First Strike

TWENTY-FOUR

Late fall had been unusually mild on the island. Tombstone walked down the sand near the edge of the water. Waves rushed over his toes, straining sand out from beneath his feet, then deposited it around his ankles. He felt like he was sinking into the earth and that if he stood there long enough he would eventually disappear beneath the beach.

He had been walking for two hours, conscious of being very alone, and trying to sort out what had happened over the last two weeks. Evidence of the conflict was everywhere on the island. In the distance ahead of him, he could see a black pile of twisted metal, the remains of a Russian MiG shot down in the second air battle. It was cordoned off with yellow police tape with an MP standing guard. The American casualty teams were dispersed throughout the island, counting and identifying casualties and preparing the mortal remains for transfer.

Instead of returning to Jefferson, Tombstone had reconsidered his options. Yes, he was certain he could get the MiG back down on deck. Certain of his own skill, at least. The airframe itself, after the death-defying pullout from the spin, he was not so certain about. Surely her metal had been stressed beyond anything her designers had intended. Was he willing to bet that she would hold together for another carrier landing?

No, he decided. She had done more than anyone could ask any airframe. So, he’d turned away from the carrier and headed back toward land. A military air traffic controller was in charge in the tower, but he was evidently getting guidance from the naval forces. Tombstone had done a flyby, waggling his wings to indicate loss of communications, and then turned in on a standard approach pattern. His IFF was set to the code indicating communications difficulties as well, and he hoped that the tower’s gear was still operative.

It had not taken the American Marines long to completely retake the island. The air control tower at the airport had been the last holdout. When the American forces had finally broken in, they’d found that the Russians were already dead. The man who was apparently their commander had executed them, then himself.

And now what? Tombstone stopped walking and turned to look up at the sun. Was Tomboy alive? Would he ever see her again?

His uncle had not been so sure. He had become convinced that the photo of Tomboy was a fake, just another way to stir up doubt and contention within the United States.

But why? Over Bermuda? No, that didn’t make sense. What possible motive could they have for trying to make America believe that Russia was holding American POWs?

The sun beat down on his face, forcing him to shut his eyes. He could still feel the heat on his eyelids and see the afterimage of the sun on his retinas.

If she’s alive, I’ll find her. I have somewhere to start now — I will find her.