Chain of Command

8

I could tell by the look on his face that Lab Rat had bad news. When it's good, he's practically bouncing as he stands at my door and waits for permission to come in. When it's bad, his already small form seems twenty pounds lighter. He shrinks into the door frame, slinks into the room, and his voice is barely above a mumble.

This was one of those times.

"It's still operational," Lab Rat said flatly. "The latest imagery shows aircraft moving in and out of the hangar. And they're already repairing the airfield. We knew that wouldn't take long, but it's going even faster than we predicted."

"What about the SAM sites?" I asked. I was convinced I could eventually knock a hole in the top of those nasty little revetments, but I had to be able to get my aircraft in to do it.

"They're mobile. Not fixed sites."

More bad news. We'd maintained meticulous plots on the electromagnetic transmissions from the anti-air sites, and I was hoping to take them all out the next time. "Can you tell where they're headed?" I asked.

Lab Rat shook his head. "They're moving under cover of the jungle canopy, Admiral. I get a few glimpses of them, some heat sources, but that's about it. We've looked at the terrain, the tactical disposition, and I've simply got no good predictions."

I leaned back in my chair and considered the matter. Intelligence was fine, but sometimes I needed ground troops. "Have you talked to the Marines? They might have some other ideas on where they'd put the SAMs if they were the bad guys."

Lab Rat nodded. "A few estimates, but they're not any more confident about it than we are."

I should have known he would have tried it. When it comes to intelligence estimates, Lab Rat is the least likely officer I know to invoke parochial interests. You've got something to say, something to make sense to him, then he'll listen. With ground weapons positions, of course he would have sought out the senior Marine on board and asked his opinion.

"So what do you suggest?" I asked finally. "We can send in another strike, but…"

Lab Rat sighed, then looked up at me. "It's time for Special Forces, sir. We could use them one of two ways. Send them in, send them after the SAM sites, or target the revetments." He grimaced, indicating that neither of those were particularly attractive alternatives. "Or we can just try what we've done before."

"And lose more aircraft probably," I said.

"Probably."

I stood up and started pacing the length of my office. It helps me to be moving while I'm trying to think. It would help even better if I were in the cockpit of an aircraft, but that's a luxury not often allowed to me as a flag officer. I barely make it out on the flight deck once a week just to get a whiff of fresh JP-5.

"What do the SEALs say?" I asked. We have a platoon on board, with a lieutenant commander in charge of them. Brandon Sykes was one of the smarter SEAL officers I'd met in my time, and he'd proved his tactical savvy to my satisfaction before. If he had an idea, I wanted to hear it.

"Lieutenant Commander Sykes wants to go for the mobile SAMs, but he thinks the revetments are the better targets," Lab Rat replied immediately. "He says you can always use the HARMS against the SAMs, but that the revetment is the real problem."

"He's right, of course," I answered. "Did you ask him when he could be ready to go?"

Lab Rat smiled. "He knew you'd ask that ― he told me so. And he said to tell you that they were ready to move out at your very earliest convenience."

"So what does that mean?"

Lab Rat thought for a moment, then said, "I think he'd like about twelve hours, Admiral, but I'm sure he could pull it off right now. If Brandon Sykes says he's ready, he's ready."

I nodded. "Twelve hours would put us into the nighttime ― he wants to go in with the RHIBs ― the Rigid Hulled Inflatable Boats?"

"Or maybe helos ― he hasn't decided yet," Lab Rat said.

We'd rendezvoused with the underway replenishment ammunition ship earlier, and I'd on-loaded a ration of heavy-duty bombs designed to penetrate concrete bunkers. They'd worked well in Desert Storm and Desert Shield, and I thought that probably they'd do the job against the Vietnamese revetments as well. Still, I didn't have all that many of them ― it would make them a better target if I could have the SEALs soften them up a little beforehand.

"Tell Brandon to get ready," I decided. "I want to see him as soon as he's ready to talk."

They make bigger SEALS, they make stronger ones, but they don't make them any tougher than Brandon Sykes. He'd been pulling aviators' asses out of the fire his last twelve years in the Navy, along with conducting the other types of covert-insertion missions for which his community was justly famous. You look at him, you see a guy who looks like he's in pretty good shape. Not the bulging arms and forearms you get with Marines, but just a guy who works out a lot.

You'd be making a mistake. What's more, he's smart as he is tough. That makes Brandon Sykes a very deadly combination.

"Admiral, I'd like to go in by helo to the two-mile point, then drop and inflate RHIBs and proceed by boat. From what Commander Busby says about their surveillance assets in the area, I figure that gives us the best chance of getting in undetected." Brandon was soft-spoken and polite.

I started to ask some technical questions about the insertion, but looking at Lab Rat and Brandon, at the united front they were presenting, I knew there was not much point in it. We hire the best talent we can, then turn them loose. "You cleared this with CAG?" I asked.

Brandon nodded. "He's good to go with it, sir."

"When do you want to leave?" I asked.

Brandon looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "With your permission, I'd like to get underway about zero one hundred. That'll put us on the beach by two, and in the area of the revetments by three. A little while to sneak and peek, do some damage, then we haul ass out of there. We'll be using timed explosives ― a little bit risky, but I want to make sure we're clear of the area before they know they're fucked."

I nodded. "Let's make it happen, gentlemen. You go boom in the early hours, then I'll follow with an early morning air strike. How's that?"

Both men nodded. "Of course, we thought that might be what you wanted to do," Lab Rat added. "Strike's already signed off on it as well."

I grunted. "Not much point in having an admiral around, is there? Seems to me like between you two and Strike, you've got it all figured out."

Brandon stood, a slow and easy smile on his face. "Oh, there's plenty of reason to have an admiral around, sir. We can come up with the plans okay ― but you're the only one who can say yes."

I threw the two of them out of my office so they could get some work done, then turned back to the unending pile of paper that continually seeped into my in basket.

J-TARPS wasn't the only innovation in virtual reality that had entered the fleet. Even though I'd seen them discussed in newspapers, and on television, I'd never actually worked with the new visual-link helmet that the SEAL community now owned. As Lab Rat switched on the monitors, I sat quiet and stunned.

Sykes had shown me the headset. It looked more like a helmet built out of steel than anything else. Mounted along his left temple was a very tiny pinpoint camera. The usual whisper communications giving satellite voice comms with units in the field had been improved to allow for an open-mike capability. Now, Brandon could leave it turned on and transmit everything he heard straight to me. He also had a control switch to prevent me from transmitting, so that he could be certain that no questions from higher authority would echo while he was in the field and give him away. I didn't intend to put him in danger that way.

We'd agreed that Brandon would not activate his headset until after the helicopter drop and when they were safely en route to the beach. Lab Rat had been keeping track of the time, and woke me from a quick nap when they were under way.

At first, all I could see on the monitor was black. Vague shapes and forms, shifting shadows, but that was it.

Then Sykes turned his head. I could see the other SEALs in the boat, a little bit fuzzy, but their faces clearly discernible. They were communicating in hand signals, even this far out from the shore. A good habit to be in when you're making a quick foray into enemy territory.

The small boat engine was a muffled puttering sound in the background, hardly even audible over the link. The silenced engine also cooled the exhaust, another small innovation courtesy of Stealth technology, so the boat itself produced no discernible heat signature. The men inside it were another matter ― even clad in wet suits, I knew they would soon be radiating visible signatures.

"Any sign they've been detected?" I asked Lab Rat.

He shook his head. "I just checked the TAO, and there's no indication of any unusual activity ashore. Not there, or on our other assets," he said, glancing back at the array of sophisticated electromagnetic listening equipment that terminated here. "Not a peep."

"Let's hope it stays that way." Watching the boat move in to the shore quickly became boring, unless you kept in mind what they were actually doing. It was like watching OJ drive down the freeway at thirty miles an hour in a white Bronco ― meaningless, unless you knew the context.

Brandon was looking forward now, and I could see the shore looming into view. It was a dark smudge against the blacker sky. It was slightly overcast tonight, with a new moon. That had been the deciding factor in the decision to go in at night, I suspected.

The boat ground onto the shore with a soft, sibilant sound. I caught glimpses of their activities as Brandon supervised the disembarking, and hiding the RHIBs in nearby cover. He left one man on guard, and the rest of them set out for the airfield.

"Is something wrong with the sound?" I asked Lab Rat.

He checked his instruments, then shook his head. "No. Why?"

"No reason." I wasn't about to explain that the SEALs were moving so silently through the dense jungle that I thought we had an equipment failure. I didn't want that getting back to Sykes, even as a backhanded compliment.

It took them an hour and a half to make it to the perimeter of the airfield and base. Once there, Brandon sat motionless for at least twenty minutes. I tapped my fingers impatiently, waiting for something to happen, then realized that it probably was. As the leader of the team, Brandon was hanging back and coordinating.

Then he moved, so silently and slowly that at first I missed it. It was a slow, careful slither through the underbrush, and from what I could see, not a branch around him moved. Without the pictures, I never would have believed just how invisible a SEAL can be in deep cover.

Then I saw what had attracted his attention. A two-man patrol, their voices now reaching the microphone at his lips. He'd heard them well before I had, and had moved into position. But for what?

I got my answer shortly. Brandon raised one hand and positioned it in front of the camera. There was a long, pale strip in his hand. It loomed at me now, filling the screen, wiggled, then held still.

"What the-?" I turned to Lab Rat. "We've lost the picture?"

"It was a stupid comment. Lab Rat didn't say anything, just stared at me.

Then I understood. Maybe Brandon had briefed him, but probably Lab Rat had just figured it out himself. There was something going on on the ground that Brandon didn't want me to see. Whether because he was protecting me or his men, it was important to him that my silent, watchful presence at the scene be eliminated.

Then the sound went dead. For about five seconds I was completely cut off from the SEAL team. Then I saw Brandon's hand appear, ripping away the covering over his camera, and I heard the small night noises of the jungle. I caught another glimpse of the thing that had obscured my vision earlier.

"A Band-Aid?" I asked. "Do they carry them all the time for just that purpose?"

Still, Lab Rat was silent.

And the guards were nowhere in sight.

Just exactly what had he done? Shot them? He must have, because there had not been time for him to approach them on foot and eliminate them. And I was certain that that was exactly what had occurred.

"He can't-" I began.

For the first time in our relationship, Lab Rat cut me off.

"You sent him in to do a job, Admiral. He let you come along for part of the ride, but only as long as it didn't interfere with his capabilities. Do you really want to see what just happened? Do you want to know and be forced into some action? Or will you settle for having things just the way they would have been before this newest toy?"

"Damn it, I'm responsible!" I stood and started pacing again, angry at more than just Brandon Sykes.

"Of course you are," Lab Rat said. "But do you really want to know what just happened?"

I considered the matter for a moment, cooling off as I did so. The truth ― no, I didn't want to know. No more than I wanted a bird's-eye view of the men and women who died following our bombing run, the tiny sparkles of flame that spurted briefly across the J-TARPS screen, then collapsed.

"They're in," I said, and took my seat again.

Indeed they were. What I at first took for shadows on the ground were two SEALS, now edging closer to the back end of the revetments. This thing was massive, extending back into the jungle and shaded by the trees. Each could have easily held thirty or forty aircraft, though why they would have concentrated all their assets in one area was a mystery to me.

They crept around the side of the revetments still in Brandon's view, barely discernible moving shapes against the night. They moved out of his field of vision, and I heard Brandon's breathing pick up speed. Had the microphone been any more sensitive, I was certain I would have heard his heart pounding away as well.

It was over fast, so fast. Five minutes later, they were creeping back out as carefully as they'd gone in. They joined on Brandon, then the three of them moved out, picking up the other two along the way. They moved more quickly through the underbrush now, it seemed to me.

I had just started to breathe again, when all hell broke loose. A loud, wailing siren went off and the jungle behind the SEALs lit up like daylight. Someone had evidently discovered the two missing guards on patrol, and the response was fast and deadly.

I couldn't see them yet, because Brandon was concentrating on his own path, but I could hear the screams and commands being shouted out behind him. All five men had abandoned their complete stealth mode for a quiet but much speedier exit from the area.

What had taken them an hour to cover quietly, they did in less than ten minutes hauling ass. Before any effective patrols had been sent out after them, they were back at the boats and hauling them out, and were already en route to the ship when the first patrols appeared on the beach. All I could see was the rubberized side of an RHIB ― Brandon was evidently crouched down low in the boat, making as small a target as possible for the spatter of gunfire now splatting in the water around the RHIB. There was a heavy, consistent thud-thud-thud ― the bow of the RHIB slamming down against the waves as it hauled ass back out into deeper water.

"The helo is airborne, sir," Lab Rat reminded me. "All he has to do is make it to the five-mile point ― then the helo will rope them up and have them back on deck before the Vietnamese know what happened."

We'd established five miles as the safe point to keep the helo well out of the range of Stinger missiles as well as any other shoulder-portable weapons the Vietnamese might carry. The helo was going in low to avoid search radars, running a mere ten or fifteen feet over the tops of the waves to the intercept point.

"Shit!" I heard one of the electronic warfare technicians say. "Not now, damn it!"

Lab Rat turned and surveyed the numbers flickering by on the Signal Intercept equipment. Whatever he saw drained the blood out of his face.

"SAM sites, sir," he said, his voice low and level. "They're lighting up all over the coast."

"Have they got the helo?"

"No indication yet. They're still in search mode, but they're definitely alerted. He's going to have to fly low level all the way back."

Lab Rat knew what that meant just as well as I did. At night, without much ambient light, low-level-over-water operations were particularly dangerous.

But not as dangerous as being in a RHIB with people shooting at you.

"How much longer?" I asked.

"Another two miles," Lab Rat answered. "The helo's got a visual on them ― says they're doing well, evading all the fire. No indication there's been any casualties."

Those two minutes were some of the longest I've sat through, made particularly painful by the fact there was nothing I could do to help these men. Time has a way of stretching out when you're under fire, when seconds become minutes and minutes eternities. Your nervous system is so flooded with adrenaline that you're thinking faster, moving more quickly than you ever have before in your life. Survival depends on making the right decision, and making it seconds before you have to.

But at least you have some control over your own destiny. If you're just a little bit faster, a little bit smarter, or a little tougher, you know you'll make it out. And if you've got the right stuff to be a fighter pilot, you're all those things and more.

But it's entirely different watching someone else go through the same thing, unable to help or hurt them.

Brandon was talking now, his words faint over the roar of the engine and the slap of the sea against the rubber-bottomed boat. "Admiral, if you can hear me, I think we may need to move up that schedule a little bit. The devices are in place and set to go off right before the strike is on top, but I think you need to move a little quicker. They're alerted now, sir. They're gonna be searching the revetment, and they might find our little presents. Suggest you command-detonate now, get the strike airborne as fast as you can, and play the cards as they lay. We're almost home ― the helos just blinked their lights at us, and I'm turning toward her."

I turned to Lab Rat. "You bet the cards?"

He nodded. "Do it now."

One corner of the CVIC's space was occupied by a signal generator linked to a high-frequency transmitter. It had a dedicated antenna on deck right now, hard-wired for just this purpose.

I watched Lab Rat as he set the signal generator to the appropriate sequence, then thumbed the switch on. We heard nothing. At least not inside CVIC.

From Brandon Sykes's microphone, I heard a small, muffled thud. Then a scream of exultation by the SEAL. Sheer joy, followed by a hurried commentary. "Good work, guys! Hell of a light show out here. Man, did it ever go boom." The sheer, reverent wonder in his voice at the size of the explosion was gleeful.

Lab Rat handed me a microphone. He pointed at a red light on top of the SEAL receiving gear. It blinked green. "Want to congratulate them yourself?" Lab Rat asked.

I cleared my throat, then picked up the mike. "Good work, men. Now get your asses back here."

With the helo airborne, we were already at flight quarters, but now the hard rolling thunder of a Tomcat engine spooling up rattled the 03 level. Strike was one step ahead of me, as usual.

The first launch took place five minutes later, just as Brandon Sykes's headset camera swung around in a gut-wrenching panorama, briefly inverted, and then steadied on the helicopter above him. He'd just hooked the rope they were dangling to hoist him and the other SEALs up into the helo. The camera steadied on the inside of the helicopter, then turned to the open hatch on the side of it. Brandon was staring down at the water, and I saw a dull flash of light, followed by a geyser of water. He'd just blown the RHIBs.

"Admiral, we're launching the first wave." Strike's voice over the bitch box was spooled up. "J-TARPS mounted on one Hornet and two Tomcats, Admiral."

I motioned to Lab Rat. "Go ahead and switch the picture ― I think we're done with the SEALS."

How quickly we'd become accustomed to new technology, capabilities that would have seemed sheer magic just ten years before. The J-TARPS display had awed me just the day before, and now I was casually directing my Intelligence Officer to display an air battle and strike for me real time.

Lab Rat quickly complied. "They've got MiGs in the air," he warned as he glanced at another piece of gear. "Launch indications now."

"It figures." The catapult was thumping steadily now, shooting off another one of my aircraft every twenty-two seconds. Twelve aircraft airborne so far, one of which had to be a tanker. We'd agreed that the SEAL helicopter would serve temporary duty as SAR bird during launch while we shot everything we had off the deck. After the bomb-laden fighters were airborne, we'd launch another SAR helo and bring the SEALs back on deck.

The first J-TARPS was mounted under Hornet 301. "Who's flying?" I asked.

"Thor Hammersmith. You remember him," Lab Rat answered.

Indeed I did. Thor was a Marine's Marine, an infantryman on temporary assigned duty in the cockpit, as they called it. Every Marine underwent basic indoctrination in ground combat and infantry tactics, a fact that made Marine Close Air Support ― CAS ― a deadly potent capability. Marines wouldn't leave Marines, they were fond of reminding us.

The other two cameras were mounted on Tomcats configured for bombing runs ― bombcats, we called them. Once Thor got within killing range of the MiGs, however, I barely even glanced at the other two monitors.

I was raised on Tomcats, the biggest, meanest fighter in the fleet. Sure, I knew the Hornets were more maneuverable, had even seen them in action myself. But watching it from another aircraft or from the flight deck, or even on a radar scope, is nothing compared to the picture you get when you're slung onto the undercarriage of one.

The Hornet darted and whirled, playing an intricate game of cat and mouse with its MiG opponent. It was a different fight from the kind I was used to, given that they were both angles fighters. They were equally matched in thrust to wing area, giving them similar performance characteristics. The battle was not the harrowing series of power climbs and scrabbles for altitude that I was used to, but rather a close-in, parry-and-dart knife fight. Thor was closer to a MiG than I'd ever been in my life ― and closer than I ever want to be. But the movement of his aircraft was swift and sure. There was no hesitation or sudden changes of angle on the MiG that would lead me to believe he'd miscalculated or changed his mind. The Marine was a deadly fighter in his aircraft, a lethal capability that took on a whole new meaning as I watched the battle progress.

Thor's Hornet was loaded with Sidewinders and Sparrows, along with a full charge of rounds in his nose cannon. He used the Sparrow first against the incoming MiG, forcing it into a defensive position. The MiG pilot was good, but not that good. Thor had harried him into a mistake with the Sparrow, then slipped neatly into a perfect firing position behind him. Fox three, and then the MiG was a smoking fiery hole in the dark night.

Now what? Thor was down to one Sparrow and two Sidewinders.

Listening to the air battle over tactical as well as watching it through the three-camera displays was more comfortable now, the second time through. I heard the cry for help, saw Thor's Hornet bank hard to the right, the stars wheeling crazily across the camera screen through the broken cloud cover. The MiG appeared center-line, and I waited for Thor to launch one of his remaining missiles.

What the- Thor wasn't launching. I had a sinking, foreboding feeling that I knew just exactly what he was planning.

His Sparrow-Sidewinder tactic was clearly a favorite. He was planning on saving all the remaining missiles for a second shot of his own, but still needed to shake this MiG off his buddy's butt. I groaned out loud. "No, Thor, don't do it ― don't do it."

But he did. With the MiG preoccupied with jockeying into firing position on another Hornet, Thor swooped in from above like an avenging angel. There was no sound, but I saw the staccato stream of tracer fire arc out ahead of me and stitch a line across the MiG's fuselage. The Hornet it was following broke hard left, on Thor's command, and Thor pulled up and hard to the right. The J-TARPS camera caught the first microseconds of the fireball that had once been a MiG.

I slammed my hand down on the table. "Damn it, that glory-hogging-" I stopped abruptly, and reconsidered my analysis.

Sure, I was an admiral and in command of this entire battle group. I'd even flown Hornets, had qualified on them, as it was necessary to do before assuming command of this battle group. It was part of the long, tortuous process of taking this job, one that included far too long at the nuclear-propulsion training command in Idaho, command of an aircraft carrier, then requalifying on every aircraft that landed on the deck of a carrier. Hell, I even had my time in helos.

But despite my experience and the genuine qualifications I had for wrestling a Hornet down onto the deck, I wasn't a Hornet pilot. Nor was I a Marine. Thor knew far better than I the capabilities and tactics that worked with his aircraft one-on-one against a MiG. If I wanted to go along for the ride, I damned well better shut up and just watch.

I wondered how many admirals after me would experience this same temptation that technology now provided us, this yearning to try to coach the pilots through each air-to-air engagement. I'd almost made a fatal mistake, giving orders to Thor while he was in the air. I hoped the guy ― or woman, eventually ― that followed me would do better than I had.

Thor broke off with a dizzying series of barrel rolls that swapped open sky every other second. Then the camera steadied down, surveying the clear sky dotted with aircraft. It swung back and forth slowly as Thor assessed the current state of the battle and selected his next target. Then it steadied down again, rock hard, on a single MiG diving into the engagement from on high.

The shape grew larger quickly now as Thor kicked in the afterburner. Soon the MiG filled the camera screen, the sleek, deadly aircraft jetting gouts of its own afterburner fire out the tailpipes. The camera bobbled unsteadily as Thor hit the jet wash. He was too far away for guns and too close for Sidewinders. I could tell what he was thinking now ― trying to decide whether he should pull back and let loose the Sparrow, or simply press on in with the guns. In the end, he made the same decision I would have, pitched up in a hard, gray-out-inducing climb, then pivoted back down into position.

Not that the MiG was waiting for him. He'd cut, rolled, and gone into a long climbing loop intended to place him in position on Thor. The two craft passed each other belly-to-belly on opposite ends of the altitude-airspeed curve. Thor rolled out of the turn, converting his downward movement into a sharp, breaking curve to the right. The MiG rolled out of his climb and dove to meet him.

I groaned out loud watching it, seeing the inevitable fighter geometry take shape. The MiG was behind Thor now, closing rapidly and maneuvering so that the bright heat of Thor's tailpipes would serve as a perfect missile synch.

Thor sensed the same thing, because he broke hard in a roll, cutting inside the MiG's arc of turn and jockeying back into position himself.

That was the essential difference between a Hornet-on-MiG engagement and a Tomcat-on-MiG engagement. In the first, the battle tended to take place in a vertical plane since the aircraft were evenly matching power and agility. With the Tomcat, you use your greater power to gain a height advantage, keeping the MiG from cutting inside your turns as Thor had just done.

The MiG pitched nose-down and headed for the deck. It was a last-ditch maneuver, one designed to shake the hard lock of a Sidewinder on its tailpipes.

Thor was too quick for it. I saw first one Sidewinder, then the other leap off his wings and streak unerringly for the MiG.

The camera caught just the upper edge of the explosion, black and oily as it billowed burning fuel, shards of metal, and a few traces of the pilot into the serene sky.

So Thor was Winchestered now ― no, wait. He still had one Sparrow left. Would he go for it, without the potent Sidewinders as a close-in backup? He probably had some rounds left in his cannon too. I recalled the delicate way the rounds had traced their path across the hull of the MiG, and knew he hadn't shot his load on that.

Of course he'd find another one. No pilot comes back with weapons ― that's an unspoken rule.

The camera was back in that general to-and-fro hunting motion, a good retriever sniffing the air looking for prey. It took a little longer this time, but Thor picked out another one, one widely separated from the rest of the gaggle. A nasty, black cloud and the frantic cries over tactical told me why. The MiG had just nailed a Hornet and was rejoining the fray itself.

They were nose-to-nose now, each accelerating to well over Mach one. The closure rate was well over twelve hundred nautical miles per minute, increasing every second as the two aircraft accelerated. A game of chicken, one fought at seventeen thousand feet instead of on some dusty country road, but no less deadly.

Thor had the Sparrow selected, and I imagined he was hearing the high, wavering growl of the missile as it tried to obtain a lock. He was just inside the weapon's envelope, it appeared, judging from the appearance of the MiG. My mind automatically convened what I was seeing on the camera into distance.

A bright flash of light, then another missile off the wing, Thor's last.

"Break off," I said out loud. "C'mon, Thor ― you shot your load, get your ass back to the ship."

Lab Rat looked at me curiously, but said nothing. We both knew what the score was. A Hornet without weapons was simply a target waiting to happen.

But the camera stayed rock steady on the approaching MiG, tracking the missile as it bore in on him.

The MiG blinked. At what seemed the last possible second, it cut hard to the right, intending to break the radar lock and allowing the missile no time or distance to reacquire. It was a good move, one that should have worked. It almost did.

The Sparrow clipped the MiG on the canted tail structure, knocking off one portion of it. It was happening so quickly. All I saw was the thin, triangular shape tumbling away from the aircraft, then the fragments of missile pelting the air behind the MiG.

For a moment, I thought the MiG might make it. They were incredibly airworthy little beasts, and it was just possible that the pilot might be able to pull off a controlled descent, at least one long enough to give him a chance to eject.

But Thor had other plans. He was on him now, stitching the canopy and fuselage with the rapid-fire Vulcan cannon. I saw the MiG canopy shatter, bright shards of it reflecting in the hard sunlight.

The ejection seat fired. It must have been the pilot's last conscious act before the bullets penetrated the canopy and hit him. It slammed out of the aircraft at a forty-five-degree angle to the fuselage, hung in the air for a moment, and then the parachute deployed. By some miracle, the bullets hadn't shredded the ejection seat. It worked, just as its Russian designers had intended. But the pilot hung lifeless and inert below it. He and his aircraft both headed for the sea, one in a deadly flat spiral and the other drifting down gently.

"Now, Thor." I reached for the microphone. This time I would act, order the brash Marine back to the carrier rather than let him take on another MiG with his guns alone.

Evidently Thor had the same idea. The camera swung away from the battle, found the horizon, then hunted for a moment before settling on the massive shape of Jefferson.

"Admiral, look." I turned to see Lab Rat pointing at the large-screen tactical display. "It's Hunter 701 ― he's got a visual."

The NTDS ― Navy Tactical Data Display ― symbol made it clear just what Lab Rat was talking about. A submarine, classified as hostile by the S3 Viking orbiting above it. I could see the symbol for the aircraft almost superimposed on top of the hostile submarine mark.

"Well, it's about time," I said heavily. "They've got them, don't they? Why wouldn't they use them?"

"I'm putting up the ASW CRC ― the Anti-Submarine Coordination and Reporting Circuit." Lab Rat fiddled with the speakers and the dial-up box next to it. It crackled, then came to life in the middle of a sentence. "certain it's a Romeo," I heard a voice say. A familiar voice ― I strained to put a name to it.

Lab Rat saw my Questioning look and said, "Commander Steve 'Rabies' Grills, another Jefferson homesteader."

I nodded, calling up a face to match the voice. Rabies had been a regular mainstay of our ASW evolutions for the past several cruises. He was a lusty Texan, I recalled, one who drove his flight crews to sheer desperation by singing country-western songs on the ICS during their long hours on station. Another strong player, in his way just as good as Bird Dog or Thor.

"He's still holding it?" I asked.

Lab Rat nodded. "And from the looks of it, he's got so many sonobuoys in the water around it that we'll be able to track it just by the noise alone," he added. He tapped a few keys and the sonobuoy lines popped into being, a regularly spaced line of listening devices that would keep track of the submarine if it decided to pull the plug and go sinker.

"What's he doing on the surface anyway?" I asked.

"Maybe he's got those anti-air weapons on board," Lab Rat suggested.

A nasty prospect, but one that we had to consider. The new generations of submarines all had them, a small surface-to-air missile that could be extruded through an extension to the conning tower and fired at aircraft overhead. It was particularly effective against the smaller and less maneuverable helicopters, but I'd known one or two to take a shot at fixed-wing aircraft, as well. If anything, it would keep the S3 crew on guard. Rabies had personal experience with the weapons system, and I knew he wasn't eager for another encounter.

"I guess Rabies doesn't think so," Lab Rat said. "His altitude is three hundred feet."

"If he sees anything-" I began, and then broke off. Of course he'd be watching, and of course he'd get the hell out of the area if he saw anything suspicious unfolding from the conning tower. Like a missile launcher.

Lab Rat spoke up. "I haven't heard anything about them being back-fitted on the older submarines, and I'm not sure they have the power supply for it. Or the guidance systems." He looked thoughtful. Then he continued. "But I suppose it's possible. As miniaturized as some of these circuits are these days, the space wouldn't be a problem. It would just be a matter of tacking the missile assembly onto-"

"How far from the carrier?" I asked, interrupting his train of intelligence speculation and theorizing. All very interesting, but what mattered to me was whether or not the submarine was in a position to do damage to one of my ships.

"Well out of range, Admiral," Lab Rat assured me. "Almost twenty miles."

"Not to say he couldn't close that distance eventually," I said.

"Well, now that we know she's there, we can take some precautions."

The appearance of a submarine in our area worried me. Worried, hell ― it scared the shit out of me.

There's something particularly terrifying about submarines, at least to an aircraft carrier. For sailors everywhere, ships are more than just weapons platforms or floating airports. A ship is the one little space in the world that's home, at least for months at a time. It's where your stereo lives, your spare set of civilian clothes so you can go on liberty, and those few precious possessions that you can cram into the small lockers and staterooms assigned to you. In short, it's home.

Ever since their earliest days, submarines have been weapons of terror. Until the last couple of decades, we'd had no way of knowing where they were, no way of tracking them with any degree of certainty, other than by saturating the air around the ships and hoping the submarines came up to snorkel. But with the advent of the nuclear-powered submarine, snorkeling had become unnecessary. Besides that, the age of Hyman Rickover and the nuclear submarine had upped the tactical stakes in two ways. First, the nuclear submarines were fast as hell underwater, while their diesel brethren were limited to either slow speed or being submerged for a short time. Second, the weapons were far more deadly. Without even getting into the devastation that one ballistic-missile submarine can wreak, the nuclear-tipped torpedoes alone could crack the keel of any ship. Even a big ship like a carrier.

Submarines just seemed so damn sneaky. They were undetectable, slipping silently beneath the water. It seemed so fundamentally a terrorist act to deploy them. At least, that's how the British had classified it in several world wars. I was inclined to agree with them. And now that they could shoot at aircraft too, with these extruding missile launchers mounted in the sail, there was even more to worry about.

I was hoping our couple of bombing runs, along with some political pressure, might bring the Vietnamese to the bargaining table. It's not like we were out to invade them. All we wanted to know was whether or not they had a nuclear-weapons manufacturing plant, and if so, who they were selling the weapons to. Moreover, we wanted them to stop. Now.

Two major strikes against their airfield ought to get their attention, at least. I knew other things were going on as well, behind the scenes. Diplomatic conferences, exchanges of pointed remarks between envoys, and our own Ambassador Sarah Wexler was raising holy hell in the United Nations about nuclear proliferation, the unprovoked strike attack against our aircraft, and just about anything else that could be force-fed to her by her staff. Don't get me wrong, Ambassador Wexler is a hell of a lady. She's maybe Tomboy's size, a little on the slight side, but chunkier, older, if you know what I mean.

In the last several years, I'd seen her take on the Chinese toe-to-toe, and after that the Cubans. The way she'd thrashed them up one side of the table and down the other, I'd almost pitied them. She would have made a hell of a fighter pilot.

But so far, Ambassador Wexler wasn't getting too far. The Vietnamese kept pulling out of conferences in a huff, insisting we were the aggressors, that we'd conducted unprovoked bombing attacks against a hospital facility and a children's camp.

Yeah, right. Even Vietnamese children don't get SAM sites for recess breaks. The claims of the Vietnamese were so far from the truth as to be absolute lies, although of course Ambassador Wexler wasn't calling them that. She knew how to play tough, yet still give them some room to save face, and sometimes I thought my job on the carrier might be a hell of a lot easier than hers. We've got a saying ― kill them all and let God sort them out. Ambassador Wexler didn't have that luxury.

In addition to dealing with the Vietnamese delegation, she also had to soothe the worries of myriad other nations that felt threatened or beleaguered because of the conflict. Laos, Cambodia, even Japan ― all were in an uproar, desperately trying to decide which side of the fence to sit on.

Add to the mix the silent, ominous presence of China. They figured prominently in every conflict in that area, and I had no doubt that they had some delicate, hidden hand to play in this. Maybe they were the primary customers of the alleged nuclear plant, although I couldn't see how they'd need it. Or maybe this had something to do with trade, expanding China's backyard into a solid phalanx of political support against the United States. God knows they'd been flexing their muscles ever since they took over Hong Kong, becoming increasingly belligerent about everything from the Spratly Islands to the importation of rice into Japan.

Despite all the factors warring against it, eventually the overtures came. Not to me at first, although they eventually trickled down to my level. Instead, underlings at both State and the United Nations started agreeing with their Vietnamese counterparts that there should at least be a conference ― a discussion, if you will ― to sort out conflicting interests in the area. No mention was made of the attack on Jefferson, nor of the pilots and aircraft I'd lost.

For their part, the Vietnamese refrained from blustering about the air strikes. Diplomatic notes were exchanged, arrangements were made. Finally, the beginning of a consensus.

What it all boiled down to was that Jefferson was going to play host to a group of U.S. and Vietnamese officials. They'd argued for two days about whether the conference would take place inside or outside Vietnamese territorial waters, finally settling on giving me rudder orders to delicately patrol the exact twelve-mile limit off the coast. Thank God for the global positioning system ― GPS. It's the only way to get an accurate enough position to make mat sort of political statement.

When things start moving, they move fast. The delegations would be arriving soon, alternating Vietnamese and American flights out to Jefferson, the pecking order and time of arrival carefully calculated to slight the least number of feelings.

I'd pointed out that receiving a peace delegation on board in the middle of bombing the crap out of their country was a bit inconsistent, to say the least. But State and Defense hardly ever talk, and neither one was backing down from their respective schedules. Maybe they had thought it out and figured they were sending some sort of message.

An aircraft carrier is big, but not so big that you can absorb forty people, all of whom rate high-status quarters, without displacing some permanent residents. We did a quick shuffle, bunking senior officers in with each other, and finally had enough staterooms.

The first aircraft arrived at 1700, a CH46 ferrying out from Vietnam to Jefferson, containing a contingent of U.S. representatives on board. They were mostly underlings, advance men who immediately tried to take command of the ship and rearrange my world to their liking.

It didn't work. I held them off, waiting for the arrival of the heavy hitters.

Finally, they came. First a load of Vietnamese underlings, then the U.S. helo carrying Ambassador Sarah Wexler. I watched the entire evolution from the tower, hoping and praying to God that some dumb fuck wouldn't pick this very moment to do something stupid. Not in front of all these people.

Ambassador Wexler's helicopter settled down onto the deck gracefully, and the plane captains raced out to help secure the aircraft and to escort its esteemed cargo across the flight deck. I watched, my stomach knotted, certain that some young plane captain would choose just this moment in time to try to move an F14 or turn an engine and suck the ambassador right down the intake.

Minutes later, the Vietnamese VIP helicopter signaled its approach. Its pilot came in gracefully, settling neatly on the deck as though he did it every day of his life. I was somewhat impressed, although the deck of an aircraft carrier is not that tough a target. Still, it does take some getting used to, hovering and sinking down over a moving airfield.

The Vietnamese senior VIP disembarked from the helicopter last, as befitted his status. The plane captains lined up on either side escorted him to the island, where he was greeted by the same side boys that had just welcomed Ambassador Wexler. The 1MC announcement went off smoothly.

So far, so good. Everybody on deck, nobody ingested by an aircraft engine. That had to count for something.

I raced back down the ladder and made it to the wardroom just as Ambassador Wexler and her counterpart were being escorted in. They'd already been relieved of their cranials, helmets that they'd worn during their flights, as well as their flotation devices.

Ambassador Wexler was much as I remembered her, a short, full-figured tiger of a woman who looked deceptively gentle and calm. She tendered me her hand, offered a warm smile, and said, "Thank you for having us, Admiral Wayne."

"Glad to have you aboard, Madam Ambassador," I replied politely. Yeah, like I'd had a choice.

Then I turned to her Vietnamese counterpart. "And you, sir, welcome aboard USS Jefferson. If there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, I do hope you or your staff will contact me personally at your earliest convenience."

The man studied me, his eyes dark and cold. No trace of warmth in his expression, I noted.

Not that I blamed him. He was looking at the son of a bitch who'd just bombed the hell out of his airfield and probably killed a lot of his men. Under the same circumstances, I'm sure I wouldn't have been much more pleasant.

He finally inclined his head, ever so slightly, the minimum sketch of courtesy required in his culture. I bowed slightly, more deeply than he had, determined not to let any inadvertent cultural faux pas muddy up the already turbulent waters of this conference.

"My Chief of Staff," I said to the man, introducing Irwin to both the Vietnamese and Ambassador Wexler.

Then I fell silent. The man's game was getting on my nerves a little bit. The message we'd received from State only gave us the number and approximate ranks of the Vietnamese visitors who would be arriving, not all of their names.

Not this man's name.

"May I notify my superiors of your safe arrival?" I asked finally. "if I could let them know, sir, that Ambassador…" I let my voice trail off delicately, waiting for him to fill in the missing name. Seems I had learned something in my D.C. tours after all.

"Than. Bien Than," he said finally.

"Admiral," the Chief of Staff said quietly. "If I could have your attention for a moment?"

I nodded, made my excuses, and stepped away from the dignitaries. "Jesus, what is it, COS?" I asked. "I'm a little busy right now, buddy."

COS nodded. "I wouldn't have interrupted you, not if it weren't important."

I let out a huge sigh. "Yeah, I know. So what is it?"

He pointed at the overhead. "Another Vietnamese helicopter inbound, Admiral. They say it's been cleared by State."

"Another one?" I hissed. "Jesus, I thought we got them all-"

"We did, Admiral," COS answered, taking a chance on interrupting me. "But I just talked to my liaison on State's staff, and they evidently overlooked mentioning this one in their last message. It belongs to the Vietnamese, though. And they want the people on board."

I tamped down my temper, and considered my options. Well, it didn't take long. There weren't any.

"Have the Air Boss get 'em on board then," I said, sighing. "Find out who they are ― damn it, we're going to have to rearrange the sleeping arrangements again, aren't we?"

COS nodded. "I'll take care of everything, Admiral. Just wanted to let you know."

COS exited quickly, clearly ahead of me on the details. He was like that, a good man, one who seemed to have developed the uncanny ability to read my mind ― or even read my subconscious, knowing what I wanted before I even knew it myself. He was talking about retirement ― damned if I'd let him go before I did.

I turned back to my guests and made polite small talk as I heard the ship go to Flight Quarters, then the distinctive whop-whop of a large helicopter approaching my deck. I heard it land roughly, its skids scraping across the deck for far longer than they should have for a controlled landing. I held my breath for a moment, praying that some idiot wasn't going to slam his stupid rotary wing into one of my aircraft.

Finally, the skidding stopped, and I heard the engine start to spool down along with the rotors. My heart started beating again.

"So we'll begin at eight tomorrow morning then?" Ambassador Wexler said calmly. "If, of course, that is agreeable to you, Ambassador Than?"

"Perhaps a little earlier," he said smoothly. "Seven-thirty perhaps?" His voice was perfectly understandable, only the barest trace of an accent in it. Educated abroad, I'd guess ― maybe England, judging from an odd emphasis on certain words.

"Seven-thirty then," Ambassador Wexler agreed promptly. She tendered a charming smile, as though the first minor chivying for position had not just been played out right in front of me. "There will, however, be a limited choice of facilities." She waved one hand gracefully as though to take in the whole of Jefferson. "As large as this ship is, space is still at a premium." She smiled even more politely now, dimpling one chin. "Under the circumstances, with so much important to discuss, I'm certain the captain's normal rectangular table will be more than adequate for our needs. Don't you agree?"

And counter-serve. I watched the two bandy back and forth, balancing and trading off the small details of the meeting. Unbelievable that there could be a discussion about tea versus coffee when so many of my aviators were dead.

"Dinner will be served at six-thirty," I said finally, not giving either one of them a chance to table the matter for discussion. "I do hope that you, Ambassador" ― I nodded to Sarah Wexler ― "and you as well," I added, nodding to Than, "will be able to join me in my cabin for a private meal. Your staffs, of course, are welcome to dine with mine here in the Flag Mess."

"What a kind offer," Ambassador Wexler murmured. She cast a sly glance at me. "Of course, if there are matters that you and I must discuss privately, Admiral-"

"I would be pleased to accept as well," Than broke in smoothly. "An opportunity to get better acquainted with Madame Wexler."

"Fine," I said, trying to sound like a hearty and well-intentioned host. In reality, I'd just as soon have slit the little bastard's throat and thrown him overboard, but again ― my options were limited.

Just then there was a clatter at the door leading into the mess. The Chief of Staff stepped in, looking agitated. It's not something I'd often seen from him. "Admiral," he began, and then was interrupted by people crowding into the mess behind him. I took one look at the cameras, the microphones, and the tape recorders now filling my Flag Mess, and started to roar.

Ambassador Wexler saved me. She stepped in front of me, between the Chief of Staff and myself, and said, "A press pool?" She turned back to Than, her face frowning prettily. "There was no discussion of a press pool. Was there?"

Than said nothing. He merely motioned for the rest of the people to come into my Flag Mess.

"Because since there wasn't," Sarah Wexler continued, her voice turning hard and cold, "I think we'd both agree that this would be an unreasonable imposition on Admiral Wayne's resources. These things must be coordinated in advance, you understand. Not simply arranged without consultation."

I recognized those words for what they were ― diplomatese for sneaking around behind someone else's back. Sarah Wexler was pissed, almost as much as I was, but for different reasons. I stepped back and let her handle it.

"Admiral! Admiral Wayne?" A familiar voice, one that cut through my anger to knot my stomach back into a complicated tangle. I felt my heart sink as I realized who it was. The one voice I had never, ever wanted to hear on my carrier again.

Pamela Drake stepped out from the pack of reporters. Her hair was cut short now, a bright, shining brown cap above the delicately featured face. The brilliant green eyes were blazing now, alive with excitement and sheer joy at the frustration she knew she was causing me. She walked forward, nodded politely to Ambassador Wexler and Ambassador Than, then extended her hand. "So nice to see you again, Admiral."

Faced with the choice of being publicly rude or following Sarah Wexler's diplomatic lead, I took her hand gingerly. "It's been quite some time, Ms. Drake," I murmured, hoping that would be sufficiently neutral an expression to avoid offending her.

Pamela's smile broadened. "Oh indeed it has, Admiral," She said softly, "Far too long, I think." She stepped forward, hooked her arm in mine, and led me off to a corner before I could even react. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, "The admiral and I are old friends. We have so very much to catch up on."

"Of course, my dear," Sarah Wexler murmured. She turned back to Than and began to speak the doublespeak of confrontation and innuendo that was her natural language at the United Nations.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded of Pamela. "How did you get out here? Don't tell me you've got them bamboozled like you used to do to Tombstone?"

"Bamboozled? Really, Admiral." A look of annoyance shot across her face. "Tombstone is a big boy ― he makes his own choices." Something in her voice told me that she had not forgotten those choices, not a single one of them.

"Besides, it's a free world," she continued, tossing her head. "If ACN gets me a billet with the Vietnamese news pool, what business is it of yours? I was the perfect choice, you know. After all," she said, her eyes gleaming maliciously, "I spent an awful lot of time on Jefferson. An awful lot."

I groaned inwardly, and cast a glance over at Sarah Wexler, hoping that she was going to be able to work something out with Than about this press deal. The last thing I needed was Pamela Drake on board my ship, the last thing of all. Her very presence had a way of making the most well-planned and smoothly coordinated evolutions disentegrate into a series of sound bites and confrontations, all featuring star reporter Pamela Drake as the winning party. On those rare occasions when she didn't get her way, that portion of the film was simply cut from the story. News at eleven.

"My usual stateroom?" Pamela asked. "As I remember, the last time I was on board, Tombstone had me in there under armed guard. I hope that won't be necessary this time."

I took a deep breath. "Listen, Pamela. I don't know how or where you wangled your way out here, but while you're on my ship, you follow the same rules as everybody else. No poking around in spaces you're not supposed to be in, no going off on your own and quizzing my crew. I'll make photo opportunities available to you, as well as access to some of my sailors ― if you can give me a good reason why I should ― but other than that, you're under the same restrictions as everybody else. Fuck with me on this, Pamela, and I'll have your ass off my boat so fast you won't know what hit you."

A look of outrage was beginning to spread over her face, and I continued before she could start to protest. "Remember, I'm not Tombstone. You might have had him pussy-whipped about some things, or maybe it was just out of respect for your prior relationship. Whatever the reason, he cut you some slack on occasion ― and you abused that trust, Pamela. Don't think I'll forget that."

"I'm here to do a job, Admiral," she said coldly. "That's all."

I looked at her levelly, ashamed that I was enjoying having gotten to her. "So am I, Ms. Drake. So am I."