First Strike

TWO

Four hundred miles northeast of Bermuda, the USS Jefferson steamed at ten knots inside her assigned exercise box. The guided missile cruiser USS Lake Champlain and several frigates kept station on the carrier, each one a prescribed distance and bearing from the centerpiece of the battle group. The battle group was conducting evaluations of some recent tactical proposals.

Several Russian warships, including three troop transports, were 400 due north of the Jefferson and her escorts, ostensibly conducting their own tests and evaluations. In reality, they were there to keep an eye on the battle group, to make sure what the United States said was an exercise really was an exercise, and to get a look at the new tactics.

The weather was surprisingly calm and clear for that time of year. Later in the season, storms would blow in from the north and be fed by the warm waters of the Gulf Stream current. As winter approached, the full force of the atmospheric fury would descend on the region. During the worst of the storms, even the aircraft carrier would pitch and roll.

But, for now, every ship was taking advantage of the unexpectedly pleasant weather. Weather decks thronged with sailors in shorts and T-shirts, and even if the weather was a bit chilly, they all basked in sunshine.

Admiral “Coyote” Grant was on the bridge, watching the commencement of the latest set of exercises. The object of this short deployment was to practice the latest tactics developed by the Surface Warfare Development Command and test them against real world considerations. Privately, Coyote thought some of the measures were rather farfetched, but he kept his opinion to himself. No point in affecting anyone’s performance by letting them suspect he was highly doubtful about some of the maneuvers they had been asked to test.

Even if he wasn’t necessarily buying into the revised doctrine, he had found one advantage to having a staff walk through a full consideration of the tactics. While they might not agree with what they were being told to do, it encouraged them to think outside the box, to take a different look, a hard look, at the way they did business. And that, Coyote mused, was not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

On the bridge, there was a stilted formality in the air. That was one of the problems with being an admiral, Coyote reflected. While you might still feel like a fighter pilot — and you were, of course — no one else ever forgot the stars on your collar. He had probably spent more time on the Jefferson than everyone on the bridge watch team combined. His first tours had been as a junior officer, just learning the realities of flying the Tomcat. Later, he’d come back as part of both VF-95 squadron and as a member of the Admiral’s staff. This would be his final tour on board as commander of the entire battle group.

But, to the bridge officers, he was not just a guy who knew more about the ship than they could ever imagine. Even those who were tempted to ask his opinion and take advantage of his experience were just a little too junior to have the guts to do so. To most of them, he was the one person they didn’t want to screw up in front of, the one who might note their mistakes and report them to their commanders, blowing the hell out of their careers.

Not that Coyote would have had to go far to find their bosses — most of them were on the bridge just moments after he arrived, trying very hard to pretend they were there on routine visits. Word traveled fast when the admiral started walking around the ship, and every officer or chief petty officer with any responsibility whatsoever wanted to be where he was in order to make sure his people didn’t screw up. But instead of being reassuring, their presence only added to the pucker factor and normally flawless officers and petty officers got nervous and started making mistakes.

But that was part of it too, wasn’t it? You had to learn to operate under stress, not to let it get to you. And, besides, it was his battle group, dammit. And he wanted to see what was going on.

The battle group was currently experimenting with a different concept of antiair warfare. Instead of assigning defense areas radiating out from the carrier, the plan was to have the aircraft cover the starboard side of the carrier and the cruiser cover the port side. The theory was that by concentrating the aircraft assets in one sector, there would be less mutual interference with the cruiser. The problems of firing at incoming enemy aircraft when there were friendlies in the way was an age-old problem.

Nobody was particularly happy about this idea, least of all the fighter pilots. Shooting down missiles was problematic at best. Often they ended up in head-on engagements and lacked the sophisticated processing gear found on board the cruiser.

The cruiser was screaming loudly about it as well. The surface ship officers guarded their missions even more rabidly than the aviation commands did. They saw this as simply one more way to cut down on the number of support missions that required two cruisers instead of just one, and they didn’t like it one bit.

“Good morning, Admiral,” a cheery voice said behind him. Coyote turned to find himself staring into the smiling face of Lieutenant Commander Curt “Bird Dog” Robinson, the new XO of VF-95. “About time to shoot down some drones, isn’t it?”

“I hope not,” Coyote said calmly. “You remind your folks they’re suppose to come close but not actually hit the drones, okay? I don’t want any surprises.” The drones would make two passes by the carrier. A recovery boat was standing by to pull the carcass out of the water for refueling and reuse.

Bird Dog waved aside his concerns. “Oh, they know that. We take care of our toys, that we do.”

“The weather is cooperating,” the admiral noted. “I hope the cruiser does.”

The admiral studied Bird Dog for a moment, repressing a smile as he did so. Bird Dog had just taken over as executive officer of VF-95, and was clearly pleased as punch about it. Bird Dog was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, with a strong athletic frame. He had dark blond hair and blue eyes, and wore a perpetually cheerful expression. He was an excellent fighter pilot, perhaps the best Coyote had ever seen. Present company excluded, of course. No pilot ever admits that anyone is better than he is. But Bird Dog not only possessed the reflexes and eye-hand coordination to excel, but he also had the most important attribute of a good fighter pilot: luck. Bird Dog had been in more tight spots and deadly conflicts, often as the result of his own hotheadedness, than any other pilot Coyote could think of. He’d punched out of more than one Tomcat and lived to talk about it when most pilots ended their careers with an ejection. All that ought to have earned him a number of black marks on his record and permanently stymied his chances of rising to command, but his punch outs were balanced against an even more startling number of victories. Almost single-handedly, he had resolved the problem in the Aleutians, to name but one. Wherever there was a fight, Bird Dog always seemed to be on the leading edge of it. And, while he had scared more than one RIO shitless, everyone else breathed a sigh of relief when they saw Bird Dog’s name on the flight schedule.

“I halfway expected you to be flying the first engagement,” the admiral noted. He grinned as he saw Bird Dog frown.

“I tried to,” the new executive officer admitted. “But the skipper nixed that. Said I didn’t need the practice. Of course, he’s right,” Bird Dog acknowledged, oblivious to the amusement in the admiral’s eyes. “But it seems like there ought to be some good deals in exchange for all the paperwork I wade through every day. You’ve got no idea, sir. No idea.” Bird Dog held up his ring finger for the admiral’s inspection. “Look at that. A paper cut.”

Coyote clapped him on the shoulder. “It just gets worse, my friend. Trust me on that.”

“Vampire inbound,” the officer of the deck announced. Coyote checked the time, then nodded with approval. Right on time, the first drone was making a pass at the battle group.

“If it flies, it dies, right?” Bird Dog asked.

Coyote nodded. “Let’s see how your boys and girls do.”

“Tallyho,” a voice said calmly over tactical. “I have a lock.”

“Who’s that?” Coyote asked.

Bird Dog tried to smile, but it was clear that hearing that particular voice caused an ache in his gut. “Fastball Morrow — you’ve met him, I think. A good stick, and if he ever gets his temper under control, he’s going to be pretty impressive.”

This time, Coyote grinned openly. Yes, he knew Fastball, and Coyote was willing to bet that he wasn’t the only one who felt a deep sense of vindication that Bird Dog was having to deal with him. What goes around, comes around, my young friend.

Commander Hillman “Lab Rat” Busby had just finished briefing the Pentagon’s Joint Intelligence Center on the integration of his intelligence team from the Jefferson into the newly commissioned USS United States battle group. While the Jefferson had been completing repairs from striking a mine, Lab Rat and his crew had been temporarily signed to the Joint Intelligence Center, or JIC, in Norfolk, Virginia. During her sea trials, the United States was suddenly broken off from them and deployed to the Far East to intervene in a conflict between China and Taiwan. Since the ship was still in the process of establishing its manning, Lab Rat had offered Coyote the services of his already well-trained and coordinated department. Given the seriousness of the conflict they were facing, Coyote had taken him up on it. Now, however, the United States had her own people arriving, and Lab Rat and his people were back on the Jefferson.

The Pentagon, concerned with manpower management and maximizing efficiency from detached crews, had been keenly interested in the experience. There were murmurs of approval at Lab Rat’s initiative in suggesting the whole scheme to Admiral Grant, and even more approval of the way it had worked out. Lab Rat had been extremely proud of how his people had acquitted themselves and he was gratified to see that some very senior people in the Navy agreed with him.

On the other hand, no good deal ever went unpunished. The Jefferson had a five-day port visit scheduled in Bermuda — five days of sun, fun, and relaxation. After the whirlwind conflict between China and Taiwan, Lab Rat felt he deserved a liberty in Bermuda a hell of a lot more than the rest of Jefferson’s crew. After all, while he’d been in the thick of it, they’d been bored to death in the shipyards.

But, no, instead of enjoying a mild fall in Bermuda, Lab Rat was trudging through the acres and acres of the massive parking lot with a chill wind biting his ears, looking for the very distant parking spot where he’d left his old Renault. While a commander was a senior officer on board an aircraft carrier, at the Pentagon he was nothing. The place teemed with hot and cold running commanders, captains, and even one stars weren’t that uncommon. And while he appreciated the interest from the Secretary of the Navy, he would rather have been in Bermuda with the rest of his crew.

He was pretty sure Chief Armstrong felt the same way. Senior Chief Armstrong, he reminded himself. The chief’s promotion had come through before the conflict with Taiwan, but Lab Rat still found himself bungling it.

Not that the senior chief deserved that. Senior Chief Armstrong was the smartest intelligence chief petty officer that Lab Rat had ever met in his career. The man possessed an almost uncanny insight into enemy intentions and maneuvers, and had already twice saved Lab Rat’s bacon by noticing something askew in satellite photos or in enemy flight patterns.

No, the senior chief had not been crazy about the idea of spending the ship’s liberty in D.C., either, but that was life in a blue suit. He hadn’t even bothered grumbling. He just fixed Lab Rat with that cold, distant stare, and then shrugged impassively. Lab Rat would find a way to make it up to him.

“I thought that went well, sir,” Armstrong said. “They seemed interested.”

Where the hell is the car? Hadn’t it been in this lot? Maybe it was the next one over — yes, that was it. Lab Rat turned to his left and started hiking again, Senior Chief Armstrong falling into step beside him.

“Lose the car again, sir?” the senior chief asked, sympathy in his voice. “If you like, we can head back in, get some overhead imagery. They got real-time transmissions there. We could locate it just by the rust signature.”

“That is a classic car, senior chief, I will thank you to remember,” Lab Rat huffed. “And there’s not a speck of rust on her, as you well know.”

“Yes, sir. Though I suspect if you could build up some, she wouldn’t leak oil so bad.”

“Entirely normal for her to use a little oil,” Lab Rat said. “It shows she’s well lubricated.”

“Right.” The senior chief smirked, but fell silent.

Senior Chief Armstrong liked the diminutive commander who was in charge of the carrier intelligence center, or CVIC, liked him a lot. Commander Busby, he wasn’t much to look at. Maybe a 120 pounds soaking wet, and just a hair over five feet two inches tall. The senior chief caught himself many times almost calling the commander by his nickname. It was too appropriate not to come automatically to your lips.

Commander Busby had short, Marine-clipped, pale blond hair, and large, translucent blue eyes that seemed to wear a perpetually trusting expression. If you didn’t know him, you would make the mistake of assuming he was a wimp. But you only made that particular mistake once.

The senior chief’s regard for his commander was, if possible, even higher than the commander’s opinion of the senior chief, although he found himself constantly resisting the urge to pat his boss on the head. Lab Rat had a sharp, incisive mind, and tolerated no bullshit within his department. And he took good care of his people, with the ferocity of a Jack Russell terrier, and the senior chief had seen the commander rip a new asshole in more than one person who had failed to treat the intelligence specialist right, most notably the chief of staff on board the United States.

Yes, it was easy to underestimate Lab Rat. Once.

The senior chief himself was a tall man, well muscled, and strongly built. His features were craggy, his hair dark and slightly longer than his boss’s. As much as Lab Rat’s face was open and trusting — gullible, some would call it — the senior chief’s was distant and cool. They were an odd-looking pair, but their strengths and weaknesses complemented each other nicely, and the senior chief had to admit the commander was one of the best bosses he’d ever had. The commander’s annual evaluation had earned him his last promotion, and he figured if he could keep up with a kid, he would probably make master chief before he left the ship.

“Who knows what they’ll do, Senior Chief?” Lab Rat said as he walked briskly down a line of cars. “They’re talking about a tiger team, a special unit that they can fly out for a particular area of the world. But we know how that usually works.”

“Yep. A tiger team isn’t always the answer, although I wouldn’t mind some experts around when something goes down.”

“Agreed,” Lab Rat said slowly, momentarily forgetting his search for the missing Renault. “But, I’m not really sure that’s what this entire meeting was about.”

“Sir?” The senior chief played dumb, although he had had the suspicion that something was up. But, you had to wait for the officers to get around telling you on their own terms.

“That night you were out with the chiefs…” The senior chief winced at the memory, as the evening had dissolved into a night of mourning his lost Bermuda liberty in a series of increasingly interesting bars in the D.C. area. He counted it as one of Lab Rat’s strengths that he had not commented on his appearance the next morning. “I spent some time with the two star’s staff. There were a lot of questions about our experiences with satellites. And then there were a couple of defense contractors there as well, some guys from Omicron.” Lab Rat shook his head, not entirely certain he really understood what was going on. “You know much about lasers, Senior Chief?”

“A little, sir,” the senior chief said, his voice suddenly distant.

Lab Rat shot him a sharp glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What’s what mean, sir?”

“You said ‘a little.’ And then you got that look on your face.”

The senior chief pointed at the far end of the lot. “Isn’t that your car over there, sir?”

Lab Rat stopped dead. “Forget the car for a minute. That look — you had that look.”

“What look would that be, Commander?” The senior chief sounded faintly aggrieved.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Lab Rat shook his finger at him. “Don’t play dumb with me, Senior Chief.”

He gets in these moods, you’d think he was six feet tall, the senior chief thought to himself. I don’t care how big he is, he’s got the voice down cold.

The senior chief sighed, stuck his hands in his pocket and stared up at the sky. “I’ve spent a lot of my time in the Navy staring at computer screens, sir. Some of it has been more interesting than others. Like the tour I spent at Cheyenne Mountain.”

“Oh.” Lab Rat’s mouth snapped shut. Whatever the senior chief had been doing at the Space Command was far too classified to be discussed in any parking lot. “Yes, I think that is my car.”

“What do you guess, maybe a quarter mile away?” The senior chief asked.

“About that.”

Lab Rat forgot about the cold for a while as they trudged toward his car. The news that the senior chief had spent a fair amount of time at the joint command located deep under Cheyenne Mountain was not surprising, although he had not known it before. That would explain how much he’d known about Cobra Dane and Cobra Judy, the long-range over-the-horizon sensors that had been so critical during the Taiwan-China conflict. It would explain a lot about his ability to glean information from satellite photos as well.

“They asked me about you, too, Senior Chief,” Lab Rat said slowly. “About when you were going to retire.”

Lab Rat took some satisfaction at seeing shock flash across the older man’s face. “Omicron’s got its eyes on you.”

“No kidding.”

Lab Rat nodded. “They seemed to know a lot about you. They want you real bad, Senior Chief. And me, too, for some reason. I take it you know what this is about?”

The senior chief seemed lost in thought. Finally, he nodded slowly. “Yes, I think I do. When we get back on board, I’ll tell you what I know.”

For the rest of the trip back to the hotel, the senior chief was silent. He seemed to be deep in thought, as though considering his options. Lab Rat couldn’t blame him, but wished he knew which way he was leaning on the retirement issue.

Whatever the senior chief made in the Navy, and it wasn’t nearly as much as Lab Rat made, he was underpaid. There were people in the civilian world that recognized that, and could offer far more money than the Navy ever dreamed possible. The senior chief had a wife and three kids to support, and Lab Rat knew the prospect of putting all three kids through college was on his mind. Although he would hate to see him go, Lab Rat couldn’t blame him if he retired and took a high-paying civilian job.

For his own part, the senior chief was following a similar train of thought. Sure, of course he had thought about working for them after he retired. But that had always been sometime in the far future, not even very real to him. Someday, he would leave the Navy. Maybe at twenty years, maybe at thirty years. He liked the Navy, despite the low pay, long hours, and time away from home. He wasn’t sure how he would fit in wearing a suit.

But if Omicron was asking about him, then that meant that they were moving ahead on Brilliant Pebbles. It was a follow-on to the Reagan Star Wars concept, an antiballistic missile defense system intended to guarantee the security of the continental United States. Using a dedicated network of satellites, high-intensity lasers, and long-range antimissile missiles, Brilliant Pebbles looked quite attractive on paper. Sure, there were a number of technical difficulties to work out, mostly those involving the scattering of the laser beams in the atmosphere and command and control circuitry for the antimissile missiles. But if they were talking to JCS and Commander Busby, he was willing to bet that they’d made progress on whipping the technical issues. Made progress, and were ready to go into field-testing. And that, the senior chief thought, was something he very much wanted to be a part of.

And maybe the commander wanted to be part of it, too. “Sir?” the senior chief said slowly, trying to figure out how to tactfully broach the subject. “Would you be interested in seeing what some of the systems can do these days? I could arrange a demonstration.”

Lab Rat stared at him. “You could?”

The senior chief flushed. “Yes, well — yes, I could. And I think you’d be interested in what Omicron has going on.”

Lab Rat smiled at him like a bemused parent surprised by a prodigal child. “Sure, Senior Chief. If you can set it up, I’d like to see it.”

Ambassador Sarah Wexler had been United States’ ambassador to the United Nations for the last three years. During that time, she and the president had come to know each other fairly well, to the point at which they could anticipate each other’s reactions and plan accordingly. It had led both of them into some cunning schemes using reverse psychology, and had deepened the respect they had for each other.

Yet, as Wexler tried to analyze the sense of foreboding stirring in her, she knew she would get absolutely nowhere with the president unless she could present facts to back up intuition. He was three years into his first term as president, and he understood diplomacy in a way that many did not. Nevertheless, he tended to discount her gut feelings.

But this time, she had to convince him. She called in Brad, her aide, to rehearse her arguments with him.

“Sit behind my desk,” she ordered, vacating her chair and coming around to the visitor side. “Just a second — there,” she said, as she adjusted the American flag to his right. “Gives it a little bit more atmosphere, I think. And keep your jacket on. Lean forward, put your elbows on the desk, and stare at me.” She surveyed him critically as he complied, then nodded. “Yes, that will do.”

“I can have one of the secretaries hunt down a greyhound if you like,” he offered. The president’s passion for rescued greyhounds and his efforts to ban greyhound racing within the United States were well-known. Two retired racers lived at the White House, and they got more press coverage than any other presidential pet she could remember. When the press could catch up with them, that was. The greyhounds seemed to delight in racing past waiting cameras at their still-respectable speeds of around forty miles an hour.

“Not necessary,” she said. “He’s usually got one of them in the office with him, and it pisses him off when people ignore them.”

“Okay, shoot,” Brad said, adopting a Texas drawl. “Ah’m all ears, darlin’.”

Wexler marshaled her thoughts and began. “Mr. President, we have discussed the possibility of a reunified Soviet Union several times. And, in the past, we have both agreed that it might indeed be a possibility. I’ve come today to tell you that I think it may now be happening.”

Brad stared at her, unblinking. “Pretty strong accusation, Madam Ambassador. What kind of evidence do you have? Anything like a signed declaration of war? A sunken passenger liner, or such?”

And that’s exactly the sort of thing he would say. And would be looking for. But the intentions of nations are more often measured in the small things, not in the atrocities.

“Not yet, Mr. President,” she said firmly, and let the silence lengthen.

“What do you mean, not yet? Your saying it’s that serious?” Brad said, his Texas twang slipping slightly as he caught her mood.

She nodded. “Perhaps. If it starts, it will start like this.”

“I’m all ears,” the substitute president said.

“To begin with, the international treaty on the conduct of operations at sea is currently under review by several committees. I briefed you on that last month, and told you that the Russians had promised us a speedy response. I thought we’d hammered out all the essential terms and that it would be signed quickly.”

“It hasn’t happened?” he asked.

“No. It has not. There’s been no response. In fact, the Russian delegation has refused to return phone calls from our people. They’ve been avoiding them in the hallways, snubbing them in the dining facilities, and generally avoiding us.”

“Rudeness doesn’t hardly mean World War Three,” Pratt observed dryly.

“It’s more than that,” she said, suddenly feeling terribly inadequate to this task. How to possibly convey the nuances of interpersonal contact, the subtle signals used in the diplomatic corps to express problems or issues. It was almost impossible, but she had to try. The president must understand what was coming — must understand, so he could be prepared, even if he didn’t believe her right now.

She tried again. “Last week, the Russian delegation hosted a huge reception for the touring Bolshoi Ballet Company. They’ve been here touring the country, as you know.”

“Saw them myself when they were in D.C.,” the president agreed. “So what?”

“The Bolshoi tour has been cut short by three weeks. The Russians say it’s due to the illness of the male principal, but nobody believes that. Even if that were true, they always have understudies ready to go on.”

Brad let his expression of mild amusement express his disbelief.

“And there’s more,” she pressed. “As I said, the Russians hosted a huge reception. We were not invited, Mr. President. In our own country, we were not invited to a reception honoring dancers touring our country.”

“And you find that significant? Couldn’t it have just been a screwup of some sort, either in their office or ours?”

She shook her head firmly. “Mr. President, this is a textbook example of the diplomatic corps sending a message. Believe me, the oversight was intentional, and carefully coordinated with the Russian president. Just as with their recalling the Bolshoi Ballet.”

“Usually they recall the ambassador, not their dancers.”

“That will be next. Within a week or so. That gives us a window of opportunity, Mr. President, to defuse this. We have to find out what’s going on over there before we’re surprised by it. Things are moving too quickly.”

Brad held up a hand to forestall comment. “Now hold on, Sarah. You’re moving awfully fast on not much evidence. Can you imagine the Senate Foreign Relations Committee’s reaction if I tried to convince them that we ought to base foreign policy on what Russian stars in which ballet? I’d be laughed out of the office.”

“I’m not suggesting you consult Congress. I am suggesting that you let the military know, and let them prepare for what might happen.”

“Sarah, Sarah. Really — you know that if I pass this on to the military, it’ll be all over D.C. in a few hours. They’ll be calling me a warmonger again. Listen, if you turn up any hard intelligence or other evidence that we’re about to face problems with Russia, I’ll act on it immediately. But until then…” Brad laid his palms flat on the desk and shoved himself up to a standing position. “Thanks for coming by, Madam Ambassador. I’ll see you to the door.”

Wexler stared at him. Brad stared back. “That’s how it’d go, and you know it.”

After a long silence, Wexler said, “Call Captain Hemingway. Ask her if she’s got time for a cup of tea.”

The C-2 Greyhound banked hard to left, virtually standing on its wingtip as it made its turn onto final. In the back, the passengers were thrown against their restraining harnesses, and more than one let out an involuntary yelp. Among those who silently gritted their teeth and bore it was Lieutenant (junior grade) Clarissa Shaughnessy.

Shaughnessy barely met the height requirements for a pilot. At five feet three inches, she had a slender frame and delicate features. White-blonde hair formed an unruly halo around her face, framing angular cheekbones and deep blue eyes. Her appearance had earned her a nickname in the Tomcat training pipeline — Elf. Whether or not it would stick with her throughout the rest of her naval career would be up to the squadron.

Like most pilots, Shaughnessy hated flying as passenger. After eighteen months in Flight Basic and the Tomcat trading pipeline and two years of enlisted service before that as a plane captain on board the USS Jefferson, she knew all too well how many things could do wrong with an aircraft, particularly one that was attempting the always tricky task of landing on the deck of aircraft carrier.

As a young airman, Shaughnessy had been responsible for maintaining her aircraft, coordinating with the more sophisticated technicians as required, and helping pilots preflight and board their aircraft. When it wasn’t in the air, it belonged to her. On one occasion, her sharp eyes caught a problem with the control surfaces of a Tomcat that was about to launch. Her quick thinking and disobedience to orders had saved an aircrew’s lives. In recognition, Admiral Tombstone Magruder, then the battle group commander, had done everything in his power to see that she was admitted to the Naval Academy.

Now, almost six years later, she was back where she started. But this time as a pilot in VF-95, not as a plane captain. A young nugget, admittedly, but a pilot nonetheless.

And a lousy passenger.

The Greyhound gyrated through the air like a roller coaster as it fought the mass of roiling air in the carrier’s wake. At the slower approach speeds used by the COD, the aircraft fought every burble of air. Up, down, sideways, it seemed as though the pilot had absolutely no control over the aircraft.

Shaughnessy tried not to think about the mishaps she’d seen as a plane captain. Instead, she thought of the one she’d prevented, the one good move that had gotten her her appointment to the Naval Academy. The pilot whose life she’d saved had later finagled his way around the rules and taken her up for her first-ever ride in the bird she was responsible for. He’d flown aerobatics, let her fiddle with the radar, and then finally brought her back on deck in what she now realized had been an exceptionally smooth landing.

Lieutenant Robinson, he’d been back then, although she was sure he’d been promoted since then. Bird Dog, the other officers had called him. She’d heard he was still on board the Jeff, and she was looking forward to seeing him again. How weird would it be to call him by his call sign? Or, God forbid, would he expect her to use his first name? Could she even do that?

She shook her head, determined to quit being stupid. She wasn’t enlisted anymore. She was an officer — hell, she’d even been promoted once — and a pilot in her own right. She’d have to get over this inferiority complex.

With a sickening screech, the aircraft slammed down on the deck, caught the three wire with its tail hook, and jolted to a halt. There was a moment of wild relief among the passengers, a thankfulness that they’d somehow made it through the landing alive. Yet, as Shaughnessy knew, it was no more than a routine landing, one executed dozens of times every day on board this very aircraft carrier.

The crew captain was standing in the aisle of the Greyhound now, and making an announcement over the intercom, ordering them to remain in their seats until they arrived at their spot, the area of the deck that would be the parking spot. Shaughnessy felt the COD lurch backward, felt the thud against the undercarriage as the tail hook withdrew, and a slight surge of power as the COD headed for its spot. Outside, in front of the COD, would be somebody very much like who she had been, a plane captain. It was night, so the plane captain would be using lighted wands to direct them toward their spot on the deck. Once they came to a full halt, the passengers would be allowed to disembark.

Finally, the Greyhound lurched to a halt. After a few moments, the tail ramp dropped down, and cool night air flooded the compartment. Shaughnessy unstrapped herself and reached under her seat for her briefcase. Her large duffel bag was in the baggage compartment, but her briefcase contained her orders, her financial records, and a change of underwear — just in case.

Shaughnessy followed the herd of passengers straggling out across the flight deck and into the ship. “VF-95?” The petty officer standing behind the counter checked her orders, then passed them back to her. “You know how to find it, ma’am?”

“Yes, I do, thanks.” Ma’am. Never thought I’d hear that on board the Jefferson, did I?

“Need any help with that duffel bag, ma’am?” He eyed her doubtfully, comparing the mass and probable weight of the duffel bag with her figure.

“Nope,” she said cheerfully, hoisting the duffel bag easily. “I pack it, I can carry it.” All her hours in the gym building muscle mass paid off as she saw a new respect in his eyes, but that wasn’t the reason she’d sweated away half her free time.

Although the Tomcat flew by guided wire and contained multiple redundant hydraulic systems, there was no telling when you might have to manhandle the aircraft all by your lonesome. Guys, even average guys, usually had no problem with it. But if you were small, nicknamed Elf, and generally a physical lightweight, you had to do what she had done: haunt the gym, pumping larger and larger loads, knowing that you would never reach the numbers that some of the guys did, but determined to be able to bench press enough to be safe in your aircraft.

Shaughnessy moved easily down two ladders, expertly maneuvering the bulk of the duffel bag behind her, to reach the 03 level. The 03 passageway housed most of the squadron ready rooms, including that of VF-95. The captains, XOs, and operations officers of the squadrons also had their staterooms on this level, as did the admiral and his staff.

She made her way forward along the port passageway to the VF-95 ready room. The passageway smelled of popcorn. Every squadron had its own popcorn machine, and, as with everything else an aviator did, the competition to produce the best possible on-board popcorn was a continual source of contention among the squadrons.

She stared at the door for moment, almost overwhelmed by her emotions. VF-95—her squadron. And now she was back. For a moment, it felt entirely too audacious to be entering here with her duffel bag, as though she were pretending to be something she was not. In one part of her mind, she was still the young, scared plane captain who worked on the flight deck.

Nonsense. You’re a pilot. And, by God, you’re just as good as any of them. She shoved the door open and stepped in.

She stood at the back of a large room filled with comfortable high-back chairs. They were covered in brown leatherette and numbered about forty. Forward, to the left, there was a small desk with a telephone where the squadron duty officer stood his watch.

The compartment was about a third filled, the scent of the popcorn almost overwhelming. Aviators, most clad in flight suits, were engaging in horseplay and ragging on each other. A junior officer at the back of the compartment was fiddling with a VCR. He looked up as the door opened and was the first to spot her. A broad smile spread across his face.

“All right!” He stood and made a beeline for her. “Ensign Shaughnessy — sorry, it’s j.g. now I see — not that that makes any difference — you’re just in time.”

“For what? To see the movie?”

He shook his head, his pleasure unmistakable. “Junior officer in the squadron is responsible for the movies. Until now, that was me.” He handed her a VCR tape. “And now it’s you. Any questions, call me. I’ll be in my stateroom.” Shaughnessy stared down, bewildered, at the tape in her hand. What, was she supposed to run the movie now? Before she’d even checked in?

“By God, it is you!” a voice from the front of the room said cheerfully. “I saw the name on the orders and damned near wet my pants.” The owner of the voice, a tall man with a powerful build and a huge grin on his face strode toward her. “Airman Shaughnessy — welcome back.” She stared at his hands that clasped hers and pumped repeatedly. “Hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? Save any more pilots recently?”

“Not — not recently, sir,” she stammered, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer force of his presence. She didn’t remember Bird Dog Robinson as being quite so tall, and quite so… well… such a hunk. Maybe it was because, as an enlisted technician, she had known that the rules against fraternization prevented him from ever being a possibility. But, now, now that she was an officer… well, she shoved that thought out of her mind, and looked up into his broad, smiling face. “It’s nice to be back, sir.”

Bird Dog dropped her hand, and threw one arm casually around her shoulder. “Oh, hell — don’t start on the sir shit. You damn near kicked my ass when I was a lieutenant and you were an airman — and rightfully so. It’s Bird Dog now. So, how does it feel to be a pilot?” he asked, leading her toward the front of the room. Before she could answer, he turned her around to face the rest of the ready room. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is my good friend Lieutenant j.g. Clarissa Shaughnessy. Back when she had a real job as a plane captain, she saved my ass. Help her get settled in, folks. This one’s a keeper.” He turned back to Shaughnessy, and asked, “They tag you with a call sign in the pipeline?”

“Sort of,” she admitted with a sinking feeling.

“Sure did,” the officer she’d first run in to said immediately. “She’s ‘Elf’—we all know about Elf.” He rocked back on his heels and looked up at the ceiling. “And the word was, the Elf is nobody to fuck with. Don’t take your eyes off her for a second, folks — she nailed more of us in Flight Basic than anyone else in the pipeline. Yours truly included.”

“Then, Elf it is,” Bird Dog said grandly. “Welcome to VF- 95, Elf.”

“Thank you, sir — I mean, Bird Dog.” She glanced at his leather name tag on his flight suit, and her eyes widened. She looked back up into his face, awe in her eyes. “You’re the XO!”

“Yep. Just goes to show you, even the Navy makes mistakes sometimes.”

“And who’s the captain?” she asked.

“Well, you just won’t believe this shit,” he said, grinning again. “I never thought I’d see the day, and you can believe he rubs it in every chance he gets. You remember Gator, right?”

She nodded. “Of course. He was your RIO. So, he’s the skipper?”

“Never lets me forget it. He’s been pushing me around since he was just a lieutenant commander, and I listen to him now just a little bit more than I did back then.”

“But he was XO before, so it must have been—” She broke off as a sudden silence filled the room.

The normal pipeline for aviators was to serve one tour in a squadron as XO, and then fleet up, as it was called, to command of the same squadron. This resulted in a continuity of command that helped mold the squadron into a tight fighting force. There was far less disruption at change of command in an aviation squadron than there was in a surface command.

But that wasn’t the way it had worked out in VF-95. Gator had fleeted up — but a year earlier than he should have, and Bird Dog had unexpectedly been detailed as the XO. The reason was that Commander Joyce “Tomboy” Magruder had been killed in action.

“We don’t talk about that much,” Bird Dog said finally.

Elf could have kicked herself. Of course it would be considered bad luck to talk about the loss of a commanding officer — she should have known that. And if she’d been paying attention to what was going on in her own prospective squadron, she would have known that Gator was the skipper. But somehow, in a rush to finish the pipeline and the sudden change of orders to report to VF-95, she missed that one little bit of information. She had been in transit when Tomboy was killed.

Not killed. Missing in action. There’s a big difference.

“You find your stateroom yet?” Bird Dog asked, breaking the silence.

“No, I just came in on the last flight.”

“I’ll show you where it is.” A woman in a flight suit stepped forward, and held out her hand. She was blonde, but that’s where her resemblance to Elf stopped. Her face was hard, her hair slicked back and disciplined. Elf saw shadows in her eyes, a ghost of — of what?

“Hi. I’m Lobo, your sponsor.”

Another legend come to life. Shaughnessy had read everything she could find about the only female pilot to have been taken prisoner of war and successfully rescued then returned to flight status. And now, to meet her in person, well…

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Lobo said wryly. She stepped back, and surveyed Elf’s figure and extra small flight suit, noting the twist of muscles in her legs and the hard slope of her shoulder muscles that bulked up the flight suit. Elf saw a flash of recognition and approval in Lobo’s dark eyes. Lobo nodded. “You’ll do.”

Bird Dog laughed. “If I looked you over like that, I’d be facing a court-martial for sexual harassment.”

Lobo shot him a dirty look. “With all due respect, XO, you’re a poster boy for sexual harassment. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get Shaughnessy settled. Come on, Elf — let’s find your stateroom.” Lobo turned on her heels and left without glancing back.

“Go on, Elf,” Bird Dog said, his voice amused. “We’ll catch up later.”

Elf followed Lobo down the passageway and to the berthing office. She signed for her key while Lobo waited, and then they went down three ladders to the deck her stateroom was on.

“The first thing you do,” Lobo said, “is learn your way around the ship. You need to be able to get out of this compartment and to the flight deck with a blindfold on. And you need more than one route in case the first one is closed down.” She waited, expecting a surprised remark. When none came, her brow furrowed briefly, then her face cleared. “That’s right — sorry, you do know the drill, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Lobo. Just call me Lobo.”

“Lobo, then.”

Lobo turned to leave. “I’ll let you get settled in, then. I’ll be back in twenty minutes and we’ll go grab some late chow. Then we’ll catch up with the skipper and the rest of the people you have to meet, as well as the CAG. Plan on being spiffy for the next two days. After you’ve met everyone, you can grunge around in flight suits all the time like the rest of us. Until then — first impressions, you know. See you in twenty minutes.”

Elf surveyed the compartment, astounded by both the size and the disorder. Officer berthing wasn’t anything like what she’d experienced as an enlisted sailor. Then, eighty women of all ranks below chief petty officer were berthed in a large compartment packed with bunk beds. There was a storage compartment under each bed and a small locker. The compartment was inspected daily and any loose gear would earn you extra duty chipping paint off whatever undesirable location the master at arms could find.

But evidently the rules were different for officers. If this had been enlisted berthing, there would have been at least six women in it. Instead, there was one bunk bed, two large lockers and two fold-down desks, and every flat space was covered with clothes, papers, or junk. The wastebasket looked like it hadn’t been emptied in a few days. And was that — yes, it was! She moved a stack of towels aside to find a sink! Sheer luxury, as far as Elf was concerned. No trekking down the passageway to a communal head just to wash her face or hands or brush her teeth.

Elf stowed her gear in the least-occupied locker, then changed into her khaki uniform, patted her flight suit wistfully and looked forward to the day she could change back into it.

The door burst open and a tall, dark-headed woman rushed in. She skidded to a stop and said, “Oh, hey! You must be Shaughnessy!” She held out her hand. “Ellen Bellson. Sorry about the mess. I thought you were coming in next week.”

“Clarissa Shaughnessy. And don’t worry about it. I take it this is my locker?”

Bellson looked stricken. “Yes, of course. But, here, let me get it cleared out. I just sort of started using it after Betty left, and — oh, here, I’ll take those.” Bellson scooped the towels out of Shaughnessy’s arms and tossed them on the lower bunk. “Really, I’ve been on the schedule every day and things just sort of got away from me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shaughnessy said, starting to suspect that the condition of the stateroom wasn’t at all unusual. A small price to pay for all this privacy, though, and she’d find a way to put up with the mess.

“So. Where are you from? Did you find the Ready Room already?” Bellson pulled out a chair from under her desk, turned it around backward and straddled it. “You a good stick?”

Shaughnessy laughed. “Slow down. I just got here.”

Bellson looked chagrined. “Sorry.

Bellson was a good six inches taller than Elf, and for a moment, Elf felt a flash of jealousy. Bellson had long hair pulled back in a twist that her flight helmet had destroyed. A long strand of shiny black hair hung down and clung to her worn flight suit. Her eyes were a dark, deep brown with a hazel tint to them. She was built like a race horse, long and rangy, but strong. She had a presence about her that seemed to suck all the air out of the compartment. Elf felt she herself might as well have been the same color as the paint.

There was no way Bellson would ever be called cute. Striking, beautiful, stunning even — but not cute. No, cute was reserved for people her own size.

“So how’s the squadron?” Elf asked. “You like it here?”

Bellson shrugged. “It’s about like any other squadron.”

Not good. Not good at all. “I met the XO,” Elf said. “Good guy.”

“If you like the type. A little too pleased with himself, if you ask me. But he’s the XO, so you have to get along with him. The skipper’s sort of a pain in the ass, too. He’s a fuss budget, but he and the XO go way back, so they stick up for each other. Once they get something set in their minds, there’s no changing it.”

“Like what?”

Bellson looked peeved. “Like if they decide you’re not a hot stick, there’s nothing in the world that will change their minds. They start telling these stories from their first cruises, like they were some sort of super heroes or something.”

“Ah.” But they are, in a way. Don’t you know who they are or what they’ve done?

“Things were better when Tomboy was here,” Bellson continued. “At least she knew the whole woman thing. You didn’t get all the bullshit you get now.”

“She was a pretty tough officer herself,” Elf said without thinking.

Bellson’s eyes narrowed. “You knew her?”

Damn. I wasn’t going to mention all that.

The decision not to mention her enlisted background was something that Elf had arrived at gradually. It wasn’t like she was going to try to hide it or anything. It was just that it wouldn’t be the first thing she talked about. She was part of this world now, and she was going to have to get used to it. Talking about her enlisted days would be like Bird Dog and Gator talking about their nugget cruises.

“Yeah,” Elf said. “I went to the Academy from the Fleet. From Jefferson, actually.”

“So you knew all these guys before,” Bellson said.

“Bird Dog and Gator, yeah. And Tomboy. Back before she married the admiral.” A lump started in Elf’s throat. How she’d looked up to Tomboy back then!

“Well, excuse me, then,” Bellson said, her voice cold. “If I’d known you were so buddy-buddy with them, I wouldn’t have talked about them like that. So are you going to trot right back to them and tell them what I said?”

“No! Why would I do that? Listen, we’re not old buds or anything like that. I just knew them, that’s all. They probably didn’t even know my name.”

Just then there was a knock on the door. Lobo pushed it open and poked her head in. “You ready for some chow?”

“Sure.” Elf felt a faint sense of relief. “You want to come?” she asked Bellson.

“No. Thanks.” Bellson’s voice was colder than it had been before. “I’ve got some things to do.”

“Oh, join us, Lieutenant,” Lobo said, her voice level.

“Thanks, ma’am, but I really do have some things to take care of.” Bellson’s voice was surly.

“Well, if you’re sure.” Lobo said.

“Yes. Very sure.”

“Come on, then, Elf. If you’re late for chow, they run out of ice cream.”

Elf followed Lobo down the passageway, worried. Was Bellson going to be a pain in the ass to live with? Did she have some sort of gripe with Lobo? And was Elf going to get caught in the middle?

They went through the speed line, taking hamburgers and fries, and then found spots at a long table half filled with aviators. Lobo introduced her around, and there wasn’t a time when Elf could reasonably ask her what was going on between her hero and her roommate.

Finally, when they’d done, Lobo shoved her chair back and said, “Come on, Elf. You’ve got an appointment with the skipper, and then with CAG. You’ve got time to get back to your stateroom and get a clean shirt. You’ve got catsup on that one.”

Elf looked down and searched for the catsup. Lobo roared as did the others. “Fish, fish — God, don’t tell me you’re that gullible about everything,” Lobo said, slapping Elf on the back. “Come on, nugget. Let’s go.”

“So you and Bellson aren’t great friends, I take it,” Elf said as they started down the passageway.

“Why do you say that?” Lobo asked.

“It just looked that way.”

Lobo walked on for another fifty feet before she stopped abruptly and turned down a short passageway to the right. It was far less crowded than the main one. “Let’s just say I don’t approve of what Bellson does when she’s not flying,” Lobo said. “In the air, she’s fine. It’s when she’s on the ground that she’s a problem. You want to get off to a good start around here, don’t become good buddies with her. Keep your distance. Because, sooner or later, she’s going down for a fall, and you don’t want to get sucked down with her.”

“Take a fall? For what?” Elf asked.

Lobo just shook her head. “Just stay out of it, Elf. Keep your eyes open and make your own decisions. There’s been enough gossip passed around about me that I know what it feels like. You make up your own mind once you get to know her.” Lobo turned and led the way out into the passageway. Elf followed, wondering if the two-man staterooms might have more disadvantages than she’d first thought.

“I don’t know, Andrei.” Yuri Maskiro stared down at the plate before him as though its contents were of critical importance. While the rare steak and lightly steamed fresh vegetables were far beyond what most Russians would ever experience, they certainly did not warrant the degree of attention he was giving them. “Yes, what you’re proposing is theoretically possible. But, to undertake such a thing — well, you must realize, if caught, we’ll be executed.”

“We won’t be caught.” Korsov reached across the table to pick up another crisp bread stick. He broke it open and smeared fresh butter across the exposed bread. “Besides, our planning will include deniability. Should anything be detected, it will simply be blamed on someone else. Trust me, I do know how to set those things up.”

“So did Kreschenko.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Yuri did not answer. Not that he needed to. Both of them knew what had happened to the last naval officer who’d tried to engineer a military coup against the current government. The execution had been public, but the torture preceding it hadn’t.

Korsov broke the silence by saying, “Kreschenko was stupid.”

“The last commander of the Black Fleet did not think so.” Maskiro’s predecessor had been part of Kreschenko’s inner circle, and had been executed the day after his leader.

For a moment, Korsov felt real fear. Surely Yuri did not regret his involvement to this degree? Not enough to do something about it? And, if so, how much danger was he in right now for having divulged even the general concept of his plan to Yuri, even if he hadn’t asked for Yuri’s help?

He would not ask, Korsov decided. Yuri would know what he intended, would know and would even now be deciding whether or not to join him.

“The long-range missiles would be impossible,” Yuri said finally, and Korsov felt relief surge through him. “The most I could do would be medium-range tactical missiles. And, even then, you would have to be responsible for getting them within range.”

“I already considered that,” Korsov assured him. “But you’re sure you can get them?”

Yuri poked at a stray lima bean. “Oh, that’s no problem. No one has any idea exactly how many we have or where they are. Not even me. In fact, I’m sure that about a third of them are on the world market already.”

“A third? Are you sure?” Korsov was aghast. While the laxness of weapons accountability within Russia was well known, and was even worse in Ukraine, the prospect of a third of the former Soviet weapons arsenal being sold on the black market was still astounding.

“Of course I’m not sure,” said Yuri. “That’s exactly the point.”

“But, then, this is perfect,” Korsov said. “The Americans will find it even more difficult to determine where the missiles came from. And whom to blame.”

“The Politburo won’t have any problem deciding that blame,” Yuri said smoothly. He lifted his gaze from his plate and stared directly across the dinner table at his old friend. “Even if this succeeds, they’re going to blame me. Not you, not anyone else — me.”

“I have thought of that,” Korsov assured him. “Before you release the first weapon, you will be completely satisfied with the deception plan. Completely satisfied, or we will not proceed.”

Yuri pushed the plate to the side. “Tell me just how you proposed to do this.”

“The key, I think, is China,” Korsov said. “China, and the Middle East. A month before we execute our plan, at a time when you have been recalled to the Politburo to testify and your deputy is in charge, there will be a terrorist attack on one of your storage facilities. Your forces will be overwhelmed, and missiles will be stolen. Specific procedures that you have in place will have been circumvented by your deputy. You will be outraged. You’ll demand action. And you’ll mount an intensive manhunt in an effort to find those responsible.”

“What specific procedures?” Yuri asked.

“During routine maintenance, you require an armed guard when any of the facilities are breached, yes?”

Yuri nodded. “Of course.”

Korsov spread his hands apart, palms up. “Your deputy will have specifically ordered the men to be elsewhere on that date. A review of his record will show a history of increasing instability. It will appear that he blatantly disobeyed your orders to satisfy some affiliation he has with a terrorist group. Chechnya, perhaps.”

After long silence, Yuri nodded. “It sounds somewhat promising,” he conceded. “However, there is so much detail that must be filled in.”

“Oh, assuredly.” Korsov waved aside his objections. “Yet, in principle, it is a solid plan, yes?”

“In principle.”

By unspoken agreement, they moved on to other, more innocuous topics. The discussion ranged over world politics, the weather, sports, and women. Finally, as evening grew late, Yuri brought out his finest brandy. He poured each of them a glass, and lifted his own. “To our success.”

“Our success,” Korsov echoed. He kept his expression warm and cordial as his thoughts raced ahead to the day that was hurtling toward them.

My success. And, yes, if everything goes as planned, you will be a part of that. But, if not…

But it if not, Yuri would be his scapegoat just as surely as his deputy was his.