Brink of War

4

The transition from life at sea to life ashore is always a bit awkward for me. It's odd to realize that more than half of my adult life has been spent living on aircraft carriers, in accommodations ranging from the cramped rabbit warrens of junior officer berthing to the more luxurious accommodations afforded a flag officer. Ashore, before my marriage to Tomboy, I'd lived in a series of increasingly comfortable and spacious apartments and town homes, occasionally buying one for a couple of years during a shore tour, only to revert to renter status with my next deployment. Being surrounded by the gray bulkheads of a Navy ship has more the sense of home to me than the plasterboard walls and brick of an apartment or house ashore.

Thus, when I awoke the first morning on Russian soil, the sense of disorientation didn't unduly alarm me. The first few days ashore were always like that.

It set in deeper, however, as I realized where I was. My compartment in the senior officers quarters at Arkhangelsk base were almost comparable to those I would have been afforded in a U.S. Navy facility. They were spacious, consisting of two large rooms comprising a suite. Both the bedroom and the sitting room were furnished in an ornate, ponderous decor replete with gilt and heavy brocade. The entire effect was one of leftover Czarist regalia rather than bleak Communist accommodations.

At one end of the sitting room was a small, efficiency-style kitchen.

I availed myself of the coffeepot, after sniffing suspiciously at the slightly stale brown grounds that were labeled "coffee" in Russian. I don't speak much Russian, just what I remember from a year of it at the Academy, but I knew the alphabet well enough to translate most of the more common words. While the coffee was brewing, I hunted down my bathroom and then conducted a more detailed examination of my quarters.

I'd had one-bedroom apartments ashore that contained less total square footage than these two rooms and the private head. The bathroom in particular was a study in contradictions, with a heavy archaic claw-footed tub side-by-side with a modern glassed-in shower cubicle. I tried the tap experimentally, and found that there was hot water, although it was a bit rusty at the start.

I heard the burbling hiss of the coffeepot in the sitting room cease, and wandered back in for my first cup of the day. I settled into a richly tapestried chair pulled up to a heavy wooden table/work area. Then looked around for a coaster or a saucer, something to prevent making any stain on the beautifully inlaid wood.

I was willing to bet my counterpart in the Russian Navy didn't live quite so well. Reports had surfaced for months that the officers had not been paid for almost six months, and I wondered at the tenacity and devotion to duty that kept them serving even without that. I supposed supporting their families and maintaining living quarters was a different matter under the Communist state, but still ― I tried to imagine Tomboy's reaction should my paychecks suddenly cease, and shuddered.

There was a polite tap on the door, followed by scuffling of feet. I downed the rest of my coffee, then, still clad in my bathrobe, went to the door. I opened it a crack and peered out.

Admiral Ilanovich's aide was standing at attention a respectful distance from my doorjamb.

"With compliments from the admiral," he began, his voice stiff and correct. "If the admiral so pleases, would you care to join the admiral for breakfast?"

"Sure. Give me a couple of minutes to get cleaned up and get some clothes on." I opened the door a bit wider. "Come on in, have a seat while you wait. Want some coffee?"

The young Navy officer's face paled. Whatever he expected from the devil American capitalist admiral, it wasn't this. "May it please the admiral," he began, then fell silent as the need for tact exceeded his language abilities. I could see on his face that he was trying to puzzle it out, how to politely and respectfully refuse my invitation without offending this important American visitor.

I sighed. If I insisted, he would come in. Even have a cup of coffee. But the entire event would no doubt be followed by a series of increasingly aggressive interviews by the KGB, GRU, Border Patrol, or whatever else passed for internal security in the Russian society today. I wouldn't force that on him.

"I'll be right out," I said, and shut the door firmly behind me. I thought I heard a sigh of relief as I did so.

I hurried through my morning routine, not skimping but not overdoing it either. This was a breakfast between equals, not a command performance on my part. I would go, I would talk politely with the admiral, but I would not be intimidated. Not even after yesterday.

I paused while shaving, and reviewed the results of Skeeter's first engagement the day before. He'd been a fool, a damned fool to violate the imaginary floor set for the engagement. I'd been ready to scalp him alive, until I realized how that would look to our Russian hosts. I was glad I resisted that first murderous impulse when my RIO took me aside and quietly explained what had actually happened.

The altimeter ― well, we'd make doubly certain we checked mine today, along with everything else that I had learned could go wrong in over twenty years of flying Tomcats. I doubted that the Russians wanted to kill us ― or to seriously sabotage our aircraft in any way. But if there were ways to subtly make us look inferior, to insure Russian superiority in each flying engagement, I wouldn't put tricks like the altimeter past them.

I had more to worry about than altimeters, though. Skeeter's little friend had made that clear. In a few quickly whispered phrases, she'd indicated that she knew why I was here. And, moreover, that she was going to help me.

It was her last sentence that worried me the most. Worried me, and at the same time sent a thrill of joy skittering down through my guts. He's alive.

How could she know? What could she know?

I finished shaving, then stared at the small array of clothes I'd brought with me, deciding what to wear. Finally, I settled on my favorite ― a worn, well-washed flight suit, its fabric softened to the texture of chamois cloth by repeated trips to the mangling machinery of the ship's laundry. Maybe too informal, but it's what I would have worn every morning given a choice.

I reconsidered at the last moment. The khakis, perhaps. Ribbons, my wings ― yes, the khakis. I slid the flight suit back into my closet with a small sigh of regret and slipped into the khakis.

The young guard was still standing at attention outside my doorway when I finally emerged ten minutes later. He stiffened, clicked his feet together audibly, and rendered another sharp salute. I returned it casually and said, "Lead on, son."

"At once, Admiral." He hesitated, as though waiting for me to precede him, until I pointed out, "I'm not sure I know the way. Would you please go first?"

He nodded, and led the way down a passage to the front door of the quarters. The reception area was furnished in the same style as my quarters, improbably elaborate for a bastion of Communist virtue. A Zil sedan was waiting outside for us, a driver standing at attention next to the backseat passenger's door. The engine was running and gouts of steam spewed from the tailpipe in the frosty air.

I slid into the backseat, grateful for those perquisites of rank that allow one to insist on a preheated car in the morning. Nice in Washington, D. C., almost critical here in northern Russia.

The sky was still brilliant and blue, the air cold and thick. Perfect flying weather if there were no danger of icing. Aircraft love cold air, since it's more dense and provides more lift.

Ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of Admiral Ilanovich's residence. Before I could even start to get out, the young Navy officer had popped out of the front seat and rushed to open my door. He saluted again as I emerged, and again I acknowledged the courtesy. The driver stayed with the car. I wondered if he would keep the engine running until breakfast was over.

Admiral Ilanovich was waiting for me, in a small, bright room at the back of the house. As I walked into the room, he gestured to a cook, who disappeared from the room, and returned shortly with steaming covered platters and fresh coffee.

We exchanged morning pleasantries, comments about the weather, and I expressed appreciation for his invitation and remarked on the luxury of my accommodations. Admiral Ilanovich gestured expansively. "We are honored at your visit. It is the least we can do, to show our appreciation for your participation in this opportunity to strengthen ties between our two services." Tactfully put, I thought. I sipped the cup of coffee his steward had placed in front of me, noting it was a better quality than that stocked in my room. Evidently the lack of normal paychecks was not having a serious effect on the admiral's own lifestyle, though I wondered about that of his subordinates.

"So, we fly today, yes?" the admiral said pleasantly. "I am quite looking forward to it." "So am I," I said, reaching out to take another biscuit from the warm, cloth-covered bowl. "It must be the same for you as for me ― entirely not enough time flying, is there?"

Ilanovich chuckled. "Our duties ashore take up far too much time, do they not? I wonder, my friend ― I may call you that, I hope ― if you've ever considered whether it might be possible to decline a promotion? Have you ever been so tempted, as I have been?" He leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach appreciatively at the breakfast. "After all, we joined our services to fly, not to sign our name to what must be every piece of paper required to run our great fleets."

I had to laugh at that. "Of course, I've considered that. But it was no more a possibility, not really, for me than for you. Rank has its responsibilities, does it not?"

"And its privileges." Admiral Ilanovich leaned across the table to stare at me. "For instance, I was allowed to nominate myself for this particular goodwill mission. As a result, I was able to justify much more time flying this last month than I normally would have had. After all, it would not do for me to be out of practice when meeting so formidable an adversary as the famous Tombstone Magruder."

"I'm afraid my reputation is overestimated," I said slowly, not sure where the conversation was headed at this point. What point was he trying to make, that he'd researched my career and knew a bit about my flying?

That was no surprise ― I would hardly have expected less.

Similarly, our own U.S. intelligence agencies had provided me with a wealth of professional data on Admiral Ilanovich. I knew he'd spent extensive time flying in Afghanistan, had cut his teeth on ground attack aircraft against those deadly, unpredictable air defenses. He'd risen quickly through the ranks, survived numerous changes in the political climate, and fared even better under Gorbachev. He was one of the few naval officers to survive the dissolution of the Soviet Union and emerge even stronger, in both a political and military sense, afterward. Clearly, whatever his skills in the air, he was just as potent a politician as he was an aviator.

"We will have to make certain that none of our subordinates understand just how much enjoyment we get from flying," I said finally. "And I think you'll find our MILES gear provides a stunningly accurate methodology for reconstructing the engagements." "Ah yes ― the engagements." He smiled blandly, his eyes shuttered and closed. "The original plan was for the best three out of four encounters, both between our younger aviators and between you and me. Is that still satisfactory?"

I nodded. "Entirely so. Unless you had a change of mind?" Now, that would make me uneasy, a change of plans at this late a date.

"No, no ― not I." He gestured at the double-paned windows behind us, at the clear sky and brilliant morning sunlight. "But it may be that the weather has other plans for us. There are reports of an approaching storm system that may delay our schedule for several days. All of today should be fine, but later in the week we may have weather problems. I, for one, am not inclined to risk either men or equipment in inclement weather."

"Of course. Never during peacetime." I smiled.

"Peacetime. Yes, it is odd, isn't it?" He glanced out the window, as though reassuring himself that the weather had not changed during the last few seconds. "There are no time limits on our engagement today, my new friend. Given that it has been so long since I've been in combat, perhaps you'll allow a few warm-up maneuvers? It's so rare that I have this chance."

I heard the wistful note in his voice and recognized it immediately.

He wouldn't ask outright, not in so many words. But Admiral Ilanovich had just suggested that we dog it for a while in the air, take our time warming up and playing around before we got down to the business at hand. I liked him for that, and agreed immediately.

We finished breakfast on a pleasant note, each assuring the other of our undying friendship and professional respect.

My driver was waiting, with the car engine running. We went through the usual litany of salutes, and I was chauffeured back to my quarters.

Once there, I shed the khakis and slipped into my flight suit. Our first brief was scheduled for a little over two hours from now, so I thought I might head out to the airfield ahead of time and have a look at my bird.

I stuck my head out the door and saw my assigned Russian aide/gopher still standing at attention in the passageway. He looked surprised to see me. "Sir?"

"Let's go out to the airfield," I said firmly. The startled look on his face told me all I needed to know ― that my escort was not overjoyed at the fact of one Admiral Tombstone Magruder departing from his schedule of activities. But he made no protest, simply allowed me to step in front of him and lead the way out to the front of the building.

My car was waiting there, albeit without the engine running this time.

I waited inside at the officer's insistence while he hunted down the driver, had him warm up the car, then bring it up close to the front door to minimize my exposure to the frigid air. I had on my leather flight jacket over my flight suit, as well as my heavy gloves, but the cold still bit into me with all the viciousness of arctic air.

Ilanovich had mentioned an approaching storm, but I saw no trace of it right now. Still, I could imagine how quickly it might develop. How utterly impassable the roads would become with an additional five to six feet of snow dumped on them.

We approached the hangar, and the driver spoke briefly into a portable radio lying on the seat next to him. The heavy doors rolled out of the way, and we pulled to a stop inside the hangar itself.

The two Tomcats were carefully spotted some distance apart from each other, and there was no indication of any untoward activity taking place around either one. The driver had pulled up in front of my own bird, the double nuts one.

This time, I let myself out of the backseat before the officer could scurry around to open it for me. I walked up to my Tomcat, and ran a hand over the smooth, sleek skin. It was freshly painted, lustrous and unmarred by overwork.

"Does the admiral require assistance?" my officer escort asked, now clearly nervous. I shook my head and waved a hand in dismissal. Enough of playing the games ― I wanted some time alone to look at my aircraft.

The officer took up station a short distance away, again falling into a stiff parade rest position. The driver remained with the car, evidently at a loss. I started around the aircraft, first checking the nose wheel gear and the struts. I looked for evidence of any leaks, of any working or fraying on the joints, or anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing ― indeed it looked as though someone might have wiped it down with a soft rag to remove any traces of dust or grime.

I moved on to the avionics bays, checking to make sure each door was still securely locked. I produced the ring of keys from a side pocket of my flight suit and opened each door carefully, checking for any evidence of tampering. Not that our locks would have kept any really determined spy out, but at least I could hope there might be some evidence of tampering.

There was nothing. I rapped experimentally on one wing ― yes, the bird had been fueled, but that appeared to be it.

"Good morning, Admiral." I recognized the voice of my RIO, even from a distance. "You're up early, sir."

"Just wanted to get a look at her, Gator." I patted the double nuts bird lightly on the fuselage. "You're pretty early, yourself."

My RIO shook his head. "Got bored so I thought I'd come on down here and take a look at her." I read the unspoken suspicion in his face. We went over the Tomcat thoroughly for about an hour, lapsing into the easy companionship a pilot-RIO team should have. We talked tactics, emergency procedures, and we both had one factor clearly in mind during that. There would be no ejection over water, not if there were any way to avoid it.

Our chances of survival would be so close to zero as to preclude any discussion of the matter.

Our adversaries showed up about an hour later, along with the umpire selected for the engagement. Of course, the MILES gear was the ultimate arbitrator of win-loss. We reviewed again the ground rules for the engagements, reemphasizing the altitude limitations. Off to my right I saw Skeeter wince slightly at that, but there was no help for it.

Grueling and brutal honesty is the only way to keep pilots from repeating each other's mistakes.

Neither Admiral Ilanovich nor I made any mention of our discussion over breakfast. But the understanding hung in the air, a clear gentleman's agreement between us. We'd both adhere to it, I knew, as long as we were certain the other fellow was, but national pride would demand that that all change in a heartbeat if it looked like the other guy was cheating.

Cheating ― an oddly mild word to use about aerial combat. But then, these were odd circumstances.

Finally, interminable safety discussions later, our aircraft were towed out of the hangar by the ubiquitous yellow gear that dots every airfield, and positioned on their assigned spots. Gator and I ran one final preflight around the outside, double-checking the smell and consistency of the fuel. We agreed that everything looked all right, and Gator stepped back to let me precede him into the aircraft. I could feel the cold seeping in through my flight boots, even though I'd worn two pairs of socks. It gnawed away at my leather gloves through the steps up the side of the Tomcat, and if any part of my skin had been exposed, I know it would have frozen to the metal immediately.

I slid into my seat, wincing slightly as the cold plastic of it seeped in through my butt. My nuts drew up close to my body, frantic to escape the icy temperatures. The Russian technician who followed me in was thoroughly professional, checking the ejection harness and removing the safety cotter pins from the ejection seat. I kept my hands carefully clear of the ejection handle ― surviving an inadvertent ejection while on the ground was only slightly more probable than living through an ejection over the frigid Northern Sea.

Off to my right, I saw Admiral Ilanovich undergoing a similar procedure in his aircraft. He ran through his checklist, and I heard the metallic grumble of his engines start up before we were ready. Gator and I paced through the required items on our NATOPS thoroughly, following the book letter by letter. Finally, we, too, were ready. The air inside the cockpit was starting to warm up from our combined body heat, and a huffer was standing by in case we needed its auxiliary compressed air to get a clean start on the engine.

At the signal from the yellow shirt, I engaged the engines, letting them idle and warm up for a few minutes before applying any additional power. Start-up had to be done carefully in these climates, since uneven heating as the engine turned could warp the micro-millimeter clearances in our powerful engines. There was a little roughness in the beginning, nothing out of ordinary, and then the turbofans settled into their voracious, all-encompassing roar. I double-checked our radio circuits, got clearance from the tower, and then commenced the taxi. I let the admiral precede us into the air, waited until the turbulence he'd started up on the strip had dissipated, then eased the Tomcat forward.

We picked up speed quickly, and I luxuriated in the expanse of runway before me. Ever since I cleared the training pipeline, most of my takeoffs in a Tomcat had been off an aircraft carrier. Now there was no catapult to worry about, no jam-packed acceleration and quick leap into the air. I eased the Tomcat up off the runway, rotated smartly, and started climbing.

Following directions from the air traffic controller, radar still in a standby mode, I proceeded to our assigned patch of air to orbit and wait for the signal to commence. It came quickly, and I could hear Skeeter in the background in the control tower monitoring everything that went on.

Gator flipped the radar into search mode, and the picture sprang to life in my heads-up display. A few seconds of noise, which quickly dissipated into normal clutter and one solid, sharply outlined target.

"Tally-ho," I said. Gator clicked his mike once in acknowledgment. I put the Tomcat in a turn to the right, vectoring in on the admiral's position. I slammed the throttles forward, edging into afterburner zone, but refrained from kicking it in just yet. While Admiral Ilanovich was right about having made some excuses for extra stick time during the last month, I knew that I was still not at my best.

I'd been better, during the days that I was flying every day, launching in all sorts of weather and seeking out the elusive three wire under the worst imaginable conditions. Better to let it come back slow, get back in the saddle, and to squeeze every bit of enjoyment I could out of this hop. I hoped the admiral in the other aircraft was doing the same.

As though by telepathy, we settled in for a gentle game of angles, maintaining altitude and whipping our aircraft around in increasingly tight turns without varying altitude. I let the admiral sneak in behind me, gave him two seconds to set up for a shot, then cut hard away. He stayed on my tail easily, dropping back a bit so he could cut inside my turning radius if he wanted to. He didn't, but the way he handled his aircraft let me know that he could if he wanted to.

Good, so far he was abiding by the rules. The private ones we'd set up between ourselves, not the ones for public consumption.

I heard Gator scratching some notes in the back, recording his impressions of the MiG's maneuverability while I did the flying.

Admiral Ilanovich broke away suddenly, putting the MiG into a steep climb. I gave him a head start, then tipped the Tomcat's nose up and kicked in the afterburners. In the backseat, Gator grunted, performing what we call the M1 maneuver. It's a series of tensing gut muscles and exhaling and grunting, intended to force blood to keep circulating in the brain during high G operations.

The Tomcat quickly overtook the MiG, easily catching her and passing her in a matter of seconds. Under normal combat circumstances, I would have eased off, slid in behind him, and gone for the killing shot up the tailpipe. As I passed him, the admiral waggled his wings, indicating by our private code that he would have initiated chafe and flares at that point to distract the Sidewinder. Even odds in my mind as to whether or not the decoys would have worked.

"Watch the sun," Gator warned.

"I've got it, I've got it," I said. And indeed I did ― keeping an eye on the sun was an essential part of fighter tactics, particularly when you like to use a Sidewinder or IR seeking missile. The dumber shots get decoyed by the heat source and can sail off toward outer space, trying to home in on the sun.

But there was little way I could miss it now, since it was glaring through the windscreen at me, bouncing hard and brilliant off every metal surface around me. The heads-up display looked slightly washed out, and I turned the Tomcat slightly to clear up the image.

We were leading the MiG now, still widening the gap between us and demonstrating the superior weight-to-power factor inherent in the Tomcat's design. I stayed well inside the edge of our envelope, not wanting to give away any more tactical information than I had to. Undoubtedly the Russian admiral knew a whole lot about Tomcats ― but there was no point in confirming anything that might still be theoretical at this point.

We fell into a series of gentle yo-yos, the same maneuver that had trapped Skeeter the day earlier. Admiral Ilanovich repeatedly cut out of the pattern and rolled back in on my tail, while I hope I surprised him a couple of times by pulling up well short of where he thought I was going to be and circling in behind him. This wasn't a dogfight ― it was more like two cats playing with a mouse. Each stalking and pouncing at the other without really intending to kill.

The sheer joy of flying carried me up on a wave of euphoria, giving me a feeling of sheer exhilaration and joy. This is what I had joined the Navy for, this all-encompassing and engrossing business of bonding with a piece of metal and putting it through its paces in the air. Who would have thought twenty years ago that I would be soaring out under the frigid northern sun, twisting and maneuvering in the air against a Russian MiG without one of us dying?

In the last fifteen minutes of the engagement, as we'd agreed upon, we both got down to business. We were still in a rolling scissors, when Admiral Ilanovich cut sharply in behind me, turning the formerly gentle banks and turns into a hard, braking reversal. Before I knew it, he'd come around and was climbing up my ass. Gator's AILR-67 gear spouted off a quick series of beeps, indicating that he had us targeted.

I activated countermeasures, spewing out flares and chaff over the frozen ground below. Just as they departed the fuselage, I jammed the Tomcat's nose down, increasing the altitude separation between us to almost two hundred feet. He may have been dogging it on his turn characteristics, but I had a trick up my sleeve as well. It was one that he'd no doubt read about, had probably even studied, but I hoped he was as lulled into the rhythm of our aerial maneuverings as I had been. We drew ahead of the MiG, and the tempo of the beeping increased. Just as I was sure Ilanovich was about to launch, I popped the wings out of their swept-back design, overriding the automatic configuration control. I also popped the speed brakes.

The effect was like stomping on the brake of a moving car. The Tomcat lost speed dramatically, immediately, quickly slowing to almost stall speed. Within a second, the MiG overshot us, and I jammed the throttles back forward to full afterburner and restored the swept-wing configuration of the aircraft. Now we were on his tail, our radar in targeting mode and IR seeking missiles at the ready.

"Fox two, fox two," I said over tactical, indicating that I'd launched a heat seeker at the MiG. I rolled out of the pursuit, rolled away from his line of travel, pitched the nose of the Tomcat up, and started gaining altitude as fast as I could. Ilanovich saw me, pulled off one of those amazingly tight turns that I now knew he was capable of, and started following me into the air. There was no way he could catch me, but as soon as he steadied up on a course behind me, I cut to the right and broke out of the turn, circling back around to go head-on-head with him. "Fox three," I called, claiming a Sparrow launch.

Even as the words left my mouth, I saw the MiG jink violently, curving around underneath me and coming up behind in an attempt to break the missile lock. I heard the seeker head warble, then die out, indicating we'd lost lock.

Before Ilanovich could settle in for the killing shot, I tipped the Tomcat over and was heading for the deck. Mindful of the seven-thousand-feet altitude limitation, I pulled up well ahead of the boundary, giving myself a margin of safety. Ilanovich appeared to have lost me briefly, but quickly reacquired. He came down after me, staying slightly above me and attempting to prevent another wild race for the sky.

I was trapped between the MiG and the imaginary earth. I needed airspeed and distance.

Back in the afterburners, jinking and rolling and trying to prevent a missile lock. I turned at every opportunity, trying to avoid presenting that all too attractive engine exhaust to his heat seekers. Finally, I twisted away from him and headed for the open sky again.

Instead of the beautiful textbook example of a vertical rolling scissors, this was true dog-fighting. I broke off my ascent suddenly, striving for minimum turn radius, wheeling and darting about in the sky as the MiG kept up with me. He could cut inside my turn radius at every opportunity, if he knew which way I was going. I feinted once, then curved back around to climb up his ass again. "Fox three!"

"Time is up, admirals," the air controller announced. "Please return to base, at your convenience." The message was repeated in Russian, although we knew Ilanovich's English was good enough that he'd understood it the first time.

"Well, what do you think?" I asked Gator, as I put the Tomcat in a gentle bank back toward the airfield. "We win that one?" "I think so, Tombstone," Gator said thoughtfully. "That first Sidewinder shot ― he wouldn't have had a chance after that. The one after you guys got serious, I mean."

"Yeah, I think so. But then again, he was within guns range for a bit there. We could have sustained some damage and not even known about it.

If it had been for real." I let his reference to our initial easy pace go unchallenged.

I landed first, with Admiral Ilanovich not far behind. Being back on deck brought me down off the high I'd been experiencing in the air, and I felt almost disgruntled as I ran through the preshutdown checklist.

Admiral Ilanovich met us on the tarmac, midway between the two aircraft. I offered a salute as he approached, but he surprised me by simply walking up and throwing his arms around me for a quick, hard hug.

"It was good, so very good," he said enthusiastically. His pale face had taken on a new ruddiness, and his eyes were shining with the sheer pleasure of the flying we'd gotten in.

"It was, wasn't it?" I punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Damn you, for that last turn." He knew which one I meant, the one that would have surely sent a heat seeker up my butt if it had been for real.

"Ah, but your altitude ― may I compliment you, Admiral, on your airmanship? It was truly a pleasure to fly with you." There was no denying the sincerity in his voice.

"And you as well. Perhaps we should call this one a draw, do you think?" I asked. I gestured up to the tower. "There may be points scored and decisions made, but between you and me, it was very, very close."

"Agreed ― it was a draw." He rubbed his face with one hand, leaving a bright, ruddy mark on his skin. "I do have some influence with the judges, you know."

"I don't doubt it. Again tomorrow?"

"If the weather permits," he agreed.

We were back at the hangar by then, still buoyed up by the feeling of companionable competition. Skeeter and his counterpart were walking out to meet us, and the atmosphere between them was clearly not one of good fellowship. I nudged Ilanovich in the ribs, and he laughed. "I hope they don't realize how much fun we've been having," I said.

"I will not tell them if you do not."

We left it at that and went over to talk to our respective team members. I heard the younger Russian aviator's voice. Hard, almost sharp, but maintaining the line between courtesy and inquisition. Skeeter was just barely more tactful with me.

"Admiral Magruder!" I turned to see a man walking across the tarmac toward me, a pleasant expression on his face. "Congratulations on the fine flight, sir." His English was clear and unaccented. I frowned, trying to remember his name from the banquet the night before.

"I have some information for you," he said, when we were clear of earshot of everyone else. "I am to tell you ― go west." With those words, he passed a small packet over to me, shielding his movements from view with his body. I took the packet immediately, and tucked it into my flight suit, careful to keep anyone, even Skeeter, from noticing.

Lab Rat had told me we might meet men such as this, contacts from the other agencies that had interests around the world. With those two words go west this man had irretrievably engaged my interest. I knew instinctively, with a sudden, deep surety, that within the package I would find the next step on the trail to finding my father.

He hadn't mentioned the woman I'd met the previous night, though.

What was her name ― Anna something? Were they working together? Anna was undoubtedly Russian, and Skeeter had filled me in on her occupation as an agricultural spy. Just what did her duties include? I'd made it a point to remind Skeeter to keep his little head under control, warning him I'd have the Cossacks castrate him if he slept with her. He'd assured me of his pure and innocent intentions, although from the look that Sheila sent him, I had some doubts. But I thought if anybody could keep him under control, she could.

So what now? Wait for Anna's people to contact me again? Or break off on my own, follow whatever instructions were included in the package that'd just been passed to me?

Or ― last and least satisfying ― do nothing. Look through whatever the man had slipped me and wait for one of them to approach me again.

I decided to do just that. After all, I'd been waiting for thirty years already. A few more days wouldn't hurt.