First Strike

NINE

As the airliner touched down on the Armenian tarmac, Tombstone breathed a sigh of relief. No pilot likes to fly as a passenger, and Tombstone was no exception. He glanced over at Lieutenant Jeremy Greene and saw relief in his eyes as well.

“Nice landing, Tombstone said coolly, letting the understatement express his relief to be on the ground again.

“Yeah. Not bad.” Greene was just as determined to be cool.

A mixture of languages flooded the compartment, primarily Russian but with other dialects as well. The passengers behaved as airline passengers do everywhere, getting up quickly, trying to organize their belongings and jockeying for position in the aisles. Like their American counterparts, the Russian flight attendants pleaded with the passengers to remain seated until the airline had come to a complete stop, and, like their counterparts they were mostly ignored.

Finally, the aircraft taxied to a halt outside the small, low terminal building. A metal rollaway ladder was pushed up and the plane began to empty. Tombstone and his copilot had carry-on bags containing a few essentials in case their luggage was lost. Neither of them had much faith in the Armenian baggage handling system, and doubted that the Russians would be any more efficient.

Inside, long lines had already formed at the Customs stations. Tombstone and Greene gathered up their luggage and looked at the lines with dismay.

“I thought we didn’t have to do this?” Greene asked.

Tombstone shook his head. “We’re not supposed to, but maybe something got screwed up. It wouldn’t be the first time and it won’t be the last time. Let’s get in line and try to look inconspicuous. Remember, we’re attending a religious conference.”

The fact that an international Russian Orthodox church conference was scheduled in the city at the same time was fortuitous. His uncle in particular had appeared to enjoy the idea of his two pilots traveling as visiting priests. Tombstone’s somewhat vehement objection to the appropriateness of pretending to be priests, and in particular to wearing the white collar, was overruled. To his surprise, Greene appeared not to mind at all. He ran a finger around the clerical collar, scratched, then said, “Chicks love these things.” Tombstone and Greene got into line, trying to appear inconspicuous, and waited to see if the system would work as it was supposed to. They had advanced just ten feet toward the inspection station when a man in clerical garb approached them. “Father Stone?”

Tombstone nodded. “Yes. And you are…?”

“Gregorio Russo,” the priest said, holding out his hand. “Welcome to Armenia.” He glanced at the line and said, “Come, there’s no need for this. After all, if one can’t trust a priest, who can one trust?”

Tombstone and Greene followed the priest away from the line to an unmarked door at one end of the room. Father Russo led the way, talking idly about the weather, the city, and the scheduled events at the conference. Tombstone tried to keep up his side of the conversation and finally said, “Jet lag, you know. I’m sure you understand.”

Father Russo was instantly solicitous. “Of course. Please forgive me. Your hotel is not far — we’ll get you settled in and you’ll have time to rest up and prepare for vespers. There is a reception planned for this evening. A driver and escort will be by to pick you up at six this evening.”

The Armenian priest’s demeanor was so convincing at that moment that Tombstone wondered if there’d been a serious FUBAR in the plans. But as he looked closely at Russo’s dark, inscrutable eyes and stern face, the priest winked slightly. Tombstone relaxed.

At the hotel, the two pilots were shown to adjoining suites, each modest by American luxury hotel standards, but more than adequate for their purposes. After all, they didn’t intend to spend much time there.

“Six o’clock,” Russo reminded them.

“Right. Vespers,” Tombstone answered.

Once alone, they opened the door that connected the two rooms. Both had been extensively briefed on the probability of surveillance and certainly weren’t going to take the risk of discussing the mission. Yet, what did priests talk about amongst themselves? Tombstone wondered. Somehow he doubted that Jeremy Greene’s analysis of the potential for meeting Armenian women would be suitable.

“Suppose they have room service?” Greene asked, and Tombstone breathed a sigh of relief. His copilot’s other abiding passion, in addition to chasing women, was eating.

“Let’s find out,” Tombstone suggested.

In short order, they learned that not only did the hotel have room service, but that they had a concierge who spoke English exceptionally well. They placed an order for breakfast for Tombstone and lunch for Greene, as their biological clocks were in different time zones.

The food came quickly, and Tombstone found it more than acceptable. Greene stripped off his collar and dug in with his usual gusto. Even as he was polishing off the last of his steak, he was eyeing Tombstone’s hash browns.

After refueling, Tombstone settled in for a nap, vetoing Greene’s suggestion that they go for a walk and insisting that the other pilot/priest remain in his room until their escort came at six.

At precisely six o’clock, Father Russo rapped on Tombstone’s door. He stepped in and grinned at the two pilots, who had reassembled the bits and pieces of their clerical garb. He straightened Tombstone’s collar, checked the tuck on Greene’s shirt, then announced, “If you’re ready, we’ll go to vespers now.”

He drove them in an old Zil to an ancient stone church and they followed him in. Tombstone was just starting to wonder just how far Russo would take the charade when Russo turned in to a small chapel. He led them to the altar and past it to a door in the back. They followed him through a dimly lit corridor that seemed to run the length of the back of the church. It opened out onto a small garage. Another Zil was waiting for them.

“Let’s go,” Russo said, his voice more animated than before. “There are enough Zils heading in and out of here that we’ll be able to slip away. Somewhere around eight hundred priests will be attending vespers, so I don’t think anyone will miss us.” Again Russo took the wheel. “Stay low until we’re away from the church, though.”

Fifteen minutes later, he signaled that they could sit up. Tombstone was starting to feel a bit uneasy at the total lack of control he had over their comings and goings, and it showed in his voice when he said, “Mind telling me exactly what’s up?”

“Not at all,” Russo said, his voice jovial. “We’re heading for a small private airfield to get you some time in a MiG. That’s what you’re here for, right?”

“You seem to know a lot about us,” Tombstone said.

“Not as much as I will in a little while,” Russo said, and turned to look back at him, grinning.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tombstone snapped. What the hell is this? I don’t know what he’s been told, what I can say, who the hell I’m supposed to meet.

“I’m about to kick your ass,” Russo replied. His grin broadened.

“So I take it you’re not a priest,” Greene said, his voice surly. “What the hell is going on around here?”

Russo pulled the car into a parking area. Not far away, two MiGs waited at the end of a runway. “Cool your jets, young man. And, yes, I am a priest, but don’t let that bother you.” He turned to face them, a hard look of joy on his face. “For the next two days, I’m your instructor pilot. I’ll either teach you to fly a MiG or I’ll pray for your souls when you fuck up and auger in. Your choice.”

Conversation stopped when Lab Rat walked back into CVIC from a briefing in TFCC. Petty Officer Lee, a linguist in the department, asked, “Are we going in, sir? We gonna go kick some Russian butt?”

“Not yet,” Lab Rat answered. “Politics, ladies and gentlemen. Stay loose, stay ready — we’ll get our chance.”

The briefing had been less that encouraging. The Jefferson was ordered to stand by, and, from the reports they were seeing over ACN, it didn’t look like that was going to change anytime soon. Public furor over the possibilities of casualties was already starting to pick up, and the White House had been oddly silent about the whole affair.

Lab Rat had taken advantage of a lull in Coyote’s schedule to ask to talk to him about the Omicron offer, and that had also been less than satisfying. Wasn’t there anything to career counseling other than being told to stay in the Navy? That was a lot of help — he could’ve told himself that.

Senior Chief Armstrong was unloading the additional data-base documentation he had brought back from Norfolk. He was smiling, and humming a cheerful song as he worked. He glanced up as Lab Rat walked in, and smiled. “How’s it going, sir?”

“I’ve been better,” Lab Rat said. The senior chief was the last person he wanted to talk to right now.

“Sorry to hear that, sir. Armstrong was still smiling, looked anything but sorry. “Have you thought anymore about what you’re going to do?”

“I’ve been thinking of little else, to tell the truth,” Lab Rat said. “It’s a tough choice to make.”

“It is, and it isn’t,” the senior chief said.

“Believe me, sir, we’d love to have you. But, I can understand if you want to stay in the Navy, too.”

“Yeah, well. I’m still thinking, okay?”

Something changed the senior chief’s face. He put down the volume he was working on and turned to face the commander. “Sir — could I ask a question?”

“That’s a question itself, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it is. But it’s not the one I’ve got in mind.”

“Sure; shoot.”

“Sir, this offer from Omicron that you’re thinking about — is there any problem with the fact that you’d be working for me?” Armstrong looked straight in Lab Rat’s eyes with a trace of dismay on his face.

“No, of course not,” Lab Rat said. “How could that possibly make any difference?”

The senior chief sighed. “With all due respect, sir — of course it makes a difference. And to pretend it doesn’t — well, I thought we were a little beyond that.”

“What do you mean by that?” Lab Rat asked, now irritated.

The senior chief shrugged. “I’m not certain, sir. It just seems to me that it does make a difference — after all, we’ve both spent almost twenty years in a system where who you are is determined by what’s on your collar. And if we’re both at Omicron, well… that would reverse everything, wouldn’t it? All I’m asking is if that makes a difference in your thinking.”

“It doesn’t.” It does. God help me, but it does.

The senior chief stared at him steadily now, disappointment in his face. “If you say so, sir.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Armstrong shrugged. Whatever you want it to, sir.”

Lab Rat slammed his hand down the desk. “Enough! If you have something on your mind, go ahead and say it.”

“Why should I?” The senior chief shot back. “You’re not.”

Lab Rat’s jaw dropped. Sure, the senior chief had always been willing to stand up for what he believed in, but it had never been on a personal level like this. For the senior chief to question his decisions, well, that was just too much.

But he’s right. It does make a difference, I’m just not willing to tell him that it does.

The full implications of what had just happened sunk in. And Lab Rat felt a surge of relief. This, then, was the critical issue to deal with, whether or not he could cope with working for the senior chief. Once he decided that, everything else would fall into place.

Am I that rigid? Do I value people more for their rank than for who they are? If you asked me, I wouldn’t have said so, but this is certainly putting a different light on it, isn’t it? And one that’s not very attractive.

Just then, the vault door swung open and a small woman peered in. “Commander Busby?”

“Yes,” Lab Rat said, not taking his eyes off of the senior chief. “What is it?”

She stepped into the vault and extended her hand. “Lieutenant Johnnie Davis, sir, with VF-95. I have a few questions about what might be on the island and the skipper told me you were the person to talk to.”

“I’ll be right with you,” Lab Rat said, finally looking away from the senior chief. “And Senior Chief,” he said, “We’ll continue this discussion later. At my convenience.” He hated himself even as he added the last phrase.

The senior chief’s face was an impassive mask. “Of course, sir. At your convenience.”

Lieutenant Davis spread out the proposed flight schedule on a table in front of her. “It’s the first time I’ve done this for an entire air wing. I’ve only been in strike planning for two weeks. Anyway, before I make a fool of myself in public, I wonder if you might take a look and tell me if I’ve missed anything from an intelligence perspective.”

“Sure.” Lab Rat pulled the flight schedule over in front of him and ran his finger down the assignments. “Looks good — you’re on a one-point-five cycle, which is fine. The air wing is broken up into just two flights — why is that?”

“That was my guidance from the strike officer,” she said. “Of course, it’s always subject to change, but he wanted to be able to take on two separate missions if necessary. So I figured that, absent any other guidance, I’d just be making them both about the same composition.”

Lab Rat leaned back in his chair, slightly relieved to be on familiar ground. He studied the lieutenant in front of him. She was small, barely his own height, and small-boned at that. He could tell she worked hard to make up for the problems her size could pose in her aircraft. Sleek muscle rippled over her bones and she looked exceptionally fit. A healthy glow suffused her face.

“There are some advantages, of course, to proceeding that way,” he said, continuing to study her. Attractive, exceptionally so. He wondered if she was seeing anyone.

“What did you say you name was again?

“Johnnie Davis. But everybody calls me Rat.”

“Rat?” Busby’s voice was incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

She shook her head, a woeful look on her face. “Nope. They tagged me with that in Basic, because I was small. The instructor said I could weasel into small places. I could hear that one coming on and couldn’t stand the thought of spending my Navy career days known as Weasel. So I popped up fast and said, ‘You mean, like a rat, sir?’ It was the best I could do on short notice, I’m afraid. But Rat is still better than Weasel.”

“Oh, no doubt.” He hesitated for moment, unsure of whether to proceed. “But that gives us something in common, doesn’t it?”

She looked confused. “Sir?”

“I got my nickname the day I checked in at AOCS. I have no idea why, but my drill instructor decided to name me Lab Rat. I’m afraid it stuck.”

At that, she laughed out loud. “A few more Rats on board, and we’ll have us a whole species, won’t we?”

“We will,” he agreed. “Rattus carrierus, you think?”

She nodded. “Well, sir, I have to admit, that makes me feel a bit better.”

“So, who do you usually fly with?” Lab Rat asked, more to make conversation that anything else.

A mournful look crossed her face. “Brad Morrow.

“Fastball? My condolences. Especially if the Padres are losing.” Lab Rat doubted that there was anyone on board who didn’t know about Morrow’s obsession with the San Diego Padres. “He still wearing that Tony Gwinn shirt under his flight suit?”

“Sure is. Although with the season they had last year, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“I understand he’s quite a handful.” Word had it that Davis had been paired with Morrow to cool his heels, and that their last cruise together had been a rugged one.

She shrugged. “He’s young. He’ll outgrow it. If he lives that long.”

Lab Rat leaned toward her. “Now, about this flight plan — remember, you need to worry about the terrain as well as what sort of threat you’ll encounter. We’re not certain how much they have on the island, but it’s probably old, and it’ll have to be something mobile, something they brought with them. I’d bet on at least one antiair installation, maybe two. You’ve got to figure that you want to take those out at some point, which means you should have a different weapon load on standby. It’s a different situation when we’re operating with the Air Force. They send their own Wild Weasel — there’s that word again — antiradiation aircraft in ahead of us. But out here, we’re going to be on our own. So, if there’s an antiair radar problem, we’ll have to take care of it right up front.”

“That makes sense.” She leaned forward, and Lab Rat got a whiff of something that might have been perfume, or could just have been soap or shampoo. Whatever it was, it was intoxicating. He founded himself distracted as he concentrated on the plan in front of them.

For the next fifteen minutes, they discussed the possible missions to Bermuda, how the problems might shape up, and what impact the initial reconnaissance missions would have on the air wing flight plan. When he finally ran out of things to go over, Lab Rat quit talking.

Rat stood, and held out her hand. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Commander. You just kept me from making a fool of myself in front of my boss.”

Lab Rat waved away her thanks. “My pleasure. And, since we’re members of the same species, call me Lab Rat.”