What were you thinking, in the name of all that is holy?”
Spiros stood braced at attention, his hand shaking alongside his legs. This was bad, worse than he’d ever thought possible. The possibility that he might somehow keep his wings had now completely vanished, and Spiros was now wondering whether or not he would be in the army by the time the day was over.
“General, I… it was unintentional, sir,” Spiros finally choked out. “I didn’t mean to get so close.”
“Intentions don’t matter. I hold you responsible for your conduct,” the general said. “About-face, soldier. I cannot stand to look at your stupid, cowlike face.”
Spiros executed a shaky about-face by sheer reflex, and stood at attention with his back to the general. The shaking had spread from his hands down the spine now, and he could feel his leg muscles dancing as though he’d just run ten kilometers. A court-martial, perhaps. Time in military prison, disgrace to his family. Spiros heard a soft, slithering sound behind him. His panicking brain tried to make sense of it. Then cold metal touched the back of his neck, just at the spot where his spine met his skull.
“I do not tolerate excuses,” Arkady said calmly. The general pulled the trigger.
The bullet shattered Spiros’s spinal cord, then tore out most of his neck, severing his head from the body. Before the head had a chance to fall away from the torso, the bullet cracked through his brain, ricocheted off the interior of his skull, and reduced the remaining flesh to bloody pulp. Spiros was dead long before his head bounced on the hardwood floor of the general’s office.
For moment, no one moved. The general held his pose, arm outstretched in front of him, staring down at the decapitated body of the pilot. Finally, he let his arm fall to his side. He replaced the gun in his holster and gazed at the rest of the officers. No words were necessary. They all heard his unspoken comment: Let this be a lesson to all of you.
The general walked back around his desk and took his seat again. He started riffling through the papers centered on the highly polished wood in front of him. Without looking up, he said, “Have someone clean that up.” He reached into his desk drawer, took out a pen, and began signing his name to the papers.
Colonel Zentos was the first to react. He stepped forward, picked up Spiros’s bloody, staring head, and glanced at the officer of the day. “You heard the general.” Zentos placed the head on top of the body. “Get the cleanup crew in here. Now.”
The room exploded into a flurry of activity. No one wanted to be the next target of the general’s temper.
TWO
Vice Admiral Matthew “Tombstone” Magruder stared at the minute hand on the clock on the wall across from him. If he squinted his eyes just a little bit — not that he’d ever admit needing to do so — he could actually see it move. It crept with glacial slowness around the face of the clock. He looked away, hoping to encourage it to go faster. At sea, that sometimes worked during long hours of pulling alert five in the cockpit of his Tomcat. Back then, the seven-day clocks seemed to know when you were looking at them and slowed down.
Tombstone hadn’t spent enough time ashore to be absolutely certain of it, but he’d been under the impression that time passed more quickly here. Certainly, it was easier to get up and move around when you weren’t confined to the flight deck waiting to launch. You could leave the building, you weren’t stuck on the carrier. There were even magazines — a few months old, but newer than most of the stuff found in any ready room at sea. And a collection of Navy professional publications, some of them little more than publicity rags for various warfare communities, a copy of the Navy Times, and a few back issues of Proceedings. Maybe this was some kind of test. He surreptitiously glanced at the chief petty officer serving as receptionist. Was anyone taking notes, waiting to see which magazine he picked up to read?
The Navy Times, he decided. The Broadside cartoons printed on the editorial pages were always worth reading.
The office of the chief of naval operations was one of the few places that a three-star admiral might be expected to cool his heels for a while, along with some parts of the joint chiefs of staff. But even in JCS, a three-star outranked ninety-nine percent of the men and women assigned to the most prestigious joint command in the world. Here, in the inner sanctum of his own service, he was just another flag officer.
The chief looked over at him, then up at the clock. “Can I get you some more coffee, Admiral?”
Tombstone shook his head. “No thanks, Chief. I’m fine.”
The chief stood. “Well, let me see what’s keeping him, sir. He’s usually not this far behind schedule.” The chief slipped quietly into the inner office, shutting the door firmly behind him. Moments later, he reappeared. “Admiral, the CNO is ready for you now, sir.” He held the door open and stepped to one side.
Tombstone stood, relieved to be moving again. Maybe there were alert-five stretches of time in every job, not just in the squadron. If so, the admiral version of it was at least air-conditioned. He walked past the chief into the CNO’s office.
“Matthew.” The chief of naval operations stood and came around from behind his desk to greet him. He held out his hand, and clasped Tombstone’s in both of his. “It’s good to see you again, Stony. Sorry you had to wait — a little crisis over in the Med.”
“Good to see you again too, sir.” Tombstone shook the man’s hand warmly. The term of respect came automatically to his lips. Admiral Thomas Magruder might be his uncle, brother to Tombstone’s father, but he was still the chief of naval operations. They had worked out their own ways over the years of knowing when they were interacting as family and when they wore their hats as senior officers in the service they both loved. It had become increasingly difficult as Tombstone had become more senior, and their relationship had been stretched almost to the breaking point a year ago when Tombstone had decided to find out what had really happened to his father. His uncle, by then the CNO, had been firmly opposed to the mission. It had been his brother, he argued, and the family connection between the two of them was just as strong as it was between father and son. His brother was dead, had died years ago on a mission over Vietnam.
But when Tombstone uncovered evidence that his father had indeed survived the ejection and had been taken as a prisoner of war, his uncle had been surprised. Then later, when a chain of events proved that father and brother Magruder had been taken from Vietnam to Russia for further interrogation, Uncle Thomas had come over to his side completely. It had been difficult for both of them, realizing that their government had not only lied to the civilian population at large, but to its most trusted senior officers as well.
“Have a seat, Stony,” the CNO said, pointing to the couch. “I’ve got a problem — two problems actually — and you may be the solution to both.”
Tombstone sat down and waited. He was getting mixed signals from his uncle. Usually you could tell immediately whether Uncle Thomas wanted to talk about family or Navy. The use of his nickname and his tone of voice were key indicators.