Brink of War c-13

by Keith Douglass

  4

  Saturday, 19 December

  0800 Local (+3 GMT)

  Arkhangelsk, Russia

  Vice Admiral Tombstone Magruder

  The transition from life at sea to life ashore is always a bit awkward for me. It's odd to realize that more than half of my adult life has been spent living on aircraft carriers, in accommodations ranging from the cramped rabbit warrens of junior officer berthing to the more luxurious accommodations afforded a flag officer. Ashore, before my marriage to Tomboy, I'd lived in a series of increasingly comfortable and spacious apartments and town homes, occasionally buying one for a couple of years during a shore tour, only to revert to renter status with my next deployment. Being surrounded by the gray bulkheads of a Navy ship has more the sense of home to me than the plasterboard walls and brick of an apartment or house ashore.

  Thus, when I awoke the first morning on Russian soil, the sense of disorientation didn't unduly alarm me. The first few days ashore were always like that.

  It set in deeper, however, as I realized where I was. My compartment in the senior officers quarters at Arkhangelsk base were almost comparable to those I would have been afforded in a U.S. Navy facility. They were spacious, consisting of two large rooms comprising a suite. Both the bedroom and the sitting room were furnished in an ornate, ponderous decor replete with gilt and heavy brocade. The entire effect was one of leftover Czarist regalia rather than bleak Communist accommodations.

  At one end of the sitting room was a small, efficiency-style kitchen.

  I availed myself of the coffeepot, after sniffing suspiciously at the slightly stale brown grounds that were labeled "coffee" in Russian. I don't speak much Russian, just what I remember from a year of it at the Academy, but I knew the alphabet well enough to translate most of the more common words. While the coffee was brewing, I hunted down my bathroom and then conducted a more detailed examination of my quarters.

  I'd had one-bedroom apartments ashore that contained less total square footage than these two rooms and the private head. The bathroom in particular was a study in contradictions, with a heavy archaic claw-footed tub side-by-side with a modern glassed-in shower cubicle. I tried the tap experimentally, and found that there was hot water, although it was a bit rusty at the start.

  I heard the burbling hiss of the coffeepot in the sitting room cease, and wandered back in for my first cup of the day. I settled into a richly tapestried chair pulled up to a heavy wooden table/work area. Then looked around for a coaster or a saucer, something to prevent making any stain on the beautifully inlaid wood.

  I was willing to bet my counterpart in the Russian Navy didn't live quite so well. Reports had surfaced for months that the officers had not been paid for almost six months, and I wondered at the tenacity and devotion to duty that kept them serving even without that. I supposed supporting their families and maintaining living quarters was a different matter under the Communist state, but still ― I tried to imagine Tomboy's reaction should my paychecks suddenly cease, and shuddered.

  There was a polite tap on the door, followed by scuffling of feet. I downed the rest of my coffee, then, still clad in my bathrobe, went to the door. I opened it a crack and peered out.

  Admiral Ilanovich's aide was standing at attention a respectful distance from my doorjamb.

  "With compliments from the admiral," he began, his voice stiff and correct. "If the admiral so pleases, would you care to join the admiral for breakfast?"

  "Sure. Give me a couple of minutes to get cleaned up and get some clothes on." I opened the door a bit wider. "Come on in, have a seat while you wait. Want some coffee?"

  The young Navy officer's face paled. Whatever he expected from the devil American capitalist admiral, it wasn't this. "May it please the admiral," he began, then fell silent as the need for tact exceeded his language abilities. I could see on his face that he was trying to puzzle it out, how to politely and respectfully refuse my invitation without offending this important American visitor.

  I sighed. If I insisted, he would come in. Even have a cup of coffee. But the entire event would no doubt be followed by a series of increasingly aggressive interviews by the KGB, GRU, Border Patrol, or whatever else passed for internal security in the Russian society today. I wouldn't force that on him.

  "I'll be right out," I said, and shut the door firmly behind me. I thought I heard a sigh of relief as I did so.

  I hurried through my morning routine, not skimping but not overdoing it either. This was a breakfast between equals, not a command performance on my part. I would go, I would talk politely with the admiral, but I would not be intimidated. Not even after yesterday.

  I paused while shaving, and reviewed the results of Skeeter's first engagement the day before. He'd been a fool, a damned fool to violate the imaginary floor set for the engagement. I'd been ready to scalp him alive, until I realized how that would look to our Russian hosts. I was glad I resisted that first murderous impulse when my RIO took me aside and quietly explained what had actually happened.

  The altimeter ― well, we'd make doubly certain we checked mine today, along with everything else that I had learned could go wrong in over twenty years of flying Tomcats. I doubted that the Russians wanted to kill us ― or to seriously sabotage our aircraft in any way. But if there were ways to subtly make us look inferior, to insure Russian superiority in each flying engagement, I wouldn't put tricks like the altimeter past them.

  I had more to worry about than altimeters, though. Skeeter's little friend had made that clear. In a few quickly whispered phrases, she'd indicated that she knew why I was here. And, moreover, that she was going to help me.

  It was her last sentence that worried me the most. Worried me, and at the same time sent a thrill of joy skittering down through my guts. He's alive.

  How could she know? What could she know?

  I finished shaving, then stared at the small array of clothes I'd brought with me, deciding what to wear. Finally, I settled on my favorite ― a worn, well-washed flight suit, its fabric softened to the texture of chamois cloth by repeated trips to the mangling machinery of the ship's laundry. Maybe too informal, but it's what I would have worn every morning given a choice.

  I reconsidered at the last moment. The khakis, perhaps. Ribbons, my wings ― yes, the khakis. I slid the flight suit back into my closet with a small sigh of regret and slipped into the khakis.

  The young guard was still standing at attention outside my doorway when I finally emerged ten minutes later. He stiffened, clicked his feet together audibly, and rendered another sharp salute. I returned it casually and said, "Lead on, son."

  "At once, Admiral." He hesitated, as though waiting for me to precede him, until I pointed out, "I'm not sure I know the way. Would you please go first?"

  He nodded, and led the way down a passage to the front door of the quarters. The reception area was furnished in the same style as my quarters, improbably elaborate for a bastion of Communist virtue. A Zil sedan was waiting outside for us, a driver standing at attention next to the backseat passenger's door. The engine was running and gouts of steam spewed from the tailpipe in the frosty air.

  I slid into the backseat, grateful for those perquisites of rank that allow one to insist on a preheated car in the morning. Nice in Washington, D. C., almost critical here in northern Russia.

  The sky was still brilliant and blue, the air cold and thick. Perfect flying weather if there were no danger of icing. Aircraft love cold air, since it's more dense and provides more lift.

  Ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of Admiral Ilanovich's residence. Before I could even start to get out, the young Navy officer had popped out of the front seat and rushed to open my door. He saluted again as I emerged, and again I acknowledged the courtesy. The driver stayed with the car. I wondered if he would keep the engine running until breakfast was over.

  Admiral Ilanovich was waiting for me, in a small, bright room at the back of the house. As I walked into the room, h
e gestured to a cook, who disappeared from the room, and returned shortly with steaming covered platters and fresh coffee.

  We exchanged morning pleasantries, comments about the weather, and I expressed appreciation for his invitation and remarked on the luxury of my accommodations. Admiral Ilanovich gestured expansively. "We are honored at your visit. It is the least we can do, to show our appreciation for your participation in this opportunity to strengthen ties between our two services." Tactfully put, I thought. I sipped the cup of coffee his steward had placed in front of me, noting it was a better quality than that stocked in my room. Evidently the lack of normal paychecks was not having a serious effect on the admiral's own lifestyle, though I wondered about that of his subordinates.

  "So, we fly today, yes?" the admiral said pleasantly. "I am quite looking forward to it." "So am I," I said, reaching out to take another biscuit from the warm, cloth-covered bowl. "It must be the same for you as for me ― entirely not enough time flying, is there?"

  Ilanovich chuckled. "Our duties ashore take up far too much time, do they not? I wonder, my friend ― I may call you that, I hope ― if you've ever considered whether it might be possible to decline a promotion? Have you ever been so tempted, as I have been?" He leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach appreciatively at the breakfast. "After all, we joined our services to fly, not to sign our name to what must be every piece of paper required to run our great fleets."

  I had to laugh at that. "Of course, I've considered that. But it was no more a possibility, not really, for me than for you. Rank has its responsibilities, does it not?"

  "And its privileges." Admiral Ilanovich leaned across the table to stare at me. "For instance, I was allowed to nominate myself for this particular goodwill mission. As a result, I was able to justify much more time flying this last month than I normally would have had. After all, it would not do for me to be out of practice when meeting so formidable an adversary as the famous Tombstone Magruder."

  "I'm afraid my reputation is overestimated," I said slowly, not sure where the conversation was headed at this point. What point was he trying to make, that he'd researched my career and knew a bit about my flying?

  That was no surprise ― I would hardly have expected less.

  Similarly, our own U.S. intelligence agencies had provided me with a wealth of professional data on Admiral Ilanovich. I knew he'd spent extensive time flying in Afghanistan, had cut his teeth on ground attack aircraft against those deadly, unpredictable air defenses. He'd risen quickly through the ranks, survived numerous changes in the political climate, and fared even better under Gorbachev. He was one of the few naval officers to survive the dissolution of the Soviet Union and emerge even stronger, in both a political and military sense, afterward. Clearly, whatever his skills in the air, he was just as potent a politician as he was an aviator.

  "We will have to make certain that none of our subordinates understand just how much enjoyment we get from flying," I said finally. "And I think you'll find our MILES gear provides a stunningly accurate methodology for reconstructing the engagements." "Ah yes ― the engagements." He smiled blandly, his eyes shuttered and closed. "The original plan was for the best three out of four encounters, both between our younger aviators and between you and me. Is that still satisfactory?"

  I nodded. "Entirely so. Unless you had a change of mind?" Now, that would make me uneasy, a change of plans at this late a date.

  "No, no ― not I." He gestured at the double-paned windows behind us, at the clear sky and brilliant morning sunlight. "But it may be that the weather has other plans for us. There are reports of an approaching storm system that may delay our schedule for several days. All of today should be fine, but later in the week we may have weather problems. I, for one, am not inclined to risk either men or equipment in inclement weather."

  "Of course. Never during peacetime." I smiled.

  "Peacetime. Yes, it is odd, isn't it?" He glanced out the window, as though reassuring himself that the weather had not changed during the last few seconds. "There are no time limits on our engagement today, my new friend. Given that it has been so long since I've been in combat, perhaps you'll allow a few warm-up maneuvers? It's so rare that I have this chance."

  I heard the wistful note in his voice and recognized it immediately.

  He wouldn't ask outright, not in so many words. But Admiral Ilanovich had just suggested that we dog it for a while in the air, take our time warming up and playing around before we got down to the business at hand. I liked him for that, and agreed immediately.

  We finished breakfast on a pleasant note, each assuring the other of our undying friendship and professional respect.

  My driver was waiting, with the car engine running. We went through the usual litany of salutes, and I was chauffeured back to my quarters.

  Once there, I shed the khakis and slipped into my flight suit. Our first brief was scheduled for a little over two hours from now, so I thought I might head out to the airfield ahead of time and have a look at my bird.

  I stuck my head out the door and saw my assigned Russian aide/gopher still standing at attention in the passageway. He looked surprised to see me. "Sir?"

  "Let's go out to the airfield," I said firmly. The startled look on his face told me all I needed to know ― that my escort was not overjoyed at the fact of one Admiral Tombstone Magruder departing from his schedule of activities. But he made no protest, simply allowed me to step in front of him and lead the way out to the front of the building.

  My car was waiting there, albeit without the engine running this time.

  I waited inside at the officer's insistence while he hunted down the driver, had him warm up the car, then bring it up close to the front door to minimize my exposure to the frigid air. I had on my leather flight jacket over my flight suit, as well as my heavy gloves, but the cold still bit into me with all the viciousness of arctic air.

  Ilanovich had mentioned an approaching storm, but I saw no trace of it right now. Still, I could imagine how quickly it might develop. How utterly impassable the roads would become with an additional five to six feet of snow dumped on them.

  We approached the hangar, and the driver spoke briefly into a portable radio lying on the seat next to him. The heavy doors rolled out of the way, and we pulled to a stop inside the hangar itself.

  The two Tomcats were carefully spotted some distance apart from each other, and there was no indication of any untoward activity taking place around either one. The driver had pulled up in front of my own bird, the double nuts one.

  This time, I let myself out of the backseat before the officer could scurry around to open it for me. I walked up to my Tomcat, and ran a hand over the smooth, sleek skin. It was freshly painted, lustrous and unmarred by overwork.

  "Does the admiral require assistance?" my officer escort asked, now clearly nervous. I shook my head and waved a hand in dismissal. Enough of playing the games ― I wanted some time alone to look at my aircraft.

  The officer took up station a short distance away, again falling into a stiff parade rest position. The driver remained with the car, evidently at a loss. I started around the aircraft, first checking the nose wheel gear and the struts. I looked for evidence of any leaks, of any working or fraying on the joints, or anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing ― indeed it looked as though someone might have wiped it down with a soft rag to remove any traces of dust or grime.

  I moved on to the avionics bays, checking to make sure each door was still securely locked. I produced the ring of keys from a side pocket of my flight suit and opened each door carefully, checking for any evidence of tampering. Not that our locks would have kept any really determined spy out, but at least I could hope there might be some evidence of tampering.

  There was nothing. I rapped experimentally on one wing ― yes, the bird had been fueled, but that appeared to be it.

  "Good morning, Admiral." I recognized the voice of my RIO, even from a distance. "You're up
early, sir."

  "Just wanted to get a look at her, Gator." I patted the double nuts bird lightly on the fuselage. "You're pretty early, yourself."

  My RIO shook his head. "Got bored so I thought I'd come on down here and take a look at her." I read the unspoken suspicion in his face. We went over the Tomcat thoroughly for about an hour, lapsing into the easy companionship a pilot-RIO team should have. We talked tactics, emergency procedures, and we both had one factor clearly in mind during that. There would be no ejection over water, not if there were any way to avoid it.

  Our chances of survival would be so close to zero as to preclude any discussion of the matter.

  Our adversaries showed up about an hour later, along with the umpire selected for the engagement. Of course, the MILES gear was the ultimate arbitrator of win-loss. We reviewed again the ground rules for the engagements, reemphasizing the altitude limitations. Off to my right I saw Skeeter wince slightly at that, but there was no help for it.

  Grueling and brutal honesty is the only way to keep pilots from repeating each other's mistakes.

  Neither Admiral Ilanovich nor I made any mention of our discussion over breakfast. But the understanding hung in the air, a clear gentleman's agreement between us. We'd both adhere to it, I knew, as long as we were certain the other fellow was, but national pride would demand that that all change in a heartbeat if it looked like the other guy was cheating.

  Cheating ― an oddly mild word to use about aerial combat. But then, these were odd circumstances.

  Finally, interminable safety discussions later, our aircraft were towed out of the hangar by the ubiquitous yellow gear that dots every airfield, and positioned on their assigned spots. Gator and I ran one final preflight around the outside, double-checking the smell and consistency of the fuel. We agreed that everything looked all right, and Gator stepped back to let me precede him into the aircraft. I could feel the cold seeping in through my flight boots, even though I'd worn two pairs of socks. It gnawed away at my leather gloves through the steps up the side of the Tomcat, and if any part of my skin had been exposed, I know it would have frozen to the metal immediately.