“Iowa, with Commander Delaford and Ensign English, will take the first shift,” said Colonel Bastian. “Because the launch and initial tracking are most critical. We’ll hand off to Quicksilver and Zen, then Raven.”
Major Alou and his crew were currently out on patrol, keeping tabs on the Chinese and Indian fleets.
“Assuming the new control set is in and you’re comfortable,” added the colonel, looking at Zen.
“I’ll be comfortable,” said Zen, who had been grousing about the Piranha controls ever since he’d heard he was going to have to “pilot” one. Delaford had brought along a sim program, which Zen had already begun working with. Typically, he’d nailed the high-proficiency score on first try. “What about the Flighthawks?”
“From what Rubeo told me, we have to leave them on the ground,” said Dog. “It won’t be that big a deal. We’ll just have to forgo close-in CAP and configure the missions accordingly. We figured we cold place double-launchers on the wing hard-points for Scorpion AMRAAM-pluses, since the bay will be loaded with buoys. That’s four missiles, and we should be able to get some long-range escorts, or at least standby escort, from the Fleet.”
Woods nodded. One of the Navy officers took over, running down some details about flight operations. A squadron of F/A-18’s was en route from Hawaii and would be available for whatever contingency arose. He also briefly ran down some of the differences in Navy rescue procedures; downed Navy aviators used different “spins” for contacting rescue units. Though the difference was subtle, it could be vital in an emergency; coming up on a radio at five minutes after the hour when people were listening for you at ten might mean the difference between life and death.
“Gentlemen,” said Woods, bringing the briefing to a close, “now that we understand each other. Let’s get moving.”
Gentlemen? Bree felt her face turning red. The admiral was looking straight at her.
Gentlemen, huh? We’ll see about that.
“There’s another matter I’d like to address,” said Stoner. The CIA officer had sat quietly in the corner of the room, saying nothing and seemingly overlooked.
“There are some spy sites, or possibly some spy sites, on the atolls along the western end of the patrol area. At least one has radar. Captain Freah suggested they be investigated and I concur.”
Woods frowned at Stoner.
“I suggest we use the Birds and the Osprey,” added Danny. We think there’s probably a whole string of them, but looking at one would tell us a lot about the others.”
“What sites? Who are they working for?” asked Woods.
“We’re not sure,” said Stoner. “My guess is they’re with the Chinese, but that’s why we’d like to go in. Major Stockard and the Quicksilver crew have data on them.”
They discussed the sites briefly. Woods seemed to actively dislike Stoner, and pointed out twice this was not a CIA operation. Stoner didn’t respond to the provocations.
His sunburned face had a harsh ruggedness that was attractive, Bree thought, even when he frowned. And those eyes—gray-blue. Pretty.
In the end, Woods agreed investigating the sites would be useful—but at the moment they weren’t authorized to strike force on either side of the conflict.
“Draw up a plan for my review,” he said. “Gentlemen, good-bye.”
Drafted into the fucking Navy,” said Zen, rolling toward the tent that had been designated as their temporary quarters. “I’m a fucking sailor.”
“At least he got your sex right,” said Breanna, walking alongside his wheelchair.
“Navy bullshit,” grumbled Zen, pushing inside.
“How’s the tooth?”
“Still there.” Zen pushed his tongue back toward the filling. “So he must’ve done a good job, huh?”
“Why?”
“It’s not bothering you. So going to the dentist isn’t a bad thing.”
“Yes, Captain. Right again.”
She ran her hands from the back of his neck across his face, her thick, strong hands lingering on his cheeks. Zen felt reluctant to let the bad mood drop, but her touch softened the muscles in his face. She moved closer and pushed her body against him, leaning her breast into the side of his face.
“Maybe having nothing to do for a few hours isn’t so bad,” she said.
“Ya think?” said Zen. He pulled her down for a kiss. Except for the tooth, it was perfect; along, slow melt into the softness she kept behind the bomber-pilot face.
“Mmmmm,” she said.
“Mmmmm,” he repeated, his fingers sliding to the top of her flight suit. They had just started south when there was a scream outside.
Zen jerked back and grabbed the wheels of his chair, Breanna rushed ahead of him, running to the medical tent ten yards away. Two Whiplash team members, fully armed, came on a dead run, one dropping to his knee just outside the tent and talking into his microphone. Danny Freah barked something and the door to the big tent flew open. Freah, Sergeant Liu, and a Navy corpsman pushed out dragging a small Filipino. It was the woman they’d captured below, her shirt hanging half off.
“She grabbed a scissors,” said Liu. “She tried to stab the captain.”
“Guerrilla,” said Stoner, appearing behind Zen.