Since the plan was not being channeled through normal Defense Department command, getting accurate intelligence proved to be the most difficult part. Sure, there was overhead imagery of Bermuda, of Chechnya, and probably of Korsov himself. But getting it meant telling someone that they wanted it, and, more importantly, telling them exactly why they wanted it. That was not acceptable. But U.N. Ambassador Sarah Wexler, one of the few people who knew the details, provided an unexpected answer. Captain Hemingway from JCS, Wexler said, understood the challenge of working under unusual circumstances.
Tombstone and his uncle, retired Admiral Thomas Magruder, formerly Chief of Naval Operations, both stared at Captain Hemingway. For the past fifteen minutes, she’d been filling them in on various concerns having to do with the Commonwealth of Independent States. As she detailed Ambassador Wexler’s concerns and correlated them with available military intelligence, Tombstone’s expression and his uncle’s expression grew somber.
Finally, she finished. “Well, that’s that. What do you think?”
Neither Tombstone nor his uncle spoke for a moment. Each was occupied with his own thoughts. His uncle, a Cold War veteran, knew all too well what the Russians were capable of. And Tombstone had seen first the Soviet Union and then Russia and the CIS intervening in international conflicts whenever the opportunity presented itself. Russia had always been a player, always, if not on the front lines, then certainly behind the scenes.
“It would solve a lot of their problems,” his uncle said finally. “Particularly if they retake Ukraine — food and oil are in critical shortage in Russia, and Ukraine has more of both. With modern technology, some of those oil sites around the Black Sea could be productive again.”
“It makes sense,” Tombstone added. “Ukraine has always believed that she is the birthplace of modern-day Russia. Culturally and politically, Russia and Ukraine are quite compatible. And if those two merge, Armenia, Georgia, and most of the states with predominately Muslim populations will go along with it.”
“Aren’t we going to have to worry about the Pan-Arabic coalition?” the senior Magruder asked. “Seems like we’ve had trouble out of them from time to time.”
Both Tombstone and Hemingway shook their heads. There was something about his uncle’s mindset that had been formed during the Cold War that tended to see strong alliances in every situation.
“No,” Hemingway said, after Tombstone deferred to her. “From what we’ve seen in the past, the Middle East nations have been able to form short-term working alliances, when it was in their economic interest to do so. But as far as long-term allies, no. The deep divisions within Muslim society supports that conclusion. Additionally, Russia and Ukraine are used to working in tandem. Especially in military matters. We know that they can work in concert long-term.”
“So.” The senior Magruder stood. “We have contingency plans, of course, and we remain at JCS’s disposal. But, until we know the exact nature of any planned Russian aggression, we can’t realistically assess our chances of operational success. But thank you for the heads-up.” He made a move as though to show her to the door.
Hemingway didn’t move, and something in her expression made his uncle pause. “There’s more,” she said finally, and looked away from them both as she reached into her briefcase. She pulled out a red file folder, and without looking at Tombstone, held it out to him.
Tombstone opened the folder. It contained one grainy, slightly blurred picture. Two men, one woman, the woman in the center.
Tombstone felt as though he’d been sucker punched. His breathing stopped and the blood drained from his face. The edges of his vision grayed, and for a moment he was confused, because he wasn’t in a Tomcat pulling max G forces and losing oxygen to his brain, but that’s what it felt like.
“Stoney? You okay?” His uncle moved around to stare over his shoulder at the picture and sucked in a hard, sharp breath. “Sweet Jesus, it can’t be.”
Tombstone still could not speak. The fragile world he’d built around him shattered, the dams he’d constructed against the overwhelming pain collapsed.
The figure in the photo, the woman staring directly up at the sky, had petite delicate features over a strong, forceful jaw, and topped by a halo of ragged red hair, was undoubtedly his wife.
“When? Where?” Tombstone managed to say finally. Hemingway handed him the analysis that went with the photograph.
“Siberia,” Tombstone moaned. “That explains the snow.” Neither his uncle nor Hemingway reacted to his attempted humor. Tombstone felt cold horror grip his heart. “We can — you can — we have to do something.” He looked wildly from his uncle to Captain Hemingway, searching for their acknowledgement of what must be so obvious. “Now that we know where she is, we can get her out!”
Hemingway stared at a corner of the room, apparently completely engrossed by a dusty plastic plant on top of a file cabinet. When she spoke, it was with a distant tone of voice, as though trying to distance herself from his pain. “There was a great deal of debate over whether to show you this,” she said finally. “Most people said it would be cruel, since the photo isn’t that clear. Better to go ahead and let you believe that she died when her Tomcat was shot down.”
“It’s her. I’m certain of it,” Tombstone said.
“That’s not what they were worried about, Stony,” his uncle said, a note of infinite sadness in his voice. “Was it?” he asked Hemingway.
She shook her head. His uncle nodded. “I’ve been on the other side of these discussions. Once or twice. Not often.”
“What discussion?” Tombstone said, not able to believe what he was hearing. He couldn’t sit there any longer, he couldn’t. They should be on the airstrip, preflighting, loading up bombs, moving ships into position, and getting ready to bomb the hell out of anyone or anything that got in their way. Tomboy was alive—what was there to discuss?
One part of his mind knew. Knew, and refused to shut up.
They won’t go in after her. The intelligence sources they’ll compromise, the political ramifications — they won’t. Because Russia has no excuse for having kept this a secret, none at all. And whatever’s going down over there, we’re not going to push them over the edge with this. They’re not going to.
“They can’t get her out, Stony. They won’t even try,” his uncle said gently. Then he looked over at Hemingway, a new respect in his eyes. “And you lost. You were ordered not to tell him about her, weren’t you?”
Hemingway didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Tombstone felt as though he was being flayed alive. He stared up at her, tears starting in his eyes, agony coursing through his soul. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick. “I know you’re risking your career telling me this. ‘Thank you’ isn’t enough.” He took a deep breath, then continued. “But you understand, don’t you? You know that I can’t leave her there. You knew I couldn’t when you decided to tell me.”
Hemingway nodded, infinite sadness in her eyes. “And if things ran the way they were supposed to in this country, no one else could, either.”
His uncle spoke quietly. “If you solve the Bermuda problem for the Russians and we can find a way to convince them that no international recriminations will follow, we may be able to convince them to let her go.” He held up a cautioning hand. “I’m not saying it’s even a probability. Just a possibility. Say what you will about them, the Russians do have a streak of fairness. Their loyalty is to people, not nations. It may make a difference.”
“Have they put it in those terms? Bail them out and they’ll give me my wife back?” Anger started in the pit of his stomach and flashed through his entire being, so strong and hard that it threatened to consume him.
Hemingway shook her head. “No. But your uncle is right. All politics is personal. And if they’re holding the wife of someone that’s bailed them out of trouble instead of holding just another American aviator… No promise, you understand.”
“Why are they ho
lding her, anyway?” Tombstone asked. “We’re not at war with them. This isn’t Vietnam. There’s no reason for them to keep her.”
“We don’t know,” Hemingway admitted. “It may be that they’re hoping to use her as a bargaining chip some time in the future. Maybe turning her loose would reveal something about their intelligence sources. Or maybe some junior officer just screwed up holding her in the first place and there’s no way to back out of it now without international consequences.”
“That’s not right!” Tombstone said, his voice breaking. “It’s not right.”
“Of course not,” Hemingway said briskly. “Neither is our failure to get her out. But it is what it is. Do you want to bitch about it, or do you want to fly this mission and see if it makes a difference?” She paused and shot him a considering look. “And if you think you can just go public and cause enough outrage to force them to release her, think again. I can tell you this for certain: The only thing you would accomplish would be to ensure that they start covering their tracks as fast as they can. Starting with getting rid of her. Are you really prepared to take that risk?”
“I’ll leave today,” Tombstone said, avoiding her question. “Tell the Armenians to expect me.”
NINE
Armenia
Aeroflot 101
Sunday, November 13
1400 local (GMT+4)
As the airliner touched down on the Armenian tarmac, Tombstone breathed a sigh of relief. No pilot likes to fly as a passenger, and Tombstone was no exception. He glanced over at Lieutenant Jeremy Greene and saw relief in his eyes as well.
“Nice landing, Tombstone said coolly, letting the understatement express his relief to be on the ground again.
“Yeah. Not bad.” Greene was just as determined to be cool.
A mixture of languages flooded the compartment, primarily Russian but with other dialects as well. The passengers behaved as airline passengers do everywhere, getting up quickly, trying to organize their belongings and jockeying for position in the aisles. Like their American counterparts, the Russian flight attendants pleaded with the passengers to remain seated until the airline had come to a complete stop, and, like their counterparts they were mostly ignored.
Finally, the aircraft taxied to a halt outside the small, low terminal building. A metal rollaway ladder was pushed up and the plane began to empty. Tombstone and his copilot had carry-on bags containing a few essentials in case their luggage was lost. Neither of them had much faith in the Armenian baggage handling system, and doubted that the Russians would be any more efficient.
Inside, long lines had already formed at the Customs stations. Tombstone and Greene gathered up their luggage and looked at the lines with dismay.
“I thought we didn’t have to do this?” Greene asked.
Tombstone shook his head. “We’re not supposed to, but maybe something got screwed up. It wouldn’t be the first time and it won’t be the last time. Let’s get in line and try to look inconspicuous. Remember, we’re attending a religious conference.”
The fact that an international Russian Orthodox church conference was scheduled in the city at the same time was fortuitous. His uncle in particular had appeared to enjoy the idea of his two pilots traveling as visiting priests. Tombstone’s somewhat vehement objection to the appropriateness of pretending to be priests, and in particular to wearing the white collar, was overruled. To his surprise, Greene appeared not to mind at all. He ran a finger around the clerical collar, scratched, then said, “Chicks love these things.” Tombstone and Greene got into line, trying to appear inconspicuous, and waited to see if the system would work as it was supposed to. They had advanced just ten feet toward the inspection station when a man in clerical garb approached them. “Father Stone?”
Tombstone nodded. “Yes. And you are…?”
“Gregorio Russo,” the priest said, holding out his hand. “Welcome to Armenia.” He glanced at the line and said, “Come, there’s no need for this. After all, if one can’t trust a priest, who can one trust?”
Tombstone and Greene followed the priest away from the line to an unmarked door at one end of the room. Father Russo led the way, talking idly about the weather, the city, and the scheduled events at the conference. Tombstone tried to keep up his side of the conversation and finally said, “Jet lag, you know. I’m sure you understand.”
Father Russo was instantly solicitous. “Of course. Please forgive me. Your hotel is not far — we’ll get you settled in and you’ll have time to rest up and prepare for vespers. There is a reception planned for this evening. A driver and escort will be by to pick you up at six this evening.”
The Armenian priest’s demeanor was so convincing at that moment that Tombstone wondered if there’d been a serious FUBAR in the plans. But as he looked closely at Russo’s dark, inscrutable eyes and stern face, the priest winked slightly. Tombstone relaxed.
At the hotel, the two pilots were shown to adjoining suites, each modest by American luxury hotel standards, but more than adequate for their purposes. After all, they didn’t intend to spend much time there.
“Six o’clock,” Russo reminded them.
“Right. Vespers,” Tombstone answered.
Once alone, they opened the door that connected the two rooms. Both had been extensively briefed on the probability of surveillance and certainly weren’t going to take the risk of discussing the mission. Yet, what did priests talk about amongst themselves? Tombstone wondered. Somehow he doubted that Jeremy Greene’s analysis of the potential for meeting Armenian women would be suitable.
“Suppose they have room service?” Greene asked, and Tombstone breathed a sigh of relief. His copilot’s other abiding passion, in addition to chasing women, was eating.
“Let’s find out,” Tombstone suggested.
In short order, they learned that not only did the hotel have room service, but that they had a concierge who spoke English exceptionally well. They placed an order for breakfast for Tombstone and lunch for Greene, as their biological clocks were in different time zones.
The food came quickly, and Tombstone found it more than acceptable. Greene stripped off his collar and dug in with his usual gusto. Even as he was polishing off the last of his steak, he was eyeing Tombstone’s hash browns.
After refueling, Tombstone settled in for a nap, vetoing Greene’s suggestion that they go for a walk and insisting that the other pilot/priest remain in his room until their escort came at six.
At precisely six o’clock, Father Russo rapped on Tombstone’s door. He stepped in and grinned at the two pilots, who had reassembled the bits and pieces of their clerical garb. He straightened Tombstone’s collar, checked the tuck on Greene’s shirt, then announced, “If you’re ready, we’ll go to vespers now.”
He drove them in an old Zil to an ancient stone church and they followed him in. Tombstone was just starting to wonder just how far Russo would take the charade when Russo turned in to a small chapel. He led them to the altar and past it to a door in the back. They followed him through a dimly lit corridor that seemed to run the length of the back of the church. It opened out onto a small garage. Another Zil was waiting for them.
“Let’s go,” Russo said, his voice more animated than before. “There are enough Zils heading in and out of here that we’ll be able to slip away. Somewhere around eight hundred priests will be attending vespers, so I don’t think anyone will miss us.” Again Russo took the wheel. “Stay low until we’re away from the church, though.”
Fifteen minutes later, he signaled that they could sit up. Tombstone was starting to feel a bit uneasy at the total lack of control he had over their comings and goings, and it showed in his voice when he said, “Mind telling me exactly what’s up?”
“Not at all,” Russo said, his voice jovial. “We’re heading for a small private airfield to get you some time in a MiG. That’s what you’re here for, right?”
“You seem to know a lot about us,” Tombstone said.
“Not a
s much as I will in a little while,” Russo said, and turned to look back at him, grinning.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tombstone snapped. What the hell is this? I don’t know what he’s been told, what I can say, who the hell I’m supposed to meet.
“I’m about to kick your ass,” Russo replied. His grin broadened.
“So I take it you’re not a priest,” Greene said, his voice surly. “What the hell is going on around here?”
Russo pulled the car into a parking area. Not far away, two MiGs waited at the end of a runway. “Cool your jets, young man. And, yes, I am a priest, but don’t let that bother you.” He turned to face them, a hard look of joy on his face. “For the next two days, I’m your instructor pilot. I’ll either teach you to fly a MiG or I’ll pray for your souls when you fuck up and auger in. Your choice.”
USS Jefferson
CVIC
0800 local (GMT-4)
Conversation stopped when Lab Rat walked back into CVIC from a briefing in TFCC. Petty Officer Lee, a linguist in the department, asked, “Are we going in, sir? We gonna go kick some Russian butt?”
“Not yet,” Lab Rat answered. “Politics, ladies and gentlemen. Stay loose, stay ready — we’ll get our chance.”
The briefing had been less that encouraging. The Jefferson was ordered to stand by, and, from the reports they were seeing over ACN, it didn’t look like that was going to change anytime soon. Public furor over the possibilities of casualties was already starting to pick up, and the White House had been oddly silent about the whole affair.
First Strike c-19 Page 12
