Chain of Command c-12

by Keith Douglass

  He patted my backseater's shoulder again, then glanced over at me. "Tell me what happened."

  I ran back through the parts I could remember, the last battle with the MiG and Gator command-ejecting us. Then General Hue, the guy I thought of as Fred, and the surprisingly easy time we had of it at first. And the dirt cave ― what it was like in there, the bombing, and the providential crack in the dirt ceiling that had finally led to freedom.

  I glossed over the time in the jungle, not remembering a lot of it. It didn't make any difference anyway ― what mattered was that we were here now. I concluded with "So we're headed back to the boat, Admiral?"

  He nodded. His expression had gotten markedly somber when I talked about the cave-ins and the cave, and now he looked angry. "You bet your ass we are," he said softly. "I've got some things to check out." He glanced around, making certain there was no one else in the room with us. I edged a bit closer to him.

  "Listen, Bird Dog, pay attention. This is important. On the off chance that one of us doesn't make it out, you've got to get word back to Admiral Wayne. Or to Lab Rat, or to any other senior official you can find. It's important ― so important, that if it comes down to sticking with me and Gator or getting off on your own and getting the information out, you've got to go. It's more important than either of our lives. You understand that?"

  I started to protest, and Tombstone grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me. "No arguments here, mister. There's more to fighting wars than killing MiGs. If this doesn't get back to the right people, more people are going to die than you ever thought possible in one war."

  "What's this about, sir?" I asked. I'd go along with it for now, make my own decision when I heard what the admiral had to say.

  So he told me. All of it. Everything from finding his father's Horace Greeley inscription scratched on a prison camp wall to the dosimeter he'd seen pinned to the uniform of the Chinese soldier in the last camp. When he finished, I didn't know what to say.

  "Will you promise me, Bird Dog?" he asked. "Swear that you'll do everything you can to get this stuff outta here. Swear it!"

  "I swear, Admiral." A heavy, dark feeling settled over my gut. The idea of abandoning Gator anywhere, even in the care of the admiral, was so utterly repulsive that I could barely stand to think about it. We'd been through so much together, almost died together too many times. He counted on me just like I counted on him ― it was something that went beyond mere trust. But this was important ― too important. The admiral was right.

  If he was telling the truth, one part of my mind said nastily. He could also be part of it, asshole. He's trying to mislead you, use you. There's something going on here that you don't understand.

  I ignored the voice. If you couldn't trust your admiral and your backseater, who could you trust then? And without that, then life wasn't worth a whole lot.

  Tombstone seemed satisfied by what he saw in my face, so he nodded and looked relieved. "I know I can count on you. Now, let's see how good these people are at keeping their word." He stood, brushed off his jungle garb, and left.

  I took his place beside Gator, watching carefully to see how he was doing. His fever seemed to be abating some, and his breathing was slow and steady. The knee was an ugly, swollen mass of purple and red, probably dislocated or permanently injured. Could he make it back to flight status?

  I wasn't sure, but his knee looked bad. I'd seen people permanently grounded for less.

  The arm was a problem too, although probably it could be fixed easier than the knee. That is, if they got ahead of the angry red infection I saw streaking in his skin now.

  All in all, Gator wasn't out of the woods yet. Or the jungle.

  Whatever else you can say for them, the Ukrainians had some decent communications gear. Tombstone later told me that they had a list posted on one wall in the radio shack of the clear circuits ― the ones without crypto gear on them ― that Jefferson used. It was a matter of just a few minutes to go out over military air distress frequencies to them, coordinate a change of frequencies, and then get Admiral Wayne on the other end.

  Jefferson's good, as good as they come. An hour and a half later, a CH-46 escorted by two F-14s was overhead, looking anxiously down at the landing zone and checking for wind and rotor clearance. There wasn't much space to spare, but the pilot made it. I know if I'd been in his shoes, nothing in the world would have kept me from getting on the ground.

  The admiral helped me carry Gator out to the helo. The Ukrainians had him on a stretcher, but I wasn't willing to trust them with this part of it ― Gator was my responsibility, mine alone. The admiral might have felt differently, but I knew he'd understand.

  That helo took off like it had afterburners, shooting up out of the trees that surrounded the LZ like sheer speed would compensate for any inadvertent contact with a tree branch. I damned near lost my lunch, what little of it I had left. Thirty minutes over the countryside, gazing down at it, I saw a swath of blackened land, evidence of some fire that had raged out of control. The one the admiral had told me about? I glanced over at him, and saw him nodding confirmation. "It was headed west," the admiral said. He pointed out the cave where they'd taken shelter to survive it.

  There wasn't much more to say. The admiral had asked me a couple of times about my experiences in the dirt cave where we'd been held, and I found myself markedly disinterested in talking about it. Every time I started to say something, the cloying, dank feeling came back to me. The suffocation, air compressed around us, watching Gator curled in a small pool of water on the deck… maybe someday I'd be able to talk about it ― but not now.

  I finally started breathing easy once we were over the beautiful blue waters off the coast of Vietnam. I stared out at the horizon searching for the one sure thing that constituted safety in my little world ― my aircraft carrier.

  And there she was finally, stately and serene on the horizon. At first, all I could see was the antennas, that giant air-search-radar mast bristling with electronics. Then as we approached, the rest of her came into view. And finally, gloriously, that beautiful, sacred flight deck that I'd faced so many times myself. After seeing the admiral's face in the jungle, this ranked high on my list of things I'd never forget.

  The deck was green, and we were waved in for a quick landing. The pilot took us in hard, slowing at the last moment to feather us back into a gentle landing. Corpsmen were crowding into the helicopter even before the rotors stopped turning, and they immediately took possession of Gator. This time, I gave him up. They could do more for him than I could.

  Tombstone turned to me, an exhausted look on his face. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and the lines in his face were deeply etched. He smelled too, though I wasn't about to point that out to him. No doubt my own personal body odor was just as disgusting.

  Again, the admiral seemed to be reading my thoughts. He smiled slightly, then said, "You look like shit."

  "With all due respect, Admiral, so do you." I tried to muster an answering smile, and found to my surprise that sheer relief let me do it.

  He stood, stretching slowly, waving off the corpsmen that were swarming around both of us. "I'm okay," he said. He looked over at me. "How about you?"

  "I'm fine," I said, following his lead. The urge to appear just too, too casual for my own good was upon me now. It's something we all do when we've pulled off some incredible hair-raising feat that never should have worked. We cool it, pretend like it was in the bag all the time. "What now, Admiral?" I asked.

  He fought off another medic, then shrugged. "We're going to go see Admiral Wayne ― both of us," he said as he caught my startled look. "You got a problem with that?"

  "Uh, no, sir," I said, hesitating for a moment. I remembered the last time I'd seen Admiral Wayne ― God, had it even been this decade? I'd been pissed about the flight schedule, stormed into his office, and demanded to get on it.

  Admiral Wayne should have shot me at that point, Hell, I would have shot me.

  The
prospect of seeing him again made my stomach flutter. But after the last week, I could handle a few nerves.

  "Let's get going then," the admiral said. "Before these guys and girls decide to nail us with some morphine and kidnap us down to Medical."

  "Uh, Admiral?" I asked. "Shouldn't we get cleaned up first? I don't know about you, but I'm pretty dirty." A massive understatement if there ever was one. I was caked in dirt from scalp to toes, even inside my tattered flight suit. Even worse, I felt like things were crawling on me. Tombstone laughed. "Batman's not going to mind," he said. "And the sooner I tell him what's going on, the sooner we can take care of the problem. C'mon ― besides, it'll be good for him. Getting exposed to what a real fighter pilot looks like for a change."

  12

  Admiral "Batman" Wayne

  30 September

  USS Jefferson

  The biggest messages sometimes come in curt, oddly accented voices barely audible through the crackle of static. This was one of those. Not only was Tombstone on his way back to the carrier, but he had a "friend" he wanted to bring along.

  Tombstone, Bird Dog, a stranger and Gator emerged from the helicopter, Gator on a stretcher. Until I'd actually seen them on my flight deck, I'd hardly dared to believe it was true. Tombstone I hadn't been certain about, but I'd been worried about his safety. And Bird Dog and Gator, as much as I hated to admit it, I'd virtually given up for lost. It was like seeing ghosts walk back across the flight deck. The gongs confirmed it, four of them, followed by the words "Admiral United States Navy." That shook me out of the silent fascination with the camera and brought me to my feet. I waited standing in the middle of my office, barely able to contain myself. I'd wanted to be up on the flight deck, just to see for myself. But with threat indications all over the board, I needed to be here, right next to TFCC.

  Tombstone would understand ― in my place, he would have done the same thing.

  There was no knock, no warning. The door to my office burst open, and I faced two of the dirtiest, filthiest, smilingest aviators I have ever seen in my life.

  Tombstone crossed the room in three quick strides and buried me in a bear hug so hard I thought he'd crack ribs. Good thing I was in my old khakis ― mud and dirt cascaded down off of him, smearing everything that he touched.

  Not that I cared. Hell, I would have let him hug me naked if he'd wanted to at that point.

  "You made it back," I finally said as Tombstone pulled back. There was a wholly joyous expression on his face, one of sheer pleasure in being alive.

  "Did you let Tomboy know?" he asked immediately. He glanced around the room. "I thought she'd be here."

  "She would have, if she'd known you were coming back in like this," I said. "She's flying CAP right now, on a double-cycle mission. Should be back on deck as soon as we get that piece-of-shit helicopter you flew in on out of the way."

  Then the stranger came into my office, and now I recognized him. He was Yuri Kursk, and it rankled having him on my ship. Things had a tendency to explode when he was around. I'd never been able to prove it, but I was convinced he was a player in too many dirty tricks on our last cruise. From the look on Kursk's face, Tombstone had already done a good job of convincing him what shallow ice he was on on board my ship.

  "But she knows?" Tombstone asked again. "You told her I'm okay, right?"

  "Yeah, we told her. She knows. She said to tell you after she hits the tanker, she'll buster back."

  Tombstone nodded, relief flooding his face. "It's just as well. Batman, I've got to talk to you." He gestured at Bird Dog, who was maintaining a politely nonchalant expression, pretending he hadn't watched two admirals pound each other on the back like old fools. "He needs to be here too," Tombstone continued. "Both of us have got things you have to know, but I'll go first."

  "Just a second," I said. I was used to Tombstone bossing me around, but damn it, this was my ship. And my pilot who'd just come back from the dead.

  I crossed over to Bird Dog and stood nose-to-nose with him for a moment, trying to scowl at him. "The next time you want me to put you on the flight schedule, I'm gonna say no," I said finally. "Damn fool ― getting yourself shot down."

  There was a startled expression on Bird Dog's face for a moment, replaced slowly by a grin. "I guess next time I won't come banging on your door, Admiral."

  I threw my arms around him, and gave him the same hard, quick hug that Tombstone had given me. Hell, I was already filthy, and I was so damn glad to see this young idiot back on my boat that it seemed the only right thing to do.

  "Welcome back, Bird Dog," I said finally. "Now you two go ahead and sit down ― hell, don't mind the couch. I'll replace it if I have to."

  With that, the two filthy aviators settled down on the couch in front of my glass table. Tombstone started first.

  He cut right to the chase, and confirmed the reports I'd received about a possible nuclear-production facility in Vietnam. He mentioned the dosimeter, then the details that pertained to Yuri Kursk. I knew better than to interrupt him. Tombstone had been in my shoes before, and he knew what would be important to me and what wouldn't. He glossed over some of the personal details, and I noted pain flitted through his face. I made a mental note to get him alone later, to find out what had really happened on his search for his father.

  "You need to hear about Bird Dog's adventure too," Tombstone concluded. "Start with General Hue," Tombstone ordered him.

  Bird Dog got through his tale just as quickly, albeit with a few more stumblings and a trace of braggadocio padding it out. He hadn't had the years of experience that Tombstone and I had had in debriefing admirals, and it showed. I caught Tombstone smirking slightly, and shook my head slightly to let him know I'd seen it, What we saw was us, sitting in front of us as we had sat in front of other admirals twenty years earlier.

  Finally, Bird Dog concluded his story. He sat quiet, obviously uncertain about whether we wanted him to remain here or to leave.

  "Go get a shower and some food, Bird Dog," I said gruffly. "Then get down to Intel ― Commander Busby is going to want to see you right away, I know."

  "Thank you, Admiral," he said, and stood. An expression of relief crossed his face. "I'll do that."

  After Bird Dog left, I gazed at Tombstone somberly. "You want to shower first, or do we go over the plans now?"

  "A quick planning session, then I'll shower," Tombstone said. He reached down, scratched at his crotch, and grimaced. "I'll tell you the rest of it after I'm cleaned up."

  I had the Chief of Staff call in my Strike Ops Officer, my Operations Officer, CAG, and Lab Rat. They all looked stunned as they walked into the room and took in Tombstone's condition, but they quickly masked their expressions. I cut through the pleasantries, and told them what we had to do.

  Strike nodded thoughtfully. "Sure, we can pull that one off. Plenty of weapons on board. The political and international implications, though, that's not in my ballpark. It's up to you, Admiral. How hard do you want to hit them?"

  Yuri Kursk spoke up immediately. "There can be no doubt that we have to eliminate this," he announced. "The site must be so completely demolished that there is no hope of extracting usable fissionable material from the debris. You understand that, of course?"

  "I understand enough," I said. The bastard had some nerve, sitting in my office and lecturing me after trying to shoot down a couple of my pilots. I ought to turn him over to the squadron and let them teach him a fatal lesson about attacking American forces.

  But hell, what Kursk wanted us to do was a good idea ― I went along with it completely ― but no pissant Ukrainian commander was going to start planning my operational missions for me. Bad enough that they'd had to trick us into doing what we would have done anyway, but like I said before ― this was my ship. The little shit needed to start learning that.

  "Dumb bombs is all we have left," the Operations officer said. "We used the penetrating rounds on the revetment. How heavily is this place fortified?"

&n
bsp; I glanced over at Lab Rat. "We can expect some concrete shielding, of course. The fact that they're wearing dosimeters means they're at least conscious of and paying attention to the radiation levels. Other nations are usually a lot less picky than we are, but I'd expect to see some degree of shielding."

  "How much?" Strike pressed. "Will the five-hundred-pound bombs do the job?"

  "You know anything about this, Kursk?" I asked, turning back to the Ukrainian. "Seems your intelligence has been pretty good to date."

  "I'd be speculating, Admiral," he said, a new note of respect in his voice. "But I would agree with Commander Busby. The odds are that the shielding is adequate, but just barely. Five-hundred-pound bombs should do it."

  "Well, then." I stood, dismissing the group. "Get your plans together ― I'd like to roll on this tonight, if we can."

  "Gonna be a tougher target at night," Strike said.

  "We've got good ground intel, though," Lab Rat answered. "I'm pretty confident on my SAM site locations, and I think you can get around them. We've put a lot of time into this one."

  To make up for the stuff that you didn't know last time, I added silently. Over the last week, Lab Rat had been clearly preoccupied by his failure to provide adequate intelligence to his aircrews. I was glad he would have this opportunity to make it up to them.

  "Tonight," I said, concluding the discussion. "Let's make it happen, gentlemen."

  They all left, except for Tombstone and Yuri Kursk.

  "And what about me, Admiral?" Yuri asked. "I wish to be a part of this ― it is my right."

  I wheeled on him. "Nobody has rights on board my ship unless I give them to them. You got that straight, mister?" While he might not be one of my junior officers, he was very definitely junior around here.

  Yuri nodded. "I must go with them," he repeated, as stubborn a man as I've ever seen stand in front of me. "I brought your Admiral Magruder back, I risked much in this plan ― I must be in on the final strike."