Enemies

EIGHT

Although he couldn’t pinpoint why, Tombstone’s first impression of General Arkady was not favorable. There was no reason in the man’s physical appearance for the trace of revulsion Tombstone felt upon meeting him. Arkady fit the stereotype of a classically handsome Greek: black curly hair, olive skin, the elegant angles and planes of his facial bones had been memorialized for centuries in classical sculpture. Arkady was a bit taller than most of the Greek men Tombstone had met so far, but still a few inches short of Tombstone’s own height.

Nor was there anything in Arkady’s manners that Tombstone could fault. His welcoming speech sounded genuine, if slightly rehearsed. He spoke of the historic friendship between Greece and the United States, of their long history together. He touched briefly on Tombstone’s prior experiences and noted that he was honored to be advised by such a man of experience.

Advised. Perhaps that was the word that rankled slightly with him, Tombstone thought. Advice was something you could take or leave, sort of like Tomboy’s opinions on what tie ought to go with which suit in his civilian dress.

Is it my own resentment at being sent here as an advisor rather than being in command myself? Tombstone considered the matter for a moment, then decided it was not. Sure, it stung his ego a bit, but he was a big boy. He could live with it.

Then what is it? Try as he might, he couldn’t put his finger on it. Something about Arkady’s bearing, the way his men looked at him, the way Arkady’s chief of staff stood slightly away from his commander. That wasn’t like most chiefs of staff that Tombstone had worked with. Your chief of staff was like a second skin, an extension of your own body, closer to you than damned near anyone, a fucking mind reader — or you got a new one.

“We should have some final word on the helicopter crew and passengers later today,” Arkady was saying as Tombstone’s attention returned to the conversation. “Frankly, I don’t hold out much hope for them. The fire destroyed most of the helicopter, and the remains are being sorted out as we speak. It may take weeks for the DNA analysis to prove who died in this tragedy.”

“Is there any possibility that anyone survived?” Tombstone asked. The possibility that Pamela was irrevocably gone seemed inconceivable.

“I don’t see how. The fire…”

“What if it didn’t catch fire immediately?”

Arkady was silent for a moment, then turned to his chief of staff. “Is it possible?”

To Tombstone’s surprise, the man seemed to go pale. “I don’t think so,” he said finally, but his voice lacked conviction.

Arkady let his gaze linger on the chief of staff for a few moments, then returned his attention to Tombstone. “If there were survivors, we would have heard from them by now.”

“How near is the crash site to the Macedonian forces?” Tombstone glanced at the chief of staff as he asked the question and was surprised to see that he was even paler than before.

“Ten kilometers, a little more,” Arkady answered. “Determining exactly where their forces are at any one time is one of the diff—”

“So it’s at least possible that there were survivors who could have been captured by the Macedonians?” Tombstone interrupted.

Silence, chillier than before. “I suppose so. But we would have heard something by now. A demand for ransom, perhaps some propaganda about the cause of the accident. These people think nothing of using tragedy for their own purposes.”

“There won’t be a ransom demand,” Tombstone said, suddenly certain that he knew exactly what was happening. “No, that won’t be the first thing we see from them at all.”

“The first thing? Admiral, I realized that you are intended to be my advisor, but you do not know these people. I do. What else could there possibly be?”

Tombstone smiled. “A story.”

The commanding officer of VF-95 was perturbed. More than that — clearly pissed off. She glared at Airman Smith, bringing the full force of nineteen years in the Navy and three full stripes on her sleeve to bear against Smith’s eighteen months in the Navy and three small slanted stripes.

“You put it on. No more of this bullshit, Smith. Get that damned patch on your uniform by tonight and you’ll get off with some extra duty. You understand that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Smith said.

The captain appeared relieved. “Good. Then this matter is settled.” Commander Joyce “Tomboy” Flynn-Magruder snapped the manila folder shut.

“Not exactly, ma’am,” the maintenance chief said. “We ran across this little problem earlier. I said the same thing to him.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?” Tomboy said, menace plain in her voice.

“Skipper, you asked him if he understood. You didn’t ask him if he’d do it.”

Tomboy swore silently. The chief was right. She turned to look at Smith. “Well?”

Smith was shaking his head before he even started to answer. “I can’t do it, Skipper. It’s just wrong to put someone else in charge of American forces. I can’t.”

“Won’t, you mean,” she said.

“Can’t. The oath said I’d protect and defend the United States. I put this on, I’m going back on my word.”

Tomboy sat back down at her desk. “What if I told you that in my opinion, this is entirely legal?”

“No disrespect intended, ma’am. But I’d have to disagree.”

Tomboy looked at the circle of men and women formed up behind Smith. His LPO, Chief, Division Officer, Department Head, and the XO looked back. In each face, she saw the emotions that were churning her own guts up.

The easy way out would simply be to ship him back to the boat. Get him out of the way, wait for this all to blow over.

Yesterday that would have worked. But today… Tomboy sighed and reluctantly opened the folder again. “You realize what’s going to happen, then?”

“I get court-martialed, I guess.”

Tomboy checked off one box on the disposition section of the report chit. “Right.” She closed the folder and handed it to her XO. “Make sure he gets to see a lawyer immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And XO?”

“Ma’am?”

“Make sure they give him the best one they’ve got. He’s going to need it. We might all need it.”