First Strike c-19

by Keith Douglass

  “Sort of,” she admitted with a sinking feeling.

  “Sure did,” the officer she’d first run in to said immediately. “She’s ‘Elf’—we all know about Elf.” He rocked back on his heels and looked up at the ceiling. “And the word was, the Elf is nobody to fuck with. Don’t take your eyes off her for a second, folks — she nailed more of us in Flight Basic than anyone else in the pipeline. Yours truly included.”

  “Then, Elf it is,” Bird Dog said grandly. “Welcome to VF- 95, Elf.”

  “Thank you, sir — I mean, Bird Dog.” She glanced at his leather name tag on his flight suit, and her eyes widened. She looked back up into his face, awe in her eyes. “You’re the XO!”

  “Yep. Just goes to show you, even the Navy makes mistakes sometimes.”

  “And who’s the captain?” she asked.

  “Well, you just won’t believe this shit,” he said, grinning again. “I never thought I’d see the day, and you can believe he rubs it in every chance he gets. You remember Gator, right?”

  She nodded. “Of course. He was your RIO. So, he’s the skipper?”

  “Never lets me forget it. He’s been pushing me around since he was just a lieutenant commander, and I listen to him now just a little bit more than I did back then.”

  “But he was XO before, so it must have been—” She broke off as a sudden silence filled the room.

  The normal pipeline for aviators was to serve one tour in a squadron as XO, and then fleet up, as it was called, to command of the same squadron. This resulted in a continuity of command that helped mold the squadron into a tight fighting force. There was far less disruption at change of command in an aviation squadron than there was in a surface command.

  But that wasn’t the way it had worked out in VF-95. Gator had fleeted up — but a year earlier than he should have, and Bird Dog had unexpectedly been detailed as the XO. The reason was that Commander Joyce “Tomboy” Magruder had been killed in action.

  “We don’t talk about that much,” Bird Dog said finally.

  Elf could have kicked herself. Of course it would be considered bad luck to talk about the loss of a commanding officer — she should have known that. And if she’d been paying attention to what was going on in her own prospective squadron, she would have known that Gator was the skipper. But somehow, in a rush to finish the pipeline and the sudden change of orders to report to VF-95, she missed that one little bit of information. She had been in transit when Tomboy was killed.

  Not killed. Missing in action. There’s a big difference.

  “You find your stateroom yet?” Bird Dog asked, breaking the silence.

  “No, I just came in on the last flight.”

  “I’ll show you where it is.” A woman in a flight suit stepped forward, and held out her hand. She was blonde, but that’s where her resemblance to Elf stopped. Her face was hard, her hair slicked back and disciplined. Elf saw shadows in her eyes, a ghost of — of what?

  “Hi. I’m Lobo, your sponsor.”

  Another legend come to life. Shaughnessy had read everything she could find about the only female pilot to have been taken prisoner of war and successfully rescued then returned to flight status. And now, to meet her in person, well…

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” Lobo said wryly. She stepped back, and surveyed Elf’s figure and extra small flight suit, noting the twist of muscles in her legs and the hard slope of her shoulder muscles that bulked up the flight suit. Elf saw a flash of recognition and approval in Lobo’s dark eyes. Lobo nodded. “You’ll do.”

  Bird Dog laughed. “If I looked you over like that, I’d be facing a court-martial for sexual harassment.”

  Lobo shot him a dirty look. “With all due respect, XO, you’re a poster boy for sexual harassment. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get Shaughnessy settled. Come on, Elf — let’s find your stateroom.” Lobo turned on her heels and left without glancing back.

  “Go on, Elf,” Bird Dog said, his voice amused. “We’ll catch up later.”

  Elf followed Lobo down the passageway and to the berthing office. She signed for her key while Lobo waited, and then they went down three ladders to the deck her stateroom was on.

  “The first thing you do,” Lobo said, “is learn your way around the ship. You need to be able to get out of this compartment and to the flight deck with a blindfold on. And you need more than one route in case the first one is closed down.” She waited, expecting a surprised remark. When none came, her brow furrowed briefly, then her face cleared. “That’s right — sorry, you do know the drill, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Lobo. Just call me Lobo.”

  “Lobo, then.”

  Lobo turned to leave. “I’ll let you get settled in, then. I’ll be back in twenty minutes and we’ll go grab some late chow. Then we’ll catch up with the skipper and the rest of the people you have to meet, as well as the CAG. Plan on being spiffy for the next two days. After you’ve met everyone, you can grunge around in flight suits all the time like the rest of us. Until then — first impressions, you know. See you in twenty minutes.”

  Elf surveyed the compartment, astounded by both the size and the disorder. Officer berthing wasn’t anything like what she’d experienced as an enlisted sailor. Then, eighty women of all ranks below chief petty officer were berthed in a large compartment packed with bunk beds. There was a storage compartment under each bed and a small locker. The compartment was inspected daily and any loose gear would earn you extra duty chipping paint off whatever undesirable location the master at arms could find.

  But evidently the rules were different for officers. If this had been enlisted berthing, there would have been at least six women in it. Instead, there was one bunk bed, two large lockers and two fold-down desks, and every flat space was covered with clothes, papers, or junk. The wastebasket looked like it hadn’t been emptied in a few days. And was that — yes, it was! She moved a stack of towels aside to find a sink! Sheer luxury, as far as Elf was concerned. No trekking down the passageway to a communal head just to wash her face or hands or brush her teeth.

  Elf stowed her gear in the least-occupied locker, then changed into her khaki uniform, patted her flight suit wistfully and looked forward to the day she could change back into it.

  The door burst open and a tall, dark-headed woman rushed in. She skidded to a stop and said, “Oh, hey! You must be Shaughnessy!” She held out her hand. “Ellen Bellson. Sorry about the mess. I thought you were coming in next week.”

  “Clarissa Shaughnessy. And don’t worry about it. I take it this is my locker?”

  Bellson looked stricken. “Yes, of course. But, here, let me get it cleared out. I just sort of started using it after Betty left, and — oh, here, I’ll take those.” Bellson scooped the towels out of Shaughnessy’s arms and tossed them on the lower bunk. “Really, I’ve been on the schedule every day and things just sort of got away from me.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Shaughnessy said, starting to suspect that the condition of the stateroom wasn’t at all unusual. A small price to pay for all this privacy, though, and she’d find a way to put up with the mess.

  “So. Where are you from? Did you find the Ready Room already?” Bellson pulled out a chair from under her desk, turned it around backward and straddled it. “You a good stick?”

  Shaughnessy laughed. “Slow down. I just got here.”

  Bellson looked chagrined. “Sorry.

  Bellson was a good six inches taller than Elf, and for a moment, Elf felt a flash of jealousy. Bellson had long hair pulled back in a twist that her flight helmet had destroyed. A long strand of shiny black hair hung down and clung to her worn flight suit. Her eyes were a dark, deep brown with a hazel tint to them. She was built like a race horse, long and rangy, but strong. She had a presence about her that seemed to suck all the air out of the compartment. Elf felt she herself might as well have been the same color as the paint.

  There was no way Bellson wo
uld ever be called cute. Striking, beautiful, stunning even — but not cute. No, cute was reserved for people her own size.

  “So how’s the squadron?” Elf asked. “You like it here?”

  Bellson shrugged. “It’s about like any other squadron.”

  Not good. Not good at all. “I met the XO,” Elf said. “Good guy.”

  “If you like the type. A little too pleased with himself, if you ask me. But he’s the XO, so you have to get along with him. The skipper’s sort of a pain in the ass, too. He’s a fuss budget, but he and the XO go way back, so they stick up for each other. Once they get something set in their minds, there’s no changing it.”

  “Like what?”

  Bellson looked peeved. “Like if they decide you’re not a hot stick, there’s nothing in the world that will change their minds. They start telling these stories from their first cruises, like they were some sort of super heroes or something.”

  “Ah.” But they are, in a way. Don’t you know who they are or what they’ve done?

  “Things were better when Tomboy was here,” Bellson continued. “At least she knew the whole woman thing. You didn’t get all the bullshit you get now.”

  “She was a pretty tough officer herself,” Elf said without thinking.

  Bellson’s eyes narrowed. “You knew her?”

  Damn. I wasn’t going to mention all that.

  The decision not to mention her enlisted background was something that Elf had arrived at gradually. It wasn’t like she was going to try to hide it or anything. It was just that it wouldn’t be the first thing she talked about. She was part of this world now, and she was going to have to get used to it. Talking about her enlisted days would be like Bird Dog and Gator talking about their nugget cruises.

  “Yeah,” Elf said. “I went to the Academy from the Fleet. From Jefferson, actually.”

  “So you knew all these guys before,” Bellson said.

  “Bird Dog and Gator, yeah. And Tomboy. Back before she married the admiral.” A lump started in Elf’s throat. How she’d looked up to Tomboy back then!

  “Well, excuse me, then,” Bellson said, her voice cold. “If I’d known you were so buddy-buddy with them, I wouldn’t have talked about them like that. So are you going to trot right back to them and tell them what I said?”

  “No! Why would I do that? Listen, we’re not old buds or anything like that. I just knew them, that’s all. They probably didn’t even know my name.”

  Just then there was a knock on the door. Lobo pushed it open and poked her head in. “You ready for some chow?”

  “Sure.” Elf felt a faint sense of relief. “You want to come?” she asked Bellson.

  “No. Thanks.” Bellson’s voice was colder than it had been before. “I’ve got some things to do.”

  “Oh, join us, Lieutenant,” Lobo said, her voice level.

  “Thanks, ma’am, but I really do have some things to take care of.” Bellson’s voice was surly.

  “Well, if you’re sure.” Lobo said.

  “Yes. Very sure.”

  “Come on, then, Elf. If you’re late for chow, they run out of ice cream.”

  Elf followed Lobo down the passageway, worried. Was Bellson going to be a pain in the ass to live with? Did she have some sort of gripe with Lobo? And was Elf going to get caught in the middle?

  They went through the speed line, taking hamburgers and fries, and then found spots at a long table half filled with aviators. Lobo introduced her around, and there wasn’t a time when Elf could reasonably ask her what was going on between her hero and her roommate.

  Finally, when they’d done, Lobo shoved her chair back and said, “Come on, Elf. You’ve got an appointment with the skipper, and then with CAG. You’ve got time to get back to your stateroom and get a clean shirt. You’ve got catsup on that one.”

  Elf looked down and searched for the catsup. Lobo roared as did the others. “Fish, fish — God, don’t tell me you’re that gullible about everything,” Lobo said, slapping Elf on the back. “Come on, nugget. Let’s go.”

  “So you and Bellson aren’t great friends, I take it,” Elf said as they started down the passageway.

  “Why do you say that?” Lobo asked.

  “It just looked that way.”

  Lobo walked on for another fifty feet before she stopped abruptly and turned down a short passageway to the right. It was far less crowded than the main one. “Let’s just say I don’t approve of what Bellson does when she’s not flying,” Lobo said. “In the air, she’s fine. It’s when she’s on the ground that she’s a problem. You want to get off to a good start around here, don’t become good buddies with her. Keep your distance. Because, sooner or later, she’s going down for a fall, and you don’t want to get sucked down with her.”

  “Take a fall? For what?” Elf asked.

  Lobo just shook her head. “Just stay out of it, Elf. Keep your eyes open and make your own decisions. There’s been enough gossip passed around about me that I know what it feels like. You make up your own mind once you get to know her.” Lobo turned and led the way out into the passageway. Elf followed, wondering if the two-man staterooms might have more disadvantages than she’d first thought.

  Sevastopol, Ukraine

  Black Sea Command

  2022 local (GMT+2)

  “I don’t know, Andrei.” Yuri Maskiro stared down at the plate before him as though its contents were of critical importance. While the rare steak and lightly steamed fresh vegetables were far beyond what most Russians would ever experience, they certainly did not warrant the degree of attention he was giving them. “Yes, what you’re proposing is theoretically possible. But, to undertake such a thing — well, you must realize, if caught, we’ll be executed.”

  “We won’t be caught.” Korsov reached across the table to pick up another crisp bread stick. He broke it open and smeared fresh butter across the exposed bread. “Besides, our planning will include deniability. Should anything be detected, it will simply be blamed on someone else. Trust me, I do know how to set those things up.”

  “So did Kreschenko.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Yuri did not answer. Not that he needed to. Both of them knew what had happened to the last naval officer who’d tried to engineer a military coup against the current government. The execution had been public, but the torture preceding it hadn’t.

  Korsov broke the silence by saying, “Kreschenko was stupid.”

  “The last commander of the Black Fleet did not think so.” Maskiro’s predecessor had been part of Kreschenko’s inner circle, and had been executed the day after his leader.

  For a moment, Korsov felt real fear. Surely Yuri did not regret his involvement to this degree? Not enough to do something about it? And, if so, how much danger was he in right now for having divulged even the general concept of his plan to Yuri, even if he hadn’t asked for Yuri’s help?

  He would not ask, Korsov decided. Yuri would know what he intended, would know and would even now be deciding whether or not to join him.

  “The long-range missiles would be impossible,” Yuri said finally, and Korsov felt relief surge through him. “The most I could do would be medium-range tactical missiles. And, even then, you would have to be responsible for getting them within range.”

  “I already considered that,” Korsov assured him. “But you’re sure you can get them?”

  Yuri poked at a stray lima bean. “Oh, that’s no problem. No one has any idea exactly how many we have or where they are. Not even me. In fact, I’m sure that about a third of them are on the world market already.”

  “A third? Are you sure?” Korsov was aghast. While the laxness of weapons accountability within Russia was well known, and was even worse in Ukraine, the prospect of a third of the former Soviet weapons arsenal being sold on the black market was still astounding.

  “Of course I’m not sure,” said Yuri. “That’s exactly the point.”

  “But, then, this is perf
ect,” Korsov said. “The Americans will find it even more difficult to determine where the missiles came from. And whom to blame.”

  “The Politburo won’t have any problem deciding that blame,” Yuri said smoothly. He lifted his gaze from his plate and stared directly across the dinner table at his old friend. “Even if this succeeds, they’re going to blame me. Not you, not anyone else — me.”

  “I have thought of that,” Korsov assured him. “Before you release the first weapon, you will be completely satisfied with the deception plan. Completely satisfied, or we will not proceed.”

  Yuri pushed the plate to the side. “Tell me just how you proposed to do this.”

  “The key, I think, is China,” Korsov said. “China, and the Middle East. A month before we execute our plan, at a time when you have been recalled to the Politburo to testify and your deputy is in charge, there will be a terrorist attack on one of your storage facilities. Your forces will be overwhelmed, and missiles will be stolen. Specific procedures that you have in place will have been circumvented by your deputy. You will be outraged. You’ll demand action. And you’ll mount an intensive manhunt in an effort to find those responsible.”

  “What specific procedures?” Yuri asked.

  “During routine maintenance, you require an armed guard when any of the facilities are breached, yes?”

  Yuri nodded. “Of course.”

  Korsov spread his hands apart, palms up. “Your deputy will have specifically ordered the men to be elsewhere on that date. A review of his record will show a history of increasing instability. It will appear that he blatantly disobeyed your orders to satisfy some affiliation he has with a terrorist group. Chechnya, perhaps.”