“And I certainly had nothing to do with her being in Cuba,” he continued as a new thought struck him.
“No one said you did. But with your prior relationship, and with you now in command of the Southern Forces, it does look suspicious. You understand that.”
Tombstone nodded, feeling his throat tighten. What was the chairman leading up to? Had there been a decision to relieve him of command because of events far beyond his control, simply based on his prior relationship with a reporter? Was that fair? And, he finally asked himself, would he really care? To his surprise, he did. As tempting as it might be to chuck his entire naval career and not a bad one at that, finishing up with two stars on his collar and simply relax into his marriage with Tomboy, start off on a new civilian career, he couldn’t do it.
Part of it, he admitted, was the sheer headiness of command. As commander. Southern Forces, he had operational control of everything south of the Equator. That included the massively burgeoning continent of South America and liaison with all the foreign navies there. It was an opportunity to build on shaky relationships that were barely in their infancy, to create peace instead of making war, for once. It seemed like a fitting capstone to his career thus far, which had consisted mainly of fighting first the Soviet Bear and then the Chinese Mongoose that had sought to dominate entire parts of the world.
Am I power-hungry? He considered the idea for a moment, then shook his head. Yes, it was true that all the ruffles and flourishes that went with his current position were easy to get used to. And he was eternally grateful for the fact that his uncle had found him a posting in an operational force and not consigned him to a desk in the Pentagon. An expensive, highly polished desk, but a desk nonetheless.
If you couldn’t fly and he was far too senior for that then the next best thing was command of operational forces. And at his current pay rate, even command of a carrier battle group was beyond his reach.
“If the chairman lacks confidence in my abilities,” Tombstone began, finally having reached his decision.
The chairman cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll be asked that enough times in the media.
But never here. I’m just trying to prepare you for what’s ahead.”
“A public hanging?” Tombstone’s voice was harsh. “I have that to look forward to?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” A speculative gleam lit the chairman’s eyes.
“There might be another option.”
“And what would that be?” Tombstone asked.
“Send you back to sea.” The chairman’s face threatened to smile, but never really got quite that far.
“Back to sea!” Tombstone’s heart thudded as he considered it. But how? And why? “You mean as a” For the second time in as many minutes, the chairman cut him off. “I mean that we might form up a two-carrier battle group to resolve this matter. Or, given the way Senator Williams is talking, a carrier and an Arsenal ship battle force not just a battle group. Seems to me that that rates more than one star in command.” He waited for his astonishing proposal to sink in.
For one of the few times in his life. Tombstone was at a loss for words. To go back to seaGod, yes. He’d give anything to simply be around the aircraft that had been his life for the first twenty-five years of his career, to roam the flight deck again, listening to the hard thunder of finely honed jet engines and the squealing rake of catapult wires across the deck. “How probable is that?” he asked finally, not daring to ask the other questions hammering in his head.
The chairman leaned back in his chair. “From where I sit, very probable. You know the commander of the carrier group, don’t you?”
Tombstone almost laughed. “Yes, Admiral Wayne is an old friend.” And you damned well know that, you sneaky old bastard. But why be so coy about it?
“How do you think he’ll feel about it?” the chairman asked. “Because what we’ll want on this, quite frankly, is a positive spin. I don’t need any disgruntled admirals squabbling over seniority arguments, not if we’re going to rehabilitate you and resolve the situation at the same time.”
“Batman won’t be a problem,” Tombstone said. But, for a moment, he wondered. How eager would he himself have been to have an old shipmate turn up to take over tactical command of this scenario? “He’d stay as CARGRU commander.”
“Of course.” The chairman stood up abruptly. “Give it some thought.
What’s best for you; what’s best for this country of ours.”
“I will, sir.”
“Get back to me tomorrow. I should have more information then,” the chairman said in dismissal.
1600 Local (+5 GMT)
Fuentes Naval Base
Santana walked across the open, muddy field. The thick black dirt clumped on his boots, moist and lumpy. Ahead of him, the partially constructed missile launcher was completely exposed, its sheltering shield of canvas pulled back.
He walked around the installation, two aides trailing in his wake.
From the daily reports he’d been receiving, he would have expected it to be much more complete much more looking like it was about to be operational. His gaze wandered to the long metal boxes arrayed next to the crane.
An impressive achievement, to be sure, but without the launchers they would be nothing.
“When?” he asked. He saw his two aides glance at each other uneasily before the more senior of them spoke.
“Two weeks, I believe. According to our Libyan technical advisors.”
Santana restrained the urge to spit in the dirt. “When have they been right about anything? Not the schedule, not the American operations, not anything.” He stopped abruptly, gazing at the stacked weapons, his eyes caressing them.
“The only thing they have managed to do correctly is deliver the weapons, and even those are worthless without the launchers.”
“Sir, the American battle group perhaps if we ignore them, they will leave us alone?”
Santana whirled on him. “You would allow them to continue to invade our territorial waters? To mock our very sovereignty?”
“No,” the aide said in a shaky voice, “not at all. However, I have an idea that might prevent further intrusions into our airspace. And I think you might find it particularly appealing, under the circumstances,” he continued, his voice gaining strength. “May I explain?”
Santana bit back angry words and nodded abruptly. The aide was the son of one of his oldest friends, and showed occasional signs of astute operational thought. It would not do to let his own temper prevent him from hearing what must be best for his mission, not at all.
“Continue.”
Ten minutes later, Santana’s earlier rage had vanished as quickly as the mist had over the water. “A fine plan, my friend,” he said, and clapped the man on the shoulder. “I think that will work just fine.”
1750 Local (+5 GMT)
USS Jefferson
“A week from tomorrow?” Bird Dog said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “That’s quick.”
The ACOS Ops glared up at him from his seat at the desk.
“You want to drag this out? I thought you hated being behind a desk instead of in a cockpit.”
Bird Dog swallowed hard. “Of course I want to get it over with. It’s just that” The ACOS cut him off. He spoke, his voice softer than it had been before. “Listen, son, it’s never easy going to a FNAEBa Fleet Naval Aviator Evaluation Board. I went once myself made a couple of bad passes at the boat back when they were starting to downsize, and a guy who didn’t like me decided he might try to railroad me. It was painful, but nothing you can’t survive. The basic question they’re asking is whether or not you’re safe in the air.” He stopped, and looked quizzically up at Bird Dog. “Are you?”
Bird Dog nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m a damned hot stick. It’s just that the other day …” His voice disappeared to nothing.
“You weren’t thinking,” the ACOS finished. “You ju
st pulled a damned foolish stunt, and now you’re going to a FNAEB board. Okay, stand up and take it like a man.
Maybe it will make you think twice next time you get a wild hair up your ass.”
And maybe there won’t be a next time. Bird Dog added silently. The FNAEB had the power to revoke his designation as a naval aviator, leaving him permanently grounded.
Would he stay in the Navy if it came to that? Of course not absent the sheer joy of flying the F-14 Tomcat, the rigors of military life held no real attraction for him. Then there was Callie … ah, Callie.
He’d spend more time with her, maybe start a second career no, he decided, none of that would make up for losing his designation as a naval aviator. To know that he would never again fly the screaming Tomcat at Mach 1 plus, buzzing around the superstructure of an Aegis cruiser to annoy the captain, chasing MiGs through skies so blue they looked translucent, or screaming over the tops of waves with the spray flashing to steam in his afterburner fire. No, nothing was worth losing that nothing.
“I’ll be ready, sir. And thank you.
The ACOS nodded abruptly. “Get out of here. And be readythat’s all I can tell you.”
2200 Local (+5 GMT)
Fuentes Naval Base
The night sounds of Cuba drifted in the front door, finally reaching Pamela Drake in the back room of the building.
The air was still warm, heavy and humid, scented with the exotic blooms and heavy vegetation around the base.
“How much longer?” she demanded of her guard. “I came here to report a story. I can’t do that stuck in one room.”
The guard shrugged. ‘We sea.” He eyed her carefully.
“You stay here,” he continued, evidently the entire extent of his English language abilities.
Pamela sighed and resumed pacing around the room.
Something to kick, she decided. No, maybe a scream. How did one say “rape” in Spanish? Surely that would bring someone with enough power to resolve this situation, she fumed.
Forty feet away, Mendiria was asking the same questions.
“You can’t keep her here forever.” He touched his mustache, smoothing the stiff bristles down against his face. They sprang back up as soon as he released them, producing a bushy caterpillar on his upper lip.
“And why not?” Santana demanded. “We have control over everything she releases from here. And when she cooperates …” He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. “She travels without notifying her own authorities, no doubt. If something happens to her, who will be able to say that we are at fault? An illegal entry into our country, during a time of so much turmoil? The guerrilla sone cannot trust them. They are, as the Americans say, unpredictable.” He smiled, too-large white teeth catching the light from the bare lightbulb overhead.
“But what is the point?” the Libyan persisted. “I see no advantage to us. The longer she remains here, the sooner she will figure out she does not have freedom to travel where she wishes. Her interest in supporting us will burn away as the sea mist in the morning sun. There is no gain to us.”
Santana leaned forward across the table, resting his elbows on the rough wooden surface. He reached over, grasped the other man by the wrist, and pulled him toward him. The Libyan resisted slightly, but stopped with his brass button of his uniform rubbing against the edge of the table.
“No advantage? Think! The Americans understand this sort of situation now, after Desert Storm. There are Americans here, as you well know.
They come whether as news reporters or tourists, illegally sneaking into our country, still they come. You understand the implications from a tactical sense, at least?”
“I see no advantage,” Mendiria repeated. “Simply more victims if” He stopped abruptly and considered the matter. A slow smile, as large as the one on the face of his colleague, crossed his face. “Hostages.”
Santana nodded. “Exactly. If it comes to that. Do you really think that they will target their smart bombs on this facility, knowing that their star television reporter is being held here against her will?
Especially one so attractive as Miss Pamela Drake? While she might not have planned aiding our cause in this way, she will be instrumental in safeguarding us against cruise missiles.”
Mendiria sighed. “I was wrong to doubt you. My apologies. On the surface it seemed” Santana cut him off with a sharp gesture of his hand. “It is nothing between friends. We have lived close to America for a long time now. Perhaps we understand them a bit better, yes?
But you agree?”
The Libyan nodded vigorously.
2300 Local (+5 GMT)
Viking 791
“There she is. Admiral,” the S-3 pilot said over the ICS.
“Just where she’s supposed to be.”
Tombstone clicked a brief acknowledgment. Two thousand feet below them, as they entered the starboard marshal pattern, the USS Jefferson plowed through the seas like an implacable weapon.
He wondered if the Cubans knew just how much trouble they were in with Jefferson off their shore.
EIGHT
Saturday, 29 June
1200 Local (+5 GMT)
ACN Newsroom
Computers atop the two rows of desks arrayed in the traditional horseshoe pattern beeped in sequence. The muted chirrup traveled from left to right, sounding at each computer terminal in turn until it leaped from the last desk in the semicircle, leaped past the long, now vacant anchor desk centered in front of the arc, leaped to the producer’s console in the glass-walled control room the bridge.
The alert immediately began making its rounds again, the circulating sound designed to jar even the most preoccupied reporter into attention. Flashing letters danced across the top of each monitor screen, identifying the incoming message as a breaking news bulletin from the Associated Press.
Only a few of the workstations were occupied at this hour. The two o’clock news program was a cut-in, and the anchors had already done their five live minutes of reading the news and fled the scene. So had the production crew, leaving the message alert to echo forlornly inside the dark, empty bridge. The instant the live portion gave way to the taped news rerun, giving them fifteen minutes of “free” time, nearly everyone ran for coffee, snacks, the bathroom.
Only a few of the writers remained in the quiet, soundproofed newsroom, working on scripts for the next show, getting on the telephone to finish gathering information for their assigned stories, using their terminals to check facts.
The computer beeped insistently, demanding that the operator attend to the incoming message traffic. Electronic transmission had long ago replaced the old yellow teletypes that chattered away in newsrooms.
“Will you look at this?” the reporter whistled quietly, hitting the keys which scrolled the full text of the bulletin down his screen.
“But I guess we should have expected it.”
He looked over at the producer who’d just walked in and motioned her over. “We’re going into Cuba. And you won’t believe who’s going to do the shooting.”
1525 Local (+5 GMT)
USS Jefferson
“Who the hell told the press?”
Batman stormed. The conference room was deadly silent.
“All right, all right, I know it wasn’t anyone here.” He turned to the SEAL team leader. “Can you get them out?”
“We know where the pilot is at least, we think we do.
With the right support, we can extract him.”
“When?”
The SEAL team leader shrugged. “We’ve been ready since Thursday.”
1545 Local (+5 GMT)
Fuentes Naval Base
“We’re going to have to move you. Miss Drake,” the colonel said. He bowed slightly, and smiled.
“Of course, with your permission.”
“Why? What don’t you want me to see now?”
“You miss our point entirely. I know you’ve been watching the television coverage of this little confl
ict. Your country is planning on launching an attack. Staying where we are would be inadvisable at best.”
She glared at him. “You’re moving me to safety?” Scorn dripped out of her voice. “Because if that’s what you have in mind, forget it. I don’t run from a story not ever.”
“Not at all,” the colonel said smoothly, ignoring the tone of voice.
“In fact, we’re going to give you an opportunity to see the futility of it firsthand.”
Pamela stared up at the maze of girders, trying to discern a pattern.
The metal beams angled out in odd ways, no two exactly parallel. There must be major sections of it still missing, she thought, tracing out the pattern in her mind and trying to match it to any other military equipment she’d ever seen before. Nothing immediately sprang to mind except She turned to the colonel. “These are missile launchers, aren’t they?” It was more of a statement than a question.
A small frown crossed his face. “What is it to you?”
“Large missile launchers,” she insisted. “In fact, the only thing comparable I’ve seen was in Germany, the housings for the short-range tactical nuclear weapons aimed at the Soviet Union.” She watched his face carefully, searching for the confirmation she wanted. She found it.
“You will tape the next report from here,” the colonel ordered. “This will make a fine background, will it not?” he said, gesturing at the girders.
“They’ll know you’ve got them. You know the United States will never tolerate this.”
“They already know. Do you believe that we do not understand your satellite operations?”
“Then if they know, this will be one of their first targets.”
In fact, I suspect that this little trick you’re trying to pull off is behind the whole conflict. That Cuban plane that was shot down it came too close, I bet. She studied the colonel, new respect in her eyes.
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