Nuke Zone c-11

by Keith Douglass

  “He’ll have to find out about his RIO sooner or later,” the doctor said. It was not something he looked forward to telling the pilot, and he could sympathize with the admiral’s concerns.

  “I know. I’ll do it when the time comes. But for now, what he saw up there might make a difference–might save some other man’s life.”

  The doctor walked over to the bed, and placed one hand gently on the sleeping pilot’s shoulder. He tightened his hand slowly, trying not to put too much pressure on damaged muscles and tendons. He listened to the pilot’s breathing change, becoming shallower and quicker, then saw his eyelids flicker open. “Good morning,” the doctor said softly. “Do you remember where you are?”

  Skeeter groaned, and rolled to one side as though trying to prop himself up on his elbows. The doctor placed his other hand gently on the opposite shoulder and forced him gently back down on the bed. “Don’t get up yet. Your body took a beating, and it’s going to hurt for a few days. You’re okay other than that, though.”

  “What happened?” Skeeter shook his head, trying to clear out the fog. “Why am I-“

  The sentence went unfinished as the details came back to him.

  “We ejected, didn’t we? My RIO-“

  Again he tried to struggle back up into a sitting position, even flung one foot off the edge of the bed as if he were going to jump out.

  The doctor held him down more firmly. “Admiral Wayne is here. He’d like to ask you a few questions, if you’re up to it.”

  Too weak to resist further, Skeeter lay back down on the rack. His eyes were brighter now, focusing on his surroundings. “Admiral–my RIO. How is he?”

  Batman walked over to the hospital bed and laid his hand over Skeeter’s. “We haven’t found him yet.”

  Skeeter moaned. “He got out–I saw him. Heard him, at least.”

  “Did you see his chute?” Batman asked carefully.

  Skeeter furrowed his brow, trying to think. Had he seen a chute?

  He shook his head, tried to force his mind to yield up the details of the ejection. Nothing came to him. “I don’t know.”

  He looked up at the admiral, his eyes blurring. “But it had to work. They always do. Don’t they?”

  His voice begged desperately for reassurance.

  “Most of the time they do,” Batman said. It was tempting to offer the young airman what he wanted, reassurance that the missing man would be found eventually. But to do so would only prolong the agony. Batman was just coming to terms with it himself, the probability that the RIO’s parachute had failed to deploy and the man would never be found. As painful as it was, it was better that Skeeter start facing that now.

  “We’re doing everything we can. We have every helo on deck airborne during daylight, and the Shiloh is quartering a search pattern now. If he’s out there, we’ll find him.”

  “Daylight? What time is it?”

  Batman glanced over at the doctor, who nodded. “Three o’clock in the morning. You’ve been out for a while.”

  “Unconscious?”

  “Skeeter, I hate to do this, but I need to ask you about the attack,”

  Batman said, skillfully avoiding the details surrounding Skeeter’s own rescue. It troubled him in a way, although it would normally be understandable, following on the heels of Skeeter’s incident on the flight deck. It made him wonder whether the young man had the temperament to make it as a fighter pilot. It took guts and passion to climb into that Tomcat every day. He wanted people who cared about flying, cared desperately.

  But that was only part of the equation.

  To be successful, a fighter pilot had to compartmentalize his mind.

  When he walked out of the island and onto the flight deck, he had to drain every bit of emotional tension out of his mind, lock it away in some dark corner for the duration of the mission. Later, he could worry about his wife, fret over his kids, or generally be pissed off at the world. But while you were on the flight deck, while there were airplanes turning nearby or while you were airborne, everything ceased to exist except the mission.

  “You saw the Falcon in plenty of time, didn’t you?” Batman asked, focusing in on his current mission–gaining information that could save the life of another pilot. “I saw the radar picture–what really happened?”

  Skeeter began detailing the encounter with the Falcon, using his hands to illustrate the relative position of the two aircraft during the rolling scissors he’d been trapped into. When he reached the part of it where he’d decided to pop his speed brakes, Batman smiled appreciatively. “Good call. Who taught you that?”

  Skeeter thought for a moment. “Something I read in Fighter Combat, Admiral. The Duke–Duke Cunningham.”

  Admiral Wayne nodded. “Hell of an aviator–even a better Congressman.”

  “The thing is, that Falcon’s not a typical Falcon. Not the way they told me, at least. He just jumped right into the vertical, didn’t stick to an angles fight like he was supposed to.”

  Skeeter frowned. “It was almost as though he didn’t know what he was doing. No, but that couldn’t be it–he was too damned good.”

  Skeeter looked up at the admiral, puzzled.

  “It was like a Chihuahua that thinks it’s a Great Dane.”

  “Come again?” the admiral asked, failing to follow Skeeter’s analogy.

  “You know how some dogs are, Admiral. They may be little, short, and not any more dangerous than a gnat. But you get some of’em, they get sort of this complex–they yap and yell and charge at you like they were a Great Dane. I guess nobody ever bothered to tell them they were just small dogs.”

  He chuckled, then winced at the pain in his ribs. “That’s what this Falcon guy was like–nobody ever bothered to tell him he ought to be in an angles fight.”

  Batman frowned. “Anything else unusual about his performance?”

  Skeeter’s face lit up suddenly. “I know what would explain it–it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  Batman nodded. “We may be thinking the same thing–an equipment change-out.”

  “That’s exactly it.”

  It did explain it, Batman thought. The intelligence briefing on the Turkish Falcons had made the assumption that they were outfitted with one of the two engines normally used on that airframe. But what if they weren’t?

  What if Turkey had found a way to put a different power plant in the airframe, one with more thrust?

  It wouldn’t take a lot, not as light as that aircraft was. Fuel would be the main problem, but Turkey’s strategy probably called for fighting close to home. It wasn’t like fighting from an aircraft carrier, where every gallon of fuel counted, not when you stayed close to home base and fuel support.

  Batman laid a hand on Skeeter’s shoulder. “The Intelligence guys will be down to talk to you soon. They’ll want to follow up on this–you up to seeing them in the morning?”

  Skeeter nodded. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere for a while, Admiral.”

  On his way back to his cabin, Batman considered the possibility of a higher thrust-to-weight Falcon and what impact that would have on his tactics. Or was this just an especially canny Falcon pilot, one who knew that the American aviators would be expecting an angles fight?

  Wasn’t that one of the first tenets of Naval warfare–do what the enemy least expects?

  No matter. He stopped by CVIC on his way back to his cabin, and quickly filled the duty officer in on what he’d learned from Skeeter. The officer promised to tell Lab Rat and have a full briefing on the possibilities ready by ten o’clock that morning. As he left, Batman saw the duty officer was calling the on-watch team around him for a war conference.

  There was still no sign of Skeeter’s RIO, the XO of VF-95. No debris, no international air-distress beeper, nothing. While the search would continue for another twenty-four hours, Batman already knew what the final result would be. Another good pilot lost. Tomorrow he’d have to start thinking about the memorial service, about dealing wit
h the squadron’s grief and anger over losing their XO.

  Tired, so tired–finally, he reached the door to his office and shoved it open. Stacks of messages spilled over on his desk. He considered taking a shot at clearing the paperwork, and finally gave up. He could hear his rack calling him.

  0900 Local

  Flag Mess

  The representatives from the various countries filed in in a flurry of aides, position papers, and protocol. Tombstone had been briefed on their relative seniority, on how essential it was that each took exactly the correct position around the long rectangular conference room, with precisely the correct number of chairs positioned behind each for aides and assistants. Tombstone had tried to explain that there simply was not enough space in his conference room to comply with all of Tiltfelt’s demands. The State Department representative had acted as though Tombstone were intentionally interposing difficulties into the negotiation process, and it was only after Tiltfelt had actually seen the arrangement of chairs crammed into the room that he’d finally subsided. Tombstone had suggested moving the proceeding into a portion of the flag mess, and Tiltfelt had reluctantly agreed.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Tiltfelt had an expression of grave sincerity on his face, thoughtful yet concerned, open and willing to talk. Tombstone tried to believe that he meant it.

  “Welcome to the USS Jefferson. We are honored that you have chosen to participate in this process.”

  And just as happy when you get the hell off my boat. Tombstone watched each of the representatives carefully mirror Tiltfelt’s expression.

  Was it something that they taught in diplomacy school?

  Or merely a quality of dissimulation that permitted one to rise in diplomatic circles in any country?

  No matter–his own poker face had served him well in the Navy. He wouldn’t begrudge another department their peculiarities of custom.

  “And our thanks to our host, Admiral Matthew Magruder. Admiral?”

  Tiltfelt yielded his place at the podium.

  Tombstone rose and walked slowly to the forward part of the room. His carefully prepared remarks, already vetted by Tiltfelt and his minions, were laid out on a three-by-five card he carried in his right-hand pocket.

  For this occasion, he had put on his dress blues, an uncomfortable uniform he had been wearing all too often in the last three years. A flight suit would have been infinitely preferable.

  “Welcome aboard. We’re glad to have you here. If there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable or convenient, please do not hesitate to let me know personally.”

  Tombstone slipped the card back in his pocket and prepared to depart.

  “Your uncle–he is in the Navy also?” the gentleman from Ukraine asked quickly. “Thomas Magruder, yes?”

  Surprised, Tombstone could only nod. “Yes, Admiral Magruder is my uncle.”

  The man nodded, satisfied. He shot a knowing look at the man seated behind him.

  “Why?” Tombstone asked. “Do you know him?”

  He resisted slightly as Tiltfelt gently tried to hustle him away from the podium.

  The Ukrainian shook his head in the negative. “Only by reputation,” he answered, enunciating each word carefully. “A product of the Cold War, is he not? As is your father. Another fine man.”

  The Ukrainian’s eyes gleamed, secrets dancing behind them. “I met him once. More than once, perhaps.”

  Rage and fear in equal proportions coursed through Tombstone’s body.

  The mention of his father, who had been shot in a bombing run over Vietnam, in so incongruent a place at so entirely inappropriate a time, stunned him.

  He took two steps toward the man, the import of their current location lost on him.

  Tiltfelt finally asserted himself, grabbing the admiral firmly by the elbow. “Not now,” he whispered sharply into Tombstone’s ear. “Admiral, this is neither the time nor the place.”

  Tombstone shook free of the smaller man and continued his advance on the Ukrainian. “Why did you ask that question? And make that comment?” Tombstone’s voice was low and deadly.

  The Ukrainian shrugged. “It was simply a question, Admiral. I wished to make sure that I had my facts right.”

  Tombstone regained control of himself, unsure of how to proceed, but shaken to his very core. There had to be a purpose behind the questions–had to be. But as much as he hated to admit it, Tiltfelt was right. Tombstone nodded, and stepped back toward his seat. As he settled back down into the hard-backed chair, he silently let out a deep, wavering breath. Whatever Tiltfelt had intended to accomplish at this conference, Tombstone had a feeling that the results were going to be quite different from what the State Department representative expected.

  After almost an hour of preliminary maneuvering and polite assurances of eternal friendship, the meeting adjourned to the rear of the room for refreshments. Donuts and coffee, along with more delicate pastries provided by the flag mess cooks, disappeared at an alarming rate.

  “It’s a hazard of the profession,” Tiltfelt said to Tombstone casually, delicately biting into a croissant. “Too many diplomatic events and you gain weight every day.”

  He nodded toward the rest of the representatives. “Not a skinny one amongst them.”

  Tiltfelt’s confiding and congenial manner was almost as confusing to him as the Ukrainian’s earlier question. Tombstone stared down at him, is arms planted firmly on his hips. “What happened in there?”

  Tiltfelt shrugged. “You were there. What do you think?”

  “I think nothing happened. Nothing at all–except for that crack about my father.”

  Tiltfelt smiled. “An accurate assessment. This is the way these things always go. It’s almost an art form–the ability to plant the little seeds and casual comments that later grow into major issues.”

  He then cited a couple of examples from the members’ opening comments, and speculated on how those seemingly innocent remarks would later turn into intransigent demands. “And as for the question about your father–I’m not entirely certain.”

  Tiltfelt regarded Tombstone as though he were a specimen under a microscope. “Do you have any idea?”

  Tombstone shook his head. “It was a long time ago–I was very young.”

  Briefly, unemotionally, he sketched in the details of how his father had been lost over Vietnam, the fact that his wingman had seen his parachute.

  His father had been carried as MIA–missing in action–for almost twenty years. Finally, despite the lack of a body, with his name never appearing on a POW list, he had been declared killed in action.

  “Well.” Tiltfelt deposited his coffee cup on a credenza and brushed his hands together lightly. “I don’t know what it was about. Not really. But you can bet it will come up later on. It’s either an opening ploy, or perhaps just a validation of their own in-country intelligence processes. You’d be surprised at what a complete dossier they keep on every senior American military official.”

  “But Ukraine–of what possible interest could it be to them?” Tombstone asked. While he neither believed nor trusted Tiltfelt’s change in attitude, he would use it for what it was worth.

  Tiltfelt gazed at him gravely. “I have no information, you understand–none at all. And I insist that you keep this completely between the two of us. Off the record, if you will.”

  “Understood. Now tell me.” Tombstone was beginning to lose patience with the delicate circumlocutions that seemed an integral part of Tiltfelt.

  “During the Cold War, Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union. You’ve heard the rumors. There’s always been speculation–speculation with no basis in fact so far–that American POWs from Vietnam were transported to the Soviet Union for interrogation. That question might have been intended to get you thinking about that possibility, for some reason that we don’t yet know about. Or, it could have been what I think it was–an attempt to throw us off balance, to drive a wedge into the integrity of the
U.S. negotiating team. That would be entirely reasonable and certainly in keeping with Ukraine’s style. I wouldn’t give it much more thought than that.”

  “He’s trying to make me think that my father might have been alive after all?” Tombstone felt the blood drain from his face as understanding dawned. “He couldn’t have been.”

  Tiltfelt shrugged again. “Who knows?”

  He abruptly turned back to the delegates crowding the room, leaving Tombstone to try to interpret his last remark.

  Tombstone watched Tiltfelt move about the room, glad-handing representatives with careful impartiality. Five minutes with this one, five minutes with that one, remembering each aide’s name long enough to greet them and then ignore them. While it looked random, Tombstone recognized the real skill that lay behind the man’s progress through the room. Recognized it, appreciated it, and had no use for it.

  “Thank you for having us aboard, Admiral,” a voice said just behind his left shoulder. Tombstone turned and saw the representative from Turkey.

  “If your pilots came any closer to my ship, I was going to wave them in for a trap,” Tombstone said. His face was pointedly neutral. Let the Turk try to decide how to take it, as a poor joke or blatant provocation.

  Suddenly, Tombstone didn’t particularly care which.

  The Turk’s smile wavered for a moment, then settled firmly on his face. “This is international airspace.”

  Tombstone took a step closer to the man, and pitched his voice low.

  “We lost an aviator the other day following an encounter with one of your freedom-of-navigation flights,” he said carefully. Suddenly, he wished he could retract his earlier remark. If this man could help, if he knew anything about their downed aviator, then it would be sheer folly to alienate him. Coming so soon on the heels of Tiltfelt’s speculation on his own father, the possibility that he’d done anything to jeopardize another aviator’s safety was unbearable. “Have you heard anything about him, by any chance? Perhaps one of your fishing vessels has seen him?”