Nuke Zone c-11

by Keith Douglass

  He was a reporter, by God. He knew what went on in this country.

  “The other facilities are standing down as well,” the man continued. “There is not time to take you to each one of them immediately, but we will if you require it. Indeed, we would invite a team from the American carrier to inspect each one individually. We will even offer our own vessels as escorts for the Americans as they leave the Black Sea. You see, mistakes have been made–not only by Ukraine, but by our former government as well. We wish to rectify those immediately and return to a civil, supportive relationship with the United States.”

  Mike shook his head wearily. In the last forty-eight hours he had gone from being a bureau chief and producer for one of ACN’s main overseas stations to resuming a long-forgotten position as a field reporter. And now this–damn, he was practically an ambassador.

  Oddly enough, he felt some of the weariness start to seep out of his bones. It was a responsibility–one that he had to try his best to fulfill. He stood up from the table, feeling his knees and hips creak as he stretched. “Let’s go,” he said simply. “The sooner the better for both countries.”

  0930 Local

  USS Jefferson

  “If we can believe it, then it represents a major change in our tactical situation,” Lab Rat said. “And I’m inclined to believe that the Turks are sincere about this.”

  “Especially if they provide escort,” Batman added. “Frankly, I agree with Commander Busby. If Ukraine was behind this from the start, and Turkey was undergoing a coup d’etat at the same time, it’s easy to see how the political scenario could get totally cluster-fucked. It sounds like they’re on the right track for straightening things out. I wouldn’t mind giving them a hand if we can.”

  Tombstone grimaced. “Twenty-four hours ago, I was ready to bomb Izmir to Hell and back. Now you’re telling me to trust the Turks?”

  He shook his head. “It’s like Reagan used to say–trust, but verify.”

  He turned to Batman. “Get together a team of intelligence officers and specialists–take some engineers if you want. I want a team ready to board a CH-46 within the next thirty minutes to fly to Izmir. We’ll verify for ourselves that the minefields are deactivated, and then accept Turkey’s gracious offer of an escort back through them. How does that sound?”

  “Just fine.”

  Batman turned to his Chief of Staff and began rapping out a series of orders.

  Lab Rat said, “Admiral, how much of this information do you want to release to the press? If I could, I’d suggest we be circumspect about this until we’ve actually verified the status of those minefields. Besides, Mike Packmeyer appears to be an excellent source in place. If we put the media on this right now, we’ll have blown him–and we may need him later.”

  Tombstone looked thoughtful. “I’m inclined to agree with you. For now, no details. If anybody asks, the CH-46 is en route to Izmir to render humanitarian assistance. Will that do?”

  Lab Rat nodded. “Packmeyer may think he’s become a diplomat–and I guess he has. But there’s nothing to say that he can’t do just as much for his country by remaining exactly what he is–a damned fine reporter.”

  An image of Pamela Drake appeared in Tombstone’s mind. Pamela, the one first to every story, the one who had to be there, on scene. She was cooling her heels in the outer waiting room, still in the dark about the latest scenario. She would be furious, he knew, if she knew how much influence Mike Packmeyer was having on the course of events–furious, and first on the air with it, trying to take as much credit as she could for being his initial point of contact on board the carrier. Tombstone shook his head, a grim expression crossing his face.

  Well, not this time. Pamela might have been on station on the carrier, but this story wasn’t hers–it was Packmeyer’s. And Tombstone was determined to see that Packmeyer got every bit of credit he was entitled to.

  He turned back to Lab Rat. “Slight change in plans–tell Packmeyer that I’ll give him an exclusive. Tell the team to bring him back on board Jefferson on the CH-46 when they return from their inspection tour. I’ll make all the facilities he needs available to him–satellite communications, cell phones–whatever. Tell him he’s got my word on it.”

  Lab Rat turned to go. Tombstone stopped him with a gesture.

  “One other thing. Tell him he rendered his nation an important service. And it won’t be forgotten. On my word.”

  Tombstone turned back to Batman. “We’ve got one other little matter to resolve–the State Department.”

  Batman looked grim. “What the hell do we do with Tiltfelt?”

  “My problem, not yours, my friend.”

  Tombstone clapped him on the shoulder with one hand. “Why don’t you just have your Chief of Staff escort Mr. Bradley Tiltfelt up here? And have him bring Pamela Drake along with him. I think they’ll both be interested in seeing how this plays out.”

  Twenty minutes later, Bradley Tiltfelt and Pamela Drake were seated alone in the admiral’s conference room. Pamela reached out, shook the coffeepot, and grimaced. The least they could do was keep it full.

  “Outrageous,” Tiltfelt said. He glanced over at her, assessing her mood. “To bomb Ukraine–conduct what they call a surgical strike against a military base–absolutely outrageous in view of the Ukrainians’ gesture of friendship.”

  Pamela toyed with the empty coffee cup. “I wouldn’t be so certain about that,” she said noncommittally. “Tombstone usually has a reason for what he does. I may not always agree with him, but I’ve never known him to act foolishly. Not often anyway,” she finished, her eyes narrowing as she thought of Commander Joyce “Tomboy” Flynn. “At least not in tactics.”

  “I can see no justification for his conduct,” Tiltfelt said solemnly. “When I return to Washington, my top priority will be to have him relieved of command. A loose cannon in today’s Navy–the world situation is far too delicate for this sort of unilateral activity. The conduct of nations, international relations–they belong in the appropriate hands, not negotiated at gunpoint.”

  The hatch opened and Tombstone Magruder stepped into the room. He stopped and surveyed both of them coldly, then stepped forward and took the high-backed chair at the end of the table. “This will constitute my only briefing on this matter–for both of you. There is a helicopter leaving in fifteen minutes. I expect you both to be on it. You will be ferried back to Greece for further transportation to your respective destinations. This is non-negotiable.”

  He quelled the question starting on Pamela’s lips with a harsh glare. “You’ve both caused enough damage as it is.”

  With that, he turned toward Tiltfelt. “In the very near future, it will become apparent that your decision to lobby in favor of sending this carrier into the Black Sea will have been the most foolish of all possible mistakes. You have two choices at this point. First, you can take your chances as your case is tried in the media, and most probably wind up the scapegoat as the Department of State recognizes the enormity of its mistake. Second, you may decide to take an offensive posture and admit that you were in error. Believe me, the subsequent facts are going to make that quite clear. If you take the second option, you have a chance of retaining your position within the State Department. And as an inducement to do so, I offer you this. I will say that I relied upon your advice in deciding to conduct the strike against Ukraine.”

  Bradley Tiltfelt’s mouth fell open. He sputtered for a moment, then said, “That’s absolutely insane. I had no hand in that attack–none at all. What you’re asking is-“

  “Your only possible hope,” Tombstone finished coldly. “I’ll know what your choice is by the time you leave this ship. Understood?”

  Tiltfelt shook his head angrily.

  Tombstone turned to Drake. “Before you disembark, you will file one last story. It will be along the lines of the two choices I have outlined for Mr. Tiltfelt. I will personally review your copy–print only, at this point–prior to your departure. If you choose not to draft a st
ory for my approval at this time, I will have you held on board, incommunicado, until federal agents arrive to charge you with treason.”

  “Treason? Just what the hell-?”

  “Listen, don’t talk,” Tombstone ordered. “By throwing yourself off that fishing boat, you interfered with Naval operations during a time of conflict. You personally managed to endanger the lives of several men, starting with the pilots who had to pull you out of the drink. In the end, I may be proved to be wrong–but you’ll still spend at least four days incommunicado on board this ship. If there is a story to report, you’ll miss it completely. Got that?”

  Oh, she got it. Indeed she did. Pamela’s color rose, her face twisted into a mask of fury. She leaped to her feet, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You can’t do this!”

  “I can, and I will. Come, Miss Drake, do you really doubt me?”

  The color drained from Pamela’s face as quickly as it had risen. The air seemed to go out of her and, deflated, she sagged back down into her chair. She nodded without looking up at him.

  Tombstone turned back to Tiltfelt. “Your decision?”

  “Number two.”

  Tiltfelt’s voice was low, beaten. The all-pervasive self-confidence that had infused the man since he’d come on board was gone.

  He looked like what he was–a political hack, caught in the middle of a scenario he neither understood nor could solve.

  Tombstone nodded. “Very well. You have fifteen minutes to pack your belongings. The Chief of Staff will escort you to the flight deck.”

  “I’ll file the story,” Pamela said sullenly. She lifted her head finally and glared at him. “But you’ll pay for this Tombstone, I swear you will.”

  12

  Wednesday, 12 September

  1300 Local

  Newport, Rhode Island

  Bird Dog pulled up in front of his apartment in his rental car. He parked at the sidewalk, leaped out, and ran to the door. Fumbling with his keys, he finally got the knob to turn. He slammed open the door.

  “Callie,” he yelled. “Callie, where are you?”

  “Bird Dog?” Her voice rose, high and excited. “You’re back!”

  Callie Lazure came hurtling out of the back room, barely pausing before she threw herself at him. He pulled her close to him, felt the warm familiar curves of her body.

  “Oh, Callie, I’ve missed you so much.”

  She buried her face in his neck, murmuring nonsensical phrases and almost crying. Bird Dog wisely remained silent and held her.

  “Don’t ever do this to me again, Bird Dog,” Callie said finally, pulling away from him.

  “Do what?”

  “Go off and leave me like that. Promise me.”

  Her eyes were pleading.

  At that moment, no one would have guessed that Callie was a career Navy officer herself.

  “There’ll be cruises, dear,” Bird Dog said gently. “For you, and for me. You know that.”

  “I can’t do this again.”

  She returned to the safe embrace of his arms, holding him hard against her.

  “Callie Lazure–will you marry me?”

  Bird Dog startled himself, the words out of his throat before he could even think them through. Get married?

  What in the world was he thinking?

  He was headed back to sea after this, and there were so many things he had yet to do. Yet at that point in time, all that mattered to him was that Callie agree to spend the rest of her life with him.

  She pulled back slightly and looked up at him, her face streaked with tears. “Marry?” Her voice was tentative and uncertain.

  “Marry,” Bird Dog said firmly. “That is, if you want to.”

  An awful feeling that he’d just stepped on his dick invaded him.

  “Okay.”

  Callie snuggled back up to him.

  Bird Dog clasped her to him, an odd mixture of terror and delight sweeping over him.

  1400 Local

  Chief of Naval Operations

  Washington, D.C.

  “You did well, nephew,” Thomas Magruder said. He gazed levelly at his nephew, his eyes unreadable.

  “Thank you, Admiral,” Tombstone said. He swayed slightly on his feet.

  The last sixteen hours had been a frantic rush of airlifts, commercial airliners, and one final last harrowing taxicab ride to the Pentagon. He’d caught a few catnaps, but not nearly enough sleep to keep him going. At the moment, Tombstone felt light-headed.

  “That captain on La Salle,” his uncle said, shaking his head in disbelief, “Your idea?”

  He shot Tombstone a look under bushy eyebrows.

  Tombstone shook his head. “Not mine. That was sheer surface-warrior ingenuity all by itself. Surprised me as much as it did you.”

  His uncle grunted. “Well, she’s hardly operational–your relief is going to have to stay on Jefferson for the time being. Six months at least in the shipyards, maybe longer. But she was there when it counted, wasn’t she?”

  Tombstone nodded. “She was indeed.”

  “Well.”

  His uncle seemed to be grappling for a way to broach his next subject. “Are you ready for another job?”

  Tombstone laughed. “I’m ready for some leave,” he said bluntly.

  “Sir, I have some personal things to take care of before I take command of Southcom. The last couple of weeks have been interesting, but-“

  His uncle waved aside his objections. “Take two weeks. Southcom can wait, although I have to tell you that the situation down there is getting critical.”

  He arched an eyebrow and smiled at Tombstone. “But from what you’ve been through, you’re just the man to handle it.”

  Tombstone stood, turned toward the door, then paused. He turned back to his uncle, an odd expression of uncertainty in his eyes. “Do you have a few minutes for some family business, sir?”

  Caught off guard by the change in his nephew’s voice, the CNO simply motioned him back down into the chair. “What’s on your mind, Matt?”

  Tombstone took a deep breath. “It’s probably nothing. Just something one of the Ukrainians said on board Jeff–it was about my father.”

  The senior Magruder sucked in a hard breath. “What about him?”

  “He said Dad survived. That he was taken to Russia after he was shot down. I think he meant–Uncle, he wanted me to think that Dad might still be alive.”

  Tombstone stared off in the distance. “I know it was probably just a psychological ploy but–is there any chance?”

  His uncle shook his head slowly. “You know there’ve been rumors for decades about that. The faked photos, the false reports. Matt, you can’t even begin to think about it being a possibility. It’ll eat you up if you do. And there’s no chance–none.”

  His voice was filled with sympathy but decisive. He motioned at the office around him. “If there were any chance there were survivors, don’t you think I’d know?”

  Tombstone nodded slowly. “Yes, you should.”

  He sat silent, appeared to reach some inner decision, then stood. “Thanks.”

  He started for the door.

  “Matt–you do believe that, don’t you? That we did everything we could?”

  There was an almost pleading note in his uncle’s voice.

  Tombstone paused, his back still to his uncle. “I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”

  He left quickly, not waiting for his uncle to answer.

  Matthew Magruder, son of Sam Magruder–it felt odd thinking of himself in those terms instead of just as a Naval officer. The Ukrainian’s claims–well, there were ways of investigating them, he supposed.

  He retrieved his GTO from the parking lot, and inspected it for damage. Somehow it had managed to survive without a nick. He slid behind the wheel, and started it. It roared into life, sounding as close to a Tomcat’s howl as anything he’d ever run across ashore.

  Tomboy–he could see her now, feel the shape of her body, breathe the smell of her
hair. With a little more force than necessary, he slammed the gearshift into reverse and screamed out of the parking lot.

  1600 Local

  ACN Studio

  Washington, D.C.

  “So, Miss. Drake, you actually had a hand in deciphering the events over there?” the anchor queried. Pamela gazed at him for a moment, tempted beyond all endurance. She started to speak, then remembered the last time she’d seen Tombstone.

  Finally, she shook her head from side to side. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  The anchor looked startled. The back-briefing he’d received had indicated that Pamela had been on the carrier the entire time of the incident, and he’d been expecting her usual detailed firsthand account of her intervention in the conflict.

  “Then what happened?” he said, unable to come up with a more piercing, provocative question.

  Pamela took a deep breath and began. “Most of the credit goes to Mr. Bradley Tiltfelt of the State Department. Once he realized the error of taking the carrier into the Black Sea and discovered the depths of Ukraine’s treachery, he was fully involved in all decisions from that point on.”

  She turned to face the camera, pasting her most sincere, believable expression on her face. “Had it not been for him, matters would not have worked out as quickly as they did. This nation owes him a debt of gratitude.”

  The anchor concluded the interview quickly, still at a loss as to why Pamela Drake had not proved to be the center of controversy once again. As soon as it was possible, Pamela slipped out of the studio and headed back to her luxurious apartment.

  As she fought the traffic, maneuvering her black Porsche recklessly between the competing lines of traffic, her thoughts returned to Tombstone.

  He’d humiliated her, embarrassed her–and worst of all, forced her to slant her news report to suit his own agenda. As she veered to avoid a heavily loaded school-bus, she made herself one promise.

  Tombstone would pay for this. He would pay– and pay big.

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