Arsenal

TWO

“This better be good.” The noise level inside TFCC dropped immediately as Rear Admiral Edward Everett “Batman” Wayne strode into the small compartment.

The Flag TAO, still wearing his modular headset, stood up and turned to the admiral. “Admiral, approximately fifteen minutes ago, a Cuban MiG-29 apparently downed a civilian aircraft forty miles north of Cuba.

The contact was inbound at one hundred and thirty-five knots, no IFF, no Mode 4. We designated it as a contact of interest and maintained a watch on it, pending a change of course toward the battle group.”

“Shit,” Batman said softly. “Did we interrogate the contact on International Air Distress?”

The TAO nodded. “No response. And no distress call now 1-on either civilian air distress or military air distress.”

Batman rubbed his hands over his face, then scratched absentmindedly under his left arm. The flight suit he’d slipped on as he crawled out of his rack naked was still new, and the stiff fabric chafed. “Is anybody saying anything?”

He jerked his thumb at the right bulkhead. “What about the spooks?”

“That would be me,” a short, blond-haired, blue-eyed officer said as he stepped through the hatch leading into TFCC. “There was a brief, encrypted transmission from GCI, probably to the Fulcrum, immediately prior. Admiral.”

Commander Hillman Busby, known as Lab Rat to the other intelligence officers, shrugged. “Not unusual. They keep their land-based air patrols under close control. We knew the MiG was there, of course, but there were no indications of hostile activity.”

“Did the MiG take a shot at it?” the admiral asked. “A small contact like that, maybe he’s just too low and dropped off our radar.”

Lab Rat shook his head. “We can’t tell. Immediately before the contact disappeared off radar, we were holding targeting transmissions from the MiG, but there was no contact on an actual missile launch.

They both just dropped off the screen.”

Batman suppressed a yawn. “Any indications where the aircraft launched from?”

“The track seems to correlate with a civilian aircraft launched out of Miami forty-five minutes before. No flight plan, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s entirely possible that he launched from a private airfield. That, or the paperwork just got mixed up. The Coast Guard is checking on it now.”

“Has SOUTHCOM been notified?” the admiral asked.

The TAO spoke up. “Voice report five minutes ago, and the message is almost ready to fly.” He held out a single sheet of paper. “Any comments to add. Admiral?”

Admiral Wayne studied the message, then shook his head “No, we don’t know anything at this point. Just what the message says.” He scribbled his initials in the upper right corner of the paper. “Go ahead and send it.”

The admiral climbed up into the high-backed, elevated leatherette seat located in the middle of TFCC, his thoughts hundreds of miles away from the carrier. Ashore, the watch staff would soon be waking the SOUTHCOM admiral, just as Batman’s staff had awakened him. He grinned, wondering if his old running mate. Admiral Matthew Tombstone” Magruder, would like it any better than he had.

Tombstone and Batman had spent practically every tour in the Navy together on one carrier or another. Together they’d seen most of the nastiness the world had to offer, fighting wingtip to wingtip. First, as junior nugget aviators, they’d chased MiGs in all parts of the world ranging from; Norway to the South China Sea. Later, as more senior officers, they’d fallen into a now predictable pattern. Tombstone, two years senior to Batman, blazed the trail, For his last two tours, Batman had relieved Tombstone in his billet while Tombstone went on to scout their next duty station. What had first begun as an odd coincidence had been elevated to a standing joke within the tight-knit F-14 Tomcat community.

Distracted, Batman stared at the left-hand seat in front of the TPCC.

He stared for a moment, then grinned. Odd that he could recognize the back of her head, when she’d spent most of her time in the air staring at his. He stood up and walked over to the console. Tomboy?”

The diminutive naval flight officer turned around, looked up, and stood. “Yes, Admiral. Can I help you?”

Batman shook his head amusedly. “As I live and breathe, lieutenant Commander Joyce Flynn. What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were still playing test pilot out at Patuxent River in Maryland.”

Following their last cruise, the radar intercept officer, or rio, had been ordered there to operationally test the latest flying machines the Navy had to offer. Foremost among them was the JAST bird, an advanced avionics F-14 Tomcat that featured an augmented look-down, shoot-down Doppler pulse radar.

Tomboy had flown as Batman’s RIO during a conflict two cruises ago in the South China Sea when Batman, as program manager for the JAST project, had persuaded Tombstone, then commander, Carrier Group Nine, to use the test platforms in actual combat.

“Just catching up on the changes,” she said, gesturing to a large-screen display behind her. “A few things are different.”

“More has changed with you than has with TFCC,” Batman said, looking down pointedly at her left hand. “So you finally did it?”

Even in the semi gloom of TFCC, he could see her blush “Las Vegas.

Neither of us felt like a large wedding.”

“You could have at least told me. Me, of all people,” the admiral huffed. “As many aircraft as I have on board this ship, I would have found a way to get there.”

“My apologies. Admiral. The next time” “There’d better not be a next time. So what are you doing on board?”

“PXO, of VF-54.” The small naval flight officer couldn’t hide her grin.

“Who’d have thought?”

“I saw your name on the list, but didn’t realize that was so soon.

You’re relieving Henry?”

“Yes. He fleets up to CO in two weeks. I talked Tombstone into letting me come aboard a week early, just so we could start turnover.

Besides, I need a FAM flight in the B-bird.” She shook her head ruefully. “After the birds I’ been flying, it takes some getting used to. At least I’ve Gator in the squadron to keep me honest.”

“That’s right he’s the VF-54 operations officer, isn’t he? Good man.”

The admiral glanced up at the tactical display, then turned back to her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that Bird Dog was in the air.

This is just the sort of situation he’d be involved in.”

Tomboy laughed. “He’s your problem now. Admiral, not Gator’s, since he’s on your staff.”

“Since this is old-home week, let’s just get his young ass up. How about it?” The admiral turned to a messenger. “Go wake up Bird Dog.

I think he’ll want to see this.”

For some reason, Callie Lazier was trying to wake him up.

Her hand was on his shoulder, shaking gently but insistently.

He could feel her snuggled up spoon fashion in back of him, her nipples gently pressing against his back, his butt nestled into the taut hardness of her belly. He smiled, wondering if her other hand was already snaking around his waist, reaching lower to caress him, waking him up in what had already become a delightful morning tradition in their relationship. If so, she’d find out just how ready he was, asleep or not.

Lieutenant Commander Curt “Bird Dog” Robinson moaned and rolled over onto his side. Why not make it easier for her? He pulled her hand off his shoulder to guide it down, feeling the urgency and anticipation build as he since when did Callie have hairy wrists?

“Sir. Sir!” The voice was low and insistent.

Bird Dog tried to twist away, then paused to think. Sir?

Why was his fiancee calling him that? It didn’t make sense.

The only time he was awakened with that was when he was His eyes snapped open and he stared into the plain, hone stand now, horrified face of the Flag messenger.

“Oh, shit.” With a sigh. Bird Dog shoved the pillow away from his face. “I’m back on Jefferson, aren’t I?”

The admiral’s messenger gulped, then nodded. “Sir?”

“Never mind.” Bird Dog released the man’s wrist and shoved himself up into a sitting position. “This better be good.”

The messenger smiled. “That’s just what the admiral said, sir, about ten minutes ago. He thought you might want to see this.”

Bird Dog sighed. “The admiral, huh? Okay, I’ll be right there.”

As the messenger scuttled out of his stateroom, closing the door quietly behind him. Bird Dog flipped on the small light mounted immediately over his head, casting a dim glow over the entire room. No point in waking up his roommate if he didn’t have to.

Heavy snores cut through the compartment from the rack above him. Bird Dog glanced enviously up at his roommate, wondering why he deserved to sleep another four hours.

Well, no help for it When the admiral wanted his staff assembled, it happened, and happened now. He reached for his flight suit, paused, then sighed and pulled his khaki pants and blouse out of his locker, trying not to make any noise. His days of living in the soft, comfortable green jumpsuit were over. At least until he got back in a squadron And that wasn’t the only disadvantage to being a staff puke In his last two cruises, both on board Jefferson, Bird dog had seen combat in the Spratly Islands and helped thwart Russian invasion of the Aleutian Islands. Based on his extensive operational experience, he’d been promoted early to lieutenant commander, then selected to attend ege in Newport, Rhode Island. Attendance at the demanding college of staff and command courses was reserved for only 10 percent of naval officers service-wide.

During his year there, he had been exposed to the most advanced techniques in tactical and operational art, rubbing shoulders daily with the top officers from every other service and civilian agency in the U.S. government. Somewhere along the way, he found out that he’d done the right things during his previous two cruises, if sometimes only by mistake.

And that wasn’t the least of it. He pulled on his blouse, smiling as he thought of Callie. Of all the great things in Newport, she was the best. And if tonight was any indication, she was indeed the girl of his dreams.

Callie Lazier, Navy lieutenant commander surface warfare officer. He smiled. If ever there’d been an officer that looked less like a warrior, it was her. Long, honey blond.hair, deep blue eyes, and, at five foot ten inches tall, only two inches shorter than he was. Her soft, luxuriant curves couldn’t mask the fact that she spent an hour in the gym every morning before classes and ran five miles every evening.

The woman was a jock, an absolute jock. The last time he’d tried to keep up with her, he’d fallen out on the side of Thames Street, made his way into the Brick Alley Pub, and was happily half drunk by the time she’d finished her run. Callie had been disappointed and mockingly stern.

A woman who drives ships for a living. Bird Dog shook his head. How could someone be satisfied with a life in which top speed meant about thirty-five knots? He’d tried to explain to her the sheer glories of naval aviation, the heady exuberance of catapulting off the front of the carrier, the pure joy of flying the world’s finest aircraft, the F14 tomcat, under any and all circumstances, but somehow he had the feeling she’d never really understood. In fact, Callie had displayed a noticeable disdain for the exploits of the F-14 in combat.

Bird Dog crossed the small compartment in two steps and rummaged around in the debris on a small ledge over the sink for his wings. He found them, and jammed the two metal spines on their back through the well-worn holes on his khaki shirt. Well, she’d feel differently once she had her first flight in a Tomcat. He didn’t know yet how or when he’d arrange it, but it would happen. Had to happen, if he were ever going to explain to her why it was so important that he keep flying.

Five minutes after he’d been awakened, Bird Dog slipped quietly out of his compartment and headed for TFCC.

“Sir, I recommend we put CAP — Combat Air Patrol — up.”

Tomboy’s voice was confident. “We probably won’t need them unless we don’t. Then it’ll be too late.”

Batman frowned. “Any other indications of hostile activity?”

“No, Admiral. I simply think it’s a reasonable precaution.”

Batman nodded. He turned to the officer seated in the right-hand TAO console. “Why didn’t you think of that?”

“I’m sorry, Admiral.” The assigned TAO looked uncomfortable. He had thought of it, but hadn’t felt comfortable interrupting the admiral’s conversation with Tomboy. He shot the small female officer an irked look. It was one thing for her to hang around TFCC, catching up on the changes that had occurred, another entirely for her to trash out her fellow officers in front of the admiral. If Mrs.-Admiral Commander Flynn/Magruder wanted to get along with this staff, she’d better learn to fit in.

“We have two VFA F/A-18s on Alert 15, Admiral,” the TAO continued.

“The Marine pilots are in their Ready Room.”

“They don’t do me much good there, do they? Come on, man, let’s get moving.” Batman turned back to Tomboy.

“Not so long ago, it would have been you and me scrambling for those aircraft, wouldn’t it? I sure do miss it.”

“Anytime you need a backseater, Admiral, you just let me know.” The two exchanged a look of mutual admiration.

Marine Major Frederick “Thor” Hammersmith shivered lightly as he stepped out onto the flight deck and pulled the heavy metal hatch closed behind him. The night was warm, sultry, but the flood of adrenaline that had hit him when the alarm rang in the Ready Room had not yet subsided. The quick five-minute brief in TFCC had done no more than crank it up an extra level.

Around him, the flight deck buzzed with activity. Sailors rolled out of their racks and were now streaming across the deck, visible only in the glare of the giant floodlights mounted on the tower. Green shirts, red shirts, yellow shirts, each color denoting a separate function in the intricate ballet that made up the flight deck operations.

His F/A-18 Hornet was. still parked in the center of the flight deck, a location befitting its assignment as Alert 15 aircraft. A few minutes to run through the checklist and power up, and he could simply taxi straight forward to the catapult.

He groaned and rubbed his eyes. Pulling Alert 15 was a pain in the ass during training exercises, but this was something real. A MiG-29 shooting down a civilian aircraft what in the hell was that about?

Sure, tensions between the United States and her southern neighbor had ratcheted a notch higher since the U.S. had nationalized some of Cuba’s American-held assets, but that had never disturbed the Navy’s operations in its traditional training ground to the north. And why shoot down a civilian aircraft? Bullshit, that was. Why fight somebody who can’t fight back?

Moments later, he was standing next to his aircraft. He walked around her carefully, checking for loose fittings and undogged compartment access panels. He ran a hand over her nose-wheel gear, checking carefully for any signs of looseness or excessive wear on the tires.

The Marine enlisted technicians who maintained Hornet 301 were fanatics, but it was one thing to take responsibility for an aircraft on the deck, another thing entirely to trust your life to it while getting off of the pointy end of a carrier.

Finally satisfied, he stood and stretched, feeling the last vestiges of fatigue seep away. He glanced up at the tower, already illuminated with red light. Inside, the Air Boss and Mini Boss would be settling into their seats, staring down at Thor and his aircraft and waiting for the report from the steam catapult operators that all was ready. A thin wisp of steam was already rising from the narrow gauge track in front of him, evidence of power to the system.

Thor grinned. The Air Boss held certain misconceptions about Marine pilots, prejudices that Thor liked to tweak at every opportunity. As the flight deck teemed with activity around him, Thor dropped down to the nonskid, assumed position, and whipped out a quick fifty push-ups.

The exercise flushed the last traces of fatigue out of his body.

Invigorated, he jumped to his feet and trotted over to the port side of the F/A-18. Clambering up the handhold and steps, he quickly settled into the cockpit. A technician followed him up, pulled the safeties on the ejection seat, and double-checked his harness.

“You’re good to go. Major.” The Marine Corps technician nodded solemnly, barely visible in his bronze shirt on the moonlit deck.

“Good hunting, sir.”

Thor nodded. “Anytime, anywhere. Marine.”

“There he goes.” Tomboy pointed at the plat camera that showed the flight deck. Two JBDs, or jet blast deflectors, had popped up from the deck and were partially screening the raging afterburner fire spewing out of the Hornet’s tailpipes. They could see the dark figure of the catapult officer standing near the Hornet’s nose, the other technicians carefully clear of the red line delineating the flight deck area.

As they watched, the overhead ceiling panels resonated with the harsh roar of the fighter’s engine. The sound built, then climbed an extra notch, rattling monitors, computers, and bulkheads alike. Finally, when it seemed impossible that the noise could get any louder, the Hornet started moving, slowly at first, then quickly accelerating to minimum airspeed of 135 knots. The catapult dragged the fighter down the flight deck to the bow, spewing a trail of steam behind it.

Finally they heard the gentle thump, always too soft, that signified the shuttle had reached the end of its run.

The Hornet disappeared from view for a moment as it lost altitude at the end of the carrier. It reappeared immediately, barely climbing as it struggled to remain airborne. As soon as it reached three hundred feet, it banked away from the carrier in a sharp right-hand turn.

“I always feel better having CAP on station,” the admiral said. “If I know the Cubans, they’re going to blame this on us and put up a full combat spread. If they do, we’ll be ready for them.”

“You’ve got the feed from LINK?” the watch officer asked.

The operations specialist nodded. “Jefferson just launched CAP. Two Hornets, on station in approximately ten minutes.”

The watch officer nodded. He reached for the telephone, Whatever was going on down in the Caribbean was far above his pay grade. As much as he hated waking the admiral up, he disliked taking sole responsibility for it even more.

Jorge Leyta watched the crowd surge and eddy around him.

The protest was taking shape without any effort on his part will only help us, even if he does not wish to. The people, you see,” he said, gesturing to the growing throng, “they know. Only the Coalition has taken action real action and made sacrifices. Aguillar merely postures and talks. If he had his way, Cuba would become the fifty-first state.” He glanced sideways, noting how his words settled his aide’s thoughts. It was always so when he put his mind to it. That’s why leadership of the community was rightfully his, not his rival’s. “And the Americans, they have shot down a peaceful civilian aircraft. They killed my brother! Where now is this wonderful ‘normalization’ that Aguillar wants?”

His aide turned his head sharply toward Leyta. “How sure are we? Can we be certain? The news reports say it was the Cuban government that shot down our aircraft.”

Leyta’s mouth curled into an ugly arc. “And you believe what you hear on the news?” He shook his head. “No, there is no doubt in my mind.

My brother” his voice caught for a moment; he drew in a deep breath and shivered slightly before it steadied” knew the risk he was taking. He is a hero, a martyr to our cause. And I will make certain that this government understands just how badly they have fucked up this time.”

From the back of the crowd, Aguillar studied the swaggering man on the makeshift podium. How much did Leyta really understand about what had happened? Not much, not if this demonstration was any indication.

Leyta had never understood political realities, never been able to accept that Cuba must-must-turn to America for support and security.

He heard a high-pitched squeal as the television van to his right started its engine, the fan belt complaining loudly. The vehicle ground into gear, then edged slowly forward, parting the massive Hispanic crowd like the bow of a ship through water.

“Senor Aguillar, any comments?”

Aguillar turned toward the microphone availing demandingly to his left.

“Senor Leyta has my deepest condolences on the tragic loss of his brother,” he began smoothly. “It is right that our community should turn out to mourn such a tragic” and unnecessary “loss of life.”

The reporter holding the microphone edged closer. “Senor Leyta claims that the American government is responsible for his brother’s death.

Is it your position as well that the government is lying to him about this tragedy?” The reporter lifted one bronzed hand to her face and smoothed the hair back from her eyes. “Or are you going to support his version of the facts as a gesture of solidarity?”

Aguillar looked somber. “Miss Drake, this is hardly a time for politics. The Leytas, however ill-advised their political views, are a close family. Despite our differences, I mourn with them. This need not have happened, and how much greater their grief must be for knowing that they are in part responsible for their brother’s death.”

Pamela Drake regarded him sardonically. She made a motion to the cameraman following him, then handed an assistant her microphone. “Off the record now, if you please. And,” she added, “that was about as smooth as I’ve ever seen you slide the knife into his heart, making it clear that Leyta’s political ambitions are responsible for his brother’s death.” She shook her head. “And the public thinks that reporters are callous.”

Aguillar glanced at her equipment with a look born of long familiarity with publicity. Satisfying himself that her recording devices were indeed turned off, he turned back to her. “You wouldn’t understand.

Miss Drake. For all your experience with ACN, you don’t have the slightest knowledge of what it really means to be involved in the middle of a struggle such as this. To you, it’s just another story.

But to them,” he continued, pointing at the crowd, “it’s our future.

Every one of us has family still in Cuba, still under Castro’s harsh yoke.

“Leyta and I agree about one thing they must be freed.

He, however, chooses violence and terrorism and claims that Cuba must take its place as a leader among nations. A nice dream, but I prefer reality. I work within the law; I know that relationships with the U.S. must be normalized.

All we agree on is that Castro and his pigs must go. Castro knows that he uses me to spy on Leyta and vice versa, all the while perpetuating his regime. But do you and your colleagues understand the difference?”

His voice rose angrily. “No. In every report, we’re both branded as some form of evil, cultish separatists, while you ignore the very real differences between us. If you understood what was at stake” Aguillar stopped abruptly. “No, you can’t, can you?” he continued more quietly. ‘To you, it’s just another story. That’s all it will ever be.”

Pamela Drake edged closer. “Perhaps if I understood the dynamics better, I could make sure the public understood the difference,” she said softly. “Get me access, Mannie. You know you can. You do, and if what you’re telling me is the truth, I’ll make sure everybody understands it.”

Emanuel Aguillar studied the small white woman in front of him. For over ten years now, Pamela Drake had been a star on ACN, her face a familiar sight against the background of every major world conflict of the last decade.

Under the harsh southern sun, he could see the small lines at the corner of her eyes artfully disguised with makeup, the slight looseness along the line of her jaw. Passion still backlit her dark green eyes, and not a trace of gray speckled the shining cap of sleek brown hair.

An attractive woman, indeed a beautiful one, even at her age. He let his eyes drift down from her face to the thin silk blouse strained taut over her breasts and found himself speculating what it would be like to make love to her. Abruptly, he made his decision.

“You’d like the real story, would you?” He laid a hand on her shoulder, digging into her skin lightly with his fingers.

“It is possible, you know. I have many friends in Cuba still.

The guerrillas would talk to you if” “If what?” Pamela’s voice was hungry.

“If you went to them,” he finished. He smiled slightly. “I understand that battlefields and rough conditions are not new to you, but Cuba is a world unto itself. Are you ready for that world. Miss Drake?” His voice was low and caressing.

“Just get me in there, Aguillar,” she said softly. “Get me in there, and I’ll show you how ready I am.”

“I will. But first, there is something you must do for me.”

Aguillar’s smile broadened into a grin.

“You’ll have to talk to the media. Admiral. There’s simply no way to avoid it.” The public affairs officer’s voice was urgent.

Rear Admiral Matthew “Tombstone” Magruder ran a hand through his unruly dark hair. Even clipped short, it managed to look mussed. His dark eyes were somber and unreadable. “Your job.”

“Admiral, I can handle all of the smaller affairs. And, after your initial statement, I’ll handle the routine briefings as well. But this is major newsit’s getting prime-time coverage on every channel and station in the United States, as well as considerable overseas interest. I can try. Admiral,” he added hastily, seeing the look of displeasure on Tombstone’s face, “but they’re not going to be satisfied with my statement. Especially not with Admiral Loggins spearheading the debate over the Arsenal ships right now. You’ve heard what he’s saying already.”

Tombstone leaned back in the chair and sighed. Why, oh why, had he ever accepted this assignment? Ever since his last at-sea tour, life had gone downhill. Aside from his marriage to Tomboy, there hadn’t been a damned thing he’d liked about this tour. His thoughts drifted back to Jefferson, one of the United States Navy’s most potent supercarriers.

Commanding her battle group had been his first Rag tour, and the most professionally challenging assignment he’d had since he was in command of a squadron. And he’d done well at it, he thought no, he was certain.

Somehow, he’d managed to keep the explosive tensions in the Spratly Islands from escalating into a full-scale war the United States was not prepared to face. With China trying to stake a claim to every inch of the oil-rich seafloor in the South China Sea, only the USS Jefferson and her cadre of escort ships had stood at the brink of war to prevent a new China hegemony. And their last mission had been the most challenging one of all.

“I’ve prepared some remarks for you. Admiral.” The PAO’s voice took on a softer, almost wheedling, note. “At thirteen hundred, you read them. Take a few softball questions, then I’ll hustle you out of there. Really, sir, it won’t take long at all.”

Tombstone stood up abruptly, unfolding his long frame from the comfortable chair. “All right.” He sighed. “I guess this is what they pay me for. Five minutes of questions and that’s it, though.”

Tombstone walked to the door. If this was so routine, why did he feel like he was walking to his own execution?