Nuke Zone c-11

by Keith Douglass

  “Are Ukrainian flights talking to us? Anything suspicious about their transits?”

  Batman looked quizzical. “Nothing out of order at all. We ask for a clearance vector, they give it, although most of their transit is just over the Black Sea. Really, absent a UN embargo of some sort, we’ve got no authority to regulate their commerce.”

  “Other than shooting them out of the air.”

  “We almost splashed one Falcon,” Batman said. “Would have too if he’d continued inbound on Admiral Latterly’s helo. And if there’s any question about the decision to go weapons free on it, I’ll take full responsibility. I told that pilot to keep the bird away from my carrier and away from Latterly’s helo–and that’s exactly what he did. I looked at the data tapes, and it looked like the Falcon was trying to put him into a scissors. You know how deadly that can be between a big bird like the Turkey and a gnat like the Falcon.”

  “Concur–and I would’ve done the same thing. There’s no point in having to put the entire burden on the boys out there–we’ve gotta give them the tools they need to fight with. And that includes guidance from us and accepting responsibility for the consequences.”

  “The rest of the tactical picture is degenerating as well. Despite humanitarian aid from the Ukraine, there appears to be some tensions between the Turkish and Ukrainian militaries. Nothing specific–no shots fired–but the routine training flights are harrying each other, playing grab-ass, lighting each other up and shutting down–that sort of thing.”

  Tombstone frowned. “I don’t like it. Why would Turkey be pissed at the one nation that stepped forward immediately to help them?”

  “And there’s worse news.” Batman circled the laser pointer around the display. “We’re in dirty water now, Tombstone. Our S-3 Vikings have been running sonobuoy barriers out along our street of advance, and yesterday they talked me into laying a pattern near La Salle. You’re not going to like what they found.”

  “Submarines? Which ones?”

  “Nasty ones. Ship-killers–a couple of Kilos just north of La Salle, and a third that’s confirmed out of port but remains unlocated. All diesel boats, all black holes in the water when they’re running on batteries.”

  “You’re keeping up surface surveillance flights?”

  “Of course. But you know how these guys are–they run silent and submerged all day, come up and suck down some air when it’s dark. Our best detections have been off radar and flare, not off acoustics. But we’ll keep trying.”

  “Jesus, what else?” Tombstone rolled his shoulders back, trying to relieve the tight knot gathering along his shoulder blades. The base of his head was beginning to pound, a headache creeping up his spine and circling around to clamp down on his temples.

  “We’ve got one more COD flight inbound today. A special one, on direct orders of CNO.”

  “Who’s flying out–God?”

  Batman frowned. “Almost. It’s the State Department. And there’s worse news. Rumor has it that a certain reporter acquaintance of yours is prowling around Istanbul. You can guess who. We’re already getting requests to on-load teams of reporters.”

  Tombstone swore softly. “Pamela, of course. It figures, there’s shooting going on, she’s in the middle of it.”

  He looked up and glared at his friend. “No comment–nothing. As far as I’m concerned, she can watch CNN to get her updates.”

  5

  Wednesday, 5 September

  0800 Local

  Admiral’s Briefing Room

  USS Jefferson

  “I trust your people are situated comfortably,” Admiral Magruder said.

  He kept his voice calm and neutral, determined not to let a rocky initial meeting with the State Department influence the whole course of their relationship. When he looked at the rumpled diplomat sitting in front of him, however, it was difficult to believe that these people were anything but trouble. Particularly on a front-line warship.

  “The interminable noise–how in the world do you stand it?” Bradley Tiltfelt said. “I can’t believe that your own quarters are quite as noisy as mine are, Admiral.” He tendered a skeptical, knowing look at the new Sixth Fleet commander.

  Tombstone gestured over his shoulder. “I’m directly below the waist catapult. But I suppose it’s just something you become accustomed to, Mr. Tiltfelt. After twenty years of listening to Tomcats launch, the noise makes me drowsy.”

  Tiltfelt’s look deepened into sardonic amusement. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  Tombstone shrugged, suddenly tiring of the interminable pleasantries.

  Late yesterday Mr. Bradley Tiltfelt and five assistants had arrived on board USS Jefferson, proclaiming with wide smiles and firm handshakes that they were there to help. The reaction from his staff and Batman’s had been guarded. They’d already been evicted from their quarters, forced to double up among themselves and with the ship’s company, and otherwise inconvenienced by the arrival of the civilians.

  “Admiral, if we might perhaps get some preliminaries out of the way ” Tiltfelt suggested delicately. “First, I want you to know how much I appreciate your having us on board.”

  It’s not like I had a choice. “Glad to have any assistance possible, sir,” Tombstone said, surprising himself a bit at the smooth tone in his voice. Perhaps it was something you learned when you got more senior, this ability to dissemble and mislead on command. “The sooner there’s a resolution to this, the happier we’ll all be.”

  “Yes. Of course. Which brings me to my first point. Admiral, I want you to know that the State Department takes this matter most seriously. In our view, there should be an immediate in-depth investigation into this entire incident. No holds barred, sir. And we expect some answers–at least preliminarily–along with appropriate disciplinary action within the next forty-eight hours.”

  Tombstone nodded pleasantly at what at first appeared to be the suggestion that the State Department was more firmly on board with his thinking than he thought possible. The last phrase jerked him out from his comfortable assumptions. “Disciplinary action? I’m afraid I don’t understand. If you mean perhaps a reexamination of the relationship between Turkey and the United States, then that’s hardly our province.”

  Tiltfelt shook his head from side to side emphatically. “Don’t try to misunderstand me, Admiral. I’m talking about the unprovoked attack by your aircraft on a Turkish freedom-of-navigation operation. This sort of unchecked aggression simply cannot form a solid basis for mature international relationships.”

  “Mature international–you want me to put my guy in hack for taking a shot at that Falcon? Hell, they missed.”

  “Did you think that you could cover it up forever?” Tiltfelt demanded. He snorted in disgust. “I think not. Matters are at too delicate a stage of resolution for inappropriate retaliation.”

  “They’re not in any stage of resolution as far as I know,” Tombstone shot back. “The last I heard, Turkey did the unthinkable. My pilot was simply following orders.”

  A deep expression of sadness and disappointment crossed Tiltfelt’s face. “How often have we used that expression for war crimes?” he asked the room in general. “Admiral, this situation simply must be stopped before it gets out of hand.”

  “It’s already out of hand,” Tombstone roared, forgetting his resolution to play their game with the same cold canniness the State Department was famous for. “Dammit, that was a nuclear weapon. And you expect me to let them back within tactical range of this ship?”

  “I expect you to do more than that, Admiral.”

  For the first time, Tiltfelt bared the iron hand that lay beneath his smooth, soft words. “And I think you’ll find your superiors back me up on this.”

  “On what?”

  “On an immediate diplomatic resolution of this unacceptable state of affairs. It is clear to me that Turkey has found some reason to feel extremely threatened by the American presence in the Mediterranean. Our only hope for a peaceful resolution
to this conflict is to bring all parties together to uncover the underlying rot in U.S.-Turkey relationships. We must talk, Admiral, not fight. Can’t you see that?”

  “You want to talk to them?” Tombstone couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Talk. And not only with Turkey. I have authority,” he continued, drawing an intricately sealed and stamped document out of his briefcase, “to invite representatives from area nations on board this carrier in order to work out a lasting peace proposal.”

  “On my ship.” Tombstone had passed from shock into sheer incredulity. “You must be joking.”

  “Read this.” Tiltfelt thrust the document at him. “I have appropriate copies for you, of course, signed by your superiors. Including,” he continued pointedly, “your uncle.”

  Tombstone scanned the document rapidly. It was just as the State Department official had said. Admiral Matthew Magruder was directed to provide air support, transportation, and berthing for such concerned nations as would agree to attend an Eastern Mediterranean peace conference.

  Moreover, it appeared that his uncle and the other Washington cohorts had been busier than he’d thought.

  No wonder they wanted to get me out here so quickly. There’s no way I’d sit still for this, not if I were back in D.C. They must be insane.

  Or maybe they weren’t. Perhaps the pressure brought to bear on the Navy establishment had simply been too great. Uncle Thomas might have known that, might have even made sure that Tombstone was on site so that at least one admiral tied to him with additional ties of loyalty and kinship would be on scene.

  To ensure that I’d go along with it?

  Or to serve as an extra set of eyes and ears?

  Suddenly, Tombstone desperately needed to make a secure phone call to his uncle, to hear the words from his own mouth. He needed an explanation, some framework in which this entirely unprecedented maneuver would make sense.

  “When?” Tombstone shook his head in resignation. “This will take time to arrange. Security alone will be a nightmare.”

  “We have nothing to hide from our allies, nor will I have you offend them by assigning Marine Corps escorts’ to make them feel as though we don’t trust them,” Tiltfelt said firmly. “If you will read the last paragraph, you will find the intended commencement date.”

  Tombstone leafed rapidly through the document, finally coming to the last page. His eyes lingered on the paragraph, then widened in shock. He looked across the table at Tiltfelt. “You must be joking.”

  “I am hearing that phrase entirely too often from your mouth, Admiral,” Tiltfelt snapped, evidently at the end of his patience. “What is there that you do not understand? Or is your ship simply incapable of fulfilling any mission that doesn’t involve dropping ordnance on a civilian target?”

  Tombstone stood, icy with rage. He glared down at the five civilians and said, “I think you’ll find this ship far more capable than you ever dreamed, Mr. Tiltfelt. And as for your damned directive–Jefferson will be ready to receive these representatives on the scheduled date. Tomorrow.”

  0900 Local

  Tomcat 308

  Eighty Miles Southwest of USS Jefferson

  “Okay, let’s see an Immelman,” Commander Steve Garber ordered. “So far, so good.”

  Skeeter obediently eased the Tomcat into a picture-perfect Immelman, completing the maneuver to settle into rock-stable level flight. He’d said barely two words to his squadron XO since they’d gotten airborne, and had no intention of changing. He’d been on the carrier less than twenty-four hours, and he was already in hack. A not-unusual experience for a nugget pilot, but still a squadron record, the XO had assured him.

  As instructed by Lieutenant Commander Robinson, Skeeter had made his way directly to the VF95 Executive Officer and shame-facedly reported his incident on the flight deck. The XO had transitioned rapidly from a relatively pleasant greeting to irritation. Ten minutes later, Skeeter had left the XO’s stateroom dragging ass. In hack. And with a new set of orders–report to CAG and get himself slotted for a checkout flight with his new XO the next day.

  “You look like you’ve got the makings of a good pilot,” the XO said over the ICS.

  “Thank you, XO.” Skeeter’s voice was polite, noncommittal.

  “Were Tomcats your first choice?”

  “Yes, XO.”

  An uncomfortable silence descended in the cockpit.

  Finally, the XO said, “Talkative little shit, aren’t you? Listen, mister, everybody screws up once in a while. You’d best get that chip off your shoulder most-skosh, or I’ll be all over you like stink on shit! You copy?”

  “Yes, sir.” Skeeter’s heart sunk even lower in his chest. Well, this was just fine. Now he could add giving the XO a hard-on for him to his list of sins.

  How had everything gone so bad so quickly?

  It had all started on the La Salle. He’d been confident–too confident–hell, he’d barely been out of the RAG for a month before he’d screwed up big-time. No matter that some paperwork shuffle in D.C. had led to him being stashed on board La Salle until his orders could get straightened out. He hadn’t minded it, except for the complete lack of stick time. In fact, once he’d gotten over his initial outrage, Skeeter had been rather pleased at it. Some exposure to some senior officers, a chance to get an inside look at how a fleet staff functioned–he’d been determined to make the best of it.

  First Sixth Fleet, now his own XO. Where was that fabled Naval leadership he’d heard so much about in ROTC?

  It sure as hell hadn’t worked on him so far. If it hadn’t been for his completely fulfilling and insanely intoxicating passion for flying the Tomcat, for flying in absolutely anything at all if the circumstances required it, but especially in the Tomcat, he would have bailed out of this canoe club a year ago. But his first contact with the sleek, powerful fighter had been love at first sight. As soon as he’d settled into the cockpit, even in the simulator, he’d known that this was what he’d been born to do. To be the master of this nine thousand pounds of steel and hydraulics, strap it on his ass every day and become as one in the sky. It was more than he’d ever thought it could be, more completely satisfying and fulfilling than the finest lady he’d ever had a chance to spend an evening with. Given the choice between sex and flying, he was fairly sure which one he’d choose on any given day.

  “Skeeter–that’s your call sign, right? Let me try this one more time,” the XO said, breaking into his reverie of lost dreams and stolen hopes. “You seem to have gotten off to the wrong foot around here. Do you get that feeling?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, XO,” Skeeter said suddenly, still feeling the pangs of anticipated loss that not making it as a Naval aviator would bring. “How could you possibly say that? In the past two days, I’ve only gotten the Sixth Fleet flagship shot up on my watch, managed to piss off the entire aircrew on board Jefferson, taken a swing at a chief petty officer, and landed myself in hack. That’s nothing, right? Just good old Naval aviation at its best.”

  Skeeter heard the bitterness dripping out of his voice, and wished desperately to call the words back. All he’d managed to do with his little tirade was to prove conclusively to the XO that he had no control over his temper and that he was a sullen, whiny child. He’d thought it impossible, but his spirits sank even lower.

  “You were on watch when it happened?” the XO said quietly. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes, sir, I had the watch, I was TAO, and I’m the one that made the call–I let that aircraft sucker-punch us, wiped out a whole ship. Pretty impressive, huh?”

  “Boy, that’s-“

  “Don’t call me boy.” Skeeter’s voice lashed over the ICS like a snapped arresting line. “Goddamn it, XO, don’t you ever call me that again.”

  “I’m sorry–it’s just an expression I use with some of the younger pilots. But you’re right–I can see how it would sound patronizing.”

  “Anyone ever call you boy, XO? You hear any of the white pilo
ts called boy?” Skeeter demanded.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.” The XO’s voice turned frosty. “But for the record, I won’t make that mistake again. Anything else on your mind?”

  “No, sir.”

  A tight band settled around Skeeter’s throat, ratcheting a notch tighter. Jesus, he wasn’t going to–he felt the hot wetness well in his eyes. He choked back a sob, turning it into a muffled throat-clearing.

  “Skeeter, let’s talk for a minute,” the XO persisted. “This is no way to get started with the squadron. And I didn’t know you were on watch on La Salle during the attack. Tell me what happened.”

  Skeeter cleared his throat noisily. With his hopes for a career in Naval aviation raining down in flames around him, the last thing he wanted to do was talk about La Salle. The very last thing. “I was on watch, I made a mistake. That’s pretty much the whole sum of it, XO.”

  But it wasn’t, one part of his mind insisted. There’d been other factors at work, things he could hardly explain to the XO. Not now, not under these circumstances. How proud he’d felt, selected to stand a flag watch position. How determined he’d been to appear self-confident and at ease, all the while still desperately trying to remember what each of the buttons on his TAO console did. How he’d wanted to get along with everyone, been confused by his first prolonged exposure to the enlisted men and women, uncertain as to how familiar, how friendly or how distant, to be with them. In the end, when the operations specialist had tried to focus his attention, he’d failed.

  “So you were on watch by yourself,” the XO persisted.

  “There was an enlisted man there as well. He was running the radio circuits, for the most part.”

  Suddenly, the story started to pour out of his mouth. Skeeter listened to himself in amazement, tried to stem the growing tide of words and couldn’t. All of the pent-up rage, the hurt, the anger and frustration and disappointment came pouring out.