“Of course, of course,” Tombstone said. He was dazed. Pamela, here!
“Then I’ll tell the admiral it’s settled. The staff group will be assembling to go ashore tomorrow afternoon. You’ll want to have some things packed.” But Tombstone scarcely heard him. Pamela was coming here!
CHAPTER 13
Wednesday, 4 November
1047 hours (Zulu +3)
Office of the Commander, Black Sea Fleet
Sevastopol Naval Base, Crimean Military District
“All is in readiness, Comrade Vitse-Admiral.”
Dmitriev looked up from the papers on his desk. Starshiy-Leytenant Kulagin was not looking at him but remained fixed at attention, his eyes locked on a spot on the wood paneling somewhere behind Dmitriev’s left shoulder.
“Excellent,” Dmitriev replied. “The crews have been briefed on what they are to do?”
“Yes, sir.” He sounded almost bitter. “Though it was… difficult finding volunteers.”
“We expected as much.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I suspect that what you mean is that it was difficult finding volunteers loyal to me, rather than to General Boychenko.”
“Actually, sir, the majority of the naval personnel opted to follow you.
The army, of course, is loyal to the general almost to a man. Putting together so many pilots who could be trusted was the most difficult part.”
“That, too, was expected. When the Ukrainians come, the fleet, at least, would be able to retire to Novorossiysk, while aircraft could simply fly out.”
“Yes, sir. The army would be forced to remain in this, this trap.”
Dmitriev sighed. “Anton Ivanovich, there are many kinds of trap. Some are more subtle than others. What I do, I do first out of loyalty to the Rodina, then out of respect for the oath that I took as a Russian officer. That, in a sense, is the trap that holds me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kulagin was retreating once more behind the unreadable facade of the mindless subordinate, attempting to mask his own thoughts. Dmitriev leaned back in his chair, studying his aide. “You don’t approve of this plan, do you?”
“Sir, it is not my place to-“
“Talk to me, Anton Ivanovich. I need to know what you are thinking.” He nodded toward the window, and the ships gathered in the harbor. “What they are thinking.”
“Sir…” He stopped, and the stiffness of his posture relaxed a bit as he moved his hands helplessly at his sides. “Sir, there are those within your command who see this as a desperate gamble, as something very much like deliberate suicide. Suppose this operation gets us into a general war with the United States? We could find ourselves fighting Leonov’s rebels, the Ukrainians, the Turks, and the Americans all at the same time!”
“The Americans will not go to war over this, Anton. It will be in their interests to resolve this matter peacefully.”
“How can anyone make predictions about what their government will or will not do, sir? Cowboy diplomacy-“
“Their president is in considerable trouble because of his foreign policy just now.” He chuckled. “Or perhaps I should say he is in trouble because of his lack of anything like a coherent foreign policy. He will not risk a war with us, because that would deepen his problems with the American electorate, which is notoriously isolationist.”
“Well, then, the Turks-“
“Will allow things to be smoothed over. They need us to solve their problems with their Armenian minority more than we need them. When our representatives have quietly explained why we were forced to do what we did, they will understand and accept it. A war with us would not serve their best interests, either.”
“Wars rarely serve anyone’s best interests, Comrade Vice-Admiral.
Except, of course, for the arms manufacturers and the politicians.”
“Why, Anton! You have the true Russian’s soul of the poet!”
“You told me to speak freely, sir. I am. It could be that those members of your command who disagree with your plan see General Boychenko’s initiative as their only real hope for survival.”
“I see. And how do you feel about it?”
Kulagin looked acutely uncomfortable. “I really don’t-“
“Come, come! You may speak freely here. It’s not as though I’m about to ship you off to some gulag, eh?”
“Comrade Vice-Admiral, General Boychenko is a popular officer.”
“One of the few. Yes, I know.”
“The men and junior officers trust him. They trust him to get them home.”
“And what of the officers and men whose homes are here, Anton? In the Crimea?”
“Ah.” He seemed surprised at the question, but he nodded. “They…
they are not so eager to leave, sir. Most worry about what will happen to their families when they are ordered to leave, to go back to Russia. The Ukrainians are not known for their forgiving natures.”
“And what about you, Anton Ivanovich?”
The aide hesitated a long moment before answering. “I will tell you the truth, Comrade Vice-Admiral. I worry about my family, my wife and two daughters. They live in Volosovo. That’s a town not far from St. Petersburg, a very great distance from here. The war inside Russia threatens them directly, far more than what happens to us here in the Crimea.” He spread his hands, helplessly. “If the Crimea falls to Ukraine, how does that hurt them? How does it take bread from their mouths… unless, of course, I should die here. That would cause them hardship.”
“You don’t wonder if Ukrainian aggression might be encouraged by a display of cowardice in the Crimea?”
“I don’t think any reasonable person expects the Ukrainians to invade Russia proper! In any case, their border is much closer to Moscow than to St. Petersburg.” He sighed. “In any case, sir, I would feel much better if I thought my service, my actions, were protecting them directly. This, here… the Crimea… may I speak bluntly?”
“Of course.”
“I feel, sir, that it is a lost cause. Nothing we do, nothing we can even consider doing here, will keep the Ukrainians out in the long run. Even the Crimea’s population is divided over its loyalties.”
That was certainly true enough. During the last free elections held here, a slight majority had voted to remain with Ukraine, rather than be readmitted to Russia. The region’s current status, as an autonomous district loosely tied to Ukraine but still administered by Russia, by the Russian military no less, satisfied no one.
Dmitriev studied his subordinate’s face for a moment. Kulagin’s expression was that of a man who expected to be struck. Dmitriev only nodded, however, and gave the aide a reassuring smile. “I appreciate your candor, Anton. And I understand your concern. You must trust me, however, when I say that Operation Miaky is the one hope we have now. It will be our salvation, not a mass retreat, not abandoning our duty, and certainly not Boychenko’s treason.”
Miaky, was the local name for a cold wind that blew south across the beaches near Yalta, sweeping down out of Angarski Pass in the chain of mountains that created a stone wall across the southern Crimea. That wind, though, was not so cold as the sound of the word “treason,” as it hung there in the room between them for long seconds after Dmitriev spoke it.
“Is that how you believe Krasilnikov’s people will see it?” Kulagin asked. “As treason?”
“Certainly. General Boychenko was tasked with the responsibility of defending the Crimean Military District against all enemies, against all threats, whether they be Blues, Ukrainians or Americans. He proposes to abandon that responsibility, to turn it all over to the United Nations. To foreigners. What is that, if not treason? You might mention that to those personnel you speak with who are so eager to return to the Rodina. They seem to think Krasilnikov’s people will receive them back gladly. It could be that they would be seen back there as accessories to Boychenko’s crime.”
Kulagin swallowed. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“I, I see, sir. I understand.”
His veiled threat, Dmitriev knew, was exaggeration, almost certainly.
The days were long gone when an entire military unit numbering some tens of thousands of men would be rounded up and imprisoned or shot en masse because of its commander’s inadequacies. Terror might have worked as a means of inspiring men in Stalin’s day, but the breakdown in command authority within the former Soviet military hierarchy, from top to bottom, made such measures counter-productive at best. Besides, trained manpower was too scarce within the Rodina these days to carelessly squander it to satisfy ego or wounded vanity.
But he desperately needed to hold his command together for a short time longer. Operation Miaky had been scheduled for two days hence… as soon as final preparations could be made for readying the Black Sea Fleet for what would probably be its final sortie.
Miaky would be a cold wind indeed this time, one that would make its chill felt clear across the Black Sea… and beyond to the rest of the world.
1332 hours (Zulu +3)
Yalta, Crimean Military District
“ETA six minutes, gentlemen.” The noise of the helicopter’s engine made it hard for Tombstone to hear the pilot even over his headphones. “I’ve got clearance from the Russkis to land at the airport.”
“Then take her the hell on in,” Captain Greg Whitehead shouted into his headset mike. “The faster we get out of the air, the better I’ll like it!”
Tombstone leaned back in his hard seat. He had to agree with Whitehead’s assessment of the situation. This whole idea of accepting the surrender of an entire Russian military administrative district had come up on such short notice that no one really knew what was happening… and if that was true for the Americans in the battle group, it must be even more so for the Russian forces. The chance of yet another accident in this deployment ― this time of Russian antiaircraft downing an incoming unidentified helicopter ― was greater than Tombstone really cared to think about. He would have infinitely preferred flying in on an F-14 to this slow, bumpy, and terribly exposed approach in one of Guadalcanal’s CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopters. At least he could have distracted himself by concentrating on the controls.
But he wasn’t an aviator today, or even CAG. He was ― God help me ― a diplomat and a news media liaison, and neither diplomats nor media liaisons came roaring into hostile territory in an F-14 with afterburners blazing, however attractive the image might be.
Magruder looked around the compartment, studying the other passengers ― all bundled up in flight suits and life jackets and bulky Jefferson-issue cranials. Most of the others in the group looked as uncertain as he felt. Captain Whitehead was Admiral Tarrant’s chief of staff, and as such was the man in command of the shore party. He looked collected enough, but the faces of the rest showed a mixture of worry, nervous expectation, and emotions rigidly held in check. He wondered if he was as transparent as the others.
Commander Sykes was present, of course, and four other staff officers, ranging from another full commander named Sedgwick to a lowly lieutenant j.g. from Jefferson’s OZ division named Eugene Vanyek. Enlisted personnel included Chief Radioman Joseph R. Geiger, a short, thickset man with heavy features and the indestructible look of chiefs throughout the Navy, and seven Marines in full battle dress who’d been asked to come along to provide security. All together, counting Magruder, there were fifteen men and two women on the flight, which meant that the huge transport helo’s cargo bay was about half-full. The CH-53 wasn’t normally carried aboard the Jefferson, which relied on the smaller Seahawks for most of its helicopter needs, but with so many people going ashore at once, Jefferson had borrowed the CH-53 from the Marine carrier, which had joined the Jeff on station the afternoon before.
He glanced across the Stallion’s huge cargo compartment and caught Joyce Flynn watching him. She grinned at him, with perhaps a trace of nervousness behind her dark eyes, and winked. The enlisted woman sitting beside her, an ordnanceman second class named Natalie Kardesh, had her arms folded across her chest and appeared to be asleep, though the front of her cranial was down so far Tombstone couldn’t see her eyes. She’d been included on this flight because she spoke fluent Russian.
It was Flynn who concerned him, though. Why, why had it been Tomboy who’d volunteered for this party?
Tarrant, he knew, had specifically wanted some women along on the flight, especially one of fairly senior rank with flight status, and Tomboy certainly qualified on both counts. The admiral’s reasoning, Tombstone assumed, was that there would be lots of news personnel ashore ― including ACN’s Pamela Drake, of course ― and he wanted to be sure that the U.S. Navy’s progressive attitude concerning women in combat roles was well documented. The coming negotiations with Boychenko’s people would have a high profile in the media, and Samantha Reed and her cronies back Stateside would see and approve. Politics, pure and simple… and it grated against Tombstone to see political standards ― worse, standards of political correctness ― used to make decisions such as who would go ashore on this mission, rather than more straightforward considerations such as who was best qualified.
And of all the women aboard the Jefferson, why did it have to be Joyce?
She’d flown as his RIO over the Kola Peninsula seven months before, when the squadron had been shorthanded and an alpha strike had been needed against a Russian Typhoon submarine base. They’d been shot down, had punched out together, and she’d broken a leg on landing. When he’d reached her, a Russian soldier was already there, standing over her; in a blurred confusion of a firefight that would have been funny had the situation not been so deadly, Tombstone and Tomboy both had shot the man with their service pistols before he could reach his AK. A recon force of U.S. Marines had arrived shortly afterward, beating a large Russian unit in a race to the downed fliers by two minutes.
The two of them had shared… something. Call it the camaraderie shared by all warriors who face fire and death together. Or the camaraderie of people who owe one another their lives; in that last desperate firefight, as they’d tried to bring the Russian soldier down with pistols before he could bring his AK to bear, they’d saved each other’s lives. She’d then demanded he leave her and save himself, and he’d refused. There was a bond there, as undeniable as it was deep. It was not sexual, either, though Tombstone could easily imagine it becoming such.
But he was engaged to Pamela Drake. At least he assumed they were still engaged. They never wrote much in the best of times, and after that last quarrel… Well, he guessed they’d both needed time to cool down. Perhaps they could patch things up now that she was coming out here. He grinned to himself as he wondered if Pamela would understand the warriors’ bond, the mutual friendship of military professionals that he shared with Tomboy Flynn.
Tombstone often thought of those hours on the Kola Peninsula… just as he tried not to think about what would have happened if the Russians had gotten there first. Lobo ― Lieutenant Chris Hanson ― had been captured that same afternoon.
It wasn’t, he told himself, just the fact that female combat personnel might be ― often were ― raped or otherwise sexually assaulted when they were captured. Despite the Geneva Convention, a protocol that somehow seemed almost quaint nowadays in its assumptions that signatories would obey the limits it set, POWS could be subjected to a variety of indignities, assaults, and outright tortures, both physical and mental, regardless of their sex. No, his concern went deeper, to the very basic question of whether women should serve in combat at all, partly because of the physical threat to them, of course, but more because of the damage it did to the military system that Tombstone was a part of.
Tombstone was still old-fashioned enough to believe that biology had assigned men the task of defending home and hearth… a decidedly sexist attitude that he’d learned to keep to himself in these days of political correctness and enlightened attitudes toward women at the higher levels of both the military and the political bureaucracies. He was more
than willing to admit that many women tended to be not only the equals but the superiors of men in some combat-related skills, especially technical skills like flying an aircraft, which required dexterity and brains as opposed to the upper-body strength demanded of grunts on the ground. They resisted G-forces better, were often more dexterous, and frequently dealt with stress better than their male counterparts.
But no matter how many directives there might be descending from Washington, the fact remained that men were men, and men acted differently when women were present. All the rhetoric about equality and all the regulations and orders in the world couldn’t overcome the biological instincts that led men to want to protect women when they were in danger, instincts that could completely scramble a mission. “Striker” Strickland had disobeyed orders trying to protect Lobo after she’d been brought down, and he’d paid for it with his life and the life of his RIO. A ZSU had knocked them out of the sky as they came in low for a strafing run.
There was no question at all in Tombstone’s mind that this visit ashore was dangerous. While not technically a war zone, the Crimea could become one at any moment. Worse, the Russian men and officers present would have nervous trigger fingers ― and might be less than pleased to see Americans on Russian soil. Seven U.S. Marines with M-16s would not be able to provide much in the way of a defense if things turned sour.
There were, of course, the UN personnel already on the ground in the Crimea. According to the word Tombstone had gotten last night, they’d flown in yesterday from Turkey, part of the same contingent slated for peacekeeping activities in Georgia. Most were administrators and negotiators, but there were supposed to be about fifty Spanish troops along to provide security for the group.
Not a hell of an army, no matter how you looked at it.
“Hey, CAG?” It was Tomboy’s voice, speaking over the Sea Stallion’s intercom. “What kind of a reception do you think they’ll lay on for us?”
Afterburn c-7 Page 17