Afterburn c-7

by Keith Douglass

  “But surely you don’t have to-” she began, then cut herself off. It was always the same whenever they talked about politics, particularly politics as they affected the military. They were worlds apart in their ideas, and while there was nothing that said that husband and wife had to always agree on things, when the things they disagreed about affected their daily lives… Well, it was just another indication of how this relationship would not, could not work.

  “Matt,” she said, looking across at him and then quickly down at her plate. She’d been avoiding this all evening. She couldn’t put it off any longer. “Look, Matt,” she said. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since you left last time. I just… I just don’t think it’s going to work out for us.”

  He said nothing, and when she looked up and met his eyes, she saw only a carefully maintained mask, with no emotion whatsoever. “I am not Navy-wife material,” she continued. “I need a relationship, not an occasional house-guest. I need a person, not letters that leave me wondering if I’m ever going to see you again. I need someone who’s there for me, not some guy who just shows up on my doorstep once every six or eight months for a quick bang and maybe breakfast the next morning.” She stopped, breathing hard, her fists clenched. Now that she’d started letting out the anger and the hurt and the gnawing frustration, it was almost more than she could do to hold the flood in check. Damn, she hadn’t realized there was so much bitterness penned up inside of her!

  “I never thought that what we had was just a ‘quick bang,’ Pamela.” He sounded hurt. There was no petulance there, but she could hear a coldness, a hardness that she’d never heard in his voice before.

  “How do you think it is for me? You’re home for maybe six months. I’m just getting used to having you around, and then I blink twice and poof! You’re gone. For six months. Maybe nine months. Damn it, Matt, I can’t live like that!”

  “Pamela, I-“

  “A friend of mine, Mike Berrens, did a human-interest story last spring when your battle group got back from the Kola. On the wives and sweethearts waiting at home. And on what a hell their lives were, particularly the wives, trying to run their homes, trying to keep their families together, when their men were gone half the time or more. I took another look at that story after you left, and that’s when I knew I could never live like that.”

  “But, Pamela, it’s different with us-” He put up a hand as she started to continue. “Damn it, let me get a word in! I know most Navy wives have a really hard time. Coyote’s marriage is pretty rocky right now, and for just the reasons you’ve been talking about. I was best man at his wedding, and it really hurts to see things falling apart for them.

  “But, look, you’re different from Julie. I mean, she’s a wonderful woman, but she has nothing outside her family. You have a career, and you’re damned good at what you do. I would never ask you to give that up, you know that. Yet you expect me to be willing to give up my career for you!”

  His voice was rising as he spoke, and growing more and more angry. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who’d been bottling things up.

  She shook her head, the worst of her own anger already drained. “I’m beyond that, Matt. I know you won’t give up the Navy. It’s a part of you, and you wouldn’t be who you are, wouldn’t be the… be the man I love, if you were the kind of guy who could give it up easily. But it’s one of the things that just makes us completely incompatible.”

  He looked up sharply, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You still love me?

  Then…”

  Pamela took his hand and held it for a brief moment. “Sometimes…

  sometimes love just isn’t enough, Matt.”

  She released his hand and sat back. “Matt, I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other while you’re here in Yalta, but I really think it best if we not see each other… that way again. It’s… it really has been wonderful knowing you, and I’m sorry it has to end this way. But it does have to end. Now.”

  The rest of the dinner was completed in an uncomfortable near-silence and was cut short before dessert or the obligatory after-dinner tea.

  All the way back to the hotel, she could feel the tension winding up inside of him.

  2315 hours (Zulu +3)

  Yalta Hotel, Crimea

  Tombstone was still digesting what had passed between him and Pamela that evening. He didn’t know what to say, was afraid to say anything for fear that either he or she would explode.

  He’d known she was hurt by his frequent absences, knew she didn’t like them, knew she’d rather he left the Navy… but he’d never imagined it coming to this.

  “Good night, Pamela,” he told her in the hotel lobby. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault, sailor,” she said with something approaching her old twinkle. “It has been fun. At least until recently.”

  “Yeah.”

  She turned and walked away toward the elevator.

  Tombstone turned and started for the stairwell, less because he still mistrusted Russian elevators than because the thought of riding up several floors in close proximity to Pamela was suddenly unendurable. The prostitutes were gone, at least, he was relieved to see.

  As he started up the first flight, however, he was aware of a sudden movement at his back.

  “Stoy! Nee sheeveleetes!”

  Tombstone turned, looking down at a young man ― he probably wasn’t out of his teens ― with long, wildly disheveled hair and a knife held threateningly in his right hand.

  “Rukee wayrh!” His right hand held the knife, weaving it back and forth at Tombstone’s throat. The left was extended, palm up. “Ya hachu den’gee!”

  “I don’t speak Russian,” Tombstone told the youth, keeping his voice cold and level. “Understand? La plaha, uh, ya plaha gavaryu!”

  “Money!” the boy repeated, and he rubbed the fingers of his left hand together in a universal sign. “Money! Dollar! You give!”

  It was almost ridiculously easy, given that he was already on the first step of the stairway, and the kid was waving the knife carelessly less than a foot away, well inside Tombstone’s reach. Had it been a pistol the kid was waving, Tombstone would not have considered doing what he did next. He was neither a brawler nor a practitioner of martial arts, but he outweighed the kid by at least thirty pounds, and his reflexes were those of an aviator.

  Besides, he was in no mood to be pushed around.

  “Da,” he said, nodding and reaching up with his left hand to open the front of his jacket. “Da. I give.”

  The kid’s eyes gleamed and he stepped closer as if to grab the expected wallet from the inside jacket pocket himself. Instead, Tombstone lashed up and across with his left forearm, blocking the knife hand and smashing it aside; he pivoted left with the movement, shooting his right fist up and hard against the underside of the kid’s jaw.

  The blow smashed the would-be mugger backward and into a cement-block wall. Tombstone was on him an instant later, slamming him twice more against the cement, hard, as the knife clattered to the floor. He threw another punch and the kid’s head lolled to the side.

  He let him slide to the floor then, face bloody. Tombstone picked up the knife, rammed the tip hard into a crevice between two concrete blocks, then applied pressure until the blade snapped with a sharp, metallic report.

  He dropped the useless hilt on the unconscious kid’s chest. “Sorry, fella,” he said. “But I’ve had a really bad day.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Thursday, 5 November

  0940 hours (Zulu +3)

  White Palace Yalta, Crimea

  Tombstone had to admit that there was a tremendously rich symbolism in Boychenko’s choice of a meeting place for the surrender ceremony. The welcome ceremony, he corrected himself wryly. The Russians weren’t thinking of this as a surrender, but as a simple transaction, with the United Nations taking responsibility for the security of the peninsula in exchange for guarantees that the Russian soldiers would be repatriated.

&nb
sp; Livadia was a village less than two miles west of Yalta where the czars had begun building summer palaces in the 1860s and where Nicholas II had erected his summer residence in 1912. That sprawling, luxurious building, known as the White Palace, had been the site of the famous ― the infamous, rather ― Yalta Conference of February, 1945, where Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin had carved up postwar Europe and unwittingly launched the Cold War that followed. It was here that yet another era of Russian history was to be inaugurated, as General Boychenko turned over the Crimean Military District to UN control.

  A stage had been erected in the broad, level park in front of the White Palace, with plenty of chairs for the various UN and Russian officials and a massive wooden podium already arrayed with dozens of microphones of various types, their cables snaking off through the grass. A large number of people were in attendance, standing in front of the stage in a large, milling throng; though most were civilians from Yalta, the crowd included a generous number of reporters as well. As Tombstone climbed the three wooden steps to take his seat on the stage, he caught sight of Pamela and her cameraman there. He felt a pang as he caught her eye and saw the coldness there, but he pretended not to notice and kept walking. His helmet, the regulation helmet painted baby blue to identify him as a member of the UN contingent, chafed uncomfortably where the canvas circle inside rubbed against his head.

  He still felt stunned by Pamela’s change of heart. Not for it suddenness; now that he looked back on it, he realized he should have seen this coming since last summer, or even before. But he’d been so delighted at the chance to see her here… and it seemed a kind of betrayal that a romantic dinner in an exotic setting should turn into the end of their relationship.

  In a way, he supposed, it was amusing. Aboard the Jefferson, one of the most common problems among the enlisted personnel, especially the younger kids, was the Dear John letter, the dread correspondence from home explaining that the Stateside partner couldn’t continue this way, that she’d found someone else, that “it” ― whether marriage, relationship, or affair ― was over. Revelations like that could be deadly when the guy was far away from home, alone, vulnerable, unable even to make a phone call to straighten things out. It was, Tombstone knew, one of the problems most frequently encountered by the ship chaplain’s department, as well as by the XOS of both the Jefferson and of the various squadrons.

  As he found his seat, a folding metal chair in a line behind the podium, he thought of Brewer, the new XO of the Vipers, and wondered how she coped with the kids who must be coming to her with problems like his every day. Or … He frowned, puzzled. Were they? Admitting that your girlfriend or wife thought you were a jerk and was leaving you didn’t exactly match up with the calculated macho image that most guys tried to present to the women stationed with them aboard ship. He made a mental note to talk with Brewer about that, to see if she needed a hand.

  One common way of helping sailors who’d been blind-sided that way ― a technique first employed at the two Navy recruit training centers where new sailors were first separated from the outside world ― was the Dear John board, a large bulletin board in some prominent, public place where those who’d received such letters could post them if they wished. Jefferson kept one in the enlisted recreation lounge aft; there was, Tombstone thought, no better way to find out that you were not alone, that you weren’t the only one who’d had to face this particular problem, as you found space to pin up your own letter amid the forest of similar letters already there.

  The other participants in the morning’s UN ceremony were assembling, both on the stage, in the area roped off for the crowd, and beyond, where both Russian and UN troops patrolled the park’s perimeter. Admiral Tarrant and some more members of his staff had flown in from the Jefferson early that morning, and he’d already briefed the admiral on what he’d seen so far in Yalta… especially the crime. UN peacekeepers, whatever their nationality, were going to have their hands full when Boychenko’s people relinquished control.

  Tombstone could hear a faint, far-off thunder ― aircraft. Jefferson had put up a CAP of Tomcats, just in case the Ukrainians or anyone else decided to try to break up the proceedings.

  “Captain Magruder?”

  Tombstone turned and was surprised to see Abdulhalik, his guide and driver from the day before. He was wearing a conservative dark suit this morning. The jacket was open and there was an obvious bulge beneath his left arm.

  “Abdulhalik!” Tombstone said. “How’s the spy business?”

  “Dangerous,” the man said, not bothering to contradict Tombstone’s assumption. “Especially when the general gives his little speech in a few minutes.”

  It was also interesting, Tombstone thought, how the man’s broken English had mended quite a bit overnight. No more “A-okay” slang or dropped articles.

  “I need to ask you, Captain, how long the helicopter flight to your carrier will take.

  Tombstone looked at the man curiously. “Didn’t the general’s staff cover all of this after their briefing?”

  Abdulhalik gave Tombstone a narrow, inscrutable look. “I feel safer sometimes if I can… confirm information I have been given.”

  Though he hadn’t been in on the original planning, Tombstone had seen the day’s schedule, worked out item by item by UN and Russian personnel several days earlier, and approved by both him and Captain Whitehead yesterday. Boychenko would make his speech, followed by a speech from Special Envoy Sandoval on behalf of the UN, and another by Admiral Tarrant. There would be a brief opportunity for questions from the press, and immediately afterward, Boychenko and his senior staff officers, along with Tarrant and his staff, would be taken to a CH-53 Sea Stallion waiting on the east side of the White Palace grounds. The group would be flown out to the Jefferson, where Boychenko would officially request asylum.

  As CAG, Tombstone had been consulted on the aircraft timetables, especially in regard to the CAP that would cover the helo on its flight back to the Jefferson. Tombstone had assumed that the necessary information had been passed on to Boychenko’s security personnel. Apparently, though, Abdulhalik wanted to make sure that the information he’d heard was the same as what Tombstone had provided.

  Which suggested the possibility of informants or worse within Boychenko’s own planning staff. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect.

  “Well,” he said, “the Jefferson’s about one hundred nautical miles out right now. If the helo pilot goes flat out? Call it thirty-five, maybe forty minutes. You sound like the general’s going to need a quick getaway after his speech. You’re afraid of critics?”

  He’d meant it as a joke, but Abdulhalik nodded gravely. “Just so. We have word that a large part of the navy does not approve of the general’s plans. They might try something to block them.”

  “I know. I was making a joke.”

  Abdulhalik did not look amused… but after a moment he cracked a thin smile. “I see. You will forgive me if my sense of humor is lacking this morning. It has been a long night.”

  “Just who are you working for, anyway? The FBS?”

  Abdulhalik considered the question for a few seconds before answering.

  “Actually, I am on the general’s personal staff. Security. At the moment, the Federal Bureau of Security is the opposition.”

  “I see. Why were you keeping an eye on me last night, then?”

  A shrug. “If the general is to have his ‘quick getaway,’ as you call it, it is important that nothing happens to you. Yes?”

  Tombstone considered telling him about the knife-wielding mugger in the stairwell, then thought better of it. Abdulhalik looked like he had enough on his mind already without having Tombstone bother him with irrelevant might-have-beens.

  A stir in the crowd and a rising murmur of conversation marked the appearance of General Boychenko, Admiral Tarrant, and Special Envoy Sandoval at the front of the White Palace. Boychenko was tall and silver-haired, with a beaklike nose that gave him the look of a bird of prey. Sa
ndoval was shorter and dark-haired, with a sketch of a mustache and a self-important air. Tarrant looked businesslike and matter-of-fact, even a little bored. Accompanied by several aides and a small army of security troops, the three made their way up the steps and onto the stage. Captain Whitehead stood to greet Boychenko and shake his hand. The others stood until the VIPS took their places behind the podium, then sat down with a creak and scrape of chairs on wood.

  The speech was in Russian, and Tombstone understood not a single word.

  Not that he was particularly interested in the content. Had he wanted one, there were translations available in various languages, but he already knew the overall topic and didn’t particularly care if he could follow the reasoning or not. Boychenko was talking about the need for international arbitration, the importance of the UN, the need for world peace.

  Not that anything being said had meaning. The UN hadn’t enforced a working peace anywhere in the world yet… not until all parties in a given dispute had their own reasons for stopping the fighting. Ukraine would be watching these proceedings with considerable interest, and Tombstone was pretty sure that they, at least, would soon be testing the UN’s resolve. As the speech-making droned on, Tombstone looked away from Boychenko and let his gaze move across the crowd. Pamela, he saw, was watching Boychenko raptly, though he knew that she spoke no Russian either; a battery of cameras, both still and video, were trained on the Russian general as he spoke, and Tombstone could hear the ratcheting whir-click of automatic winders as the cameras fired. There must have been fifty or sixty reporters present, and easily ten times that many other people ― dignitaries, civilians, and soldiers. Tomboy was also in the crowd, over with the civilians and those members of Jefferson’s company who weren’t up on the stage. The seat was uncomfortable, and Boychenko’s droning monotonous. How the hell had he gotten into this situation?

  Perhaps because he was watching the reporters instead of Boychenko, Tombstone saw the movement first, a crucial second or two before anyone else was aware. Three men detached themselves from the closely packed group of reporters, advancing toward the stage. They wore long-hemmed trench coats, and each was extracting something hard and metallic from beneath his garment’s open front as he moved. Someone was shouting. A woman screamed. Two of the running men had their weapons out and clearly visible now ― AKMS firing port weapons ― basically AKM assault rifles with folding steel-frame butts to make them smaller and more concealable under a trench coat. The third was waving a handgun; Tombstone couldn’t see what kind it was.