Hellfire

EIGHT

When all the commercial flights had proved full, Carter had sprung for using the network’s corporate jet. The two women, plus their cameraman and baggage, flew in royal comfort from Denver to San Diego’s Lindbergh Field. There, the local affiliate had had a rental car and driver waiting for them. They had been picked up and were now being transported to the North Island Naval Air Station operations center.

“There’s a COD leaving today, but no one is exactly certain when,” their escort said, briefing them on their latest travel arrangements as he drove. He passed a brown envelope to Drake. “Those are your orders, shot records, clearance information. The usual stuff.”

“Like the clearance will make a difference,” she said, as she passed out the papers to the appropriate people. “They never tell us anything classified. At least not intentionally.”

“What’s a COD?” Winston asked. The cameraman smirked, and Drake turned away, a smile of amusement on her face. “Carrier on-board delivery. We’ll be CODing out to Jefferson, of course. It’s a lot of fun.”

“I see.” Winston’s voice belied her statement, but she asked no further questions. Pamela grinned.

Fun. Damn right. If you consider a controlled crash at one hundred and forty miles an hour onto a steel deck in the middle of nowhere fun, then I guess it qualifies. And do that facing backwards in what seems to be the flimsiest aircraft you have ever been in. But she’ll have to get used to it, just like the rest of us did.

Now, sitting on the hard plastic chairs in the operation center, their stomachs full of hot dogs from the snack bar, they waited. And waited and waited. The cameraman and Pamela took some background shots, then so did Winston. That accomplished, Pamela settled down and opened a book to read.

Winston had not brought anything to read. She shifted uneasily in her chair, watching the sailors pass. Finally she asked, “What the crap are we waiting for?”

“Who, probably. Not what,” Drake said, not looking up from her book. “Getting a seat on the COD right at the beginning of something is primarily a function of how much water you draw. Everybody wants to be on the scene right away, including a lot of people that are actually useful. Like them,” she said, gesturing at the junior sailors and technicians that made up most of the passengers. “But sometimes they don’t get out until the top brass and senior officer and reporters are on board the carrier.”

“Who, then?” Winston said, clearly bored and trying to prolong the conversation.

“No telling.”

“Don’t you even have a theory?”

Drake sighed and closed her book, using her finger to mark the spot. “No, I don’t. Lesson learned, Winston. A lot of waiting is part of it. Be prepared for it. Now, unless there was something else?” Drake waited politely for a moment before returning to her book. Winston sighed in frustration.

Suddenly, the noise level near the entrance picked up markedly. In one smooth motion, Drake snapped her book shut, jammed it in her bag, and darted off to shove her way through the crowd to the front door. Two Marine Corps sergeants entered, blazing a path through the waiting crowd for the man behind them.

“Who is it?” Winston asked, struggling to catch up with Drake and the cameraman, who had already positioned himself to get a shot of whoever was entering.

Tombstone Magruder stepped through the door. The tall, lean frame, those piercing dark gray eyes, the short clipped hair now going gray at the temples. She had every line of his face — indeed, of his body — memorized. Her fingers had touched every inch of his skin and she knew his body as well as she knew her own.

Even after all these years since she’d broken off their engagement, she still found herself short of breath when she saw him. No one had ever come close to him, in bed or out of it, and over the years she had become resigned to the fact that no one ever would.

One of the reasons she had been so angry at Winston’s callous remarks about Tombstone’s availability was that that thought had crossed her own mind more than once. She had been foolish, so foolish, not to marry him when she had the chance. Sure, it would have meant compromises in her career, but if she had known how much she would miss him, she would have been willing to make them.

But the compromises only went one way, didn’t they? There was no way he was willing to settle down, no way he would’ve been happy without flying around the world every couple of weeks. Somehow Tomboy, with her own career in the Navy, had been able to stand it. Drake knew she couldn’t have. There was never any hope of a future for them, not as long as Tombstone refused to compromise.

But there could have been, one part of her mind insisted. He would have changed, I know he would. And he’s not in the Navy anymore. He’s retired now, a civilian, although it’s hard to tell it by looking at him.

Indeed, even in civilian clothes, Tombstone Magruder looked every inch the admiral. His erect posture, the ease with which he moved through the crowd of sailors, the lazy way his eyes were half closed as he surveyed the crowd — all said that this was an officer who was used to command and accustomed to being obeyed.

Pamela felt her breathing grow unsteady as he turned in her direction. His eyes passed over her lightly, and then came back to her. They widened slightly and he nodded in acknowledgment of her presence. There was no smile or any change in his expression.

What do you expect from a man nicknamed Tombstone? She shoved her way through the crowd, which didn’t give way for her as it had for him. She stepped in front him, almost too close, and looked up at him. His familiar musk smell reached her.

“Good afternoon, Admiral. Are you headed out to Jefferson?” she asked, holding the mike unobtrusively at her side. It was sensitive enough to pick up any comments he might make.

Tombstone just looked at her for a long moment then said, “I assume you’re waiting for the COD?”

“And I assume it’s waiting for you, isn’t it?”

He studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering over her features, and she knew he was remembering how well they knew each other. With a flash of insight, she realized how desperately lonely he must be these days. Tomboy had seemed to complete part of him, and although he carried on in her absence, there was always a sense that he was withdrawn.

There was a commotion at her side, and then Winston stepped up beside Drake, elbowing her slightly as she did so. She smiled brightly and held out her hand. “You must be Admiral Magruder,” she said. “Cary Winston. I’m working with Pamela now.”

“For. Not with.” Pamela corrected the preposition immediately, and she saw a flash of amusement on Tombstone’s face. As she had known he would, he picked up instantly on the tension between the two women. With just a hint of sardonic amusement in his eyes, he said, “How do you do, Ms. Winston. If you’ll excuse me, I need to check in. I’m certain we’ll have a chance to speak later.” He turned away without saying any more to Drake, and she could have kicked him in the shins. It was evident what he was doing, at least to her and her cameraman. But not so to Winston.

Winston turned back to her, a bemused expression on her face. “Wow. He’s really something.” Another one bites the dust. Just what is it about Tombstone?

Ten minutes later, the check-in clerk was calling out names and leading passengers with their luggage out to the waiting COD. Tombstone was not in line. Then again, Drake did not expect he would have to go through the same procedures that they did. He was probably already on board, perhaps up front talking to the pilots.

But when they followed the clerk across the hot tarmac, piled their luggage as directed, and then proceeded to board through the tail ramp, she was surprised still not to see him. She grabbed a petty officer helping the passengers to their seats and asked, “Isn’t Admiral Magruder on this flight?”

The sailor regarded her levelly. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The movements of senior officials are always classified.”

“Yes, but I saw him in the terminal.”

“If you’d proceed to board, ma’am.”

Frustrated, she started toward the ramp and paused to let Cary Winston and the cameraman precede her. She trotted back to her luggage, as though she’d forgotten something, and took a quick look around the airfield. Sure enough, about four hundred feet away, she saw Tombstone climbing up the boarding ladder and into the cockpit of a Tomcat. She turned back to the crewman who had refused to answer her questions, a grin on her face. As he started for her, she waved to Tombstone, and then trotted back to the COD’s ramp. “Sorry. I forgot my book.”

So he’s flying out in a Tomcat, is he? I wonder how he stays current. And I wonder why the Navy is letting a retired admiral get stick time anyway? Surely they have plenty of pilots who are dying for some stick time. What’s going on here?

“Maybe he’s taking the later flight,” Winston said, disappointment in her voice.

“Maybe,” Drake said. She fastened the restraining harness, tightened the straps, and opened her book. And then again, I bet he beats us out there.

“Who’s that?” Jeremy Greene asked, pointing across the tarmac. Tombstone, halfway up the boarding ladder, twisted around to see Drake’s familiar figure standing near the COD.

Pamela, dammit — why do you always have to be everywhere I am? And why are you here when Tomboy isn’t?

It made no sense at all, the intrusive train of thought that started every time he saw her. Pamela was not responsible for Tomboy being gone. He knew that, kept repeating it to himself. Yet every time he saw his former fiancée, he felt a completely irrational flash of rage that she was here, dogging his footsteps, and Tomboy wasn’t. Tombstone looked down at Greene, who had already completed his preflight and was strapped into his ejection seat. “Ignore her.”

“Civilian, right? Maybe we’ll see her on the boat.”

“Maybe you ought to be a RIO instead of a pilot,” Tombstone said. “You didn’t recognize her?”

“I don’t wear glasses,” Greene said hotly. Then he remembered exactly who was in the front seat. Retired or not, you had to be polite to an admiral.

“That, my friend, was the esteemed Pamela Drake. And when we get on board, you’ll say nothing to her. Not a word. Zip. Nada.” The plane captain who had followed Tombstone up the boarding ladder double-checked Tombstone’s straps then pulled the safeties that kept the ejection seat from firing on the ground and held them up for Tombstone’s inspection. Tombstone counted them out loud, as was his habit, and then nodded.

“I’m not a RIO, I’m a pilot,” Greene grumbled. “And speaking of being a pilot—”

“You’re not current, are you?” Tombstone said calmly. “If you had been in shape to fly, you could have gotten your quals out of the way yesterday. I told you I’d make sure you’d get more stick time.”

“A touch of the flu,” Greene muttered. Not exactly true, since the alcohol he’d consumed the night before had killed off any germs.

“Right. Pre-start checklist,” Tombstone said, and opened his flight manual to begin to run through it. “Ready?”

With a sigh, Greene opened his own manual. He knew Tombstone did not believe him, and he couldn’t blame him. Yes, he should have gotten his quals taken care of yesterday, but what the heck? After all, there would be time on the boat, wouldn’t there?

But it’s your own fault. You missed the chance to fly out there, one small part of his mind insisted. Tombstone is never out of qual, is he? He makes time.

Responding automatically to Tombstone’s questions as he completed the backseat pre-flight actions, Jeremy mulled that thought over for a moment.

Technically, Jeremy Greene was not on active duty. When he agreed to become part of the small, highly specialized special operations group that Tombstone and his uncle headed up, he had been discharged from the Navy and offered a civilian contract with the company. True, should he leave Advanced Analysis, as their Beltway front was known, he would immediately be recalled to active duty. But technically, at least, he was a civilian right now, wasn’t he?

Technically.

So how did Tombstone figure he was entitled to tell Jeremy who he could and couldn’t talk to? Pamela Drake — of course, he knew who she was. And he knew her history with Tombstone as well. It wasn’t like he had a romantic interest in her, was it? Hell no. But that chick he’d seen with Drake in the terminal, now that was a different matter. Maybe her secretary or something. He’d find out once they got on the boat. There were no secrets there.

“Pre-fight complete,” Tombstone announced.

“Complete,” Jeremy agreed.

Tombstone started the Tomcat’s engines, increasing power as they rumbled to life. Inside the cockpit, Jeremy felt the familiar vibrations of a Tomcat on the ground radiate through the fuselage, up the frame of his seat, and resonate in his bones. It was a warm, welcoming sound, as though the aircraft had missed them and was eager to be airborne.

“Tower, 101, ready to roll,” Greene announced, taking over the communications. The tower granted them clearance ahead of the COD and they rolled out smoothly past her, paused for a moment at the beginning of the runway for final checks, and then began their final roll out. Tombstone applied power smoothly, quickly taking her up to speed, then rotated at slightly over the minimum distance. He put the Tomcat into a steep climb, carefully following the tower’s vectors to clear the area. The area around San Diego was busy, and he was careful to stay out of commercial air control areas.

“Better than the COD,” Greene said. “Although I’m not sure why we needed a full weapon loadout.”

“Always take weapons if they’re offered,” Tombstone said. “Besides, you never know when you’ll need them.”

“Are we? Likely to need them right away, I mean.”

Tombstone didn’t answer.

So this is just a routine mission to ferry a new aircraft out to the squadron, is it? Bullshit. There’s more to this whole incident than meets the eye. Tombstone’s acting like we’re flying into a hostile area. He’s bound to know more about this than he’s telling me. They always do.

It was a source of continuing frustration to Jeremy that Tombstone and his uncle played their cards close to their respective chests.

“Okay, just so I know to stay awake,” Jeremy said. Not like he could sleep in the back of a Tomcat, anyway. Not after what happened last time he’d dozed off. He slept through an engagement, and it had taken Tombstone shouting at him to wake him up.

“There’s no specific threat to know about, Jeremy,” Tombstone said, evidently reading his backseater’s mind. “But it just makes sense to be heads up. You can’t believe everything you read in the newspapers or hear on the air. Particularly not,” he continued, animosity in his voice, “when Pamela Drake is involved. Just keep that in mind.”

“I will. But once we get closer to the carrier—”

“Some fighters from Jefferson will meet us,” Tombstone said. “And tanker support. I’m not anticipating any problems, but you never know.”

“You never know,” Jeremy echoed. He glanced down at his radarscope. “Looks like they’re airborne. Where do you want to stay?”

“High and forwards,” Tombstone said promptly, evidently having already considered the issue. “We’ll be in the data link, but I want my own radar taking a look ahead as well. Just in case.”

Jeremy sighed. “I have a feeling I’m going to get real tired of hearing that phrase.”

Pamela had sneaked a seat next to one of the four windows, and the light streaming in through the scratched and scarred plastic provided enough illumination for her to read her book as they flew. Winston had not been quite as quick to grab a seat, nor had the cameraman bothered to save one for her as he had for Pamela, and she was relegated to the back part of the plane, with the tail ramp in full view. The rear, Pamela had discovered early on, was also the most turbulent part of the COD, although none of it could be called particularly smooth. And other than in the few seats near the windows, there was not enough light to read. Not that Winston had brought a book anyway.

Beside her, the cameraman was asleep. He was an old hand at this and, although she had never told him so, Pamela’s favorite to work with. Jeff possessed an unusually placid, level-headed manner, and even her worst temper tantrums seemed to pass right over him. Additionally, although she’d never told him this either, he was by far in her mind the most bloodthirsty of the cameramen. Given a chance between reaching out to try to save Drake from falling off a cliff and getting a good shot of the look of terror on her face, she suspected he would instinctively choose the latter. Maybe his even temper wasn’t so much a good disposition as a lack of connection on some basic level with other people.

But she’d take good work over friendliness any day, and that was why he was here.

Finally, she fell asleep as well, and the hours passed quickly.