“With the story out, probably not. But we have Mikhailov and Yakolev. Who knows how that will play? It’s like trying to figure prison politics.”
Yocke had watched with growing wonder as the F-15s occasionally slipped in behind the tanker for fuel, then slid away afterward. The planes seemed to hang motionless in the sky, a perspective Yocke found unique and fascinating. The noise of their engines was masked by the background noise inside the C-141, so the show outside was a silent, effortless ballet.
He had already tried to interview Lieutenant Colonel Jocko West and the three bird colonels from Germany, Italy and France. None of them wanted to talk, on or off the record. They did spell their names for him, for future reference. Then they shooed him off. As he turned to go back to his seat, West told him with a grin, “Reporters are like solicitors and doctors — the less you see of them the more tranquil your life.”
Marshal Mikhailov and General Yakolev were in the back of the compartment surrounded by four armed marines. Captain McElroy was seated nearby; he had merely moved his head from side to side about half a millimeter when Yocke looked his way.
Up front Jake Grafton was in conference with Toad Tarkington and Captain Tom Collins. Yocke stood in the aisle and stretched. Even after that hassle with the story last night and just two hours sleep, he wasn’t a bit tired. How often is it that you get to interview the president of a big nation and write a story that will make every front page on the planet, then jump on a plane and jet off to do another? Ah, he could get used to this.
Better enjoy it while it lasts, he told himself, because when it’s over it’ll be really over. He would be back scribbling crime stories and the city council news that was fit to print all too soon.
Yocke passed by Grafton and his colleagues and went forward to the cockpit. Rita Moravia was in the left seat. She turned and flashed him a grin.
“She’s not really a pilot, you know,” Jack told the air force major standing behind Rita. “She was Miss July of 1991.”
“Careful, friend,” the major rumbled. “This is the new modern American military. Comments with any sexist content whatsoever have been outlawed.”
“Sorry.”
“You want to remain politically correct and ideologically pure, don’t you? No more male and female pronouns. Everything is it. During the transition period you may say hit and sit instead of it, but no shit. One slip and the sexual gestapo will be on your case.”
“After they gets finished with you,” the copilot told him gravely, “you’ll have to Spiro Agnew.”
“Actually,” Rita Moravia said, patting her hair to ensure it was just so, “I was Miz July.”
“Where are we?” Yocke asked when the three stooges had calmed down. All he could see out the window was sea and sky.
“Thirty-three thousand feet up,” the copilot told him, and laughed shamelessly at his own wit.
The reporter groaned. Look out, Saddam! The Americans are coming again. Yocke left the flight deck and went back to the cabin.
Jake Grafton was seated beside Tarkington. Collins was back in his own seat reading something, so Jack sat on the arm of the seat across the aisle from the admiral. “How’s planning for the war?”
Jake Grafton examined Yocke’s face. “Our agreement is still in effect, right?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“I mention it because last night you flapped your mouth to your editor about General Shmarov’s death. That subject was and is off limits.”
“Admiral, Gatler was on the fence over whether or not to run the story. I had to give him a hot off-the-record fact so he would think I had a lot more, that we were scraping the icing off a very big cake. And that tidbit about Shmarov was the only hot fact I could think of just then. I assumed you wanted the story in the paper or you wouldn’t have bothered to order it”—Yocke snapped his fingers—“like a ham and cheese on rye.”
“Then you tried to inch onto that subject with Yeltsin this afternoon with that last question, on the off chance he might spill his guts on the spot.”
“Admiral, I—”
Jake cut him off. “I saw you give me that guilty look, should I or shouldn’t I, just before you put your mouth in motion. Either you play the game my way or you can zip right over to the commercial airport when we land and ride your plastic right on back to Moscow. We are playing with my ball, Jack.”
“Yessir. Your ball, your rules. But for my info, are you ever going to let me loose on the CIA’s creative use of binary poisons?”
Grafton shrugged. “I don’t know. Doubtful. That situation will probably solve itself.”
“ ‘Solve itself,’ ” Yocke repeated sourly, and drew in air for an oration on the hypocrisy of not airing our dirty linen while we launder other people’s.
He never got the chance. Jake jerked his thumb aft. “Those two are a part of our international team.”
“The two Russian prisoners, you mean?” Yocke said, and instantly regretted it. Jake Grafton’s gray eyes looked like river ice in winter.
“This may be just a story for you,” Grafton said, almost a whisper, “but there’s a bit more at stake for everybody else.”
“I’m not writing fiction, Admiral. Not intentionally, anyway.”
“I’m not asking you to. But no interviews with them until I say so, if and when.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Yocke tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice and succeeded fairly well. Tarkington gave him the eye, though.
Grafton went back to studying the photographs that lay in his lap. He used a magnifying glass.
“Aerial photos?” Yocke asked.
“Satellite.”
“May I look?”
Grafton passed him a couple. They looked like shots from just a couple thousand feet above an airfield. He could see the aircraft clearly, the power carts, the revetments, even people and the shadows they cast. “These are really clear,” he murmured. “Are the missiles here at this base?”
“I think so. The trouble with satellite surveillance is that you can rarely be absolutely certain of anything. It’s true, at times the resolution is so good that you can read license plate numbers, and if people like Saddam think we can see everything all the time, that’s just fine with us. But we can’t. There are very real technical limitations. The art is in the interpretation of what you can see.”
“So are we going to hit this base with an air strike?”
“That would be the easy way,” Jake acknowledged, then selected another photo and bent to examine it. When he finally straightened he added, “Nobody ever accused us of doing anything the easy way.”
Jack Yocke returned the photos and went back to his seat by the window. He sat staring at the two fighters he could see. They were in loose formation, so loose one was over a mile away.
The sun was setting, firing the tops of the clouds below with pinks and oranges. Beneath that the sea was a deep, deep purple, almost black. He stared downward, between the clouds. That looked like…maybe it was land. Were they over Turkey? Or was that ocean down there in the gloom?
He finally reclined his seat and tried to sleep.
Up forward Toad Tarkington muttered to his boss, “You may trust that jackass, but I don’t.”
“To which of our jackasses are you referring?”
“Yocke.”
“Oh, he’s got his rough edges,” Jake said, “but he’s an honest man. Rather like you in that regard.” When he saw that Toad was at a loss for a reply, Jake grinned and added, “You guys are Tweedledum and Tweedledumber. Amy says you’re both fun to have around. She’s still trying to decide which of you is Tweedledumber.”
“Thanks, CAG.”
“Anytime, Toad.”