Joint Operations

THREE

Rear Admiral “Tombstone” Magruder slung one arm around his wife’s shoulder and stared down at her fondly. “This enough like a honeymoon for you?”

Commander Joyce “Tomboy” Flynn Magruder stared up at him, a rapt expression on her face. “It ought to be — we’ve been waiting long enough for it.”

“Two years.” He pulled her close and turned to face her. “But I’m planning on making up for lost time on this trip.”

She nuzzled up against him. “Two years. I can’t believe it.” She pulled away slightly and smacked him lightly on the chest. “What would you say if one of your staff officers told you he made his wife wait that long for a honeymoon?”

He sighed and pulled her back in close to him. “I’d say he was a damned fool, if his bride was anything like you. But then, most women aren’t.”

“Aren’t what?”

“Like you.”

“Hmmm.”

Tombstone knew immediately he’d struck the wrong note, and tried to make up for it. “And there were a few other things that interfered as well, if you’ll recall. Blame the Chinese and the Russians, not me. You were there — you know what we were facing.”

He felt her head nod against his chest, her breath ruffling the hair on his chest. “Some things I won’t ever forgive them for.”

“And it’s not like we had much of a choice, did we?” he continued. “I mean, you understand what being an officer is all about. That’s one way you’re different.”

“From Pamela, you mean?”

“Among other people, yes. Pamela would be a very good example of what I’m talking about.”

“Pamela.” This time she did pull back, and Tombstone could see the storm clouds gathering on her face. “Let me get this straight. We’re on our honeymoon, said honeymoon having been delayed for two years — six months longer than a normal command tour — we’re in Hawaii, at perhaps the world’s most romantic tropical resort. You would agree with those facts?”

“Yup.”

“Now, given all that, what in the hell are you doing mentioning that bitch’s name?”

Tombstone stared down at her, amazed at the transformation her face had undergone. He’d seen it before, that legendary redhead temper, but only occasionally had been on the receiving end of it. Her brilliant green eyes were narrowed to mere slits, and the golden-red hair seemed to halo her face like lightening. Her eyebrows were drawn down toward her nose, and her normally full and luxurious mouth had narrowed down to a thin line.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” he said, still confused about what exactly he’d done wrong — hell, he’d been complimenting her, hadn’t he? — but falling back on a spousal survival skill he’d learned early on.

No matter that his darling wife, the love of his life, was perhaps the best backseater he’d ever flown with, male or female, and a front-running officer in the Tomcat community. No matter that she’d seen her share of combat, both as a regular member of a fighting squadron and in command of a squadron as well. It didn’t even seem to dawn on her that he’d picked her over Pamela Drake, breaking an engagement of sorts that spanned nearly a decade to marry the diminutive RIO now virtually spitting her words at him.

No, this was definitely not the time to point those items out. The last thing he wanted to be doing right now was arguing with her, and the fastest route to resuming their honeymoon — He glanced at his watch. Just barely enough time before dinner if he could clear this up now — was to simply shut up and apologize. Later, when she’d calmed down, he could figure out what he’d said wrong.

“I’m sorry, you’re right,” he said again, putting all the conviction that almost three decades in uniform could bring to bear. “It’s our honeymoon.”

“As opposed to who else’s?”

No, he’d missed the window of opportunity, he could see that now. Once Tomboy started spinning up like this, it was damned hard to cycle her down. An apology worked, but only if you could get it in play fast enough.

“As opposed to living my entire life alone, miserable without you.” He drew her in close to him and felt his body surge in response. “Have I told you in the last five minutes how wonderful you look in that swimming suit? And how much better you’d look out of it?”

She planted her hands squarely in the middle of his chest and shoved. Not hard, but hard enough to make her point. “No. You haven’t. And it won’t get you out of this one so easily, Stony. Don’t even try.” She turned and stalked off.

He followed her into the luxurious penthouse suite that had eaten up a good portion of their savings. “Why are you mad at me?”

“Why?” she echoed, her back still to him. “You start rambling on about Pamela Drake, and you have to ask me why?”

“You brought her up,” Tombstone said, now resigning himself to the fact that there wouldn’t be a sweet session of lovemaking before dinner. Indeed, if things progressed much further, there wouldn’t be any afterward either. “I was just saying — ”

“You were thinking about her, weren’t you?” she shot back. “Don’t lie to me, Stony. Don’t even try.”

He sighed. The bitch of it was, she was right. He’d been watching the sun trek down toward the ocean, wondering whether or not they might see the fabled green flash just as the sun disappeared into the Pacific Ocean, idly considering whether or not he could slip the maitre d’ a few bucks to get them a seat next to the window so they could watch for it, wondering how much time they had left before dinner, letting his mind wander through a few sexual fantasies and bang — Pamela had flitted across his mind. Not settled in there, not stayed for much more that a microsecond. And honestly, he’d just thought about how lucky he’d been that he was here with Tomboy instead of Pamela.

And she’d heard him. It was spooky sometimes, how she seemed to read his thoughts.

Well, if she was going to read his mind, she ought to at least have the courtesy to read the entire thought, not just pick out one name at random that happened to pop up.

But maybe there was still a way to salvage the evening. He looked pointedly at his watch. “Hey, about time to eat, isn’t it? Hungry? I’m starving.” He mustered up his most winning smile and prayed.

For a moment, he thought it wouldn’t work. Then he saw it, the beginning of the frost melting off of her face. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Cut that out,” she said, her voice warm and intimate.

“Cut what out?”

“That. You know.”

Safe now, and only because of a quirk of facial muscles that his mother told him he’d inherited from his father, some odd sort of smile that seemed to be his ultimate weapon. “How about this?” he said, stepping close and running his hands over her body. “Should I cut this out as well?”

She moaned softly. “Maybe.”

“And this?”

She pressed up against him. “Only if you want to be on time for breakfast.”

Come to think of it, he wasn’t that hungry.

When the hotel management had learned who would be staying with them, the manager had insisted on upgrading them to the best suite in the hotel. He’d also evidently had a word with the restaurant staff — Tombstone and Tomboy had never had to wait for a table.

After dinner, Tombstone ordered a bottle of champagne. He waited while their glasses were charged, then held his up. “To us. And to a honeymoon every moment we’re together.”

She clinked her glass lightly against his. “To us.”

Overhead, the stars were just memories in the gradually lightening sky. The restaurant had all the windows open, and the early morning breeze ruffled his hair gently. He took one of her hands in both of his and said, “There’s nothing else in the world except us. Nothing.”

She sighed happily. “Us and the stars.” She pointed with her chin at the sky outside. “It looks like that sea, too. Even better there, with no ambient light.” Just then a light streaked across the blackness. “Oh, look,” she exclaimed. “Shooting star — make a wish, quick.”

Something about the path the light traced across the sky made him pause. He felt an uneasy churning in his stomach. “That star… something’s not right.”

“Pshaw,” she said lightly. “Go ahead, make a wish.”

“I wish I’m wrong,” he said, talking to himself more than complying with her request. “But — ” he was on his feet, moving toward the entrance to the restaurant and the telephone.

“What…?” she started to ask, then a look of dawning horror crossed her face. She was on his heels in an instant.

The peaceful night world outside exploded into blots of light and noise, the light flashing away their night vision just seconds before the sound and fury of multiple explosions reached them. The pressure wave arrived then, blasting the glass out of the windows.

Tombstone grabbed Tomboy and pulled her into the inner entrance to the restaurant. He dove for cover, pulling her down with him and covering her body with his own. Glass and debris peppered his back.

“No,” he heard Tomboy wail, then felt her writhing underneath him as she struggled to get free. “No, it can’t be!”

He let her up then, but caught her as she started to run for the exit. He pulled her around to face him, holding her just above the elbows and pulling her up on her tiptoes. “It’s going to get crazy right now.” He pulled her into a hard, brief kiss. “You know what that was, just like I do. We’ve got to get down to CinCPac Fleet. If we get separated, find a way to get back to Jefferson. She’s just off the coast on REFTRA.”

Tomboy nodded, all trace of panic and confusion gone from her face. “I’ll go with you to CinCPac, and we’ll figure it out from there.”

As they approached the Commander in Chief, Pacific, headquarters located on the Camp Smith Army compound, it became obvious that there were no answers to be found there. Guards blocked the gate, all with that itchy trigger finger look in their eyes that warned the two Magruders that this was as far as they were getting.

“Anyone know what happened?” Tombstone asked. His tone of voice, that of a senior naval officer who wanted answers — and wanted them now — had the desired effect. Although the soldiers appeared no more likely to open the gates to their rental car, he did see a slight softening in their manner.

“Bombs, sir.” The soldier waved in the direction behind him, never completely taking his eyes off the occupants of the car. “Air launched, if it matters.”

“Casualties,” Tombstone demanded.

“Still sorting it out, sir. It’s pretty bad. We can’t find everyone, so Captain Smith’s taken charge of CinCPac Fleet.”

Captain Billy Smith. Well, it could have been worse, Tombstone reflected. A surface sailor, a charter member of the old school club. Billy Smith hadn’t changed his conviction since his days at the Naval Academy that there was only one way to do things, and that was by the book. It was an approach that left something to be desired when it came to aerial combat, but worked perfectly fine most of the time. And fortunately, the navy had instructions to cover virtually any contingency in the book. Particularly the book that covered attacks on Pearl Harbor.

“Sir, the other senior officers are mustering at the officers’ club,” the sergeant said, his eyes drifting over to something behind him. “We’re a little busy right now with the rescue and damage control efforts — there’ll be someone there organizing transport back to your commands there, sir. And ma’am.”

Tombstone nodded. Yes, there would be a plan for everything in Hawaii, and most certainly for getting officers back to their commands. And for damage control.

Still, it was all well and good to say they’d get him back to his command. If you had one.

Tomboy did. As commanding officer of VF-95, they’d slap her skinny little butt onto the first COD bound for Jefferson, along with any other spare aviators that happened to have been in port. Probably about two-thirds to three-quarters of her squadron. Only the duty section would have voluntarily remained onboard the carrier, and they were probably in four-section duty. No need to have more people aboard, not when they were steaming in the peaceful waters off Hawaii.

Not unless the unthinkable happened.

Tombstone pulled the Taurus into a tight circle and headed back the way they’d come. For now, the officers’ club looked like the best bet.

“Stony?” Tomboy asked. “Drop me at Base Operations.”

“Why? He said transport was being arranged out of the officers’ club.”

Tomboy’s face was pulled into the hard mask that he recognized as her command face. “I’m not relying on somebody else’s prioritization of passengers. There’ll be pilots and aircraft at Base Ops. That’s all I need to get back to Jefferson.

“You’ve got a pilot right here,” Tombstone said. “Half the problem solved.”

Tomboy nodded. “I’d thought of that. And you’re current, aren’t you?”

“Indeed I am.” Just before departing on their honeymoon, he’d spent a couple of weeks in Norfolk scraping the rust off. “Card-carrying naval aviator, I am.”

“I probably ought to take a combat pilot, though, if I can,” Tomboy said thoughtfully. “Whatever’s happened, we’ll need warfighters more than planners.”

A cold chill seeped through Tombstone. Had she really said that? Implied that there would be someone more useful to her in the air than her husband? Some twenty-something-year-old nugget with maybe one cruise under his belt? Who’d never taken on a MiG one-on-one, flown combat missions over hostile territory?

“I fly missions,” he said thickly.

She shook her head. “No, you don’t. The Navy’s not paying you admiral’s pay to sit in a cockpit. You’re the front end of the solution, the one who figures out how to keep pilots from getting killed. Not the one who flies the mission.” She glanced over at him, suddenly aware how it’d all sounded. “Not that you’re not a fine pilot, Stony.”

“Sure. Just not the one you want to fly with.” The words he’d intended as a joke came out entirely too harshly.

“Don’t be an ass,” she said sharply. “You know exactly what I mean.”

The bitch of it was, he did. Jobs for a combat pilot got scarce as hen’s teeth as you got more senior. You flew a desk more often than a Tomcat. His uncle had realized that, and had come up with the solution that would make best use of his nephew’s combat experience and practical knowledge — troubleshooter. Not for paperwork and administrative problems, or for the various political situations the navy faced today. No, Tombstone was the warfighter that his uncle, the CNO, sent into sticky situations and nasty little wars. The sort of problems where nobody could figure out how to achieve their objectives without losing a lot of men and women and aircraft in the process. A troubleshooter who not only knew the enemy, but had killed his fair share in the past decades.

“Let’s see if they’ve got an aircraft,” he said, putting aside for the moment the question of who’d actually fly it out to the ship. There was no point in pointing out that he outranked everyone that they were likely to run into at Base Ops, and if he wanted an aircraft, they’d damned well come up with one for him. And no one, not even his pretty little tiger-wife, was going to stop him.

A COD was just pulling up in front of Base Ops as they pulled into the parking lot. A stream of passengers clad in survival gear was already heading toward the loading area.

“Not a full load,” Tomboy noted. “If we hurry, we can be on it.” She opened the door and hopped out before Tombstone had even brought the car to a full stop. “I’ll get our names on the manifest.” She was out of sight before Tombstone could get his own seat belt unfastened.

By the time he made it into Base Ops, Tomboy had already filled out their next of kin cards and added their names to the manifest. She tossed him his cranial and floatation vest, then pointed toward the waiting COD. “Two minutes. Let’s get our asses in gear.” They pulled on the safety gears as they ran for the turbo-propped transport aircraft.

The aircraft was just over half full. An enlisted aircrewman directed them to seats in the middle of the aircraft, then trotted back down the ramp to check for any more late arrivals. He was back within moments. He slipped his headset on, and Tombstone saw his lips moving as he talked to the aircrew up front. The ramp that served as a boarding ladder pulled up and joined with the fuselage of the aircraft. The passenger compartment was plunged into darkness broken only by the feeble overhead bulbs few and far between.

Tombstone glanced over at Tomboy and saw her shut her eyes for a moment. She was a RIO, a backseater, used to having someone else doing the driving, although he thought she probably did understand just how much he hated being a passenger on any aircraft.

He’d been a passenger far too often in the last year, he decided. Enough was enough.

“Listen up, please. Magruder?” an enlisted sailor standing in the aisle shouted. “Magruder?”

“Which one?” Tombstone asked.

“Oh, there are two of you, sir,” the sailor said. “I thought it was just a mistake.”

“There are two,” Tombstone agreed.

“And you’re both billeted onboard Jefferson?” the sailor asked.

“She is,” Tombstone said, pointing at Tomboy.

“And you, sir? Because right here — sir, I’m sorry, but if you’re not assigned to the ship, I need to put someone in that seat who is. Mission essential only, it says. Sir.” The sailor was clearly not comfortable making his point to the admiral, but he stood his ground.

Not mission essential. Tombstone stood and coldly stalked off the aircraft. As soon as he’d cleared the flight deck, he pulled out his cell phone. They’d just see who was not mission essential in this Navy.