The CAG looked slightly put out. As I would in his shoes, Tombstone thought. Still, he was not prepared for what followed.
“I’ll brief the aircrews personally, Admiral. But we’ll also need to make sure the surface ships are just as careful. Not all of the battle group,” CAG said, picking his words carefully, “has always understood how critical that limit is. A shoot-out is the last thing we need.”
For a moment, Tombstone was tempted to dismiss CAG’s remarks as simply evidence of the rivalry that had always existed between aviators and the “shoes.” He glanced around the room and saw a number of officers studiously examining the deck. Then it hit him.
Vincennes. Early on in her career, the cruiser had shot down that airbus in the Persian Gulf. Evidence was now surfacing that Vincennes might have been inside Iran’s territorial waters when she’d fired. If the real truth about her location had ever been fully determined, it was classified at the highest levels.
“All of our assets will be very clear on my orders, CAG. And thank you for bringing up that point.”
And now I know what it was I was trying to recall. The shoot-out at the OK Corral in Tombstone, Arizona. Wyatt Earp’s last battle. The diagram I saw last night had those same double lines marking off the boundaries of the corral, tracing out Earp’s path to the showdown.
Tombstone had never been superstitious, and he wasn’t about to admit that the strange coincidence of the graphics in a book and the diagram of a FON box had anything in common. This was no calculated warning, no psychic premonition. It was merely more evidence that the human brain was hard-wired in ways that might never be fully understood.
Just the same, whatever else he could roll downhill to his staff and the COS, the matter of the Vincennes required his personal attention and the weight of the stars on his collar to back up his orders. Sometime in the next sixteen hours, Rear Admiral Magruder was going to have to have a very serious talk with Vincennes.
CHAPTER 7
Friday, 28 June
0900 local (Zulu -7)
Flag Mess
USS Jefferson
The moment came eventually, as Tombstone knew it would. He stepped out of his cabin and into the Flag Mess. Pamela was standing next to the coffeepot, carefully pouring the thick, hot brew into an insulated plastic coffee cup, holding the lid wedged between two fingers.
“Care for a cup, Admiral?” she asked politely. Her eyes took him in carefully, noted his discomfort, and flashed amusement.
“Thank you, Miss Drake.” He held out his own mug, emblazoned with the VF95 squadron insignia. He dreaded the moment when she would finish pouring the coffee, when he would have to decide whether to stay and talk with her or retreat to his cabin.
Damn it! It’s my ship, my battle group! My world, the one she wouldn’t share me with. If anyone ought to be squirming, it’s her. He took a deep breath, finding some nerve in his anger. “Miss Drake is an old friend,” he remarked to no one in Particular. “I think we have a lot to catch up on, don’t we, Miss Drake? Care to join me in my cabin for a few minutes?”
“Thank you, Admiral. Yes, it has been a long time, hasn’t it?”
Tombstone opened the door to his quarters and held it for her to enter. He glanced back into the Flag Mess. The four staff officers seated there pointedly had other things to do, other places to look, than at their admiral.
Great. So much for my reputation. If she leaves in less than five minutes, they’ll say she turned me down or I was after a quickie. And any longer than five minutes will assuredly make the grapevine just as quickly.
Well, there was no avoiding it. Hadn’t been since the moment Pamela had set foot on his flight deck. And he would be damned if he’d let himself think about her in any way other than strictly professional.
Pamela was a senior correspondent for ACN. If she hadn’t wanted to come on this assignment, she wouldn’t have. Wondering about whether or not she’d known he was here, and whether or not there was any personal motive behind her presence, wasn’t acceptable. It had to be cleared up here and now.
The last time they’d seen each other, they’d finally come to the realization that there was no future to their relationship. That understanding, along with Tombstone’s growing attraction to Tomboy, had seemed to end it. Then what was Pamela doing here, he wondered. Just another assignment? Or second thoughts?
He followed Pamela into his cabin and let the door click shut behind them.
Pamela was already seated on the couch in the starboard side of his cabin. Her coffee cup sat on the table in front of it.
“I can offer you a real coffee cup, if you prefer,” he said, for lack of anything else to say. “Something without a lid and a football team logo on it.”
“Thanks, Stoney, but this is fine. I went to a lot of trouble to remember to bring it. Those paper ones the Flag Mess usually has — I always spill something somewhere.”
He sat down in the comfortable chair that sat at right angles to the couch. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, slightly surprised at himself. He somehow expected that breaking their engagement would have miraculously broken the compelling attraction that had always existed between them. It hadn’t, though. He felt the familiar sense of urgency and expectancy, a taut, demanding urge to bridge the gap between them. His fingers remembered silky hair slipping through his hands and cascading over his chest, the delicate texture of skin on skin, and the lush curve of her body from hips to chest.
“How’s the admiral business?” Her voice, casually friendly, contained no hint that she was remembering him in the same way. He forced himself back to reality, abandoning the memories almost regretfully.
“Busy. I haven’t flown in months. And ACN — you’re still their star, from what we see out here,” he said, matching her conversational tone. Just two old friends who’d once been something more, catching up on old times, he decided. He decided to relax. He could do this — he could.
“I have my moments with them. It’s a full-time commitment still.” Her eyes met his, and he felt her carefully assess his mood. Damn, he’d almost forgotten how she always could seem to read his thoughts!
Despite his best intentions, he felt the first tinges of a flush creep up from his neck toward his cheeks and heard a voice that sounded exactly like his own ask, “That answers my question, then. I was wondering if there were any other reason for you taking this assignment.”
Her answer came quickly, as though she’d rehearsed an answer. “Like getting a chance to see you? That was part of it, I admit. I’ll never turn down that opportunity.”
“You already did,” he said. He heard the anger and hurt in his voice and swore silently. “I turned down marriage and commitment, not you. Oh, Stoney, we’ve been through this a thousand times! It never would have worked! My schedule with ACN keeps me on the road at least half of the year. Between trips, I’m either trying to recover from jet lag or fighting off the latest foreign bug I’ve caught.”
“Alone.” It was almost a question.
“Alone, yes. But not obsessed with wondering when the chaplain is going to knock on my door and tell me I’m a widow. Stoney, the places you go, the flying, the killing, what you do for a living — it’s too much. I could deal with the flying, if it were for a civilian airliner, but not the continual combat. Every time some pissant little spot on the globe decides to act out its fantasies of world domination, you’re in the middle of it. I’d never be able to do what I do for worrying about you.”
“And you don’t worry now?”
“You know I do. But for the most part, I simply try to forget you exist. But pass up the chance to see you again — no, I couldn’t do that.”
It was his turn to study her. The brilliant green eyes, sleek dark hair — a few faint lines had crept up around the corners of her eyes since the last time they’d met. Otherwise, she could have been the same young reporter he’d first met and fallen in love with back when he was a lieutenant commander.
&nbs
p; “I almost wish you had,” he said finally.
The buzz of his telephone saved him from having to explain. He picked it up and said, “Admiral.”
“Admiral, sorry to bother you. I thought you’d want to know that the Vincennes is setting flight quarters to launch her helo. You asked their CO to see you this afternoon, I believe.”
Tombstone was faintly grateful to the cruiser CO for giving him a graceful way to terminate his visit. “Thank you, COS. I’ll be right out.”
He replaced the receiver in its cradle and remained standing next to his desk. “Pamela, it’s been good to see you again. I won’t deny that. But knowing how things stand between us, I think you’ll understand if I don’t spend too much time with YOU.”
He saw her face go stiff and wondered if a similar trick of expressions had been what’d earned him his call sign, Tombstone. “I understand completely, Admiral. You’re not willing to settle for what I can offer. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?” She picked up her cup and walked to the door, her stiff back stilling the sway of her hips to a gentle twitch.
“I hope I can,” he said softly as he watched her go.
0930 local (Zulu -7)
Admiral’s Cabin
Captain Killington, Commanding Officer of the USS Vincennes, arrived thirty minutes later. Tombstone stayed seated at his desk as COS showed the man into his office. He motioned to a chair in front of his desk.
As the surface warfare officer settled into the sturdy Navy chair, Tombstone looked him over carefully, searching for the key to the man’s character. Their professional paths had crossed several times, but Tombstone knew little about the man personally. The Aegis CO had assumed command of Vincennes only two months before the deployment, when the prior Commanding Officer suffered a stroke at sea one night. As a result, he’d missed most of the workup and exercise schedule that would have given Tombstone a chance to assess the man.
Captain Killington was several inches shorter than Tombstone, with a solid, massive build. His hair was light brown, with no trace of gray or thinning, carefully trimmed and brushed back from his face. His eyes were an almost colorless shade of brown, one that would either be called hazel or warm spit.
According to his professional reputation, he was an aggressive operator, one who clearly envisioned stars on his collar in the not-too-distant future. Most of his shore-duty tours had been in DC rather than in the Fleet. The other surface warfare officers regarded him as a politician who believed himself to be a warrior.
Tombstone held out his hand, and Captain Killington took it firmly. For a moment, Tombstone wondered whether the man would try to apply hard pressure and make him wince. Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid around the man who signed his fitness reports, and who would make recommendations that might affect whether or not he would eventually wear stars.
“Thanks for coming over on short notice, Captain,” Tombstone said.
“My pleasure, Admiral. I was prepared for the request.” Killington smiled smugly and passed a manila folder he carried.
“Oh, really?” For a moment, Tombstone felt off-balance. “And why was that?”
“Well, it was obvious to me, Admiral, based on your last orders. Conducting these FON ops is going to take us to the edge of Vietnamese territorial waters. I knew you’d want to know what steps we were taking, what precautions we’d recommend in constrained waters. That’s why I had my staff-“
You idiot, you don’t have a staff! I have a staff — you have your normal complement of department heads and divisions officers, Tombstone thought.
“-prepare these charts. Of course, we’re prepared to address any obvious contingencies as well.”
“I see. And by contingencies, you mean …?”
The Aegis CO leaned forward in his chair, his voice dropping lower. “We’re going to be in mighty close, Admiral. We could be closer.”
“Closer than twelve miles?”
“Not officially.”
“I see,” Tombstone said for the second time.
Now I understand why I heard my uncle use that phrase so often. Back when he sat in this chair, he must have learned it was a good way to buy time when you’re trying to deal with an idiot! He could have told me that when he came to my change of command. Just a little family admiral secret, passed down from the man who is now Seventh Fleet to his favorite nephew.
“I’m glad you came prepared, Captain. That will make this entire meeting more fruitful. May I see your briefing charts?” Tombstone held out his hand.
“I can explain each one if-“
“Just the charts, if you please.”
Reluctantly, the surface warfare officer handed over the manila folder.
Tombstone leafed through the printouts and diagrams. Part of the information was indeed useful — descriptions of additional precautions the battle group should take to detect missile dangers from the coastline, pop-up aircraft, and neutral traffic. It was the last two diagrams that worried him. They contained detailed descriptions of possible shore targets along the coast, as well as a range chart showing increased early alert warning capability if the Aegis were to proceed into six miles off the coast.
“According to this, you’d be in full view of anyone on the coast,” Tombstone remarked.
“They’ll be able to see us anyway. Even twelve miles away, the carrier will be visible. The masts of the smaller ships, too.”
“And you’re recommending this as an OP-PLAN?”
“I’m recommending it as an approach to exerting our rights of innocent passage. The law lets us intrude into their territorial waters if we’re in transit between two international waters and not conducting military operations.”
“But you would be, according to this. Conducting military operations, I mean.”
“They’d never be able to prove it. I’d leave my helos airborne, with orders to bingo to the carrier for refueling.”
“Well. Captain, you’ve certainly put some thought into this,” Tombstone said, anger starting to grow. CAG had been right — the Aegis was potentially more of a problem than CAG’s aircrews. “And I appreciate your initiative in sharing it. So let me explain my intentions to you, just so we’re all in sync with this.
“The Aegis,” Tombstone continued, “is an extremely valuable battle control platform. Your capability to manage the air war, as well as the assets of the other cruisers in the battle group, is vital in conflict. What I am concerned about is whether or not you are incompetent, stupid, or absolutely fucking insane.”
Killington had started to beam at Tombstone’s words. His mouth dropped open at the last sentence, and his face froze into an incongruous mask of self-approval and shock.
“But-” he started.
“Shut up and listen if you want to stay in command for more than another three seconds. We are not at war, Captain! My message contained no secret message that you should run through your secret decoder ring. We are simply going to patrol back and forth in the box I’ve laid out for you, staying outside the twelve-mile limit! And the first time I catch your happy little ass and your boat closer than fifteen miles away from the coast, I’m going to helo over to your ship, walk up on your bridge, and publicly castrate you. And then I will relieve you of your command. Do you understand me, you idiot?”
The Aegis CO choked out a “Yes, Admiral.”
“From now on, I am going to be taking particular note of the operations involving Vincennes. Every time I look at the screen in combat, I’d better see your ship so tightly in the middle of her screen position that it’d take a crowbar to pry you loose. There had better never be a question in my mind about what you are doing, where you are going, or what you are thinking. Is that absolutely clear, Captain?”
This time, Killington could only nod.
“Get back to your ship. Don’t let this happen again.”
The Aegis CO rose and walked to the door. In the few steps that it took him to get there, he regained a portion of his composure. With his
hand on the doorknob, he turned back toward Tombstone.
“I thank the admiral for taking the time to instruct me in basic rules of engagement for this part of the world. Be assured, Admiral — I won’t forget our conversation.” His face was carefully neutral during his statement.
“Get out, before I change my mind and relieve you now,” Tombstone said in a deadly quiet tone.
CHAPTER 8
Saturday, 29 June
0800 local (Zulu -8)
Operations Center
Hanoi, Vietnam
We will be increasing the size of the garrison here immediately,” Mein Low said. “Your logistics officer will meet with mine to discuss the details.”
“May I ask why?” Bien forced a neutral tone into his voice. The ten Chinese Flankers currently on “temporary assignment” to Vietnam were already straining the resources of the small training base.
“Increased training opportunities,” the Chinese officer replied. “Your men have made excellent progress in air combat. It is time to take the next logical step in this evolution and begin experimenting with squadron-level tactics rather than one-on-one combat. To support that, I need more than one squadron here.”
“I will have to discuss this with my superiors, of course,” Bien said politely. “It will take some time to make preparations for more aircraft.”
“The next squadron will arrive next Tuesday,” Mein Low said, as though his Vietnamese counterpart had not spoken.
“I’m not certain-“
“Four days from now, Bien.” Mein Low fixed Bien with an impassive, vaguely threatening look.
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