Ever since their earliest days, submarines have been weapons of terror. Until the last couple of decades, we'd had no way of knowing where they were, no way of tracking them with any degree of certainty, other than by saturating the air around the ships and hoping the submarines came up to snorkel. But with the advent of the nuclear-powered submarine, snorkeling had become unnecessary. Besides that, the age of Hyman Rickover and the nuclear submarine had upped the tactical stakes in two ways. First, the nuclear submarines were fast as hell underwater, while their diesel brethren were limited to either slow speed or being submerged for a short time. Second, the weapons were far more deadly. Without even getting into the devastation that one ballistic-missile submarine can wreak, the nuclear-tipped torpedoes alone could crack the keel of any ship. Even a big ship like a carrier.
Submarines just seemed so damn sneaky. They were undetectable, slipping silently beneath the water. It seemed so fundamentally a terrorist act to deploy them. At least, that's how the British had classified it in several world wars. I was inclined to agree with them. And now that they could shoot at aircraft too, with these extruding missile launchers mounted in the sail, there was even more to worry about.
I was hoping our couple of bombing runs, along with some political pressure, might bring the Vietnamese to the bargaining table. It's not like we were out to invade them. All we wanted to know was whether or not they had a nuclear-weapons manufacturing plant, and if so, who they were selling the weapons to. Moreover, we wanted them to stop. Now.
Two major strikes against their airfield ought to get their attention, at least. I knew other things were going on as well, behind the scenes. Diplomatic conferences, exchanges of pointed remarks between envoys, and our own Ambassador Sarah Wexler was raising holy hell in the United Nations about nuclear proliferation, the unprovoked strike attack against our aircraft, and just about anything else that could be force-fed to her by her staff. Don't get me wrong, Ambassador Wexler is a hell of a lady. She's maybe Tomboy's size, a little on the slight side, but chunkier, older, if you know what I mean.
In the last several years, I'd seen her take on the Chinese toe-to-toe, and after that the Cubans. The way she'd thrashed them up one side of the table and down the other, I'd almost pitied them. She would have made a hell of a fighter pilot.
But so far, Ambassador Wexler wasn't getting too far. The Vietnamese kept pulling out of conferences in a huff, insisting we were the aggressors, that we'd conducted unprovoked bombing attacks against a hospital facility and a children's camp.
Yeah, right. Even Vietnamese children don't get SAM sites for recess breaks. The claims of the Vietnamese were so far from the truth as to be absolute lies, although of course Ambassador Wexler wasn't calling them that. She knew how to play tough, yet still give them some room to save face, and sometimes I thought my job on the carrier might be a hell of a lot easier than hers. We've got a saying ― kill them all and let God sort them out. Ambassador Wexler didn't have that luxury.
In addition to dealing with the Vietnamese delegation, she also had to soothe the worries of myriad other nations that felt threatened or beleaguered because of the conflict. Laos, Cambodia, even Japan ― all were in an uproar, desperately trying to decide which side of the fence to sit on.
Add to the mix the silent, ominous presence of China. They figured prominently in every conflict in that area, and I had no doubt that they had some delicate, hidden hand to play in this. Maybe they were the primary customers of the alleged nuclear plant, although I couldn't see how they'd need it. Or maybe this had something to do with trade, expanding China's backyard into a solid phalanx of political support against the United States. God knows they'd been flexing their muscles ever since they took over Hong Kong, becoming increasingly belligerent about everything from the Spratly Islands to the importation of rice into Japan.
Despite all the factors warring against it, eventually the overtures came. Not to me at first, although they eventually trickled down to my level. Instead, underlings at both State and the United Nations started agreeing with their Vietnamese counterparts that there should at least be a conference ― a discussion, if you will ― to sort out conflicting interests in the area. No mention was made of the attack on Jefferson, nor of the pilots and aircraft I'd lost.
For their part, the Vietnamese refrained from blustering about the air strikes. Diplomatic notes were exchanged, arrangements were made. Finally, the beginning of a consensus.
What it all boiled down to was that Jefferson was going to play host to a group of U.S. and Vietnamese officials. They'd argued for two days about whether the conference would take place inside or outside Vietnamese territorial waters, finally settling on giving me rudder orders to delicately patrol the exact twelve-mile limit off the coast. Thank God for the global positioning system ― GPS. It's the only way to get an accurate enough position to make mat sort of political statement.
When things start moving, they move fast. The delegations would be arriving soon, alternating Vietnamese and American flights out to Jefferson, the pecking order and time of arrival carefully calculated to slight the least number of feelings.
I'd pointed out that receiving a peace delegation on board in the middle of bombing the crap out of their country was a bit inconsistent, to say the least. But State and Defense hardly ever talk, and neither one was backing down from their respective schedules. Maybe they had thought it out and figured they were sending some sort of message.
An aircraft carrier is big, but not so big that you can absorb forty people, all of whom rate high-status quarters, without displacing some permanent residents. We did a quick shuffle, bunking senior officers in with each other, and finally had enough staterooms.
The first aircraft arrived at 1700, a CH46 ferrying out from Vietnam to Jefferson, containing a contingent of U.S. representatives on board. They were mostly underlings, advance men who immediately tried to take command of the ship and rearrange my world to their liking.
It didn't work. I held them off, waiting for the arrival of the heavy hitters.
Finally, they came. First a load of Vietnamese underlings, then the U.S. helo carrying Ambassador Sarah Wexler. I watched the entire evolution from the tower, hoping and praying to God that some dumb fuck wouldn't pick this very moment to do something stupid. Not in front of all these people.
Ambassador Wexler's helicopter settled down onto the deck gracefully, and the plane captains raced out to help secure the aircraft and to escort its esteemed cargo across the flight deck. I watched, my stomach knotted, certain that some young plane captain would choose just this moment in time to try to move an F14 or turn an engine and suck the ambassador right down the intake.
Minutes later, the Vietnamese VIP helicopter signaled its approach. Its pilot came in gracefully, settling neatly on the deck as though he did it every day of his life. I was somewhat impressed, although the deck of an aircraft carrier is not that tough a target. Still, it does take some getting used to, hovering and sinking down over a moving airfield.
The Vietnamese senior VIP disembarked from the helicopter last, as befitted his status. The plane captains lined up on either side escorted him to the island, where he was greeted by the same side boys that had just welcomed Ambassador Wexler. The 1MC announcement went off smoothly.
So far, so good. Everybody on deck, nobody ingested by an aircraft engine. That had to count for something.
I raced back down the ladder and made it to the wardroom just as Ambassador Wexler and her counterpart were being escorted in. They'd already been relieved of their cranials, helmets that they'd worn during their flights, as well as their flotation devices.
Ambassador Wexler was much as I remembered her, a short, full-figured tiger of a woman who looked deceptively gentle and calm. She tendered me her hand, offered a warm smile, and said, "Thank you for having us, Admiral Wayne."
"Glad to have you aboard, Madam Ambassador," I replied politely. Yeah, like I'd had a choice.
Th
en I turned to her Vietnamese counterpart. "And you, sir, welcome aboard USS Jefferson. If there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, I do hope you or your staff will contact me personally at your earliest convenience."
The man studied me, his eyes dark and cold. No trace of warmth in his expression, I noted.
Not that I blamed him. He was looking at the son of a bitch who'd just bombed the hell out of his airfield and probably killed a lot of his men. Under the same circumstances, I'm sure I wouldn't have been much more pleasant.
He finally inclined his head, ever so slightly, the minimum sketch of courtesy required in his culture. I bowed slightly, more deeply than he had, determined not to let any inadvertent cultural faux pas muddy up the already turbulent waters of this conference.
"My Chief of Staff," I said to the man, introducing Irwin to both the Vietnamese and Ambassador Wexler.
Then I fell silent. The man's game was getting on my nerves a little bit. The message we'd received from State only gave us the number and approximate ranks of the Vietnamese visitors who would be arriving, not all of their names.
Not this man's name.
"May I notify my superiors of your safe arrival?" I asked finally. "if I could let them know, sir, that Ambassador…" I let my voice trail off delicately, waiting for him to fill in the missing name. Seems I had learned something in my D.C. tours after all.
"Than. Bien Than," he said finally.
"Admiral," the Chief of Staff said quietly. "If I could have your attention for a moment?"
I nodded, made my excuses, and stepped away from the dignitaries. "Jesus, what is it, COS?" I asked. "I'm a little busy right now, buddy."
COS nodded. "I wouldn't have interrupted you, not if it weren't important."
I let out a huge sigh. "Yeah, I know. So what is it?"
He pointed at the overhead. "Another Vietnamese helicopter inbound, Admiral. They say it's been cleared by State."
"Another one?" I hissed. "Jesus, I thought we got them all-"
"We did, Admiral," COS answered, taking a chance on interrupting me. "But I just talked to my liaison on State's staff, and they evidently overlooked mentioning this one in their last message. It belongs to the Vietnamese, though. And they want the people on board."
I tamped down my temper, and considered my options. Well, it didn't take long. There weren't any.
"Have the Air Boss get 'em on board then," I said, sighing. "Find out who they are ― damn it, we're going to have to rearrange the sleeping arrangements again, aren't we?"
COS nodded. "I'll take care of everything, Admiral. Just wanted to let you know."
COS exited quickly, clearly ahead of me on the details. He was like that, a good man, one who seemed to have developed the uncanny ability to read my mind ― or even read my subconscious, knowing what I wanted before I even knew it myself. He was talking about retirement ― damned if I'd let him go before I did.
I turned back to my guests and made polite small talk as I heard the ship go to Flight Quarters, then the distinctive whop-whop of a large helicopter approaching my deck. I heard it land roughly, its skids scraping across the deck for far longer than they should have for a controlled landing. I held my breath for a moment, praying that some idiot wasn't going to slam his stupid rotary wing into one of my aircraft.
Finally, the skidding stopped, and I heard the engine start to spool down along with the rotors. My heart started beating again.
"So we'll begin at eight tomorrow morning then?" Ambassador Wexler said calmly. "If, of course, that is agreeable to you, Ambassador Than?"
"Perhaps a little earlier," he said smoothly. "Seven-thirty perhaps?" His voice was perfectly understandable, only the barest trace of an accent in it. Educated abroad, I'd guess ― maybe England, judging from an odd emphasis on certain words.
"Seven-thirty then," Ambassador Wexler agreed promptly. She tendered a charming smile, as though the first minor chivying for position had not just been played out right in front of me. "There will, however, be a limited choice of facilities." She waved one hand gracefully as though to take in the whole of Jefferson. "As large as this ship is, space is still at a premium." She smiled even more politely now, dimpling one chin. "Under the circumstances, with so much important to discuss, I'm certain the captain's normal rectangular table will be more than adequate for our needs. Don't you agree?"
And counter-serve. I watched the two bandy back and forth, balancing and trading off the small details of the meeting. Unbelievable that there could be a discussion about tea versus coffee when so many of my aviators were dead.
"Dinner will be served at six-thirty," I said finally, not giving either one of them a chance to table the matter for discussion. "I do hope that you, Ambassador" ― I nodded to Sarah Wexler ― "and you as well," I added, nodding to Than, "will be able to join me in my cabin for a private meal. Your staffs, of course, are welcome to dine with mine here in the Flag Mess."
"What a kind offer," Ambassador Wexler murmured. She cast a sly glance at me. "Of course, if there are matters that you and I must discuss privately, Admiral-"
"I would be pleased to accept as well," Than broke in smoothly. "An opportunity to get better acquainted with Madame Wexler."
"Fine," I said, trying to sound like a hearty and well-intentioned host. In reality, I'd just as soon have slit the little bastard's throat and thrown him overboard, but again ― my options were limited.
Just then there was a clatter at the door leading into the mess. The Chief of Staff stepped in, looking agitated. It's not something I'd often seen from him. "Admiral," he began, and then was interrupted by people crowding into the mess behind him. I took one look at the cameras, the microphones, and the tape recorders now filling my Flag Mess, and started to roar.
Ambassador Wexler saved me. She stepped in front of me, between the Chief of Staff and myself, and said, "A press pool?" She turned back to Than, her face frowning prettily. "There was no discussion of a press pool. Was there?"
Than said nothing. He merely motioned for the rest of the people to come into my Flag Mess.
"Because since there wasn't," Sarah Wexler continued, her voice turning hard and cold, "I think we'd both agree that this would be an unreasonable imposition on Admiral Wayne's resources. These things must be coordinated in advance, you understand. Not simply arranged without consultation."
I recognized those words for what they were ― diplomatese for sneaking around behind someone else's back. Sarah Wexler was pissed, almost as much as I was, but for different reasons. I stepped back and let her handle it.
"Admiral! Admiral Wayne?" A familiar voice, one that cut through my anger to knot my stomach back into a complicated tangle. I felt my heart sink as I realized who it was. The one voice I had never, ever wanted to hear on my carrier again.
Pamela Drake stepped out from the pack of reporters. Her hair was cut short now, a bright, shining brown cap above the delicately featured face. The brilliant green eyes were blazing now, alive with excitement and sheer joy at the frustration she knew she was causing me. She walked forward, nodded politely to Ambassador Wexler and Ambassador Than, then extended her hand. "So nice to see you again, Admiral."
Faced with the choice of being publicly rude or following Sarah Wexler's diplomatic lead, I took her hand gingerly. "It's been quite some time, Ms. Drake," I murmured, hoping that would be sufficiently neutral an expression to avoid offending her.
Pamela's smile broadened. "Oh indeed it has, Admiral," She said softly, "Far too long, I think." She stepped forward, hooked her arm in mine, and led me off to a corner before I could even react. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, "The admiral and I are old friends. We have so very much to catch up on."
"Of course, my dear," Sarah Wexler murmured. She turned back to Than and began to speak the doublespeak of confrontation and innuendo that was her natural language at the United Nations.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded of Pamela. "How did you get out
here? Don't tell me you've got them bamboozled like you used to do to Tombstone?"
"Bamboozled? Really, Admiral." A look of annoyance shot across her face. "Tombstone is a big boy ― he makes his own choices." Something in her voice told me that she had not forgotten those choices, not a single one of them.
"Besides, it's a free world," she continued, tossing her head. "If ACN gets me a billet with the Vietnamese news pool, what business is it of yours? I was the perfect choice, you know. After all," she said, her eyes gleaming maliciously, "I spent an awful lot of time on Jefferson. An awful lot."
I groaned inwardly, and cast a glance over at Sarah Wexler, hoping that she was going to be able to work something out with Than about this press deal. The last thing I needed was Pamela Drake on board my ship, the last thing of all. Her very presence had a way of making the most well-planned and smoothly coordinated evolutions disentegrate into a series of sound bites and confrontations, all featuring star reporter Pamela Drake as the winning party. On those rare occasions when she didn't get her way, that portion of the film was simply cut from the story. News at eleven.
"My usual stateroom?" Pamela asked. "As I remember, the last time I was on board, Tombstone had me in there under armed guard. I hope that won't be necessary this time."
I took a deep breath. "Listen, Pamela. I don't know how or where you wangled your way out here, but while you're on my ship, you follow the same rules as everybody else. No poking around in spaces you're not supposed to be in, no going off on your own and quizzing my crew. I'll make photo opportunities available to you, as well as access to some of my sailors ― if you can give me a good reason why I should ― but other than that, you're under the same restrictions as everybody else. Fuck with me on this, Pamela, and I'll have your ass off my boat so fast you won't know what hit you."
A look of outrage was beginning to spread over her face, and I continued before she could start to protest. "Remember, I'm not Tombstone. You might have had him pussy-whipped about some things, or maybe it was just out of respect for your prior relationship. Whatever the reason, he cut you some slack on occasion ― and you abused that trust, Pamela. Don't think I'll forget that."
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