Whatever the senior chief made in the Navy, and it wasn’t nearly as much as Lab Rat made, he was underpaid. There were people in the civilian world that recognized that, and could offer far more money than the Navy ever dreamed possible. The senior chief had a wife and three kids to support, and Lab Rat knew the prospect of putting all three kids through college was on his mind. Although he would hate to see him go, Lab Rat couldn’t blame him if he retired and took a high-paying civilian job.
For his own part, the senior chief was following a similar train of thought. Sure, of course he had thought about working for them after he retired. But that had always been sometime in the far future, not even very real to him. Someday, he would leave the Navy. Maybe at twenty years, maybe at thirty years. He liked the Navy, despite the low pay, long hours, and time away from home. He wasn’t sure how he would fit in wearing a suit.
But if Omicron was asking about him, then that meant that they were moving ahead on Brilliant Pebbles. It was a follow-on to the Reagan Star Wars concept, an antiballistic missile defense system intended to guarantee the security of the continental United States. Using a dedicated network of satellites, high-intensity lasers, and long-range antimissile missiles, Brilliant Pebbles looked quite attractive on paper. Sure, there were a number of technical difficulties to work out, mostly those involving the scattering of the laser beams in the atmosphere and command and control circuitry for the antimissile missiles. But if they were talking to JCS and Commander Busby, he was willing to bet that they’d made progress on whipping the technical issues. Made progress, and were ready to go into field-testing. And that, the senior chief thought, was something he very much wanted to be a part of.
And maybe the commander wanted to be part of it, too. “Sir?” the senior chief said slowly, trying to figure out how to tactfully broach the subject. “Would you be interested in seeing what some of the systems can do these days? I could arrange a demonstration.”
Lab Rat stared at him. “You could?”
The senior chief flushed. “Yes, well — yes, I could. And I think you’d be interested in what Omicron has going on.”
Lab Rat smiled at him like a bemused parent surprised by a prodigal child. “Sure, Senior Chief. If you can set it up, I’d like to see it.”
New York, New York
United Nations
1400 local (GMT-5)
Ambassador Sarah Wexler had been United States’ ambassador to the United Nations for the last three years. During that time, she and the president had come to know each other fairly well, to the point at which they could anticipate each other’s reactions and plan accordingly. It had led both of them into some cunning schemes using reverse psychology, and had deepened the respect they had for each other.
Yet, as Wexler tried to analyze the sense of foreboding stirring in her, she knew she would get absolutely nowhere with the president unless she could present facts to back up intuition. He was three years into his first term as president, and he understood diplomacy in a way that many did not. Nevertheless, he tended to discount her gut feelings.
But this time, she had to convince him. She called in Brad, her aide, to rehearse her arguments with him.
“Sit behind my desk,” she ordered, vacating her chair and coming around to the visitor side. “Just a second — there,” she said, as she adjusted the American flag to his right. “Gives it a little bit more atmosphere, I think. And keep your jacket on. Lean forward, put your elbows on the desk, and stare at me.” She surveyed him critically as he complied, then nodded. “Yes, that will do.”
“I can have one of the secretaries hunt down a greyhound if you like,” he offered. The president’s passion for rescued greyhounds and his efforts to ban greyhound racing within the United States were well-known. Two retired racers lived at the White House, and they got more press coverage than any other presidential pet she could remember. When the press could catch up with them, that was. The greyhounds seemed to delight in racing past waiting cameras at their still-respectable speeds of around forty miles an hour.
“Not necessary,” she said. “He’s usually got one of them in the office with him, and it pisses him off when people ignore them.”
“Okay, shoot,” Brad said, adopting a Texas drawl. “Ah’m all ears, darlin’.”
Wexler marshaled her thoughts and began. “Mr. President, we have discussed the possibility of a reunified Soviet Union several times. And, in the past, we have both agreed that it might indeed be a possibility. I’ve come today to tell you that I think it may now be happening.”
Brad stared at her, unblinking. “Pretty strong accusation, Madam Ambassador. What kind of evidence do you have? Anything like a signed declaration of war? A sunken passenger liner, or such?”
And that’s exactly the sort of thing he would say. And would be looking for. But the intentions of nations are more often measured in the small things, not in the atrocities.
“Not yet, Mr. President,” she said firmly, and let the silence lengthen.
“What do you mean, not yet? Your saying it’s that serious?” Brad said, his Texas twang slipping slightly as he caught her mood.
She nodded. “Perhaps. If it starts, it will start like this.”
“I’m all ears,” the substitute president said.
“To begin with, the international treaty on the conduct of operations at sea is currently under review by several committees. I briefed you on that last month, and told you that the Russians had promised us a speedy response. I thought we’d hammered out all the essential terms and that it would be signed quickly.”
“It hasn’t happened?” he asked.
“No. It has not. There’s been no response. In fact, the Russian delegation has refused to return phone calls from our people. They’ve been avoiding them in the hallways, snubbing them in the dining facilities, and generally avoiding us.”
“Rudeness doesn’t hardly mean World War Three,” Pratt observed dryly.
“It’s more than that,” she said, suddenly feeling terribly inadequate to this task. How to possibly convey the nuances of interpersonal contact, the subtle signals used in the diplomatic corps to express problems or issues. It was almost impossible, but she had to try. The president must understand what was coming — must understand, so he could be prepared, even if he didn’t believe her right now.
She tried again. “Last week, the Russian delegation hosted a huge reception for the touring Bolshoi Ballet Company. They’ve been here touring the country, as you know.”
“Saw them myself when they were in D.C.,” the president agreed. “So what?”
“The Bolshoi tour has been cut short by three weeks. The Russians say it’s due to the illness of the male principal, but nobody believes that. Even if that were true, they always have understudies ready to go on.”
Brad let his expression of mild amusement express his disbelief.
“And there’s more,” she pressed. “As I said, the Russians hosted a huge reception. We were not invited, Mr. President. In our own country, we were not invited to a reception honoring dancers touring our country.”
“And you find that significant? Couldn’t it have just been a screwup of some sort, either in their office or ours?”
She shook her head firmly. “Mr. President, this is a textbook example of the diplomatic corps sending a message. Believe me, the oversight was intentional, and carefully coordinated with the Russian president. Just as with their recalling the Bolshoi Ballet.”
“Usually they recall the ambassador, not their dancers.”
“That will be next. Within a week or so. That gives us a window of opportunity, Mr. President, to defuse this. We have to find out what’s going on over there before we’re surprised by it. Things are moving too quickly.”
Brad held up a hand to forestall comment. “Now hold on, Sarah. You’re moving awfully fast on not much evidence. Can you imagine the Senate Foreign Relations Committee’s reaction if I tried to convince them that we ought to base f
oreign policy on what Russian stars in which ballet? I’d be laughed out of the office.”
“I’m not suggesting you consult Congress. I am suggesting that you let the military know, and let them prepare for what might happen.”
“Sarah, Sarah. Really — you know that if I pass this on to the military, it’ll be all over D.C. in a few hours. They’ll be calling me a warmonger again. Listen, if you turn up any hard intelligence or other evidence that we’re about to face problems with Russia, I’ll act on it immediately. But until then…” Brad laid his palms flat on the desk and shoved himself up to a standing position. “Thanks for coming by, Madam Ambassador. I’ll see you to the door.”
Wexler stared at him. Brad stared back. “That’s how it’d go, and you know it.”
After a long silence, Wexler said, “Call Captain Hemingway. Ask her if she’s got time for a cup of tea.”
USS Jefferson
Flight Deck
1920 local (GMT-4)
The C-2 Greyhound banked hard to left, virtually standing on its wingtip as it made its turn onto final. In the back, the passengers were thrown against their restraining harnesses, and more than one let out an involuntary yelp. Among those who silently gritted their teeth and bore it was Lieutenant (junior grade) Clarissa Shaughnessy.
Shaughnessy barely met the height requirements for a pilot. At five feet three inches, she had a slender frame and delicate features. White-blonde hair formed an unruly halo around her face, framing angular cheekbones and deep blue eyes. Her appearance had earned her a nickname in the Tomcat training pipeline — Elf. Whether or not it would stick with her throughout the rest of her naval career would be up to the squadron.
Like most pilots, Shaughnessy hated flying as passenger. After eighteen months in Flight Basic and the Tomcat trading pipeline and two years of enlisted service before that as a plane captain on board the USS Jefferson, she knew all too well how many things could do wrong with an aircraft, particularly one that was attempting the always tricky task of landing on the deck of aircraft carrier.
As a young airman, Shaughnessy had been responsible for maintaining her aircraft, coordinating with the more sophisticated technicians as required, and helping pilots preflight and board their aircraft. When it wasn’t in the air, it belonged to her. On one occasion, her sharp eyes caught a problem with the control surfaces of a Tomcat that was about to launch. Her quick thinking and disobedience to orders had saved an aircrew’s lives. In recognition, Admiral Tombstone Magruder, then the battle group commander, had done everything in his power to see that she was admitted to the Naval Academy.
Now, almost six years later, she was back where she started. But this time as a pilot in VF-95, not as a plane captain. A young nugget, admittedly, but a pilot nonetheless.
And a lousy passenger.
The Greyhound gyrated through the air like a roller coaster as it fought the mass of roiling air in the carrier’s wake. At the slower approach speeds used by the COD, the aircraft fought every burble of air. Up, down, sideways, it seemed as though the pilot had absolutely no control over the aircraft.
Shaughnessy tried not to think about the mishaps she’d seen as a plane captain. Instead, she thought of the one she’d prevented, the one good move that had gotten her her appointment to the Naval Academy. The pilot whose life she’d saved had later finagled his way around the rules and taken her up for her first-ever ride in the bird she was responsible for. He’d flown aerobatics, let her fiddle with the radar, and then finally brought her back on deck in what she now realized had been an exceptionally smooth landing.
Lieutenant Robinson, he’d been back then, although she was sure he’d been promoted since then. Bird Dog, the other officers had called him. She’d heard he was still on board the Jeff, and she was looking forward to seeing him again. How weird would it be to call him by his call sign? Or, God forbid, would he expect her to use his first name? Could she even do that?
She shook her head, determined to quit being stupid. She wasn’t enlisted anymore. She was an officer — hell, she’d even been promoted once — and a pilot in her own right. She’d have to get over this inferiority complex.
With a sickening screech, the aircraft slammed down on the deck, caught the three wire with its tail hook, and jolted to a halt. There was a moment of wild relief among the passengers, a thankfulness that they’d somehow made it through the landing alive. Yet, as Shaughnessy knew, it was no more than a routine landing, one executed dozens of times every day on board this very aircraft carrier.
The crew captain was standing in the aisle of the Greyhound now, and making an announcement over the intercom, ordering them to remain in their seats until they arrived at their spot, the area of the deck that would be the parking spot. Shaughnessy felt the COD lurch backward, felt the thud against the undercarriage as the tail hook withdrew, and a slight surge of power as the COD headed for its spot. Outside, in front of the COD, would be somebody very much like who she had been, a plane captain. It was night, so the plane captain would be using lighted wands to direct them toward their spot on the deck. Once they came to a full halt, the passengers would be allowed to disembark.
Finally, the Greyhound lurched to a halt. After a few moments, the tail ramp dropped down, and cool night air flooded the compartment. Shaughnessy unstrapped herself and reached under her seat for her briefcase. Her large duffel bag was in the baggage compartment, but her briefcase contained her orders, her financial records, and a change of underwear — just in case.
Shaughnessy followed the herd of passengers straggling out across the flight deck and into the ship. “VF-95?” The petty officer standing behind the counter checked her orders, then passed them back to her. “You know how to find it, ma’am?”
“Yes, I do, thanks.” Ma’am. Never thought I’d hear that on board the Jefferson, did I?
“Need any help with that duffel bag, ma’am?” He eyed her doubtfully, comparing the mass and probable weight of the duffel bag with her figure.
“Nope,” she said cheerfully, hoisting the duffel bag easily. “I pack it, I can carry it.” All her hours in the gym building muscle mass paid off as she saw a new respect in his eyes, but that wasn’t the reason she’d sweated away half her free time.
Although the Tomcat flew by guided wire and contained multiple redundant hydraulic systems, there was no telling when you might have to manhandle the aircraft all by your lonesome. Guys, even average guys, usually had no problem with it. But if you were small, nicknamed Elf, and generally a physical lightweight, you had to do what she had done: haunt the gym, pumping larger and larger loads, knowing that you would never reach the numbers that some of the guys did, but determined to be able to bench press enough to be safe in your aircraft.
Shaughnessy moved easily down two ladders, expertly maneuvering the bulk of the duffel bag behind her, to reach the 03 level. The 03 passageway housed most of the squadron ready rooms, including that of VF-95. The captains, XOs, and operations officers of the squadrons also had their staterooms on this level, as did the admiral and his staff.
She made her way forward along the port passageway to the VF-95 ready room. The passageway smelled of popcorn. Every squadron had its own popcorn machine, and, as with everything else an aviator did, the competition to produce the best possible on-board popcorn was a continual source of contention among the squadrons.
She stared at the door for moment, almost overwhelmed by her emotions. VF-95—her squadron. And now she was back. For a moment, it felt entirely too audacious to be entering here with her duffel bag, as though she were pretending to be something she was not. In one part of her mind, she was still the young, scared plane captain who worked on the flight deck.
Nonsense. You’re a pilot. And, by God, you’re just as good as any of them. She shoved the door open and stepped in.
She stood at the back of a large room filled with comfortable high-back chairs. They were covered in brown leatherette and numbered about forty. Forward, to the lef
t, there was a small desk with a telephone where the squadron duty officer stood his watch.
The compartment was about a third filled, the scent of the popcorn almost overwhelming. Aviators, most clad in flight suits, were engaging in horseplay and ragging on each other. A junior officer at the back of the compartment was fiddling with a VCR. He looked up as the door opened and was the first to spot her. A broad smile spread across his face.
“All right!” He stood and made a beeline for her. “Ensign Shaughnessy — sorry, it’s j.g. now I see — not that that makes any difference — you’re just in time.”
“For what? To see the movie?”
He shook his head, his pleasure unmistakable. “Junior officer in the squadron is responsible for the movies. Until now, that was me.” He handed her a VCR tape. “And now it’s you. Any questions, call me. I’ll be in my stateroom.” Shaughnessy stared down, bewildered, at the tape in her hand. What, was she supposed to run the movie now? Before she’d even checked in?
“By God, it is you!” a voice from the front of the room said cheerfully. “I saw the name on the orders and damned near wet my pants.” The owner of the voice, a tall man with a powerful build and a huge grin on his face strode toward her. “Airman Shaughnessy — welcome back.” She stared at his hands that clasped hers and pumped repeatedly. “Hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? Save any more pilots recently?”
“Not — not recently, sir,” she stammered, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer force of his presence. She didn’t remember Bird Dog Robinson as being quite so tall, and quite so… well… such a hunk. Maybe it was because, as an enlisted technician, she had known that the rules against fraternization prevented him from ever being a possibility. But, now, now that she was an officer… well, she shoved that thought out of her mind, and looked up into his broad, smiling face. “It’s nice to be back, sir.”
Bird Dog dropped her hand, and threw one arm casually around her shoulder. “Oh, hell — don’t start on the sir shit. You damn near kicked my ass when I was a lieutenant and you were an airman — and rightfully so. It’s Bird Dog now. So, how does it feel to be a pilot?” he asked, leading her toward the front of the room. Before she could answer, he turned her around to face the rest of the ready room. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is my good friend Lieutenant j.g. Clarissa Shaughnessy. Back when she had a real job as a plane captain, she saved my ass. Help her get settled in, folks. This one’s a keeper.” He turned back to Shaughnessy, and asked, “They tag you with a call sign in the pipeline?”
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