“A safety stand-down?” Bird Dog blurted out. “Sure, we’ve had some mishaps, but” An angry glare from the ACOS Ops assistant chief of staff for operations made him break off in mid-sentence. Batman’s eyes pinned him to his chair.
“That’s exactly what it i san order to stand down.
Evidently, AIRPAC is concerned about the way I’m leading this battle group and decided to give me rudder orders. It doesn’t set too damned well with me, I can tell you that.”
The admiral sighed. “But, of course, we’ll comply. There’s no choice in the matter.”
Lab Rat cleared his throat pointedly. The admiral glanced across the table at him. “You have something to say. Commander?” the admiral asked.
“Yes, Admiral. I understand the need for safety first, but things in Cuba are going to get a lot worse before they get better.” The intelligence officer shook his head. “I don’t understand why Washington would stand down an entire battle group for at least one day of training in the middle of this. Too many desk drivers, if you ask me.” Lab Rat flushed as he belatedly remembered how many Washington assignments the admiral had under his belt.
“He suggests I shift my flag to the Arsenal ship. Out of the question, of course,” Batman continued as if the intelligence officer hadn’t spoken. “No space, and not enough communications-band width.” An odd smile crossed his face momentarily, replaced immediately by the anger churning under the surface. “Sometimes I think a battle group runs more on antennas than it does on aviation fuel.
Nevertheless, effective immediately, every aircraft in this squadron is grounded. No logistics flights, no mail runs, nothing. And tomorrow we start bright and fresh with a safety stand-down. I want to see those NATOPS manuals in every aviator’s hand for at least eight hours tomorrow. If Admiral Loggins thinks this will keep people from getting killed, then I’ll go along with it.”
The admiral surveyed the room. Apparently satisfied with the response he saw in every officer’s face, he turned a cold glare on Bird Dog.
“We’ve also been directed to develop a targeting list for D.C. that will maximize the use of the USS Arsenal. There’s some thought back there that the president may wish to exploit Arsenal’s remote control capabilities to allow more direct control over any potential conflict.”
Bird Dog felt a surge of vindication. Maybe his own admiral didn’t agree with him, but evidently somebody in D.C. saw the true potential of the Arsenal ships. Hell, with them in the battle group, a number of logistic and resupply problems were solved. An Arsenal ship carried more missile sand of more different kinds than any three surface ships combined. And if the admiral didn’t see that, then thank God somebody in D.C. did.
“Admiral, I” Bird Dog broke off suddenly, remembering the unpleasant session he’d had with the chief of staff earlier. COS had made it plain that what the admiral expected was results, not some esoteric bullshit theorizing from a junior officer with too much education and not enough experience to make use of it.
“You have something on your mind. Bird Dog?” Batman asked softly, warning in his voice. “More wisdom from Clausewitz to share with me?”
“No, Admiral, it’s just that sir, with the Arsenal ships,” Bird Dog plunged on, trying to feel the raw confidence he always felt in the air, “maybe part of our problem is simplified. This conflict with Cuba-it’s a political issue, not a military one. If JCS-hell, even the president does the actual launch planning and weapons firing, doesn’t that take us off the hook for some of this?”
Batman stood, his face livid. “Ask Major Hammersmith if this is a political problem.” He strode out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
COS glared at Bird Dog again. “You just don’t listen, do you?”
1620 Local (+5 GMT)
Wreckage of Hornet 301
50 Miles North of Cuba Thor was riding low in the water, his body sprawled out across the barely inflated flight suit, his face just out of the water. After six hours of trying to catch the life raft, he’d given up. He was floating on his back, the hard summer sun beating down on it as it had earlier on his front. Saltwater licked at the cuts on his face and body, the sting now fading below the level of perception.
The sea was still boisterous, throwing him up and down in a sickening seesaw over broad, flat roller snot the angry lashing of a storm at sea, but more like the exuberant playfulness of a child much larger than its peers.
He heard it before he saw it, a harsh, mechanical pounding at odds with the natural sounds of the wind and the waves. He tried to prop himself up, plunging his hands deep into the sinking flight suit, straining to see over the swells. A ship, it had to be. For a moment, he felt an irrational surge of hope that it was one of the American destroyers, detached from the battle group. It was possible, wasn’t it? Surely they’d been looking for him for at least twenty-four hours.
Even as he thought it, he realized it couldn’t be. A destroyer close enough to hear would have been easily visible, even for a man plunging from trough to crest over the waves.
A smaller boat, then any boat, he didn’t care. Anything to get out of the ocean. In the last four hours, he’d seen a dorsal fin pop up at irregular intervals in the surrounding water. Once, he’d thought he’d felt something brushing at his leg, and it was only by the most forceful act of will that he had not panicked.
One moment the sea was empty, the next he had company. The fishing boat was hardly impressive by any standards, but to Thor it was the most wonderful sight in the world. The hull had been white once, although it had faded to some colorless shade speckled by seagull droppings and scars. The superstructure looked rickety, as though it were shifting back and forth independently of the hull. Two large booms trailed out from behind, supports for the massive fishing nets the boat would be dragging behind it.
“Hey! Hey, over here!” Thor raised himself as far out of the water as he could and started waving his arms frantically, pumping his legs to lift his upper torso out of the water. Damn the sharks if he didn’t get this boat’s attention, in another couple of days it wouldn’t matter.
At first he thought they hadn’t seen him. The boat continued on a steady course, the noise of its diesel engines growing louder. Thor sucked air into his lungs, took another deep breath, and then screamed with all of his might, “Over here!”
Some vagary of the wind picked up his words and wafted them over to the fishing boat Just before he slid down into another trough, Thor saw one of the men look up sharply, then approach the rail to scan the ocean in his direction. The seconds before he slid up to the top of another wave were the longest ones of his life.
When the boat came into view again, he saw that it had changed course.
Its silhouette had shortened and narrowed, indicating that it was now bow-on to him. Thor was too dehydrated to cry, but he’d never felt more like it in his life.
Five minutes later he was on the deck of the fishing boat staring into four brown, impassive faces and wishing he had taken Spanish in high school instead of Latin.
1900 Local (+5 GMT)
Fuentes Naval Base
“Muy interesante,” Santana murmured. He tapped a message with his finger, then glanced across the room at his companion. Libyan Colonel Kaliff Mendiria showed no reaction. “It could be that this is the final element of our plan.
God flies, does he not?” Santana said, intentionally goading the devout Muslim.
Tall, too tall for a Cuban, reaching almost six feet in height, Mendiria was a peculiar dusky color. Brown without looking Cuban, dark without looking black Santana tried to place the coloration and drew a blank.
The Libyan’s hair was short and dark, straight from the looks of it, and clipped close to his head. A few gray patches showed through in odd spots on his head. Not gray from aging, but the peculiar patterning of hair growing back in after a war injury. The Libyan’s face was pockmarked, dominated by a massive nose slightly off center, and a too-full lower lip. The eyes were a startlin
g yellow-green, almost luminescent under anything other than bright sunlight.
The skin around Mendiria’s mouth whitened slightly as his muscles clenched. “As Allah wills,” he said sharply. “It does not matter what happens with this pilot. Our plans are already in place.”
“But don’t you see?” Santana pressed. “The Americans have an obsessively sentimental attachment to their military personnel.
Remember the forces that were downed during their Desert Storm fiasco?
Their pictures were in every newspaper, on every television station for hours on end.
They will be very interested in the fate of this one pilot.”
Mendiria snorted. “If they find out you have him. If you had a proper security program in place, that would not be possible. Now, however, your headquarters leaks like a sieve.”
Santana bolted to his feet. “A sieve that Libya has found more than useful in the past,” he thundered. “Remember, my friend, it was your country who approached us.”
“As though you could have survived without the Soviet money,” Mendiria responded sharply. “Look around you.
Every bit of this building and most of your people were bought and paid for. After centuries of sucking the Soviet’s tit, you needed us.
Needed us more than we needed you.
Without us, you have two choices: anarchy under your good friend Leyta’s leadership or lapdog of the Americans.”
“Bah! Having Libyan troops on Cuba poses more risk to us than it does to you. And the stupid fools on that fishing boat if he heard them talking, there’s every chance that he knows they’re not all Cubans.”
Mendiria raised a lazy hand at the agitated Cuban. “It matters not.
Your next shipment of farm equipment is on schedule, just as we planned.”
“And the only crops it will ever grow are graveyards,” Santana said.
He fingered the sling bolstering his right arm, a reminder of the ejection that had saved his life. It was time America took Cuba just a bit more seriously. “By bringing those missiles to bear on the U.S. just eighty miles away, we can force the President to lift the trade embargoes that now cripple us. With a fair opportunity to sell our agricultural and crop products, Cuba will enter the next century as a great island nation.” He saw the look of amusement on Mendiria’s face.
“Do not laugh,” he said, pointing one finger at the Libyan. “England ruled almost half of the known world at one time. A nation not so much larger than Cuba ruled your own people, as a matter of fact. Have you forgotten so soon how powerful an island nation can be, protected from enemies by the sea?”
“My people will not be the problem,” the Libyan said softly, cold rage growing in his eyes. “But you you little fool. At least next time consult me before you do something rash. Like shooting down any American planes.”
“That was not rash. That was merely payback.” Santana smiled. “And more will follow before I’m satisfied.”
FIVE
Tuesday, 25 June
1000 Local (+5 GMT)
United Nations
“You’re holding our pilot.” Ambassador Wexler’s voice was calm and level, deadly. She held the Cuban ambassador’s gaze, forcing him to meet her eyes.
The man spread his hands apart, palm up, and shrugged lightly. “So you say, Madame Ambassador. You have become uncharacteristically boring on this point. Yet you have no evidence. Do you? Just your bald assertion that Cuba is somehow responsible for this pilot.” He half turned away from her and gestured to the stack of messages on his desk.
“I would know, would I not?”
“We have sources, too,” she replied levelly. “I know you have him.”
The satellite imagery she’d seen earlier that morning was conclusive.
“And you do, too. Let’s quit playing games with each other.” Without waiting for him to offer, she took a seat on the large leather couch dominating one end of the Cuban ambassador’s office. “Tell me why you’re doing this.”
He hesitated for a moment, then followed her to the small seating area.
He chose an armchair at right angles to the couch and lowered himself into it slowly. “I will play your game. For the sake of argument, just why would we want to keep your downed pilot from you? I assume you do have a theory, one no doubt involving a massive conspiracy by my small nation.” He eyed her sardonically.
Ambassador Wexler leaned forward. “This is your third strike. First, downing the civilian aircraft. Second, holding our downed pilot. And third” She paused and gazed at him steadily, looking for any reaction.
“I think you know what number three is.”
He shrugged. “We are in disagreement as to one and two as well. How can I read your mind and know what fantasy you have contrived as reason number three?”
“I think you know all too well,” she answered softly, steel underlying the smooth words. “And it costs nothing for me to confirm what you already know. In a word no, make that two words. Libya. And weapons.”
She leaned back, a grimly satisfied expression on her face.
The Cuban ambassador held the pleasant, charming expression on his face at some cost to him. He could feel the muscles quiver, the mouth threaten to twitch into a scowl. It was just the confirmation she was looking for, he was certain. If, in fact, she needed it at all.
“What would you like me to say?”
“Nothing. At least then you won’t lie to me.” She eyed him sternly.
“What Cuba does as a sovereign nation is her own business. But you know better than to push us too far.
And you have this time. That pilot had better be back in American hands by the end of the day or you’ll suffer the consequences.”
“A threat?” he snapped.
She paced slowly across to the door, paused with her hand on the knob, and turned back to him. “Consider it a promise.”
1015 Local (+5 GMT)
Fuentes Naval Base
“Release me now.” Thor kicked at the man holding his arms behind him. “Damn it, you have got no grounds to” “We can do anything we feel necessary.” The guard easily evaded Thor’s foot and jabbed him sharply in the kidneys with the muzzle of his pistol. “You are no longer in the United States, my friend, but on our soil.”
“We’re not at war!” Thor wheeled around to face Santana. Thirty-six hours of kick-floating in the warm ocean, no food, no sleep the movement made him dizzy. But he held on to consciousness, straining to look solid and steady on his feet.
Santana regarded him blandly. “Oh, indeed we are.
You’re to be tried for war crimes, sir on behalf of the nation that downed an innocent aircraft in our airspace and then violated our no-fly zone.”
“You shot those aircraft down, not us. And you damned well know it.
And as for this supposed no-fly zone, what makes you think your nation has the right to cordon off international airspace unilaterally?”
Santana shrugged. “The rest of the world believes otherwise. As for the exclusion zone, you should understand that well enough America is the first to declare one in any part of the world. Iraq and Bosnia are just the most recent examples. I suggest you cooperate fully with my friends when they ask you question sit may help to mitigate your sentence after your trial.”
Two of the men standing against the wall stepped forward. The first one slammed his fist into Thor’s gut, then brought his knee up to smash the pilot’s face as he doubled over. Thor hit the deck, bleeding.
The second stranger muttered a questioning comment to the first. Even through the pain, Thor heard enough to cause his balls to contract.
He may not have taken Spanish in school, but Latin had at least given him a familiarity with some of the root words, and what they were speaking was certainly not Spanish or any other Romance language. He stared up at the two men, now more afraid than he’d been when the first shark had brushed up against him in the warm ocean.
1130 Local (+5 GMT)
VF-95 Ready Room, USS Jefferson
“And that concludes this discussion of rough sea ditching procedures. Are there any questions?” The VF-95 safety officer looked around the room inquiringly. Not an aviator twitched.
The safety officer sighed and shook his head. Not that he’d expected any. Still, it would have been nice to be certain they’d been paying attention. Deep in his heart, he knew exactly what they were thinking the same thing he thought at that age. Invincible, invulnerable no way they’d ever need to review rough weather ditching procedures, not a chance. Maybe the guy in the next seat. But not me.
He supposed it took turning thirty and putting that first oak leaf on the collar to convince a pilot that the unthinkable could happen to him.
“Okay, let’s break for chow. We’ll reconvene in the Ready Room at thirteen hundred. At that time, I’ll give the quarterly NATOPS quiz.
Those of you who are current have to take it, too,” he added quickly as the surly muttering arose from the back row. “That’s part of safety stand-down.”
He watched from the podium as the aviators filed out, some in shipboard washed cotton khakis, others in faded flight suits. He heard the comments drift toward the front of the room.
“Goddamn Marines. If they could just …”
“I don’t know why we need to …”
“And then she wrapped her legs around …”
He placed the pointer carefully on the narrow lip at the edge of the podium. Well, there was nothing that said they had to be enthusiastic about the safety stand-down.
If truth be told, he wasn’t so wild about the idea himself.
Parking the world’s finest naval aviators in a classroom all right, a Ready Room, but a classroom for this day while a pilot was missing at sea and tensions boiled to the south rankled all of them. Still, AIRPAC supposedly knew best.
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