Nuke Zone c-11

by Keith Douglass

  “It makes no sense whatsoever, sir,” Tombstone said immediately.

  “Turkey is an ally–an uneasy one at times, perhaps, especially since the fundamentalist Islamic forces began dominating her politics. They’ve always been hard to figure out–a primarily Muslim country that elects a female, Tansu Ciller, as Prime Minister. As a practical matter, they’re heavily dependent on the foreign aid we provide, both militarily and in the civilian population. Aside from our disagreement with them over the Kurds–and we’ve been damned weak-spined about that–we tend to see eye to eye on things. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  The CNO nodded. “The Intelligence wienies agree with you. It makes no sense–yet they’ve opened a Pandora’s box of tactical nuclear weapons as a first strike. That seems to indicate that everything we know or think we know about Turkey misses the mark. Quite frankly, my immediate inclination is to order a devastating counterforce strike against them. But that’s going to meet with some resistance from both State Department and the president.”

  Tombstone leaned back in his chair and stared at the world map dominating the wall behind the CNO. The intricate politics, the ebb and flow of loyalties and alliances, all driven by the vast machine of religious fervor in that part of the world–how were a couple of pilots supposed to make sense of it?

  The State Department sure as hell didn’t have the answers.

  But there’d been an attack on American forces at sea. Aside from any other political considerations, that matter had to be dealt with.

  Decisively and immediately. To do less would simply open the flood-gates, encourage every tin-pot dictator anywhere in the world to take his best shot at American forces, lulled into security by the United States’ failure to retaliate against Turkey. He shook his head. No, that would never do.

  Many more would make similar attempts in the years to come if America demonstrated any lack of resolve or inability to avenge herself. That must not be allowed to occur.

  “Any word from State?” Tombstone asked, knowing he was not going to like the answer.

  The CNO sighed. “Assholes have got a better intelligence network than we do,” he said bitterly. “I’ve already had two calls from them urging restraint, moderation, some sort of nonsense that sounds like healing the wounded bastard child of Turkey’s psyche.”

  Fury rose in the admiral’s face, transforming his normally impassive expression into a mask of anger.

  “Those assholes shot at my ship! And they’re going to pay for it.”

  “As they ought to,” Tombstone said crisply, uncomfortable immediately with the strong ebb and flow of emotion in the room. “How can I help?”

  “Tombstone, what I’m about to tell you–you can decline if you want to, son. I’m hoping you won’t, but I’ll leave you that option. I’ve got to have somebody on the scene whom I trust absolutely, an officer in command whose view of the situation mirrors mine exactly. If Turkey is committed to using tactical nuclear weapons, we could lose communications with our forces there at any point. At the very least, we’re going to lose ground-support capabilities from our base in Turkey.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t risk putting an unknown quantity on the front line. Hell, if I could get away from this desk, I’d go myself. But I can’t. Unless you have some objection, as of this second, you’re Sixth Fleet.” The CNO fell silent and waited for his nephew’s response.

  “Sixth Fleet? Admiral, I’m flattered at your confidence, but-“

  “Don’t give me any crap, Stoney,” the CNO said quietly. “I want you there, partially for reasons I can’t even tell you about. The only question is, how fast and for how long? I know you’re due to turn over with Southcom in a couple of weeks, and you’ve got a full can wait. There’s no other admiral in this Navy with as much actual combat experience as you’ve got, and nobody I trust more. So cut the modesty and give me a simple yes or no, will you?”

  “Yes. Of course I’ll go. Did you really have any doubt?”

  “No.” A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of the admiral’s mouth. “But I thought I’d give you an out if you wanted one. You and that young lady of yours. Hell, Stoney, we’ve got to start producing Magruders for the next century sometime, don’t you think? I thought maybe-“

  It was Tombstone’s turn to interrupt. “With all due respect, you thought wrong, Admiral,” he shot back quickly. “My young lady, as you put it, is a combat-blooded Naval aviator. If she thought I’d turned down this assignment just to stay with her, she’d kick my ass from here to Honolulu.”

  A silence settled over the room, not an uncomfortable one. It was the feeling between two men who trust each other absolutely, who were related not only by blood, but by the even more binding ties of honor, loyalty, and duty. “You’ll leave immediately,” the CNO said finally. He stared at Tombstone as if trying to memorize his features. “Old stomping grounds for you, Stoney. Since La Salle is completely non-mission-capable, you’ll have to park your flag on Jefferson. Any problem with that?”

  A sudden fierce joy shook Tombstone, surprising in its intensity. To be back at sea, just when he thought he was going to be deskbound at Southcom for a two-year tour. Not in command of the carrier, of course–that honor would remain with his old wingman, Rear Admiral Edward Everett “Batman” Wayne, the man who’d relieved him only a year earlier as Commander, Carrier Battle Group 14.

  Tombstone stood. “If there’s nothing else, Admiral, I need to make some preparations to get underway.”

  The CNO stood and extended his right hand. Tombstone grasped it, the warm configurations so like the flesh of his own hand, a pulse that was more than a physiological function beating in unison in the two hands.

  Tombstone held the handshake a moment longer than was necessary, then released his uncle’s hand reluctantly. “I’d best get going.”

  “The Chief of Staff will type up your orders.” The CNO regarded him gravely. “I don’t have to tell you how important this is, Admiral.”

  “I know, Admiral.”

  0435 Local

  State Department

  Washington, D.C.

  Bradley Tiltfelt glared at the man fidgeting before his desk. “Whose side are you on?”

  As Deputy Assistant Director for Eastern European Affairs, he had every right to ask the question. Ask it, and expect the appropriate answer from his subordinates. If the man standing in front of him didn’t understand that, it was time Bradley knew that now.

  The Section Chief for Turkey appeared to be giving the matter some thought, which Bradley deemed entirely inappropriate. The answer was obvious, or should be. That there might be other concerns than the political standing of his office–and more importantly, of himself–never even entered Tiltfelt’s mind.

  “I’m in favor of peaceful resolution of this matter before the military knee-jerk reaction escalates it into a full-scale war,” the man offered tentatively.

  Bradley leaned back in his chair, caressed the leather arm, and stared pointedly at the Chief. “What manual did you plagiarize that from? When I want politically correct jargon out of you, I’ll tell you. Now answer the question.”

  The Chief’s face reddened, and his fidgeting stopped. Bradley could see the anger rising in the man’s eyes, felt the tension in the room build.

  It was unfortunate that he had to rely on individuals such as this in conducting foreign policy–extremely unfortunate. Where were the cadres of loyal subordinates that he saw staffing the offices of the other Assistant Deputies?

  He shook his head, feeling vaguely bitter. The State Department was supposed to be a haven for a better sort of human being, the ones that understood the intricacies of world affairs and that such matters could not be entrusted to men whose only idea of an appropriate response to turmoil was an explosive device.

  His Chief started to speak, choked back a few words, and then remained silent.

  “Well?” Bradley demanded. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours, of cou
rse, sir,” the Chief finally muttered. He looked down at the carpet, finding something incredibly intriguing just in front of his feet.

  Well, it was less than the wholehearted support to which he was entitled, but it would have to do, Bradley decided. Indeed, the care and feeding of his subordinates had become of increasingly little significance to him. They were there to do a job, to feed him the information he required in order to make the appropriate decisions, and they’d damned well better understand that. It wasn’t as though he could trust them with anything more than mechanical tasks, not after their conduct during the last flare-up with China. (Carrier 8: Alpha Strike)

  He let the man squirm for a few minutes more while he studied his fingernails. Finally, when he deemed that the full weight of his dissatisfaction had settled in on the man, he spoke. “Turkey is an old and valued ally of the United States,” he said slowly and distinctly. “During the decades of the Cold War and even before that, there has never been an incident of this kind. Therefore, our first priority is to determine exactly what provoked this reaction from her.”

  “Provoked?” his section chief said wonderingly. “Sir, with all due respect–there has been an attack on American forces. A nuclear attack. Regardless of any supposed justification, I cannot see any possible rationale for such an egregious breach of international protocol. It’s simply-“

  “You’ve just demonstrated why you’ll never be anything more than a Section Chief,” Bradley interrupted. He pointed an accusing finger at his area expert. “The inability to see beyond the obvious. Of course this is an egregious act. That’s obvious. I don’t need you to tell me what I can hear on ACN every morning.”

  Bradley sighed, contemplating for perhaps the thousandth time the difficulty of working with lesser minds. If only at least a few of them had possessed a degree of class, he might have been able to live with the lack of intellectual capacity. But the buffoonish, crass man standing in front of him was all too typical of the minions that inhabited the State Department. “What we need,” Bradley continued, enunciating each word carefully, “is a reason. And a solution. If you can’t supply it, I’ll find someone who can.”

  “With your permission, then,” the Chief said, his voice a tightly controlled filament of rage, “I’ll be getting back to my desk. We’ll see if we can produce the answers you seem to think exist.”

  Without waiting to be excused, the Chief turned sharply and left the office, pulling the door shut behind him with a bit more force than perhaps was necessary.

  Bradley dampened down his own annoyance, and pulled a legal pad toward him to outline his thoughts. The situation had the potential to be an absolute disaster. Not for the United States–the nation would survive, as she had for centuries. He had an unshakable, inchoate belief in the divine immortality of his country. No, there was a much more serious danger before him–the damage that any mishandling of this affair could do to his own career.

  He laid the Mont Blanc pen on the pad, carefully centering it in the middle of the page. “I’ll have to go myself,” he said thoughtfully. “If I don’t, something’s bound to go wrong. Any mishandling of this incident, and we could end up with another war on our hands.”

  A vision formed in his mind, one that he found pleasing. He promptly embellished the appropriate details. It was based on a photo taken in Tiananmen Square, of the single Chinese student who’d stood in front of an oncoming tank and held Chinese military forces at bay during the student protests there. Yes, the Chinese student–and Bradley Tiltfelt. He alone could stand in front of the United States military and prevent an entirely inappropriate reaction from occurring.

  A sense of duty, of destiny and historic import, settled over him.

  Yes, that was what he’d do. Stop the war before it started.

  And what better place to serve as a base for his operations for implementing a true solution to this conflict than aboard the potentially aggressive American warships that were undoubtedly steaming toward Turkey at this very moment?

  Bradley reached down and punched the intercom button that would summon his administrative assistant. When the attractive young woman appeared at his door, he barked, “Call my wife. Have her pack me a bag–casual, yet formal. She’ll understand what that means. And have the Travel Section arrange transport and passports. Get Military Liaison to send out the appropriate messages for embarkation on board the USS Jefferson.”

  0900 Local

  Naval War College

  Newport, Rhode Island

  Bird Dog was only half awake when he felt the unmistakable touch of a small female hand trail softly across the hard ridges of his gut, lightly tickle the thin band of dark hair that ran between his groin and his navel, and descend unerringly and relentlessly toward its objective. He groaned, stretched hard to release the sleep kinks in his shoulders and hips, and rolled over on his right side. Morning had never been one of his favorite times of the day, but over the past two months, Callie Lazure had been doing her best to change his mind.

  “You’re awake?” a soft voice said in his ear. Her hand closed around him, tightened. He could feel his pulse pounding against her delicate skin. “Part of you is, at least.”

  There was a warm, affectionate note in her voice.

  Bird Dog groaned, threw one arm around her waist, and pulled her close. “The best part of me is.”

  He moved his hips forward, and felt an answering surge of her hips.

  “It’s not your mind I’m interested in, sweetheart.”

  She shoved him slightly, rolling him back over on his back. A few seconds later she was astride him. “Just this.”

  Bird Dog drove deep into her, marveling at the incredible hard wetness that engulfed him. The sensation was all-encompassing, literally driving every coherent thought from his head.

  He reached up, caressed the outsides of her breasts with the palms of his hands, his thumb and forefinger tracing out the rock-hard nipples. Callie planted her hands on his chest and settled back, driving him even deeper into her.

  Time dissolved into the rhythmic motion, minutes and hours now counted by the slow surge and beat of the motion between them. It seemed to take hours, weeks, for the steadily rhythmic rocking to pick up speed, accelerating until it drove him almost insane from the sheer relentlessness of it. He groaned, pulled her down to him so that her face was nestled against his, and exploded inside her. He heard her answering cries, soft and insistent, as she came herself.

  As his sanity returned, and he began to be able to distinguish the contours of her body from his own, he had but one thought. God, he loved shore duty.

  0955 Local

  The Pentagon

  “I’ll be damned if I will,” Tombstone said, his voice cold level menace. “Not on this operation.”

  “You’ve got no choice, Stoney,” his uncle said quietly. “Neither do I.”

  The call from the State Department had come just minutes after his nephew had left the CNO’s office, and had carried with it an ominous feeling like the first clouds on a storm front. JCS had approved replacing the current Sixth Fleet commander with Admiral Matthew Magruder, but it had added a complicating factor to the entire strategic scenario. Given the delicate longstanding relationship between Turkey and the United States, the president was insisting that the answer to this potentially explosive conflict be thought of in the broader spectrum–as an entire political and national response rather than purely a military one. As a result, the USS Jefferson would be entering the operating area carrying a senior State Department official, a supposed expert in the area.

  There wasn’t a damned thing about this the CNO liked, and he couldn’t blame his nephew for sharing his opinions. After all, wasn’t that why he was sending Stoney?

  To have someone whose judgment so mirrored his own on scene?

  But the higher you got in rank, he reflected, the tougher the answers got. There were political trade-offs, power plays and rice bowls, not the least of those was in Central Asia. It was alr
eady evident that the State Department would play a role in this mission. Hell, the JCS had been unwilling to discuss potential targeting scenarios without consulting with the limp dicks over in State. It had even indicated that if the Navy couldn’t work with the rest of the U.S. government, they’d put the Air Force in charge of the operation.

  The Air Force. The CNO snorted. Not on my watch.

  “He’s going with you,” the CNO said flatly. “Get used to it, Admiral. We pay you to act like a guy wearing two stars, not like some hotshot fighter pilot.”

  He hated the words the moment they left his mouth.

  Stoney seemed to withdraw into himself, a trait the CNO had noticed all too often in the last several years. He sighed, wishing life had dealt Stoney a better hand. To lose his father so young, especially when the full details of his father’s mission had never been made public–damn, it had to affect the man, no matter that he had a father-figure substitute in the form of an older uncle who loved him dearly.

  “Yes, Admiral,” Tombstone said finally. He shot his uncle an accusing look. “You’ll get my best efforts, sir. Have no doubt about that. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s the concept of taking orders.”

  “Stoney, I-“

  The CNO broke off. What could he say now that would bridge this gap between uncle and nephew, that could soften the iron dictates of duty that bound them both?

  Nothing, he realized. In circumstances such as these, duty superseded all blood relationships. And as much as he disliked it, the admiral had his orders. “Good luck,” the CNO said finally, wishing desperately there was some way to break through the new wall he felt between himself and the younger admiral. “Not that you’ll need it.”

  Tombstone stared at his uncle for a moment, and his glare finally softened into something that held twinges of regret. “If we have to depend on luck, Uncle Thomas, we’re in a world of shit. Who am I taking anyway?”