Batman sighed. “If we propose a classic strike, they’ll say no. By the time we could convince them, we may have missiles inbound from Cuba headed for the continental U.S.”
“Agreed. So?”
“So fuck them we don’t ask. We just take care of business and our people and deal with the consequences later. That’s why we’re wearing the stars to take the incoming fire.”
Tombstone stood as well. He stretched, let out a long groan, then shook himself like a wet dog. “Do it. See how easy having two stars is?”
1400 Local (+5 GMT)
The White House
The President stared out at the Rose Garden from the Oval Office, his back to the two men standing at attention in front of his desk. Let them wait it was one of the prerogatives of his office as commander in chief that he could keep the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the chief of naval operations braced up for as long as he wanted.
He wondered what he would have said thirty years ago when he was a grunt on the ground in Vietnam if someone had told him he’d one day have this much power. He would have laughed, he suspected. Laughed and made some joke about somebody smoking too much pot. In country, where soldiers reckoned their lives by how many patrols they had left to do, a future devoid of artillery and snipers would have seemed an impossibility.
I blew it. Not only did I make the same mistake my predecessors did during Vietnam, but I have even less excuse than they did. I was there; I should have known better. At least I can fix it this time.
And maybe the next President that’s tempted to micromanage will know better.
He turned back to the two men, his face grave. “As of now we’re out of the targeting business.” He pointed his finger at the chairman. “You and me both.”
“You,” he continued, jabbing the same finger at the CNO, “call up your commander down there. You tell him that the Arsenal ship is hereby transferred to his complete command, as theater commander. Give him my objective sand give him his head. You got that?”
The CNO nodded, a grim smile starting at the corners of his mouth.
“Aye, aye, sir. we’ll get results that I can promise you.”
1420 Local (+5 GMT)
Washington, D.C.
Even with the urgency of his information, it had taken the aide a good half hour to clear out the petitioners clogging Senator Dailey’s anteroom. Finally, when his boss motioned him in, he had his chance. He described what he’d seen in Admiral Loggins’s office, not bothering to supply his own conclusions.
They’d discussed the Williams-Loggins link too often for this falling-out to have many surprises.
Senator Dailey leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “So it finally happened. That’s what I was counting on. The Keith Loggins I knew when I was on active duty had more balls than to let somebody like Williams suck him into something shady. Wonder what they broke up over.”
The aide shook his head. “I couldn’t hear everything, Senator. Just enough to convince me it had to do with the battle group to the south.
And we both know what side of the problem those two are on.”
Senator Dailey unfurled himself from the angle between his desk and his chair, then reached across for the telephone.
He paused, studied his aide thoughtfully. “Let this be a lesson to you. There’s an old saying” The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” I think it’s about time I called Admiral Magruder and gave him the day off.” He began dialing the number from memory.
“The day off?” the aide asked, looking puzzled. “Why is that?”
The senator smiled broadly. “Because in about fifteen minutes.
Admiral Tombstone Magruder is going to think it’s Christmas. Santa Claus, played by little old me, is about to give him everything he ever wanted or asked for.”
1615 Local (+5 GMT)
USS Jefferson
For the second time that day.
Tombstone Magruder hung up the telephone and laughed. “Just when you’re getting ready to mutiny, the elected Powers That Be come through for you.”
Batman smirked. “I was just getting used to the idea of it myself.
What did Senator Dailey have to say?”
Tombstone smiled back. “We’ve got everything we wanted and we’re willing to do without authorization. Weapons free, aircraft free everything. Evidently there’s been a falling-out amongst thieves back in D.C and we’re back to being the good guys.”
Batman dropped his feet off the desk and stood. “Hell, Tombstone, we always were the good guys. Sometimes they just forget that back there.”
“Now that they’ve got it straightened out,” Tombstone said, “let’s see if we can make it clear to the Cubans.”
1620 Local (+5 GMT)
Air Operations Office, USS Jefferson
Bird Dog double-clicked his mouse, transferring the contents from his rough drawing sheet into the cell on his war-game planning sheet. This plan had everything he needed, everything he’d been taught to plan for during his year at War College. He studied it again, trying to see if he’d missed anything. No, it was all there logistics support, objectives, and finally a succinct explanation of the desired end state to this conflict. He knew that was a little bit beyond his duties as a carrier staff puke, but it didn’t hurt to show off a little anyway.
Besides, this was going to be his big move, wasn’t it? No point in not showing the admiral he had a little bit more on the ball than the average lieutenant commander pilot. The sick uneasiness he felt over Callie was merely a background throb of pain now, constant yet submerged in his consciousness under the driving need to finish the operational plan. He kept his eyes riveted on the spreadsheet, not certain that he wanted to release it for review by the Air Ops chief.
Every minute he kept himself distracted with that prevented him from having to deal with the issue of Callie.
Finally, he noticed one small improvement he could make on the plan, one that just might lift his spirits a bit. He moused over to the relevant cell and added an additional flight of aircraft, one he knew that the squadron was not capable of providing on short notice they simply didn’t have enough pilots. With a little cooperation from Gator, he just might be able to pull it off. Now if only the Ops ACOS didn’t read the details too carefully….
Staff work was demanding, but it was usually finished by the time the aircraft went into the air. No point in not taking the extra manpower into account when planning for strikes, particularly since there were aircraft that would be sitting empty on the deck otherwise. He smiled, wondering how Gator was going to be feeling about that.
1649 Local (+5 GMT)
VF-95 Ready Room
“No way.” Gator’s voice was cold and adamant. “I’m not climbing into a cockpit with you right now, not after that bitch just jilted you.”
“She’s not a bitch,” Bird Dog said, defending Callie unwillingly. In truth, he himself thought that she might be.
There was no other explanation for her complete lack of taste in dumping him in favor of a submariner.
Despite Bird Dog’s intentions of keeping his pain to himself. Gator had wormed the story out of him in less than five minutes flat. After hearing it, and noting the anguish in Bird Dog’s voice. Gator had flatly refused to fly with him again.
“I’m not unsafe in the air you know I’m not.”
“Even on the best days, you have an interesting interpretation of the standard rules of flight,” Gator said caustically.
“But now, with your heart down around your asshole, I’d be crazy to get in the cockpit with you. Plumb crazy.”
Bird Dog tried again. “Look at it this way. Gator. Who’s got more experience in combat than us? You and me, remember? The Spratlys?
The Aleutians? Now that was a helluva ride, wasn’t it? And if I can bring you back safely from that, flying twenty feet above ice with no radar and limited visibility, I can get you back from a normal, ordinary strike during daylight hou
rs on a big island, don’t you think?”
Gator shook his head. “You ain’t been flying much, buddy.”
“That’s the problemGator, come on. I need to get back in the cockpit, and I don’t want to miss out on this one. That bitch dumped me-there’s gotta be something more to life than that. Please?” With all the bravado dropped and his soul exposed bare for Gator to see, there was something terribly appealing about the young aviator. Despite his best intentions. Gator felt himself giving in.
“We’ll get caught,” the RIO said.
“No we won’t. All pilots look alike in helmets and flight suits, and the squadron doesn’t know the admiral grounded me. Even Tomboy doesn’t have a clue.”
“Bird Dog, of all the idiotic schemes you’ve gotten me into, this is” “Please?” There was quiet dignity and plaintiveness in Bird Dog’s voice.
Gator sighed. “I’m an idiot. Okay, count me in.”
Bird Dog smiled.
TWELVE
Tuesday, 02 July
0200 Local (+5 GMT)
USS Jefferson
“That’s it, then.”
Tombstone Magruder scrawled his initials in the upper-right-hand corner of the message, releasing it for transmission. He leaned back in his chair, tossed the pencil on the table, and looked impassively at the men surrounding him. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll take the heat for it.
You people are just following orders.”
The SEAL OIC-officer in Charge shook his head.
“That plan’s got my name all over it. Admiral. With all due respect, I wouldn’t mind getting hung for that one little bit.”
“You may get your chance,” Tombstone snapped. He glanced at the standard Navy-issue black clock up on the bulkhead. “And sooner than you want.”
“Admiral, at the risk of sounding like an optimist,” Batman broke in, “this is a damned fine operational plan.
It’s classic. We get our people out, take ownership of the airspace, then proceed inward to strike our objectives.
They’ll be studying this one at the War College.”
“They study Grenada, too, for what it’s worth.” Tombstone shifted his gaze to Bird Dog. “They do, don’t they?
And Beirut as well.”
Bird dog nodded, “i think this one will work, Admiral.
Tombstone stood and started pacing back and forth. Had it been any other officer. Batman decided, it would have been a sign of nerves.
But with Tombstone it was more an indication of the pent-up rage and anger seething through him, a physical release of that which kept him from exploding in temper. It was from such small physical activities that Tombstone got his reputation for being utterly unflappable and granite-faced.
“We need to get going,” Sikes said finally. “If we want to leave on time.” He glanced uncertainly from Batman to Tombstone.
Batman nodded slightly, giving permission. “Get your people ready.”
With another gesture. Batman cleared the room of the rest of the personnel, indicating that they should go to their racks and get some sleep while they could. When they were alone, he walked over to his old lead and said, “Don’t sweat the load. Tombstone. You know this has got as good a chance of working as anything.”
Tombstone wheeled on him. “If it were simply a matter of taking out those missile structures, do you think I’d be worried? Hell, even that damned Bird Dog could figure out how to do that! There’s no mystery to how we operate.” His mouth clamped into a thin, taut line.
“Yeah. What? What is it that’s got you so wound up about this plan?”
Batman pressed, already suspecting that he knew the answer. Should he say it? No, with a man like Tombstone, it was better to let him come to his own conclusions about when to publicly air a matter. If Batman mentioned Pamela first, it would simply drive his old lead against the wall, cementing his silence for good.
Batman felt Tombstone’s eyes searching his face, looking for something there. The younger admiral willed himself into immobility. Finally, Tombstone nodded, and the tension seemed to drain out of his body. He flung himself down on the flat leatherette couch against one wall, onto his back, feet propped up on the far armrest. The sudden change in posture was as disconcerting to Batman as having Tombstone actually smile.
“Don’t get diplomatic on me. Batman,” Tombstone said finally. He turned his head and stared over at his old wingman, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“We’ve known each other too long for this. You know what it is.”
“Then you say it first. Tombstone,” Batman challenged.
“Anytime I bring it up, you start back pedaling on me.”
“Pamela Drake.” Tombstone pronounced the name quietly, neutrally.
“That’s what it is. And that downed pilot, too.
Thor. Both of them but especially Pamela.”
“Can they get her out?”
Tombstone shrugged. “The SEALs seem to think so. And if they can’t damn it. Batman, you know I’ll do it. I’m going to quit thinking with my dick. She’s there illegally, against all U.S. policy, and interfering with our operations.
If they can’t get her out, I’ll send a strike in anyway.”
“And Thor?” Batman’s voice was hard and cold. “What about him?”
Tombstone levered himself up and swung his feet back down on the floor.
“Same answer, for a different reason.
Major Hammersmith’s paid to take chances. He’s a Marine; he understood the risks he was taking. I’ll try my best to get him out, but if I can’t …”
“You’ll go ahead with that strike, too.” Batman had not realized how much he wanted to believe that wasn’t true.
Deep down, he’d known this was exactly what Tombstone would order, and why Tombstone had been sent up to the battle force. Even before he himself had suspected it, Batman’s superiors had known that he might flinch from this last and deadliest military decision. He tried to feel resentment, but all he felt was relief. Relief that the decision was someone else’s, an unwillingness to face the ultimate reckonings of life and death that took place in the correlation of forces.
“I think-I think I’m happy with one star. Admiral,” Batman said slowly.
He stood, walked to the center of the room, and offered a hand to his old lead.
Tombstone took Batman’s hand, used it to lever himself up from the couch, then turned the grip into a warm handshake. “You never know what you’ll do until you’re there, shipmate. You know it’s the right decision. It’s the same one you’d make if you were in my shoes.”
“Let’s get some sleep, Stoney,” Batman said. “If tomorrow is as long a day as I think it’s going to be, we’ll need it.”
0200 Local (+5 GMT)
Fuentes Naval Base
Colonel Santana ran his hand over the.45 pistol holstered on his hip. The gun was smooth, gleaming better cared for than 90 percent of the houses and people living in his country. But his life did not depend on people right no wit depended on this gun. And on the temper of the man seated opposite him.
Santana left his fingers resting gently on the butt as he glared at the Libyan. “Your plan is not working. The Americans are here in force and have already penetrated and destroyed our deception.”
Kaliff Mendiria lounged lazily in the chair, seemingly unaware of the gun at Santana’s hip. He lifted one hand and waved away Santana’s concerns with a light flip of his fingers. “You think short-term, my friend. That is why our partnership is so good. You have experience and are excellent in executing the immediate, the tactical. But for the longer-range planning, you need an outside viewpoint to balance your impetuousness. Ah, that hot Cuban blood it has landed you in trouble more than once, has it not?” The Libyan took a deep breath, then yawned. “It is growing late.
I suggest we retire until tomorrow morning.”
Santana jerked the pistol from his holster and slammed it down on the table, butt first. The nine-inch
barrel pointed menacingly in Mendiria’s direction. Not at him directly no, Santana was not willing to make that threat just yet but certainly in that direction. “What of the missiles!
You promised them by now.”
Mendiria frowned. “You threaten me, then demand concrete evidence of our friendship? Is this how Cuba thinks?”
“We had a deal,” Santana said tightly. “A distraction here, so that you could proceed with your plans in Africa. We have drawn the American battle group away from the Mediterranean as you requested, and what good has it done us? Merely invited a missile launch that decimated an empty field.”
“An empty field,” Mendiria echoed. “And do you suppose that if we had already delivered the missiles to you, they would have been in that field? Undoubtedly so. You see, Santana, you simply must learn to look ahead.”
Santana paused uncertainly. Was it possible? Had the swarthy African sitting across from him actually foreseen the American strike at Cuban soil, and planned around it?
He studied the Libyan more closely now, cataloging his features. An ugly man, but one with a compelling sense of power about him that even Santana only rarely dared to brook.
Santana holstered the pistol and sat down in the chair opposite the Libyan. “So. Enlighten me, then. Explain to me how this is all a part of your plot, how every movement is accounted for and proceeding exactly as planned. I’m ready to believe, Mendiria just not yet convinced.”
The Libyan leaned forward on the table, resting his weight on his elbows. His piercing eyes were half hooded with sleepy eyelids, the mouth slightly slack and barely covering the even row of white teeth.
“And this is why you keep me up so late at night?” He shook his head.
“Let me explain this to you one more time. Then either shoot me or start cooperating, I don’t care which one but quit waking me up in the middle of the night with your stupid nightmares.
“The Americans are here, occupied by what they perceive as the Cuban problem. Your soil is vulnerable, my friend, especially with reinforcements so close at hand. But now that the Americans have actually conducted a first strike, the balance of world opinion will shift in your favor. The United States will find neither support nor approval for further action against Cuba. And you you have lost nothing.
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