“They said you’ll be fine,” Bird Dog said, and cast around for something else to say. He wasn’t very comfortable being around injured people. No pilot was. It reminded them too much of their own mortality. That something like that could happen to them, too.
Rat murmured something that he couldn’t make out. He bent closer. “Say again?”
Rat’s eyes opened wide, and for just a moment she was fully alert. “I told him not to do it — I did. But you know how he can be, don’t you?”
“Sure, yeah. Told him not to do what?”
“I told him not to try it. The engine was overheating while we were inbound. Intermittent but… god, I’m tired.”
“So he knew he was having trouble?”
“Yeah. And when we lost it, he thought he could get it back. He was going to roll out, restart — but I punched us out. I put us in command eject and punched us out.”
“You weren’t in command eject all the time?”
Rat yawned and her jaws creaked. “Naw. He won’t let me. He doesn’t trust me, Bird Dog. He doesn’t.”
Bird Dog turned to stare back down the line of beds at Fastball. The pilot appeared to be dozing off. He took Rat’s hand, and said, “I’ll take care of it.” Then he laid her hand gently on her stomach and went back to Fastball’s bed. He leaned over, his mouth just inches from the other pilots ear.
“You asshole — why’d you pull something like that?”
“Huh?”
“Rat told me. Jesus, Fastball, you fucking idiot. I’m going to see you fry for this one if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Hey!” Fastball struggled to a sitting position, and said, “Hey, I was the pilot. It was my call. What I did was—”
Bird Dog cut him off. “What you did was almost get yourself and your RIO killed. You were having problems, and you didn’t tell anyone. Climb, call, confess, comply — that ring a bell? What the hell were you thinking, Fastball?”
“I didn’t want to punch out.”
Bird Dog make a dismissive gesture. “Nobody wants to. You do it when you have to. And when you’re a freaking nugget, you leave the switch in command eject. Nobody’s going to want to fly with you now, Fastball. You might as well transition to Hornets, because I don’t know a RIO in the Tomcat community who would ever get in an aircraft with you again.”
A corpsman walked over to them, his stern expression at odds with his relatively junior rank. He took in the situation instantly, and turned to Bird Dog. “Sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He laid one hand on Bird Dog’s arm.
Bird Dog shook him off. “Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving. But you haven’t heard the end of this, Fastball. Not by a long shot.” Bird Dog stormed out of sick bay and headed for the CAG’s office.
TWENTY
Admiral’s Cabin
Wednesday, May 5
1120 local (GMT +3)
The radioman held a message out to Batman. “I thought you would want to see this right away, Admiral.” He passed the admiral a single sheet of paper.
Batman glanced over it quickly, noting that it was from the chief of naval operations. He then scanned through the message garbage to the text of the message. And there he paused as a stunned feeling swept over him. He turned to radioman. “Find Admiral Magruder for me, will you? Tell him I’d like to see him as soon as it’s convenient.” As the radioman left, Batman read the message once again. He had spent enough time in D.C. to see nuances and subtleties in many things that would escape another officer’s notice. But he was damned if he could figure this one out entirely.
The message ordered Tombstone Magruder to return to the Pentagon by fastest means available. It was signed by Tombstone’s uncle personally.
Tombstone? In D.C.? A fish out of water would be more comfortable.
Although Batman had the greatest respect for his friend, maneuvering within the political byways of the Pentagon was not one of Tombstone’s skills. Oh, sure, he could play diplomacy with the best of them, as he demonstrated in Russia when he was searching for his father. And when it came to combat, there was no one Batman would rather have on his side. But this, this smacked of intrigue and empire building.
And just what did the CNO think that Tombstone would find to do in D.C., anyway? For the last two years, he been a troubleshooter admiral, dispatched by the CNO to problem areas of the world. Was the CNO sending a message that D.C. was a problem area? Or was this something Tombstone should have seen coming? Tombstone’s position was unique in the Navy, and Batman had no doubt that the CNO had taken some flak for that.
A feeling of ineffable sadness swept over him. Although he didn’t want to admit it, he could see the handwriting on the wall. No, this wasn’t about a new mission for Tombstone — it was a sign that the end was approaching, as it did for every officer who didn’t quite fit the politically correct profile demanded by today’s armed services.
But he’d thought that the CNO could pull it off. That maybe for once the Navy would do the right thing, continue using Tombstone in roles that he had been so valuable in. But if this message was the harbringer of disaster, that wasn’t going to be.
Batman laid the message in the center of his desk. And what do we do as civilians, my friend? Not fly airliners, that’s for certain. You’d never be able to resist the impulse to pull a few barrel rolls. Just what will you do?
There was a knock on the door, and Tombstone came in. Without comment, Batman passed him the message. The impassive face that had earned his friend his call sign was very much in evidence. Even so, Batman had the feeling that Tombstone was not surprised. They’d known each other long enough for Batman to be able to read every subtle change in his friend’s expression.
Tombstone passed the message back. “Got any ideas?”
Batman hesitated. His speculation that Tombstone’s career was at an end wasn’t anything he felt comfortable sharing. “No. Do you?”
To Batman’s surprise, Tombstone nodded. “Yeah. That call from my uncle — there’s something in the works, Batman. This goes no farther than us, okay? I’m not supposed to tell anyone. But it looks like the board results are out and I’ll probably be retiring before long.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “But my uncle’s got some ideas. I’ll tell you about it when I can… if I can. Now, you have any idea about how I’m going to get back there?”
For one of the few times in his life, Batman felt slightly stunned. “The COD. Probably to Bahrain. From there, you shouldn’t have any problem — at least, not as long as things stay relatively quiet. Although, given what’s been happening, I’m not too confident about that.” He shot Tombstone an inquisitive glance. “So there’s nothing you can tell me about this?”
Tombstone shook his head. “Maybe never. But the fact that I’m not upset about it ought to give you some clue.” Again, that curious grin. “I’ll call Ops, get him to save me a seat on the COD. You’re on your own from here on out, Batman. You know that, right? Of course, you always have been.”
With that, Tombstone left.
Yes, I am on my own — finally! It was with a sense of astonishment that Batman realized just how much Tombstone’s presence onboard his carrier had always reassured him. But now, for the first time, he would be alone. For some reason, that both bothered and delighted him.
CAG’s Office
1630 Local (GMT +3)
Bird Dog finished telling CAG what had happened with Fastball’s ejection, and concluded with, “He’s lucky he didn’t get both of them killed. You’ve got to do something, CAG. He can’t go around pulling that shit, and from what I’ve seen of him, he’s dangerous in the air.”
CAG studied him for a moment. “Some people said the same thing about you.”
“Sure, they did. Back when I was a nugget. But as pissed off as I’d get at Gator, I never took us out of command eject. Never. And especially not when we were coming in to the carrier for a trap.”
Standard procedure called for the Tomcat seats
to be in command eject. The actual controls were located in the RIO’s seat area. During an approach, or other times that demanded the utmost from a pilot, it was standard procedure to make sure the switch was set to command eject, which would allow the RIO to punch both the pilot and the RIO out. Otherwise, in its other mode, the RIO could punch out alone. But when a pilot had to keep both hands busy flying the aircraft or might otherwise get distracted, a RIO had to be able to exercise his independent judgement for both of them.
There’d been many times when Gator had threatened to punch himself out alone, swearing that he’d rather take his chances with SAR than spend another minute airborne with Bird Dog. But he’d never followed through on the threat, and Bird Dog wasn’t convinced that he ever would. Sure, it’d be a bitch explaining to CAG why he’d come back without his RIO or his canopy, but that would be a piece of cake compared to the problem that Gator would have faced had he followed through on his threats.
“There’ll be a Board of Inquiry,” CAG said. “You know that.”
“Ground him in the meantime,” Bird Dog urged.
“Automatic — as you should well remember. But Rat will be grounded as well… not that she’d be medically cleared any time soon.” CAG hesitated for a moment, then said, “You’ve been riding his ass some, Bird Dog. I want you to back off for a while. Let things work the way they’re supposed to. The Navy’s got a pretty good system for deciding who flies and who doesn’t.”
“If it puts him back in the cockpit, it doesn’t work,” Bird Dog said bluntly.
“They put you back in.”
“That was different.”
“How? Dammit, Bird Dog, just get the hell out of here!” CAG exploded. “I can manage to run this air wing just fine without your personal assistance, thank you very much.”
Bird Dog drew himself up straight. “Yes, sir. I just thought you ought to know what happened.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I did know what happened? Now get the hell out of here — and don’t go spreading rumors around the ship, you hear? I’ll take care of things in the manner that I decide most appropriate. And someday if — God forbid — you’re ever a CAG, you can sit here and listen to a hothead spout off about what you ought to do.”
“I didn’t know you’d talked to her, sir.”
“You didn’t ask, now, did you? And just for your information, it wasn’t Rat who told me what happened. It was Fastball.”
TWENTY-ONE
United Nations
Wednesday, May 5
1700 Local (GMT –5)
Just off of her main office, Ambassador Wexler had a small personal room. In it she kept several changes of clothes, a vanity with a full selection of her cosmetics, and other items, including an emergency evening dress for special occasions. A single bed was in one corner of the room, allowing her to catch a quick nap during times when she simply couldn’t leave the United Nations for her house.
Now, standing in front of the vanity, she contemplated her image. Businesslike, yes. But feminine, the light coral fabric lending a glow to her complexion.
She contemplated her jewelry again, then removed a bracelet. Put on everything that’s necessary, then remove one piece, her mother had always told her.
Funny how many of her mother’s old sayings proved to be a help in the U.N.
She surveyed herself again, then all at once was annoyed with herself. What was the big deal? This was dinner with T’ing, nothing special. Although, she had to admit that the dinners were increasingly becoming part of her regular routine.
T’ing was always a pleasant, cordial dinner partner, a man with a fascinating insight into relationships between nations. She found his insights helpful: On occasion he had even, in his subtle way, made suggestions about how she should approach issues that concerned the United States.
But he was a professional colleague, nothing more. There was no… well… romantic interest.
Was there? She brushed the thought away. Of course not. They were simply two adults who enjoyed each other’s company, no matter that they were almost always on opposite sides of every issue that confronted the United Nations. And given T’ing’s subtlety in conducting his nation’s affairs, she wouldn’t put it past him to cultivate the friendship to satisfy his own agenda.
With a sigh, she took off another piece of her jewelry, then changed the coral suit for a plainer, more businesslike suit. She ditched the high heels, and settled for her flats.
And, after all, it wasn’t like T’ing was the only one with an agenda. The president had become aware of her growing friendship with the ambassador from China, and had openly encouraged her to pursue it. There were, he said, a number of issues on which they would be confronting China, and it would do no harm to have special insight into one of the great minds to emerge from that nation.
There was a rap on the door, and then Brad, her aide, stuck his head inside. “Your car’s here.”
“Thanks. I’m ready, I think. How do I look?” She pirouetted, allowing him to assess her from all angles.
“Perfect,” he reassure her. “Just the right balance between hegemony and democracy.” A sly smile followed.
Wexler laughed out loud. That was one of the things that made Brad so valuable as an aide — his sense of humor. He always seemed to know exactly what to do to lift her spirits, and she never ceased to be amazed at his devotion. When she was worried about something, down in the dumps, or simply boiling over with rage — as seemed to be more often the case than not these days — Brad was always there. With tea just the way she liked it, maybe a snack, or even just an attentive ear to listen while she vented.
At times, she wondered whether Brad was particularly devoted to her or was just exceptionally good at what he did. She’d never asked, and she suspected either explanation could be equally true. Brad was never anything other than the perfect staff officer, and she had no idea of what lay behind his charming demeanor.
Not that it mattered. Brad was also one of the few people who would tell her the truth, point out a loophole she overlooked in pending legislation, or tell her that a color suited her.
“Pacini’s?” he asked, mentioning the name of a quiet Italian restaurant nearby.
She nodded. “We’re getting to be regulars there.”
Brad walked with her down to the main entrance, then handed her off to her chauffeur. “Same thing as usual,” she said. “I don’t think you’ll need me for anything, but if you do, don’t hesitate call.”
“I will.”
Pacini’s Restaurant
1810 local (GMT 5)
T’ing was waiting for her in the foyer. His two bodyguards were seated at the bar, each one holding a glass of clear liquid. Soda water, she expected.
If you didn’t know anything about them, you would think that they were just businessmen getting off work, enjoying happy hour before going home. That is, if you didn’t look at their eyes. That was what gave them away. They were flat and passive, constantly moving over the room, scanning the people coming in, those going out, mentally recording faces and comparing them with their database of threats. There had not been, as far as Wexler knew, any particular threats on T’ing’s life. Then again, she suspected he would not have told her if there had been.
T’ing bowed slightly. “They’re holding a table for us.”
Another advantage of being an ambassador to the United Nations — even the finest restaurants in town always managed to find a table for her, even on short notice. She took the elbow T’ing proffered, and let him lead her to the table. Once they were seated, he opened the wine list and studied it for a moment, then ordered a bottle of Chablis.
She lifted one eyebrow in surprise. It was rare for him to have anything to drink. “Special occasion?”
“It is very difficult to propose a toast without wine,” he said gravely. “I try to follow the customs of your country.”
“A toast, hmmm? Might I know what we’re toasting?”
�
��In good time. I understand you have been busy today,” he continued, deftly changing the subject. It was something he was an expert at. She considered pressing the point, then let it lie. T’ing normally had his own time schedule, and she had learned by now that it was rarely worthwhile to try to rush him.
Briefly, she recounted her conversation with the ambassador from Iran, leaving out her threat to ask the president to deploy nuclear weapons there. It had been mostly bluster, and she suspected that it would turn out to be interpreted as something else entirely if it ever made the rounds.
Finally, she concluded, “They don’t like dealing with women. But this is one time they’ll have to get used to it.”
T’ing listened patiently, and a sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “They would be wise not to underestimate you.”
Just then, the wine arrived. T’ing waited while the glasses were filled, then raised his in a toast. “To friendship.” He clicked his glass lightly against hers as she repeated toast, and took a delicate sip.
“That’s it? Friendship?” she asked.
“Isn’t that enough?”
This time she did laughed. “All right, have it your way.”
T’ing shook his head. “We know each other too well.” He took another sip of his wine and his expression turned grave. “I have heard about your encounter with the Iranians. And what I have heard worries me greatly. I know you travel around the city unaccompanied. I wish for you to reassess that practice. Should you lack for suitable security, I will be glad to loan you a couple of my men.”
The Art of War c-17 Page 14
