Brink of War

3

The little Commie bastard tripped me on the way to the hangar. Oh, if you asked him I'm sure he'd say that I slipped on a piece of pavement, or didn't notice a recessed pad eye inset in the concrete, but that's not the truth. It was just as Admiral Magruder was looking back at me to make sure I knew that I'd be flying that afternoon ― like that would be a problem for me or something ― and I was trying to let him know that I'd heard him, that I was paying attention, and that no, I wouldn't go swilling down pints and pints of vodka and then climb back in the Tomcat to kick this cocky little bastard's ass, when it happened. One second I was proceeding along, trying to listen to the Russian guy practice his broken English on me, letting Tombstone know I was a-OK, good to go, and ready to take on the world, when my right foot hit something. I didn't fall, caught myself pretty quick ― after all, I am a fighter pilot, aren't I? Excellent reflexes, good sense of balance, top marks in spatial orientation, right?

And I think maybe he didn't exactly realize I saw him, you know? I mean, he waited until he thought I was distracted before he edged over a little and just stuck out his foot in front of me.

But he's got a lot to learn about Americans. Me, in particular. For one thing, unlike the guys he's been used to fighting against, I can do more than one thing at once without some GCI on the ground telling me when to take a leak. For another thing, I have excellent peripheral vision. I mean, truly excellent.

So when I say the little bastard tripped me, I think that's pretty much the truth. Now, as to why ― that's an entirely different question.

Maybe he wanted me to see him, get some sort of first shot in on me. Or maybe he thought he'd shake my confidence a little, make me think I was more tired than I really was.

So I didn't let him know. Made some little remark about it and let it go at that, but I'd seen him. And that put me in the firing position, asshole.

The rest of the reception went pretty much as planned. I had my backseater, Lieutenant Commander Kennedy, under close control. I guess she had orders from Tombstone to keep an eye on me, make sure I didn't act like a jerk to the Russians. But if truth be known, I ended up keeping an eye on her as much as she did on me. The Russians aren't big on having either blacks or women fly their aircraft, so Sheila and I stood out like ― well, like a black male and a white female. They gathered around us, not saying a whole lot, like they wanted to reach out and touch us to see if we were for real.

Sheila didn't back down, not a bit. She wouldn't ― not her. You've got to fly with somebody to really know them, and Sheila and I had logged enough hours together in work-ups to have a pretty good idea of where each other stood. No, we didn't necessarily like each other much ― but hell, that's not a requirement for a pilot and a RIO. As long as you trust the other guy to do his job and keep some asshole from shooting your aircraft out from under you, that ought to be enough. It was for us.

I thought the Russians were pretty well snowed by Sheila. It's easy to do ― I made that mistake with her from the first. A little short blond-haired, blue-eyed cutie pie, something you might find on your local cheerleading squad if you were real, real lucky. You might ask her out a couple of times, even think about making it serious ― until you found out she had a mean streak about a mile wide and a temper not a whole lot longer than Bird Dog Robinson's. Now that would have been a pair, teaming up those two. They would have killed either a lot of Commies or each other within the first thirty minutes.

And Sheila's not only her real name, it's her call sign as well.

Somebody who thought Australian was the hottest liberty around decided that, since "sheila" down under is slang for female.

Anyway, Sheila and I found that flying together was pretty much all right by us, so the skipper left us teamed up for this exhibition. I suppose we might have been offended, like they were trying to see us as some equal opportunity poster children, but the truth was that we were just so very, very good. The captain knew it ― and we knew it. The way I figure it, there wasn't a single logical choice in the squadron except for the two of us for this mission.

I drew Sheila aside as soon as a hole broke in the Russians around her and said, "You hear what the admiral said? We fly the first mission this afternoon."

Sheila nodded, a slow, strange smile spreading across her face. I'd seen her knocking back the caviar, so I was hoping it wasn't due to indigestion, but she just said, "We're ready."

I nodded. "Bothers me not having a guard on our birds, though."

Sheila finished licking the last bit of fish eggs off a cracker, then said, "So we preflight ― and we check the telltales." She shot a glance at one of the Russians standing nearby, as though wondering whether he understood the slang.

After we'd done our shutdown, Sheila and I had set up a number of carefully prearranged little traps for anyone who wanted to mess with our bird. Nothing fancy, just a piece of tape here, a little scuff and some oil there ― enough so we'd know if somebody was tinkering with anything on the aircraft. Besides, maintenance had fitted some special locks on both the compartments and the engine intake covers. If somebody tried to bypass the key system, there would be a larger splotch of red ink on the inside panel. Not enough to let our guests know that they'd been busted, but enough to alert us to double-check for problems.

An hour and a half later we were both back out on the flight line, checking out our bird. I reminded Sheila to wear her gloves, since the metal had already cooled so much that we'd lose skin if we came in contact with the bare metal. Even in early afternoon, the sun was low in the sky, reminding me of how far north we were. I was almost surprised we had any daylight at all.

Not that it mattered much, not with the Tomcat. I wasn't so sure about the MiG.

We double-checked the Tomcat for any problems. All of our telltales were just where we left them, and I didn't even see anything that gave me a hinky feeling. Finally, satisfied that nobody had been tinkering with her, we climbed back up in. The enlisted technicians double-checked us as efficiently as Americans would have, making me wonder who the hell they'd been practicing on. As far as I know, the MiGs and other fighters in the Russian inventory don't have exactly the same setup for the four-point ejection harness and the ejection-seat safeties.

I kept my distance from the MiG. I like formation flying, especially when it's with somebody who's pretty damned good.

Like Admiral Magruder. There was nothing about the admiral in the air that gave me any reason to worry about him. Oh, his reflexes might be a little bit slower ― even he'd admit that. But he still had what it took.

Surprising, at his age. I had to figure he was nearly forty-five.

I watched the MiG's roll-out carefully, staying behind and to the right of him, and pulled my own Tomcat off the tarmac exactly where he had.

I caught up with him soon enough, slid back into a locked wing position to his right for just long enough to let him know I was hot, then went for altitude.

We'd rebriefed the ground rules in preflight, both in English and in Russian, with both of our admirals listening in gravely. Both of them made the point of saying that this was simply a test of airmanship, not combat; that there was no reason to risk life or equipment, that safety remained a paramount consideration. I wondered how they managed to make the same bullshit sound so much alike in both Russian and English.

I looked over at Kyrrul and saw he wasn't buying it any more than I was. He bore watching, and not just because he was supposed to be some hotshot fighter-jet jock. No, he was a sneaky little bastard. He'd tripped me.

We meandered up to thirteen thousand feet, and I switched buttons to the tactical frequency we'd agreed on. The air traffic controller was switching rapidly between Russian and English, directing us into our starting positions thirty miles apart. On the controller's signal, I put my radar in standby mode, hoping Kyrrul was doing the same thing. That was the deal ― neither of us knew where the other was, and we were both starting from that point with no initial intelligence. The floor was seven thousand feet, the ceiling twenty-nine. I wondered about that number for a moment, whether it said anything about the MiG or not. No matter ― I'd remember to tell the intelligence weenies when we got back to the ship.

I knew Admiral Magruder was up in the tower, keeping an eye on the tactical picture. He didn't speak much Russian, just a few phrases, but a radar scope looks the same in any language. He'd assured me he'd keep them honest, and that I would fulfill the same role when he was in the air.

Finally, the signal came. I heard the admiral's voice come out of the circuit ― "Good luck, Skeeter, Sheila" ― and then we were off. I flipped the AWG-9 radar back into search mode. It took a microsecond to warm up, then it kicked in and started acquiring crap in the sky. A nasty picture for a few moments then, suddenly, clarity. That was one of the advantages of holding this little experiment in Russian airspace. They had no compunctions at all about clearing out the whole area of commercial and private traffic just for their own war games. A pretty big deal from what I could see of the industrial area down below us.

We picked up contact on the MiG almost immediately. You hear all sorts of things about advanced radar systems, but in my mind, there is nothing that can beat the AWG-9 radar as a fighter weapons control system.

Even in the older models, it could track up to twenty-four targets and guide missiles to six of them simultaneously. Everything feeds into it, I mean everything ― although it was developed particularly for the Phoenix air-to-air missile, it also takes care of your Sparrow, Sidewinder, AMRAAM missiles, as well as the gun ― though later upgrades have replaced almost all the old components with miniaturized digital packages. With the AWG-9, you get good detection capability out to a hundred and fifteen nautical miles, across a front of more than a hundred and fifty nautical miles. The latest versions track targets as low as fifty feet off the ground and up to eighty thousand feet, a vast improvement over the earlier look-down limitations of the original system.

I caught the MiG in general search mode and immediately switched over to single-target track mode. My RIO did, actually, although the way Sheila and I worked together it was like we were one mind.

"He's acquired us," Sheila warned. Like I needed her to tell me that ― I could hear the insistent beep beep beep of her ESM gear going off.

The MiG knew we had him, too. He turned away from us, probably in preparation for enticing me into an angles fight at this altitude. I wasn't buying it. I put the Tomcat into a steep climb, grabbing for altitude. We were closing each other at well over Mach Two, and I was hoping to force him into an altitude game early on. Not that I thought the very first maneuver would win ― they would have put their best guy up, and I was certain he wouldn't fall for a rolling yo-yo immediately. However, I couldn't let him get me on the defensive, make me start reacting to his maneuvers at altitude.

The basic game plan wasn't complicated. Standard tactics against a MiG, something the admiral wanted to see in operation for himself. We knew it generally worked ― hell, we kicked their asses every time we'd come up against them ― but in this encounter we had full telemetry of both the Tomcat and MiG, something our science guys would drool over later back at VX-1.

Not that gathering scientific data was my primary purpose in life.

Mostly, I just wanted to kick his ass.

I rolled up through twenty-five thousand feet, with Sheila feeding me information continuously on what the MiG driver was doing. He milled about uncertainly at altitude, then reluctantly gave chase. He couldn't catch me, I knew, so I was sure he was counting on calculating the exact moment of my climb, when I'd tip my nose over and start back down. He'd cut out of the pattern at that point and wait to catch me on the downswing, slipping in behind me for a tail shot. Or what would have been a tail shot, if we had actual missiles. Both of us sported blue-painted dummy loads rather than the real thing.

It's slightly inaccurate to call them dummy loads, because they're much more than just dead weight on your wings. Each one of these missiles, although it has no warhead and no propulsion system, is a simulator in its own right. It stores tracking data from the AWG-9, records your firing orders and targeting information, all of which can be downloaded later for study. Additionally, each one of these has the MILES gear mounted on it, the laser simulators for the actual missile.

I pulled out of my climb at twenty-nine thousand feet, letting the Tomcat nose over gently to give me a good look at the MiG. He was still climbing, but rolled out of it as soon as he saw me stop my ascent. He peeled off to the north, in level flight away from me before the Tomcat had even nosed over.

I felt the G forces push me back in my seat as we started our descent.

"Not too far, Skeeter," Sheila warned.

Right ― like I need a RIO to tell me how to fight an air battle. I clicked my mike once in acknowledgment. As we descended past twenty-four thousand feet, the MiG was already starting his turn back in toward us. I knew what his plan was use his maneuverability against my speed, catch me when my inertia was too great to let me turn away from him. He was closing quickly now, descending slightly to maintain an excellent firing position on my tailpipes. Sheila's ESM gear increased its frantic beeping, indicating that he'd shifted to targeting mode.

At the third frantic beep, I hauled back on the yoke and pulled us out of the descent, simultaneously rolling to my right to bleed off additional airspeed. It's always a trade-off, this altitude versus airspeed game, and I was betting that I knew my Tomcat performance characteristics a hell of a lot better than he did. When I finished the roll, I was at seventeen thousand feet, accelerating and ascending into nose-on battle with the little bastard.

Thirty seconds later, we screamed past him so close that I heard Sheila gasp. Yeah, a little bit too close ― more so than had been briefed, that was for sure. The rules of engagement said that we were to maintain a one-thousand-foot altitude separation at all times. But as much as they run on about the damn MiG's maneuverability, I figured it was at least more his hit than mine. Besides, we hadn't been that close ― but RIOs are like that, always getting excited about stuff.

"Maintain your separation," I heard a voice say over tactical. I groaned, recognizing it immediately. Not the Russian GCI, or the air traffic controller. No, this was somebody I had to listen to ― the admiral.

"Aye, aye, Admiral," I responded immediately. "He got me a bit on that one."

A moment of silence on the net, then, "Right." Even over the circuit, I could hear the admiral's tone of voice well enough to know that he wasn't buying it.

"Let's just try that again, shall we," I said out loud.

"You heard the admiral," Sheila answered.

"I'm not talking about that," I snapped. "The rolling scissors ― you know that's what is going to get him in the end."

She sighed. I let it pass.

We pulled back into a steep descent, and this time I kicked in the afterburners to give us an extra boost of power.

The MiG overshot us, and had to turn back into our plane of attack.

By the time he was back in position, following me up, I was passing twenty-four thousand feet again.

"He's got you," Sheila snapped. "Jesus, can't you let me get in position for just a second to get off a missile?"

"Always so eager," I murmured. "Just wait for it, baby." I could get away with that kind of comment in the air, although not on the ground. I might even have to pay for this one later, but I was enjoying myself just too much to care.

I waited for twenty-nine thousand feet again, then edged over into another descent. This time, I rolled it, and in afterburner that generated some significant G forces for my backseater. She yelped in protest at the lack of warning, then shut up and started her M1, the forced breathing exercises that keep you from graying out. Harassing her about panting in the backseat is always good for a few laughs. At least on my part. Too bad she's so quick with the elbows-to-the-ribs routine ― my last bruise was just starting to fade.

Again we descended, this time passing much closer to the MiG, who had not rolled out quickly enough. I waved as we went by, straining to move my hand under the mounting G forces. Just as we passed, I saw him roll out of his climb and stay inverted to keep an eye on me as I descended. Then he pitched nose-down into a descent himself, almost immediately in firing position on my tail. Again, the sharp warning of the ALR-67 threat receiver was my cue. I banked back out of the descent, swinging out in a tight arc to drop in behind the MiG.

"Nice, nice," Sheila said. "I've got him ― got a lock!"

"Sidewinder," I agreed, toggling the weapon selection switch on my stick to the appropriate location. We were close, almost close enough to go for the gun. For just a moment I was tempted.

"Get it off now," Sheila said. "Quick, so I can take a second shot if we need to. Hurry before he-"

The MiG shuddered, twitching a little as though the pilot were going to pull out of his descent. He held it for a couple seconds longer than I thought he would, but I didn't mind. I pickled off one Sidewinder, then another, letting the heat-seeking missiles get a good look at the hot exhaust flaring out of his tailpipes. At this range, it was a nobrainer.

"Skeeter, you have to-"

The MiG broke off suddenly, pulling up sharply and almost stalling, then accelerating away in level flight. I swore, jerked back on the yoke, and rolled out as well. But sixty thousand pounds of Tomcat, even with five hundred and sixty-five square feet of wing area, is not near as maneuverable as a MiG-3 1. He had time to cut a hole in the sky and come back around to be directly overhead before I saw level flight.

"The little bastard ― let's see if he can keep up with this!" I swung the Tomcat around and went back into a steep, bone-rattling climb.

"No point in it now," Sheila said, disgust heavy in her voice. "Do you realize what you just did? Skeeter, you idiot ― why don't you ever listen to me?"

"What the hell do you mean?"

Admiral Magruder's voice over tactical answered the question for me.

"Tomcat 101, RTB."

"Return to base? What the hell for?" I asked, tactfully keeping my finger off the Transmit button.

Sheila answered immediately, "Don't you listen to the briefs? We had a seven thousand altitude restriction, you idiot. He suckered you, big time. And you followed him right down, right to the edge of the envelope.

He had time to pull out before he broke seven thousand feet ― you didn't.

Six thousand nine hundred and forty-five feet ― you lose." "No fair!" I said. "We got off two Sidewinders before we reached-"

"You broke the altitude restriction ― you were dead before the missiles left your wing," Sheila said wearily. "Quit arguing and answer the admiral, Skeeter." I paused a second, collecting my thoughts. The admiral's voice came over tactical again. "Tomcat 101 ― acknowledge last transmission.

RTB-now!"

Finally, I toggled the mike. "RTB-roger, wilco." I didn't bother to ask why. The admiral knew ― and now, so did I.

We were only twenty minutes out from the base, but it seemed to take forever to get back there. The air was cold and clear, perfect flying weather, but somehow I was enjoying it a hell of a lot less than normal.

It was the same Tomcat curled around me, a metal shell that felt like my second home. The reassuring thrum of the turbofan engines, the familiar heads-up display that almost felt like a part of me ― none of that had changed. It was still the most powerful fighter ever built, a hell of a lot better than the MiG-31. The aircraft hadn't failed ― I had.

There was no use trying to blame it on Sheila, or bemoaning the fact that the MiG pilot had a guy on the ground feeding him information and keeping him from breaking through the artificial barriers set up for our engagement. The GCI concept is wrong, way wrong. Fighter pilots have to be free to operate in wolf packs, choosing their own targets and defining their own engagements. The time lag between aircraft and the guy on the ground is just too great to make for effective combat. Then how come I'd lost this engagement?

It wasn't real. If it had been real, that MiG would have been dead.

But real didn't matter ― not now. We'd set out to prove a particular point and I'd screwed it up by not paying attention to my altitude. Sure, Sheila might have been a little bit louder in warning me, or even the admiral could have spoken up ― no, no use trying to find somewhere else to fit the blame. Flying the aircraft was my responsibility, and mine alone.

Sheila had her hands full with the radar and targeting at that point, and even though she'd started to warn me about the altitude, it wasn't her fault.

Out to the north, I could see a thin, oddly colored line on the horizon. At this altitude, I had an excellent view of the coastline, the array of military bases and commercial points along it. The supertankers, massive and imposing close up, were smaller than matchsticks.

And there was the Jefferson, way off, barely visible to the naked eye although we were holding her position solid in the link. I let my hands rest easily on the control and steered out toward her. The sea round her was a dark, angry gray, forbidding and menacing. Ice was already fouling the water around the shoreline, creeping out gradually as the calm seas did nothing to prevent its formation. In closer to land than Jefferson I could see two other surface ships, probably the icebreakers we'd been briefed on earlier. It would be their job to insure that Jefferson had clean water around her and didn't get mired in the ice. An aircraft carrier is tough, but the hull simply isn't built to withstand the massive pressure that an ice float can bring to bear on man-made metal.

The dark line on the horizon was growing thicker now, and I saw an odd shot of white spark through it. I toggled my ICS. "You see that? Looks like we've got some weather blowing in."

"Yeah, looks like." Sheila's voice was calm and noncommittal. "I guess they know it on the ground."

I shook my head. "They should, if they've got the same weather prediction capabilities that the United States has. Do they?"

"How should I know?"

"Well, I better let them know when we get back down during debrief.

We're supposed to be flying every day for the next couple of weeks, but if that shit rolls in there's not a chance in hell of us getting up tomorrow.

Too bad."

"Well, maybe they'll take us on a sight-seeing tour."

"Wonderful. Just what I joined the Navy for." I couldn't keep up the light banter, pretending that nothing had happened back there. "Sheila ― I blew it. Sorry, buddy."

There was a vague note of amusement in her voice when she answered.

"What, Skeeter apologizing? You practicing up for what you're going to say to the admiral? Because if you are, let me tell you that I don't think that's going to cut it."

"I'm not apologizing, I just- Hell, I guess I am. I should have been watching the altitude more closely."

Just then, the air traffic controller's voice came on, directing me to a new vector for approach on the base. I lined up on the radial he indicated and glanced down at my altimeter. "Funny, they're starting our approach out this high."

"Tomcat 101, request you maintain angels seven on inbound radial.

Currently show you at angels eight." "Angels eight?" I said out loud. I glanced back down at the altimeter. We were at eight thousand five hundred feet according to my altimeter. What the-?

"Altitude ― Skeeter, check your altimeter settings. Now!" Sheila said.

I clicked on the mike. "Request revised altimeter setting for Arkhangelsk," I said.

The altimeter is one of those funny little instruments onboard an aircraft that will get you killed as fast as a missile. One of the first things you do on approach to a new airfield is reset the altimeter according to your charts. If you leave the altimeter set on, say, San Diego ― basically at sea level ― and you try to land at an airfield significantly above sea level, you'll discover the ground far sooner than you expect to.

I'd reset the altimeter according to our charts during our approach on Arkhangelsk. The numbers came back to my mind ― twenty-nine forty-nine. I glanced down at the setting. It read twenty-nine sixty.

I started swearing, while I flipped the numbers back to the right setting for Arkhangelsk. "Damn it, somebody's been in here ― Sheila, they tampered with our altimeter!"

"That explains it," she said, her dawning comprehension clear in her voice. "Skeeter, I didn't want to say anything. Your ego's big enough as it is, but I've never known you to keep up that lousy of an instrument scan. It's not your fault you were below altitude ― somebody tampered with the altimeter. It was reading well above seven thousand feet when you were actually below seven thousand feet." "I should have checked it," I said.

"We both should have."

"That sneaky bastard," I muttered. "Not enough that he tries to trip me, but playing with a man's altimeter can get somebody killed." Summaries that I'd read of too many aircraft mishaps flashed through my mind.

Altimeter mistakes and lousy weather were responsible for too many pilots auguring into the side of a mountain. That I'd failed to catch that error pissed me off. "Wait till the admiral hears about this." "Are you really going to tell him?" Sheila asked quietly.

"You put yourself on report for that."

I shook my head, realizing that I was in a no-win situation. If I kicked up a stink about the altered altimeter, Admiral Magruder would know I'd screwed up on my preflight. Additionally, it would sound like I was whining. I couldn't prove that the Russians had tinkered with it, and I'd just look like a sore loser.

"What do you think?" I asked finally.

"We keep quiet and eat this one," Sheila said promptly.

"But now that we know, we double-check it next time. The altimeter, and everything else, including the fuel. Real, real, carefully. And then we kick some Russian ass."

"I'd like that," I said when she'd finished, rather gratified at her vengeful tone of voice. "I'd really, really like that."

"Skeeter, level flight ― no maneuvering!" Sheila said suddenly. "Don't twitch a muscle." "Why?" I asked, although I obeyed her command immediately.

"It's that little bastard MiG. Looks like he wants to play some games." Her voice was grim.

I craned my neck back around to see. I saw him immediately, the MiG-31, barreling down out of the sky toward me in a steep dive. He pulled up in front of me, maybe half a mile ahead, waggled his wings from side to side for a moment, then executed a series of flawless barrel rolls. He pulled out of that smoothly, gracefully, dived under me then reappeared on the other side, looping around and around me like some sort of insane porpoise.

I swore quietly. "He wants to see aerobatics, does he? Well, let me just show him-" "Not a twitch, Skeeter," Sheila warned again. "You don't know what he's doing. Two aircraft pulling unbriefed maneuvers in the same airspace is a guarantee that something's going to get fucked."

I kept on swearing, knowing she was right. Bad enough that the little MiG bastard was rubbing it in, but if I started pulling the same shit to show him what a Tomcat could really do, our chances of a mishap increased dramatically. So for now it was straight and level, vectoring back into the air base with my new altimeter setting and planning my revenge.

From inside a Tomcat, a Russian airfield feels pretty much like an American one. Easier to land on than an aircraft carrier, and international standardization of airfield markings and directions indicators makes getting around fairly straightforward. A white truck with follow-me lights was waiting to direct us to our assigned spot. Sheila and I ran the shutdown checklist quickly, but by the time we were finished, the admiral was already waiting for me just off the flight line.

I popped out a sharp salute and waited for the blast that was sure to come. To my surprise, Tombstone just stared levelly at me. "Admiral, about what happened up there," I began, and then let my voice trail off as I realized he wasn't looking for answers. I had the uneasy feeling this was going to be a one-way conversation. Just then, Sheila stepped forward.

She saluted, then touched Gator lightly on the elbow and drew him off to the side for some RIO-to-RIO talk, leaving me alone with the admiral.

"Good move, Skeeter," the admiral said finally. "I liked the way you suckered him into revealing more about his performance capabilities. I don't think we've ever seen a MiG pull that dramatic of a maneuver before."

"What? You mean you think I-"

The admiral cut me off before I had a chance to dig myself even deeper. "Exactly the sort of intelligence we're here to gather," he murmured, motioning me to follow him back to the air control terminal.

"Good work." I followed him, too stunned by his comments to start explaining. Was it possible that the admiral thought I'd really planned that maneuver just for that purpose? Or was he just offering me up a face-saving excuse?

And what did Sheila have to talk to the other RIO about that was so urgent? The altimeter, probably. While she might not want me making excuses to the admiral for my mistakes ― hell, it wasn't excuse, it was reason! ― she'd probably want to make sure that the admiral's own RIO double-checked their own altimeter before their first flight. Fool us once, shame on us; fool us twice ― I let the thought go, oddly reassured by the admiral's explanation.

Even if it weren't true.

The Russians' version of a bachelor officers quarters were no great shakes. It was more spartan than anything I'd run into in the United States Navy. Damn near as uninhabitable as my own compartment onboard Jefferson. Before the modifications we'd made, I mean. Over a period of months onboard a carrier, you get around to customizing your compartment so it's not quite as bleak. My roommates and I had come up with a TV, a VCR, and a bitchin' stereo system that routinely drove the people next to us batty.

The Russian BOQ room was more like a cell. It held a narrow, uncomfortable cot and a chair. That was it. The head facilities were down the hall. Two showers, and I didn't hold out much for a good supply of hot water, judging from how grimy they looked. There were windows to the outside, no curtains or blinds, and I could already feel the cold radiating in through the thin, single-paned window. The shower curtains in the head looked slightly mildewed, and the toilet bowl was rimmed with rust stains inside.

I changed, sponged off the sweat as best I could, and got ready for the evening meal. The admiral had said it would be a formal affair, and I wasn't looking forward to it.

At the prearranged time, an escort picked us up to go to the banquet in the Russian officers club. Sheila, I was surprised to see, was tricked out in her skirt and heels. I was in my dress blues, the two stripes on my dress blue sleeves outnumbered by her two and a half.

We slipped into the overcrowded, stuffy room like we owned it. It was packed with Russians, all in what I figured were probably their best dress uniforms. There were aguillettes, medals dangling, and more brass than I'd ever seen in one place before. After the debacle of earlier that day, I felt like everyone was staring at me. Not only was I the most junior of just about anybody around, I was the one who'd screwed the pooch.

Or at least I was supposed to think I was. For now, Sheila and I were going to let them think that they had us fooled.

"I know something," I heard a female voice slightly behind me say. I turned to find a woman, a civilian by her dress, standing just behind me looking up at me. She was noticeably shorter than I was, her head barely reaching my shoulder level. Long auburn hair flamed in a crown on her head, spilling down her back in luxurious curls. Her eyes were brown, large and doe-like, and she stared at me with a look that was somewhere between lust and amusement. "About the flight today, I mean." She spoke English well, with only a slight trace of an accent.

I smiled at her. "A lot of people know a lot about today," I said.

"We haven't had the pleasure. Lieutenant Skeeter Harmon." I extended my hand.

"Anna Doysta," she answered, slipping her small, cool hand into mine.

Despite her slight size, she gripped my hand with surprising strength. "Of course, I know who you are. We all do. I was hoping for an opportunity to meet with you tonight." Her smile broadened, as though to leave no doubt about what she meant.

I laughed despite myself. "My pleasure, Anna," I said agreeably. "I suspect you'll be the high point of my evening, as well." I waved my hand at the assembled gaggle of officers and civilians. "And just where do you fit in to this operation?"

I was already sure I knew. She was charming, and certainly beautiful, and within the space of a few seconds had managed to stroke my ego in a way that few American women did. Certainly not Sheila Kennedy, my all too capable RIO and running mate.

But how foolish did the Russians think I was? I knew who Anna worked for, even if she would never admit it. This was the very sort of thing we'd been cautioned against by Lab Rat, an approach by an attractive member of the opposite sex while we were in Russia.

"But you must know what I do," she said, her tone of voice playful and amused, as though letting me in on a big secret. "They've talked to you, yes? I am a spy, of course." She gave a gentle, lilting laugh, as though to belie the seriousness of her answer. "At least, I am employed as one.

Although there are very little opportunities for spying these days, at least in the last five years. I had hoped for a more glamorous career, but unfortunately my area of expertise is primarily agricultural. You know, finding out deep, dark secrets about Ukrainian wheat production, the Turkish soybean crop." She waved her hand in a small, dismissing motion.

"Not what I expected when I joined the KGB."

"You're very up front about it," I stammered, trying to get my balance. I knew it, she knew it ― — but to admit it just like that?

Glasnost and peristroika had gone a whole hell of a lot further than I ever imagined.

"Tonight, I am off duty," she said, her voice firm. "No spying ― and I do not know enough about aircraft or airplanes to do a very good job of it, anyway. So shall we enjoy the evening? How are you finding your time in Russia?"

"Not what I had planned so far," I admitted. There was something completely and entirely disarming about her, a spy who admitted she was one. Especially a spy that looked like she did. "I didn't do so hot today."

She nodded. "I heard." She took a step closer and laid one hand on the crook of my arm. "You must be very, very careful," she said, speaking quietly. "I'm a very good spy ― at least, in my area. I hear the others talk. When you go back to your aircraft, please check carefully this equipment called an altimeter." She stumbled slightly over the word, as though she'd never used it in conversation before. "You went too low, but I do not think it was entirely your fault." She glanced over at an assembled gaggle of Russian pilots. I could tell they were pilots from this distance, watching the arm movements as they reenacted the day's engagement for each other. "They do not like to lose ― not for any reason.

It was not your fault you were outside of the envelope." Again, her words sounded slightly awkward, as though she were unused to talking aviation or using the terminology of the trade. That, more than her self-proclaimed declaration that she was an agricultural spy, reassured me.

"What makes you say that?" I asked. I glanced over to see where Sheila was, wondering if I ought to get her in on this. But she was preoccupied with an American attache officer. The diplomatic corps had turned out en masse for this function. They'll do anything for free booze.

I tried to get some more details out of Anna, but she turned my questions away deftly but pleasantly. She'd said all she was going to.

Maybe if I'd had a chance to talk it over with Sheila, I might have figured out a way to get her to open up.

Anna's presence livened up the otherwise deadly dull proceedings of a formal dinner. She claimed the seat next to mine at one of the tables, and Sheila sat across the table from us with her tame attache in tow. I caught her shooting hostile glances at Anna several times, but ignored it. RIOs, particularly female ones, tend to have a rather proprietary attitude about their pilots.

But there was nothing going on, nothing at all between Anna and me.

There couldn't be. First off, I knew she was a spy, and getting involved personally with her to any degree would have resulted in a lot more paperwork than I even wanted to think about. Second, Admiral Magruder had already taken a look at us, shot me a warning glance that would have scorched the skin off a turtle, and was still keeping us under observation.

We talked about everything in the world except flying, ate, and I even allowed myself one shot glass of vodka. One, no more, not if I had to fly the next day.

At one point, after the dinner broke up and we were on the way out, I had a chance to introduce her to Admiral Magruder. Anna seemed quite taken with him, even stepped up close to whisper in his ear. Whatever she said to him made him go pale, but he merely nodded politely to her. Altimeters, maybe? Or something else?

Finally, the evening ended. I was tired by then, drained from the culture shock and disappointment of the day's flying, but determined that tomorrow would be different.

The BOQ was quiet and cold when I got back. I stopped in the head long enough to contemplate the probability of hot water, then gave it up as a lost cause after I'd let it run for about thirty minutes with no appreciable change in the temperature. I cleaned up the best I could and hit the rack.

Tomorrow would be another day ― and one the Russians might not like nearly as much as I liked Anna.