Enemies c-15

by Keith Douglass

  Arkady turned his basilisk glare on Zentos. For a moment, the chief of staff expected the worst. He repressed the shudder that ran through his body. The incident with Spiros yesterday… no, it was unthinkable.

  But he’s capable of it. You know. You were there.

  Zentos had directed the removal of the body and the cleanup of General Arkady’s office afterward. A team of enlisted men had scoured the room for bits of bloody tissue and spots of bodily fluids then almost silently cleaned the wooden floors and walls. Zentos had stood over them the entire time, trying to keep his body between the men and the general, wincing every time one of them made the slightest bit of unavoidable noise. General Arkady had remained at his desk, ostensibly engrossed in wading through paperwork but attentive as a hawk. It was the most profoundly humiliating episode in Zentos’s career thus far.

  A court-martial would have been the right thing to do and would have brought the full force of military justice to bear on the foolish pilot. Greece had a long history of democracy, had developed a military culture that rivaled any in the world and extended back to the earliest recorded times. There was much to be proud of, ancient history and traditions to uphold.

  Unfortunately, a court-martial would have also revealed the one fact that Arkady did not want made public: that the general himself had ordered the fatal maneuvers, fully conscious of the danger to the helicopter. That was why Spiros had died. Not as punishment for making a critical mistake in the air, but because the pilot had obeyed his orders.

  Private executions on the whim of a madman. Am I next? With that thought, as he’d shielded the cleaning crew with his own body, Zentos had turned a corner that not even he fully recognized yet.

  Zentos stared at a spot just under Arkady’s chin, carefully avoiding direct eye contact and holding his breath, wondering whether he’d bought them all some time. With any luck, events might distract the general from insisting someone pay for the failure to locate the downed helo.

  Finally, Arkady appeared to lose interest in him. He turned away, fixing his glare back on the aviators again. “Find out why these men were assigned to fly this mission. After you do, I wish to see their commanding officer.”

  Zentos nodded, relieved for the men arrayed before him, but now facing a growing fear for the captain of the squadron. He was an old friend, one with whom Zentos had served for many years. Would he meet Spiros’s fate in a few hours?

  “You heard the general — return to your duty stations at once,” Zentos said harshly, aware that every second they spent in Arkady’s presence increased the danger that he’d change his mind and make another example out of them. He shepherded the men out of Arkady’s office, then closed the door behind them. He turned to face the general alone.

  Was there any point in discussing the execution with Arkady? Surely he understood what monstrous misconduct it had been? Could he achieve any real purpose — besides increasing the odds of losing his own life — in offering criticism to the flag officer?

  And yet, wasn’t that the role of the chief of staff? To serve as a sounding board for ideas, build the staff into a cohesive unit that the general could take into war? Of all the generals that Zentos had ever served under, he had never met one that did not value a chief of staff willing to speak his mind.

  Until now. Is it worth my own life? And perhaps even the life of the RIO that the general has forgotten about. If I even bring the incident up, there is every possibility that he will remember that there were two men in that aircraft, not just one.

  “I will fly the next mission myself, General,” he heard himself say. He waited for some comment from Arkady, but the general simply nodded.

  Arkady’s window overlooked ancient hillsides, soaked through the centuries in military blood. Battles and campaigns that the entire world now studied had been waged in these hills, not so far from that very location. And even then, the Macedonians and the Greeks had been at odds.

  His brother was married to a Macedonian woman, albeit not from the upstart republic itself. The same blood, though, threaded throughout this land. His nieces and nephews were of the ancestry, too. In truth, there was little difference between the two cultures, apart from the names by which they called themselves.

  Was it worth it? Lives squandered arguing over which set of ancestors back in the mists of time had created certain forms of pottery, had settled certain islands, had brought forth Alexander the Great. In today’s world, growing smaller through commerce and the Internet, was it right to cling to those ancient claims to glory?

  Yes. For without history, a nation had no basis for insisting on taking its place in the world community. Ancient blood ran in his veins, coursed through every inch of his body. Greece had earned its place in the world, and he would do his part to make sure it remained untarnished. And despite his revulsion at Arkady’s conduct as an officer, Zentos knew that Arkady understood that as well. They agreed on the end — just not on the means.

  “History is upon us,” Arkady said out loud, breaking the silence in his office. “This question has been left unresolved for too many centuries.” He stood and began pacing. “Not one more year. Not one more month or week. I will settle this matter once and for all.” The general’s voice grew louder as he recited the ancient list of wrongs between Greeks and Macedonians. “They are Greek, can’t they see that? And they will be Greek, will admit it to the world. I will see them dead before they disgrace our blood. Every last one of them.” The general appeared to have forgotten that his chief of staff was still in the room.

  His words sent chills down Zentos’s back. Had it come to this? Brother murdering brother, and in the interest of what? Old stories of glory and ancient birthright?

  For the first time in his thirty-five years of military service, after campaigns ranging from fighting the British to the Italian incursions, the chief of staff began to wonder whether he had made the right choice in joining the Army.

  “You will fly the mission, Colonel.” Arkady turned to glare at him, his eyes refocusing and seeming to stare straight through the colonel. “Find the helicopter, the people onboard. And bring them to me.”

  As he left, Zentos felt a profound satisfaction that he’d volunteered. It was foolish, dangerous beyond any threat that the air could offer, but it was the right thing to do. If the consequences for his men were to include execution for an unsuccessful mission, then he could not order them into the air unless he was willing to face Arkady’s justice himself.

  If it must happen, let me die in the air. He went to check the flight schedule for the next scheduled mission.

  Tomcat 304

  Enroute USS Jefferson, Aegean Sea

  1040 local (GMT –2)

  Tombstone could see the aircraft carrier now, a barely discernible pip on the horizon. Not that visual mattered right now, though. It wouldn’t until he was on final approach. Jefferson’s TACAN sang out sweet and clear on his receiver, and he was on an inbound radial under the control of an enlisted operations specialist in the carrier’s Combat Direction Center, or CDC.

  The sound of a healthy Tomcat filled the cockpit, reverberating in his bones until he could feel the sound merge with his own heartbeat. Twin turbofans, each capable of generating 20,900 pounds of thrust. Over the years that he’d been flying, the Tomcat had seen continuous upgrades. This bird, the F-14D, was one of the most advanced fighters ever built. Even the older airframes had gotten the upgrade, including a change-out of the engines and avionics. Almost like new — except that eventually metallic stress would win. You could only expect so much from aging metal.

  Still, this old gal had a few years left in her. He patted the canopy affectionately, as though she were his favorite dog. How lucky he’d been after Flight Basic to get Tomcats! It was a choice he’d never regretted.

  “Three zero four, I hold you at forty miles, bearing one niner two,” a voice said in his ear. “Admiral, you will be vectored in for immediate landing, sir. We have a green deck at this time.”<
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  “Roger.” Tombstone sighed. They had to do it that way, of course. An admiral inbound on the carrier took priority over all the other lowly aviators. He could see the faint glint of sunshine on wings off to the right of the ship, the starboard marshal pattern. Planes in air would be stacked up there, waiting for their shot at the deck. They’d been out flying missions, maybe even on a double cycle, and were probably ready to get back on deck. His arrival would throw the whole sequence out of whack, maybe even forcing some of them to peel out and refuel if the wait got too long. And it wasn’t like someone could save your place in line for you. You’d start over at the top of the stack and have to work your way back down.

  “I wouldn’t mind spending some time in a starboard marshal,” Tombstone said out loud, careful not to toggle the transmit switch. “Not one little bit.”

  His backseater, Commander Gator Cummings, heard him even over the cockpit noise. He clicked his ICS twice in acknowldgment. “Missing the stick time, sir?”

  “You bet, Gator.”

  It had been a struggle to get his uncle to carve out a week’s worth of time in Norfolk to allow him to requalify on Tomcats. It had been an abbreviated syllabus, one designed to bring a senior aviator who had been out of the cockpit back up to speed quickly. He knew the RAG personnel hadn’t been happy, would’ve liked to have him for another few weeks, but there simply wasn’t time. In the end, he’d managed to convince them that he was safe to fly after a couple of carrier qualification landings, and insisted that they sign off on his flight quals.

  Now, feeling the warm reassuring thrum of the Tomcat around him, he knew it had been the right decision. The aircraft was a part of him, an extension of his own body. The avionics that fed into his and Gator’s displays were extensions of his mind. The movements to control the aircraft were by now so automatic that he barely had to think of them. Instead, he could simply enjoy the flight.

  “Tomcat 304, maintain 10,000 feet and continue inbound, sir,” his operations specialist said. Tombstone clicked his mike twice in acknowledgment. He took the Tomcat down in a slow, controlled descent, gradually bleeding off his altitude while increasing his speed slightly.

  “Roger, sir, hold you on course, on speed. Continued inbound on this radial. Say state and souls, sir.”

  Tombstone glanced down at the fuel indicator. “Six thousand pounds, two souls on board.”

  “Roger, sir, copy six thousand pounds and two souls. Commander Cummings, is that correct, sir?”

  “That’s correct.” For a moment, Tombstone wondered how Gator had managed to wheedle his way into a free trip to Sigonella to meet him, but decided not to ask.

  Gator and Bird Dog had flown in together, and the pilot had been left to find his way back to the ship on a COD. Tombstone tried to feel sorry for the young pilot, but couldn’t. Bird Dog had had his fair share of good deals, including having been paired so often with Gator. By now the two were a well-oiled team, with Gator supplying the raw brain power and Bird Dog the natural reflexes that made them a superb fighting team. Still, it had been Gator who had more than once pulled Bird Dog’s butt out of the fire.

  “Tomcat 203, turn right to course 010.” The operation specialist continued on to rattle off the standard speed and descent requirements for an approach on the carrier, concluding with, “Tomcat 203, call the ball.”

  It was a request that Tombstone notified the landing signals officer, or LSO, located on ship’s stern when he caught sight of the ball for the first time.

  The ball, the common name for the Fresnel lens, was the mainstay of carrier aviation landings. It was a visual indication of the aircraft’s relationship to the proper and safe glide path when approaching the carrier. Too low or too high, and a pilot saw a series of red lights. Right on course, the ball looked green. The LSO would keep an eye on the Tomcat’s approach, checking for proper speed, orientation and attitude, and providing a visual confirmation that the aircraft landing gear was down.

  The carrier was growing larger now, a solid, massive postage stamp in ocean ahead. Always, at these times, the deck looked impossibly small. Even after almost thirty years of landing on carriers, Tombstone still found it a miraculous way of landing.

  He could see it now, the glint of green and red on the port side of the carrier. He made the call. “Tomcat 203, ball.”

  The LSO answered immediately. “Roger, 203. Ball. Looking good, sir. A little high—203, say needles.”

  Tombstone glanced down at the needles, crosshairs which indicated his relationship to the glide path. “Needles high and to the right,” he said.

  “Roger, sir, fly the needles,” the LSO answered, indicating that Tombstone’s cockpit indicators gibed with his own assessment of the Tomcat’s approach.

  Tombstone eased back off the throttle, decreasing his airspeed slightly, letting the Tomcat sink down through the air as gravity overcame his forward speed and lift. It always seemed so slow at this point, a gentle descent down to the deck. At least so far.

  Then he hit the bubble, the wake of roiled air immediately astern of the carrier, created by the passage of the massive ship through the atmosphere. The Tomcat bounced around, and he made minor corrections to hold the aircraft on glide path.

  “A little high, sir, that’s right. Nose up a little bit more, looking good, looking good, attitude sir, attitude sir, power now, power now, looking good,” the LSO sang as he coached him in through the final stages of the approach.

  The deck loomed up at him, massive and spacious this close to it. The stern flashed by under him, and Tombstone slammed the throttles forward to full military power in case he missed the four wires spanning the deck below him. The Tomcat was barely airborne right now, sinking fast and approaching stall speed of 100 knots. Without full military power, he wouldn’t have enough speed to take off the end of the deck if he boltered.

  The wheels slammed down hard on the deck, the hydraulic shock absorbers taking most of the force. A controlled crash, that’s what it always felt like. The impact slammed Tombstone forward against his ejection harness straps. The noise inside the cockpit crescendoed as the powerful engines sucked down air, mixed it with fuel, ignited it, and blasted out power.

  “Three wire, sir,” the LSO said. “Good trap.” That meant Tombstone’s tail hook mounted on the undercarriage of the Tomcat had caught the third wire from the stern of the ship. The three wire was considered the goal on every landing.

  Tombstone kept one hand on the throttles, pouring the power on. Wires had been known to break, and only a fool took power off before he was directed to do so.

  A yellow shirt walked out in front him, and made hand signals for decreasing power. Only that moment, when a member of the flight deck crew felt confident enough that the Tomcat was stopped that he was willing to step in front of the powerful aircraft himself, did a pilot risk his own life by easing off on the power.

  The yellow shirt moved one extended arm in an arc underneath an outstretched arm, indicating that Tombstone should retract his tail hook. Tombstone did, and felt the Tomcat roll forward slightly, now free of the restraining wire. He taxied past the first yellow shirt, who handed him off to a second one. Tombstone was directed to his spot on the deck, and slid the Tomcat smoothly into his assigned slot. The second yellow shirt was still standing in front, making the signals now for engine shutdown. Tombstone complied, running through the shutdown checklist as he did so.

  “Good trap, Admiral,” Gator said. He was already powering down his own equipment and unsnapping his ejection harness after safing the ejection seat itself. “It’s something you never lose, is it?”

  Captain Coyote Grant, now commanding officer of USS Jefferson, was standing at the bottom of the boarding ladder, waiting to greet him. Coyote was one of Tombstone’s earliest friends in the F-14 community, just a few years his junior.

  Coyote had followed Tombstone and Batman up the ranks, and had taken command of Jefferson just a few months earlier. It had been an easy relief proc
ess, since Coyote’s previous assignment had been as Batman’s chief of staff for Carrier Battle Group 14.

  “Welcome aboard, Admiral,” Coyote said. “Admiral Wayne’s a bit tied up — he asked me to meet you and invite you down at your earliest convenience.”

  Tombstone held out his hand. “Nice to be back, Coyote.” Salutes were never rendered on the flight deck, since headgear other than flight deck cranials was prohibited during flight operations. “We’ll head down to flag spaces now.” As they headed for the hatch that led into the island, Tombstone asked, “So how’s it going?”

  Coyote laughed. “Guess you’d be the one to tell me that, sir.”

  Inside the skin of the ship, they descended two ladders and ended up on the 0–3 level, the passageway which housed the flight spaces. Tombstone followed Coyote into the admiral’s cabin.

  “About time,” Admiral Wayne grumbled. “Figured you’d show up sooner or later, Stony.”

  “Never pass up the chance at some stick time,” Tombstone answered. Batman grunted an acknowledgment.

  “So what’s all this about, Tombstone?” Coyote asked, discarding the formalities now that they were in private. “All I know is I get a message telling me you’re flying out en route an assignment in Greece. Might you tell me what’s up?”

  This was an old friend, one Tombstone trusted, so he gave him the full story. Everything — the details about his trip to Vietnam and Russia, the subsequent displeasure of naval leadership with his activities. He concluded by saying, “So be careful where you drop bombs, Coyote. I almost got taken out by my own former squadron.”

  “It’s that serious, then?” Batman asked, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve seen the messages, of course. And there are always contingency plans. But now you’re talking about bombing runs… where? And how soon? I need to get my people started on this.”