"Your young hotshot there needs to learn to read a map," Brent spat out. He jerked back on the Russian one last time, then relinquished his grip to a couple of other Russians. He took a moment to straighten his tie and jacket, and probably unwind the underwear that was in a knot.
"I navigated. I had to make a last-minute course correction to compensate for a SAM site, but we were right back on the proper approach within seconds." I had a feeling Mr. Smoothy wasn't going to be making much more progress with my backseater.
"Then you made a mistake. There wasn't a SAM site in this scenario."
"What's the point of it as a tactical test if every possible checkpoint is briefed? That's no way to train," Sheila shot back. But I could see from the look on her face that our thoughts were running in parallel. Judging from both Brent and Illya Kyrrul's reaction, something hadn't gone right.
More than that. It had gone very, very wrong.
"You were off the briefed approach by more than five miles," Brent said. He shot me another one of those looks that clearly indicated who he thought was at fault, despite Sheila's explanation. "Remember, this is a Russian training exercise, not Top Gun school in the States. Every evolution is briefed. No surprises."
"Then what was with the SAM site?" I asked. Both of them glared at me. Fine. I was flying the damned aircraft and I couldn't ask a simple question?
"You were way out of line," Brent said. "You were in the airspace around a research facility. And when you pulled your little jaunt off course, you got even farther away. What you hit was not a target. It was a small agricultural village."
"No." Sheila's voice was stunned and cold. I could understand why, if what Brent was saying was true.
But it had to be true, didn't it? After all, he was one of ours. We might expect the Russians to lie to us for some reason, but this gouge was coming from our own people.
"You didn't happen to wonder why there were people walking around outside?" Brent snapped.
"I didn't see anyone," I said, already feeling like I ought to be able to come up with some sort of plausible alternative explanation. What he was saying just didn't make sense. There was no way that Sheila was that far off the briefed plan, no way. "And I did a flyby for BDA and I didn't see any indication that that sight was anything other than a good ol' target. Here ― look at the charts." I started pulling out my briefing sheet from my kneeboard, the handy device that snaps around your upper leg and holds all the mission briefing crap. "Look."
Brent brushed the chart away. "You hit a civilian village. There's no way around that one, mister. And I don't care what you say ― after yesterday, we all know how careful you are about regulations and briefed restrictions."
"But look." I tried again, waving the chart around in the hope that I could get someone ― anyone ― to look at the info we'd been given for mission planning, our approach plan, and every other detail. "Look."
Stone-cold impassive Russian faces stared back at me. It finally sunk in that no matter how right I felt, Sheila and I were in big big trouble.
"Was… was anyone killed?" Sheila asked. "How much damage was there?"
Brent studied her for a moment, then shook his head. "You were lucky.
Everyone was out in the fields, watching for the aircraft to fly by. When they saw you making an approach on their village, they ran. The damage to the structures is pretty bad, but no one was killed."
I felt a surge of relief, then suspicion. "Wait ― everyone was out of the houses and buildings? Absolutely everyone? No one stuck in the can, or working overtime, or trying to filch something? Even the crooks were out watching?" My turn to shake my head. "Doesn't compute, buster. Don't tell me you're buying that load of crap."
"You bet I am. And you better, too. Because if one person ends up dead, one person seriously injured, there's going to be all hell to pay.
You can count on it. So irregardless of how improbable you find it, you count your lucky stars that they were all outside."
I was just about to tell him that irregardless isn't really a word ― what he meant was regardless, and if he had any sort of education beyond which fork to use on salad and which one to stick up his butt, he'd know that. I'd almost gotten the last comparison worked out when the Russian pilot got free from his buddies.
Kyrrul bolted past Sheila and Brent like a tornado. I started to move too late.
The first punch landed square in my gut, knocking the air out of my lungs. I doubled over, caught the second punch with the underside of my chin, and felt my feet leave the ground.
Russians were all over us now, pretending that they were trying to pull Illya off of me, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it. Trying to help me up, they kept nailing me in the gut again. Somebody stepped on my fingers, and another one landed a boot in my ribs.
I shouted, and finally made it to my feet. My lungs were starting to work again. Sheila and Brent were peeling the Russians off of me one by one, but making slow progress.
"Stop it. Now." The voice was so cold it froze every one of us where we stood. It took a moment for it to sink in with me that it was Admiral Magruder.
Another command echoed out in Russian and, if I had to guess, said exactly the same thing. No one was moving now, not even Illya.
I tried to straighten up as Admiral Magruder walked up to me. He might have found a clever way to cover up the altimeter/altitude screw-up, but I had a feeling this one wasn't going to go away that easily. I made it straight enough to at least look like I was standing at attention.
Admiral Magruder bent down close to me. He's a little taller anyway, and I was hunched over. "Shut up. Not another word, you understand. Follow me."
I know orders when I hear them, and I was relieved to have to obey those. If he could get me off that flight line without being lynched, I was going to be real grateful. And surprised.
We made an interesting little parade. Admiral Magruder leading, me limping along behind and trying not to vomit. Sheila was behind me, sort of keeping one hand on my back to make sure I didn't keel over. Behind her was Brent, I think, although I couldn't have sworn to it. Gator Cummings, who'd turned up somewhere around the same time as the admiral, brought up the rear. Anna had disappeared into the crowd sometime after the first punch was thrown.
The admiral herded us all into a military transport vehicle of some sort, the Russian equivalent of a Jeep or Humvee. We rode back to his quarters in silence. He motioned us out of the vehicle and we followed him into his quarters. He still hadn't said a word.
Finally, back in his sitting room, the admiral seemed to calm down.
He pointed at a chair. I sat. Next thing I know, he's handing me a stiff drink. I took it, held it for a minute, not entirely sure that he really wanted me to drink it.
"Drink. It's not poison. I brought it with me." The admiral's face didn't even flicker, although everyone except maybe Brent knew how much against most Navy regs that was.
I drank. Bourbon ― not my favorite, but it'll do. The liquid coursed down my throat, smooth and friendly, and finally hit the pit of my much-abused gut.
"The rest of you?" the admiral asked. He received a chorus of no's from Brent and Sheila. He poured one for himself, then sat down on the couch across from me. "Tell me what happened."
I let Sheila do the honors while I nursed my bourbon. She got it all right, but left out a few details. Like what an astounding job she'd done getting us back on the proper approach path. I filled those in, and was kind of hurt when she looked like she didn't appreciate my help all that much.
"I see," the admiral said after she'd finished. He shut his eyes for a moment, then said, "And what is State's opinion?"
Brent mumbled something about diplomatic relationship, the usual crap you hear from State. The admiral listened to him for a while, his eyes still shut. He was so still that I thought for a moment he'd fallen asleep.
Then he sat straight up, nodded at Brent, and said, "Thank you for your assistance. We'll take it from he
re."
"Admiral, I-" Evidently no one had ever explained to Brent about arguing with admirals. There's really just one rule ― you don't.
"That will be all." The admiral said it quietly, but he made it damned plain to these military ears that Brent was expected to pop tall then quickly haul butt. I was hoping the admiral might have to make it even clearer than that, but Brent disappointed me by getting the word. He was out of there with a quick "we can talk tomorrow," and then the door shut behind him.
For once, I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut. I opened it once, caught Sheila's look, and figured out that I'd been right the first time.
Finally, the admiral spoke. "For what it's worth ― not much right now, I suspect, not at least to the Russians ― I believe you. Something went wrong, just as it did with the altimeter. When we finally track down the error, it'll be something that we didn't understand ― the distance in meters instead of yards and miles, something the Russians can use to absolve themselves of the blame." "Why?" Thank God Gator asked the question. Sheila and I were in too much trouble to be talking. "Why would they invite us here and then set us up?"
"I can think of a couple of reasons," the admiral answered. For a moment, something dark darted behind his eyes, a look of grief and pain that I'd never seen on a flag officer's face before. Just a flash, then it was gone. "Some of them concern the United States and our diplomatic relationship with Russia and the former Soviet states. Nothing like being magnanimous about a screw-up to make us in their debt."
"I don't call getting beat up magnanimous," I said.
"A little higher level issue than what happens to your carcass," the admiral answered. "There are other reasons as well, some of which may concern you. And some of which may have to do with me alone. I don't think we need to go into them right now. But until we're back safe on an American flight deck, I want your mouths shut. Completely. Not even a ' comment.' You understand?"
The admiral drained his glass in one gulp, and I followed suit. Then he stood, a clear dismissal. We trooped back out front to find the transport vehicle and a driver waiting for us.
We didn't talk on the way back to our quarters. The driver dropped Sheila off at the women's quarters, then Gator and me at our building.
Once we were inside, I turned to Gator, wanting to get his take on it.
Gator held up one hand. "Not here. Not inside. Go to bed, Skeeter.
You've got a couple of long, quiet days ahead of YOU."
I could see his point. I mean, everything we'd ever heard about Russia indicated that they probably had the whole building wired for sound.
Maybe the admiral's quarters, too, although come to think of it, we hadn't discussed anything too damned sensitive in there, either. Just those vague allusions about it having to do with him alone maybe. And maybe he had some toys from Lab Rat, something that would tell him if his quarters were bugged or something.
Whatever. The one thing that worried me wasn't something that any RIO could give me much help with. I mean, whatever good they are in the air, in the end they're just passengers.
So far, I was two-for-two for screwed-up missions. I was the pilot, I was the one responsible for getting us where we needed to be to execute the mission. And after a hosed-up altimeter and bombing run, all I could think of was ― what next? The next time, would it be something in the jet engines themselves? Maybe a little FOD planted somewhere that could get sucked into a turbofan and blow it ― and us ― to bits? Or something in the hydraulics, a pinhole leak that wouldn't show up until we'd been airborne for a while.
Well, whatever it was, I'd have to be ready for it alone.
I finally got to sleep, cold shower and all. The weather woke me up at 0300, wind battering against the glass, billowing the thin curtains hung on either side of it. The rain came next, hard and pelting. Rain ― hail and sleet more likely, as cold as it had been today.
I pulled the blankets back up over me, snuggled down and tried to get warm. Still too cold to sleep. I finally got up and pulled out the rest of my clothes from the flight pack and carefully arranged them on the bed as an additional layer. A few minutes later, the weather still battering my quarters, I drifted off again.
6
Sunday, 20 December
0400 Local (+3 GMT)
USS Jefferson
Off the northern coast of Russia
Commander Lab Rat Busby
Someone was banging on my stateroom door. I groaned, rolled over, and pulled the alarm clock around so I could see it. Zero four hundred ― what the hell? I was due at least another two hours of rack time. Six whole hours I'd planned on; worked hard all day so I could get to bed around midnight. I felt old.
The hours, the sheer length of the day when you're on an aircraft carrier, is something few civilians will ever understand. When you're twenty-one, it's no big deal. Sure, it's a shock when you first join the Navy, but everyone around you is keeping the same insane hours, sleeping racked out on the floor between flight cycles, and after a while you start thinking it's normal. But the years creep up on you and it gets harder and harder to keep up.
Another assault on my door. No way to ignore it, pretend that I was still asleep. I stumbled to the door, barely coherent and damning the day that I ever decided to join the Navy, barking my shin on the desk. I yanked it open. "What?"
It was Wilson, my leading petty officer. He had a concerned look on his face and a sheet of messages in his hand. He pulled the top one off and held it out to me.
"You couldn't call?" I asked. A stupid question ― almost everything in CVIC is so highly classified that even thinking about it outside of the intelligence spaces will earn you a lengthy prison term.
"I knew you'd want to see this right away." There was a carefully neutral expression on Wilson's face. He was accustomed to waking me up and knew I'd be apologizing in a few minutes. It didn't bother him.
I took the message, already ashamed of my own peevishness. It wasn't Wilson's fault ― in all probability, I would've been very annoyed in a few hours if he hadn't woken me up. "When did this come in?"
"Four minutes ago," he answered. "Like I said ― I thought you would want to see it immediately."
I nodded, almost completely awake now. It's a skill you learn onboard a ship, the ability to go from dead asleep to awake. "You did exactly the right thing."
Thirty seconds later, I was dressed and trotting down the passageway to CVIC.
The message had been clear ― the USS John Paul Jones was holding contact on a U.S. nuclear submarine. Against all odds ― and all intelligence ― we had one in the area. The more I thought about it, the more it started to piss me off. Captain Smith, Batman ― hell, even Tombstone ― didn't any of them realize that the only people we were supposed to keep secrets from were the bad guys?
Somebody knew that we had U.S. submarines in the area. Knew, and didn't bother telling us about it. No matter that I've got gear classified to the highest levels in the nation, that I've got safes, security, steel doors, and a background investigation that's like getting an enema on your entire life ― no, someone hadn't wanted to trust me with this information.
SUBLANT knew, of course. Who else? USACOMM? Probably.
How about the subliaison on the Jefferson? Maybe. Not likely. Once he was attached to the carrier and not to an underwater brotherhood command, he'd be out of the loop. Tainted, I guess.
Captain Smith? Batman? Both of them? Now, that was a real probability. Even SUBLANT wasn't stupid enough to have subs prowling around an aircraft carrier without telling someone in the area.
And why wasn't that someone yours truly?
When I finally got to CVIC, the spaces were already filled with intelligence specialists, the regular watch section augmented by an additional team of acoustic specialists.
"Where is she now?" I asked as I burst into the room.
The lieutenant watch officer was right on top of things, as well he should be. He was seated at the consoles. He look
ed up as I came in, then returned to his task.
"What's happening?" I asked, sliding into the chair next to his. He finished two keystrokes, then turned to me.
"Good morning, Commander. Six minutes ago, one of the S-3B torpedo bombers, Hunter 701, gained active sonobuoy contact on an unknown submarine. Given the location, they initially called it a Russian boat. A few minutes later, they gained passive contact as well, and reclassified the contact as a U.S. submarine. The J.P. Jones is holding contact also."
I studied the display of slanting lines and swirls in front of him, not trying to pretend that I understood every bit of data. I didn't ― not really. Translating the details of a lofargram was an arcane science that my enlisted technicians spent years learning to do.
"How close is she?" I asked.
"Not far," Wilson supplied. He pointed at a narrow white space between two contact positions. "I make it less than five miles. And closing."
"And it's not a Russian ― it is one of ours." The watch officer looked away.
"We don't…" I stopped, suddenly realizing what the uneasy evasion I'd gotten from the admiral meant. We did have submarines in the area.
And only he knew about it.
For a moment, my temper flared. What was the use of having an intelligence officer if the intelligence officer didn't even know the locations of our own ships? Sure, I understood security ― there might have been very good reasons to tell Batman about our submarine and not me.
Intellectually, I could understand that. Nevertheless, it pissed me off.
"Shit," Wilson said softly. He had an ear cocked in the direction of the loudspeakers mounted on the forward bulkhead. "And that's not all."
The noise of the radio circuit speakers is so much of a part of life onboard the ship that you tend to tune them out, focusing only on what you need to know right then. Absorbed in the question of what the hell a U.S. submarine was doing in the area, I had not been paying attention to the USW control circuit.
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