Enemies

FOUR

Pain was her entire world, all-encompassing and demanding. It ate at the edges of her consciousness, blocking out everything beyond shattered nerve endings and damaged flesh. Time ceased to exist except as a continuum of the agony pounding in her body.

She heard words, could not make them out. One small portion of her brain insisted that she pay attention, that this was very important. She dismissed the thought, too consumed by the agony ripping through her. Nothing mattered but the pain.

But gradually, she became accustomed to it. Pain became a part of her, and faded, if not to the background, at least to a level that might — just might — be endurable

Now she could hear the words, the individual sounds. Someone touched her shoulder lightly, and she groaned.

“The morphine, it is working now?” the voice spoke English, although with a heavy accent running through it. She catalogued it immediately — Greek, probably from the northern area. It was not a conscious analysis, this instantaneous compulsion to peg accents and voices to nationality was just a reflex born of years spent overseas.

“You’re still in pain?” the voice asked. She tried to force an answer out between battered lips but could only manage another groan. There was a light prick on her thigh, barely distinguishable from the rest of the pain, and she felt coolness float up her body. “There. That should help.”

It did. She found she was at least able to open her eyes without screaming. “Yes, I can see it’s helping. It is, isn’t it?” the voice said, the words soothing.

“What…?” She heard the word come out, and was unable to recognize the harsh croak as her own voice. She tried again. “What happened?”

Evidently the man leaning over her was accustomed to listening to injured people try to talk. He nodded reassuringly. “There was an accident with your helicopter. Do you remember?”

She tried to think. Had she been in a helicopter? Lord, she seemed to spend half her life in the air, so it was entirely possible. But a crash? How? And why?

“Your helicopter went down,” the voice continued. “A mechanical malfunction, perhaps. We don’t know what happened.”

“How bad?” she asked, forcing the words out.

The voice was serious, though not unkind. “You are the only survivor.”

Mike. Brett. And the cameraman… she had never even gotten to know his name.

“You’re still in pain,” the voice said.

Pamela squinted, trying to bring his face into focus, but he remained a blur. She moved as though to touch the face and gentle pressure restrained her.

“Do not move,” the voice continued. It bothered her more than she could say that she couldn’t see his face. She made her living judging people by their body language and expressions, the way they looked away when they lied to her, the unflinching stare that was even more damning evidence of falsehoods.

“I can’t see,” she said.

“You’re badly hurt,” the voice said. “Please, do not try to move. We’re taking you to doctors, to the hospital.”

“Who are you?” Her curiosity gnawed at her, competing with the pain. A few details from the crash were starting to come back. They’d been coming back from taking some stock footage of the camp inside Greece where the rebels were supposedly headquartered. It had been an easy flight, no sign of trouble. No one was worried about the trip. As in many international conflicts, the news media seemed to have an unspoken guarantee of safety.

“You must not move,” the voice said, more sharply now. “There may be serious injuries. Please, you cannot — here.” There was another pinch on her thigh, then massive waves of cool blue relief spread throughout her body from that location. She could still feel the pain as a pressure, knew it was there, but it no longer matter. Nothing mattered except the velvet midnight blue darkness that drew her down.

“What…?” She tried to frame a question, but could no longer make her lips move. Nor could she remember exactly what she had wanted to ask. It wasn’t important, anyway. Nothing was.

A flash of strong denial inside of her. No, there were some things that were important. Tombstone Magruder. The face materialized in her mind again, a reassuring source of strength.

Tombstone would come after her, she knew. He always had. He always would. She slipped back down into darkness, comforted by that certainty.

Colonel Takia Xerxes, the commander of the Macedonian insurgents inside Greece, stared down at the still form on the stretcher. He was lean, with wiry muscles corded on a tall frame. His dark hair was clipped short but still curled into tight half-circles over a high forehead burned dark from hours in the sun. Brilliant green eyes peered out from beneath shaggy eyebrows.

“Why did you bring her here?” Xerxes asked. “Don’t you know how many people will be looking for her?”

The medic shrugged. “She was on her way here, wasn’t she?”

“Not to this location. To the other one, the one we let leak as our headquarters. No one is supposed know about this camp — no one except those who have to.”

“She’d been out there for almost two days. Another couple of hours and she would have died,” the medic said. He knelt down by her body, stroked a stray lock of hair back from the battered face. “Is that your idea of good relations with the international press? Letting Pamela Drake die when you could save her?”

Xerxes shook his head impatiently. “No, of course not. But there were other options. If you’d radioed ahead, even asked for instructions, I would have—”

“You would have chewed me out for breaking radio silence,” the pilot chimed in. “Admit it. Besides, as long as she doesn’t know where she is, she can’t tell anyone, can she?”

“It won’t work,” Xerxes snapped back. “During the Cuban crisis, she was taken hostage by the guerrillas there. They held her as a human shield at their missile site. Everyone will think we’re doing the same thing.”

Xerxes sighed. How was he to have known of the range of problems he would have to deal with? It had all been so simple when they started out, a question of national pride and their honor as Macedonians. But the details, ah, the details. The devil was in the details.

They’d made plans for logistic support, chosen their allies carefully. Somehow, they’d managed to assemble a credible fighting force out of the disparate aircraft, weapons, and equipment that they’d been able to beg from other countries.

But when had he had time to decide what to do about a pregnant freedom fighter? Or about conflict between his troops, the need for some form of military discipline in this People’s Army of equals? Or about a SAR mission that brought an international reporter to his secret headquarters inside enemy territory? All these things and more had never even crossed his mind.

It had been so simple, back when it was just a matter of national honor.

“How is she?” Xerxes asked finally. “Do not tell me she’s going to die in my camp.”

“She’s badly hurt,” the medic kneeling beside her said. “I need X rays, access to diagnostic procedures we don’t have in the field here. She needs a hospital.” He looked up at Xerxes, concern evidence in his face.

Xerxes shook his head. “We can’t take the chance. It’s dangerous enough flying the surveillance missions. I can’t risk the men or the equipment to get her into town.”

The medic sighed and looked down. “She might be all right,” he said. “If there are no internal injuries, no bleeding. I can’t tell that now. At the very least, she’s got a concussion, and it could be a lot worse.” He pointed at her right leg. “Broken. I set it.” He pointed at her right shoulder. “Dislocated. And the cuts and bruises are simply too numerous to catalog. But at least she’s hydrated now. It’s a miracle that a pack of wild dogs didn’t find her while she was unconscious.”

“How did she survive?” Xerxes asked. “And more importantly… why?”

“What do you mean, they’re not there?” General Arkady snapped. “Where could they have gone?”

The helicopter crew stood ranged before him in a rough semicircle. Clearly, word of Spiros’s fate had traveled quickly among the ranks of the aviators. These looked to be the juniormost officers and enlisted flight technicians to be found in their squadrons.

Arkady turned to Colonel Zentos. “Do my orders still mean so little?” he asked. He pointed at the men. “Finding this reporter was our top priority. I made it clear, did I not? And yet we send these… men who can’t even locate the downed helicopter in two days. An explanation. Now, if you please.” His tone of voice made clear that this was not a request.

His chief of staff swallowed hard, uneasy. Nor was it the first time since he had joined Arkady’s staff.

Colonel Zentos was a career army man, with all that that implied. He believed in order, discipline, a regulated way of life that made it possible for a nation to deploy its military power on a moment’s notice. The question of Macedonia and Greece was not one that he thought much about. He had his orders — detect, track and destroy Macedonian forces inside Greece, interdict supplies flowing into Macedonia, and maintain air superiority using primarily army assets. This assignment to General Arkady’s staff had been a vote of confidence, and he’d looked forward to serving under the command of the brilliant tactician whose rise through the ranks was virtually legendary. Colonel Zentos was well aware that he was regarded as a strong, methodical officer, the perfect chief of staff. By serving with General Arkady, he’d hoped to expand his reputation as a tactician and planner.

Zentos had thought in the beginning that the rumors about General Arkady’s brutality were simply discontented murmurings from staff officers not accustomed to working for a demanding flag officer. He had dismissed the worst of the accounts as too clearly implausible to possibly be true.

But in the past weeks and months, Zentos had started to experience doubts. With the execution — and there was really nothing else that it could be called, could it? — he’d had his worst fears confirmed. General Arkady might possess an awesome intellect, and might be just the person to control the Macedonian problem, but he was a brutal, atrocious human being.

“I will look into this, General,” Zentos said carefully, all too aware that his own life hung in the balance. Yet he was unwilling to take the coward’s way out and try to shift the blame to the squadron commanding officer, or even to these pilots. The essence of command was the trust and confidence one’s subordinates felt in their commanders, their conviction, however unwarranted by the facts, that the commander knew what was best. “I apologize for wasting your time with this. Give me a chance to get to the bottom of this before I have you briefed.”

Arkady turned his basilisk glare on Zentos. For a moment, the chief of staff expected the worst. He repressed the shudder that ran through his body. The incident with Spiros yesterday… no, it was unthinkable.

But he’s capable of it. You know. You were there.

Zentos had directed the removal of the body and the cleanup of General Arkady’s office afterward. A team of enlisted men had scoured the room for bits of bloody tissue and spots of bodily fluids then almost silently cleaned the wooden floors and walls. Zentos had stood over them the entire time, trying to keep his body between the men and the general, wincing every time one of them made the slightest bit of unavoidable noise. General Arkady had remained at his desk, ostensibly engrossed in wading through paperwork but attentive as a hawk. It was the most profoundly humiliating episode in Zentos’s career thus far.

A court-martial would have been the right thing to do and would have brought the full force of military justice to bear on the foolish pilot. Greece had a long history of democracy, had developed a military culture that rivaled any in the world and extended back to the earliest recorded times. There was much to be proud of, ancient history and traditions to uphold.

Unfortunately, a court-martial would have also revealed the one fact that Arkady did not want made public: that the general himself had ordered the fatal maneuvers, fully conscious of the danger to the helicopter. That was why Spiros had died. Not as punishment for making a critical mistake in the air, but because the pilot had obeyed his orders.

Private executions on the whim of a madman. Am I next? With that thought, as he’d shielded the cleaning crew with his own body, Zentos had turned a corner that not even he fully recognized yet.

Zentos stared at a spot just under Arkady’s chin, carefully avoiding direct eye contact and holding his breath, wondering whether he’d bought them all some time. With any luck, events might distract the general from insisting someone pay for the failure to locate the downed helo.

Finally, Arkady appeared to lose interest in him. He turned away, fixing his glare back on the aviators again. “Find out why these men were assigned to fly this mission. After you do, I wish to see their commanding officer.”

Zentos nodded, relieved for the men arrayed before him, but now facing a growing fear for the captain of the squadron. He was an old friend, one with whom Zentos had served for many years. Would he meet Spiros’s fate in a few hours?

“You heard the general — return to your duty stations at once,” Zentos said harshly, aware that every second they spent in Arkady’s presence increased the danger that he’d change his mind and make another example out of them. He shepherded the men out of Arkady’s office, then closed the door behind them. He turned to face the general alone.

Was there any point in discussing the execution with Arkady? Surely he understood what monstrous misconduct it had been? Could he achieve any real purpose — besides increasing the odds of losing his own life — in offering criticism to the flag officer?

And yet, wasn’t that the role of the chief of staff? To serve as a sounding board for ideas, build the staff into a cohesive unit that the general could take into war? Of all the generals that Zentos had ever served under, he had never met one that did not value a chief of staff willing to speak his mind.

Until now. Is it worth my own life? And perhaps even the life of the RIO that the general has forgotten about. If I even bring the incident up, there is every possibility that he will remember that there were two men in that aircraft, not just one.

“I will fly the next mission myself, General,” he heard himself say. He waited for some comment from Arkady, but the general simply nodded.

Arkady’s window overlooked ancient hillsides, soaked through the centuries in military blood. Battles and campaigns that the entire world now studied had been waged in these hills, not so far from that very location. And even then, the Macedonians and the Greeks had been at odds.

His brother was married to a Macedonian woman, albeit not from the upstart republic itself. The same blood, though, threaded throughout this land. His nieces and nephews were of the ancestry, too. In truth, there was little difference between the two cultures, apart from the names by which they called themselves.

Was it worth it? Lives squandered arguing over which set of ancestors back in the mists of time had created certain forms of pottery, had settled certain islands, had brought forth Alexander the Great. In today’s world, growing smaller through commerce and the Internet, was it right to cling to those ancient claims to glory?

Yes. For without history, a nation had no basis for insisting on taking its place in the world community. Ancient blood ran in his veins, coursed through every inch of his body. Greece had earned its place in the world, and he would do his part to make sure it remained untarnished. And despite his revulsion at Arkady’s conduct as an officer, Zentos knew that Arkady understood that as well. They agreed on the end — just not on the means.

“History is upon us,” Arkady said out loud, breaking the silence in his office. “This question has been left unresolved for too many centuries.” He stood and began pacing. “Not one more year. Not one more month or week. I will settle this matter once and for all.” The general’s voice grew louder as he recited the ancient list of wrongs between Greeks and Macedonians. “They are Greek, can’t they see that? And they will be Greek, will admit it to the world. I will see them dead before they disgrace our blood. Every last one of them.” The general appeared to have forgotten that his chief of staff was still in the room.

His words sent chills down Zentos’s back. Had it come to this? Brother murdering brother, and in the interest of what? Old stories of glory and ancient birthright?

For the first time in his thirty-five years of military service, after campaigns ranging from fighting the British to the Italian incursions, the chief of staff began to wonder whether he had made the right choice in joining the Army.

“You will fly the mission, Colonel.” Arkady turned to glare at him, his eyes refocusing and seeming to stare straight through the colonel. “Find the helicopter, the people onboard. And bring them to me.”

As he left, Zentos felt a profound satisfaction that he’d volunteered. It was foolish, dangerous beyond any threat that the air could offer, but it was the right thing to do. If the consequences for his men were to include execution for an unsuccessful mission, then he could not order them into the air unless he was willing to face Arkady’s justice himself.

If it must happen, let me die in the air. He went to check the flight schedule for the next scheduled mission.

Tombstone could see the aircraft carrier now, a barely discernible pip on the horizon. Not that visual mattered right now, though. It wouldn’t until he was on final approach. Jefferson’s TACAN sang out sweet and clear on his receiver, and he was on an inbound radial under the control of an enlisted operations specialist in the carrier’s Combat Direction Center, or CDC.

The sound of a healthy Tomcat filled the cockpit, reverberating in his bones until he could feel the sound merge with his own heartbeat. Twin turbofans, each capable of generating 20,900 pounds of thrust. Over the years that he’d been flying, the Tomcat had seen continuous upgrades. This bird, the F-14D, was one of the most advanced fighters ever built. Even the older airframes had gotten the upgrade, including a change-out of the engines and avionics. Almost like new — except that eventually metallic stress would win. You could only expect so much from aging metal.

Still, this old gal had a few years left in her. He patted the canopy affectionately, as though she were his favorite dog. How lucky he’d been after Flight Basic to get Tomcats! It was a choice he’d never regretted.

“Three zero four, I hold you at forty miles, bearing one niner two,” a voice said in his ear. “Admiral, you will be vectored in for immediate landing, sir. We have a green deck at this time.”

“Roger.” Tombstone sighed. They had to do it that way, of course. An admiral inbound on the carrier took priority over all the other lowly aviators. He could see the faint glint of sunshine on wings off to the right of the ship, the starboard marshal pattern. Planes in air would be stacked up there, waiting for their shot at the deck. They’d been out flying missions, maybe even on a double cycle, and were probably ready to get back on deck. His arrival would throw the whole sequence out of whack, maybe even forcing some of them to peel out and refuel if the wait got too long. And it wasn’t like someone could save your place in line for you. You’d start over at the top of the stack and have to work your way back down.

“I wouldn’t mind spending some time in a starboard marshal,” Tombstone said out loud, careful not to toggle the transmit switch. “Not one little bit.”

His backseater, Commander Gator Cummings, heard him even over the cockpit noise. He clicked his ICS twice in acknowldgment. “Missing the stick time, sir?”

“You bet, Gator.”

It had been a struggle to get his uncle to carve out a week’s worth of time in Norfolk to allow him to requalify on Tomcats. It had been an abbreviated syllabus, one designed to bring a senior aviator who had been out of the cockpit back up to speed quickly. He knew the RAG personnel hadn’t been happy, would’ve liked to have him for another few weeks, but there simply wasn’t time. In the end, he’d managed to convince them that he was safe to fly after a couple of carrier qualification landings, and insisted that they sign off on his flight quals.

Now, feeling the warm reassuring thrum of the Tomcat around him, he knew it had been the right decision. The aircraft was a part of him, an extension of his own body. The avionics that fed into his and Gator’s displays were extensions of his mind. The movements to control the aircraft were by now so automatic that he barely had to think of them. Instead, he could simply enjoy the flight.

“Tomcat 304, maintain 10,000 feet and continue inbound, sir,” his operations specialist said. Tombstone clicked his mike twice in acknowledgment. He took the Tomcat down in a slow, controlled descent, gradually bleeding off his altitude while increasing his speed slightly.

“Roger, sir, hold you on course, on speed. Continued inbound on this radial. Say state and souls, sir.”

Tombstone glanced down at the fuel indicator. “Six thousand pounds, two souls on board.”

“Roger, sir, copy six thousand pounds and two souls. Commander Cummings, is that correct, sir?”

“That’s correct.” For a moment, Tombstone wondered how Gator had managed to wheedle his way into a free trip to Sigonella to meet him, but decided not to ask.

Gator and Bird Dog had flown in together, and the pilot had been left to find his way back to the ship on a COD. Tombstone tried to feel sorry for the young pilot, but couldn’t. Bird Dog had had his fair share of good deals, including having been paired so often with Gator. By now the two were a well-oiled team, with Gator supplying the raw brain power and Bird Dog the natural reflexes that made them a superb fighting team. Still, it had been Gator who had more than once pulled Bird Dog’s butt out of the fire.

“Tomcat 203, turn right to course 010.” The operation specialist continued on to rattle off the standard speed and descent requirements for an approach on the carrier, concluding with, “Tomcat 203, call the ball.”

It was a request that Tombstone notified the landing signals officer, or LSO, located on ship’s stern when he caught sight of the ball for the first time.

The ball, the common name for the Fresnel lens, was the mainstay of carrier aviation landings. It was a visual indication of the aircraft’s relationship to the proper and safe glide path when approaching the carrier. Too low or too high, and a pilot saw a series of red lights. Right on course, the ball looked green. The LSO would keep an eye on the Tomcat’s approach, checking for proper speed, orientation and attitude, and providing a visual confirmation that the aircraft landing gear was down.

The carrier was growing larger now, a solid, massive postage stamp in ocean ahead. Always, at these times, the deck looked impossibly small. Even after almost thirty years of landing on carriers, Tombstone still found it a miraculous way of landing.

He could see it now, the glint of green and red on the port side of the carrier. He made the call. “Tomcat 203, ball.”

The LSO answered immediately. “Roger, 203. Ball. Looking good, sir. A little high—203, say needles.”

Tombstone glanced down at the needles, crosshairs which indicated his relationship to the glide path. “Needles high and to the right,” he said.

“Roger, sir, fly the needles,” the LSO answered, indicating that Tombstone’s cockpit indicators gibed with his own assessment of the Tomcat’s approach.

Tombstone eased back off the throttle, decreasing his airspeed slightly, letting the Tomcat sink down through the air as gravity overcame his forward speed and lift. It always seemed so slow at this point, a gentle descent down to the deck. At least so far.

Then he hit the bubble, the wake of roiled air immediately astern of the carrier, created by the passage of the massive ship through the atmosphere. The Tomcat bounced around, and he made minor corrections to hold the aircraft on glide path.

“A little high, sir, that’s right. Nose up a little bit more, looking good, looking good, attitude sir, attitude sir, power now, power now, looking good,” the LSO sang as he coached him in through the final stages of the approach.

The deck loomed up at him, massive and spacious this close to it. The stern flashed by under him, and Tombstone slammed the throttles forward to full military power in case he missed the four wires spanning the deck below him. The Tomcat was barely airborne right now, sinking fast and approaching stall speed of 100 knots. Without full military power, he wouldn’t have enough speed to take off the end of the deck if he boltered.

The wheels slammed down hard on the deck, the hydraulic shock absorbers taking most of the force. A controlled crash, that’s what it always felt like. The impact slammed Tombstone forward against his ejection harness straps. The noise inside the cockpit crescendoed as the powerful engines sucked down air, mixed it with fuel, ignited it, and blasted out power.

“Three wire, sir,” the LSO said. “Good trap.” That meant Tombstone’s tail hook mounted on the undercarriage of the Tomcat had caught the third wire from the stern of the ship. The three wire was considered the goal on every landing.

Tombstone kept one hand on the throttles, pouring the power on. Wires had been known to break, and only a fool took power off before he was directed to do so.

A yellow shirt walked out in front him, and made hand signals for decreasing power. Only that moment, when a member of the flight deck crew felt confident enough that the Tomcat was stopped that he was willing to step in front of the powerful aircraft himself, did a pilot risk his own life by easing off on the power.

The yellow shirt moved one extended arm in an arc underneath an outstretched arm, indicating that Tombstone should retract his tail hook. Tombstone did, and felt the Tomcat roll forward slightly, now free of the restraining wire. He taxied past the first yellow shirt, who handed him off to a second one. Tombstone was directed to his spot on the deck, and slid the Tomcat smoothly into his assigned slot. The second yellow shirt was still standing in front, making the signals now for engine shutdown. Tombstone complied, running through the shutdown checklist as he did so.

“Good trap, Admiral,” Gator said. He was already powering down his own equipment and unsnapping his ejection harness after safing the ejection seat itself. “It’s something you never lose, is it?”

Captain Coyote Grant, now commanding officer of USS Jefferson, was standing at the bottom of the boarding ladder, waiting to greet him. Coyote was one of Tombstone’s earliest friends in the F-14 community, just a few years his junior.

Coyote had followed Tombstone and Batman up the ranks, and had taken command of Jefferson just a few months earlier. It had been an easy relief process, since Coyote’s previous assignment had been as Batman’s chief of staff for Carrier Battle Group 14.

“Welcome aboard, Admiral,” Coyote said. “Admiral Wayne’s a bit tied up — he asked me to meet you and invite you down at your earliest convenience.”

Tombstone held out his hand. “Nice to be back, Coyote.” Salutes were never rendered on the flight deck, since headgear other than flight deck cranials was prohibited during flight operations. “We’ll head down to flag spaces now.” As they headed for the hatch that led into the island, Tombstone asked, “So how’s it going?”

Coyote laughed. “Guess you’d be the one to tell me that, sir.”

Inside the skin of the ship, they descended two ladders and ended up on the 0–3 level, the passageway which housed the flight spaces. Tombstone followed Coyote into the admiral’s cabin.

“About time,” Admiral Wayne grumbled. “Figured you’d show up sooner or later, Stony.”

“Never pass up the chance at some stick time,” Tombstone answered. Batman grunted an acknowledgment.

“So what’s all this about, Tombstone?” Coyote asked, discarding the formalities now that they were in private. “All I know is I get a message telling me you’re flying out en route an assignment in Greece. Might you tell me what’s up?”

This was an old friend, one Tombstone trusted, so he gave him the full story. Everything — the details about his trip to Vietnam and Russia, the subsequent displeasure of naval leadership with his activities. He concluded by saying, “So be careful where you drop bombs, Coyote. I almost got taken out by my own former squadron.”

“It’s that serious, then?” Batman asked, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve seen the messages, of course. And there are always contingency plans. But now you’re talking about bombing runs… where? And how soon? I need to get my people started on this.”

“I don’t know yet,” Tombstone said. “But it looks like the UN is coming down solidly on Greece’s side. At least if you read between the lines. They’re going to try for peaceful settlement, of course.” He spread his hands, indicating the futility of that. “You know how likely that is to work.”

Coyote nodded. “Indeed, I do. So what can you tell us?”

Tombstone shifted slightly in his seat, uncomfortable with having so few answers. “For now, it’s a question of what you can tell me. How is Jefferson? How ready are you? And if you’re not one hundred percent, what do you need to get there?”

Coyote frowned, apparently slightly offended. “We’re always ready, Admiral. Just like we were when you were in command here.”

“Don’t give me that crap, Coyote.” Tombstone made an impatient gesture. “Okay, okay, your position is that the Jefferson is one hundred percent combat ready. Now that we’ve made that a matter of record, tell me the truth. What do you need?”

“A couple of spare parts, Admiral. That’s really about it. They’re already on high-priority replacement, so I’m not sure what else we can do to get them here. The main thing I need is for everyone and his brother to stop tapping me for liaison officers. I got enough people to man my squadrons, to fly and fix my aircraft, but I can’t be sending my best people off the ship to join staffs.”

Tombstone laughed, recognizing the eternal dilemma of a battle group. “That includes mine, I take it?”

Coyote grinned. “I would never say that, Admiral.”

“You don’t have to.”

There was a moment of silence, then Tombstone said, “Formal briefing tomorrow morning?”

Batman nodded. “Are you out of here tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yep, unless I can figure out a way to get some more stick time,” Tombstone said. To his surprise, Batman said, “We could make that happen, Admiral. I can move the briefing up to this evening and Coyote can get you in on the first cycles tomorrow. If you take a pilot with you, CAG will even loan you an aircraft so you can fly yourself to your final destination. In fact, Bird Dog should be back on board in a few hours. I’ll toss him in your backseat, let him bring the bird back. How about that?”

Tombstone stood, now feeling the effects of transiting too many time zones in too few hours. “Sounds great. After the evening meal, then?”

“You got it, sir. And where exactly are you headed for?” Coyote asked.

“A little place up in northern Greece, right near the coast. A place called Tavista Air Base.”

The Greek squadron duty officer averted his face from the woman standing in front of his desk. The small room was starting to fill up with pilots and NFOs wandering back after lengthy lunches, quick naps, and clandestine meetings with lovers — nooners, in military parlance — and he was hoping desperately that someone senior would walk in during the next several moments. Anyone, pilot or not, just someone who could answer the very difficult questions the woman was asking. Over the last five minutes, she’d becoming increasingly loud, and now her high-pitched voice was approaching a screech.

“You know where he is. Tell me now!” The woman darted around the edge of the desk and glowered down at him. “Is it another woman? You men — you hide each other, lie for each other — tell me the truth now!”

“I have not seen your husband for three days,” the duty officer said, trying for some semblance of official dignity. “He is not on the flight schedule.”

The woman snorted. “Excuses, excuses.” She turned as a particularly boisterous set of officers came into the room. The aviators recognized her immediately and fell as silent as the rest of the group. “You,” she said imperiously, pointing at one of them. “I know you. You fly with my Antipodes, yes?”

The RIO she’d pointed at turned pale. Dark circles around his eyes accented the haggard lines in his face. “No… no, I don’t know him.” He looked beseechingly at the rest of the officers. “I don’t know him.”

For just a moment, the woman looked uncertain. Then her expression hardened into determination. She abandoned the cowed duty officer and darted across the room and grabbed the RIO by his lapel. She shook him, then slapped him across his face. “You lie! You know where he is!”

The RIO seemed powerless to move, incapable of loosening the grip this madwoman had on his flight suit. The other aviators backed away from him.

“I… I…” the RIO stuttered, not knowing what he intended to say if he could ever regain control of his mouth. Then he had an inspiration. “Special duty — your husband is on special duty for General Arkady.”

“Ha!” she spat, but she turned loose of him. “And you said you did not know him.” She turned to fix a piercing glare on the rest of the men. “Cowards, every one of you. I shall go to General Arkady myself and demand an explanation.” She shouted a curse at the duty officer, then let herself out of the ready room, slamming the door behind her.

The assembled men let out a collective sigh. The deep gloom in the room deepened. Finally, the duty officer picked up the telephone. “I shall call Colonel Zentos,” he said to the room at large. “If he can reach her…” He let his voice trail off as he dialed the chief of staff’s telephone number. The rest of his sentence went unspoken, but every man knew what he’d intended to say.

If I can reach Colonel Zentos before the general hears her, she may live another day.