Tomboy nodded, all trace of panic and confusion gone from her face. “I’ll go with you to CinCPac, and we’ll figure it out from there.”
As they approached the Commander in Chief, Pacific, headquarters located on the Camp Smith Army compound, it became obvious that there were no answers to be found there. Guards blocked the gate, all with that itchy trigger finger look in their eyes that warned the two Magruders that this was as far as they were getting.
“Anyone know what happened?” Tombstone asked. His tone of voice, that of a senior naval officer who wanted answers — and wanted them now — had the desired effect. Although the soldiers appeared no more likely to open the gates to their rental car, he did see a slight softening in their manner.
“Bombs, sir.” The soldier waved in the direction behind him, never completely taking his eyes off the occupants of the car. “Air launched, if it matters.”
“Casualties,” Tombstone demanded.
“Still sorting it out, sir. It’s pretty bad. We can’t find everyone, so Captain Smith’s taken charge of CinCPac Fleet.”
Captain Billy Smith. Well, it could have been worse, Tombstone reflected. A surface sailor, a charter member of the old school club. Billy Smith hadn’t changed his conviction since his days at the Naval Academy that there was only one way to do things, and that was by the book. It was an approach that left something to be desired when it came to aerial combat, but worked perfectly fine most of the time. And fortunately, the navy had instructions to cover virtually any contingency in the book. Particularly the book that covered attacks on Pearl Harbor.
“Sir, the other senior officers are mustering at the officers’ club,” the sergeant said, his eyes drifting over to something behind him. “We’re a little busy right now with the rescue and damage control efforts — there’ll be someone there organizing transport back to your commands there, sir. And ma’am.”
Tombstone nodded. Yes, there would be a plan for everything in Hawaii, and most certainly for getting officers back to their commands. And for damage control.
Still, it was all well and good to say they’d get him back to his command. If you had one.
Tomboy did. As commanding officer of VF-95, they’d slap her skinny little butt onto the first COD bound for Jefferson, along with any other spare aviators that happened to have been in port. Probably about two-thirds to three-quarters of her squadron. Only the duty section would have voluntarily remained onboard the carrier, and they were probably in four-section duty. No need to have more people aboard, not when they were steaming in the peaceful waters off Hawaii.
Not unless the unthinkable happened.
Tombstone pulled the Taurus into a tight circle and headed back the way they’d come. For now, the officers’ club looked like the best bet.
“Stony?” Tomboy asked. “Drop me at Base Operations.”
“Why? He said transport was being arranged out of the officers’ club.”
Tomboy’s face was pulled into the hard mask that he recognized as her command face. “I’m not relying on somebody else’s prioritization of passengers. There’ll be pilots and aircraft at Base Ops. That’s all I need to get back to Jefferson.
“You’ve got a pilot right here,” Tombstone said. “Half the problem solved.”
Tomboy nodded. “I’d thought of that. And you’re current, aren’t you?”
“Indeed I am.” Just before departing on their honeymoon, he’d spent a couple of weeks in Norfolk scraping the rust off. “Card-carrying naval aviator, I am.”
“I probably ought to take a combat pilot, though, if I can,” Tomboy said thoughtfully. “Whatever’s happened, we’ll need warfighters more than planners.”
A cold chill seeped through Tombstone. Had she really said that? Implied that there would be someone more useful to her in the air than her husband? Some twenty-something-year-old nugget with maybe one cruise under his belt? Who’d never taken on a MiG one-on-one, flown combat missions over hostile territory?
“I fly missions,” he said thickly.
She shook her head. “No, you don’t. The Navy’s not paying you admiral’s pay to sit in a cockpit. You’re the front end of the solution, the one who figures out how to keep pilots from getting killed. Not the one who flies the mission.” She glanced over at him, suddenly aware how it’d all sounded. “Not that you’re not a fine pilot, Stony.”
“Sure. Just not the one you want to fly with.” The words he’d intended as a joke came out entirely too harshly.
“Don’t be an ass,” she said sharply. “You know exactly what I mean.”
The bitch of it was, he did. Jobs for a combat pilot got scarce as hen’s teeth as you got more senior. You flew a desk more often than a Tomcat. His uncle had realized that, and had come up with the solution that would make best use of his nephew’s combat experience and practical knowledge — troubleshooter. Not for paperwork and administrative problems, or for the various political situations the navy faced today. No, Tombstone was the warfighter that his uncle, the CNO, sent into sticky situations and nasty little wars. The sort of problems where nobody could figure out how to achieve their objectives without losing a lot of men and women and aircraft in the process. A troubleshooter who not only knew the enemy, but had killed his fair share in the past decades.
“Let’s see if they’ve got an aircraft,” he said, putting aside for the moment the question of who’d actually fly it out to the ship. There was no point in pointing out that he outranked everyone that they were likely to run into at Base Ops, and if he wanted an aircraft, they’d damned well come up with one for him. And no one, not even his pretty little tiger-wife, was going to stop him.
A COD was just pulling up in front of Base Ops as they pulled into the parking lot. A stream of passengers clad in survival gear was already heading toward the loading area.
“Not a full load,” Tomboy noted. “If we hurry, we can be on it.” She opened the door and hopped out before Tombstone had even brought the car to a full stop. “I’ll get our names on the manifest.” She was out of sight before Tombstone could get his own seat belt unfastened.
By the time he made it into Base Ops, Tomboy had already filled out their next of kin cards and added their names to the manifest. She tossed him his cranial and floatation vest, then pointed toward the waiting COD. “Two minutes. Let’s get our asses in gear.” They pulled on the safety gears as they ran for the turbo-propped transport aircraft.
The aircraft was just over half full. An enlisted aircrewman directed them to seats in the middle of the aircraft, then trotted back down the ramp to check for any more late arrivals. He was back within moments. He slipped his headset on, and Tombstone saw his lips moving as he talked to the aircrew up front. The ramp that served as a boarding ladder pulled up and joined with the fuselage of the aircraft. The passenger compartment was plunged into darkness broken only by the feeble overhead bulbs few and far between.
Tombstone glanced over at Tomboy and saw her shut her eyes for a moment. She was a RIO, a backseater, used to having someone else doing the driving, although he thought she probably did understand just how much he hated being a passenger on any aircraft.
He’d been a passenger far too often in the last year, he decided. Enough was enough.
“Listen up, please. Magruder?” an enlisted sailor standing in the aisle shouted. “Magruder?”
“Which one?” Tombstone asked.
“Oh, there are two of you, sir,” the sailor said. “I thought it was just a mistake.”