Nuke Zone

2

Even at this early hour, the Beltway was a diamond necklace of headlights. Unmoving headlights. The attack on USS La Salle had occurred late evening Washington time, and by 0400 all roads leading into the Pentagon were tied up in what amounted to rush-hour traffic.

Rear Admiral Matthew “Tombstone” Magruder throttled his cherry GTO into neutral and set the parking brake. The traffic ahead of him had not moved in ten minutes, and he was tired of holding the powerful engine in check with the brakes. He’d spent too many hours restoring and maintaining the car over the last twenty years to take for granted the possibility of obtaining spare parts for any component in it.

Hot-and-cold-running admirals–you hear it all the time but you don’t believe it until something like this happens. Every flag staff on every deck and ring is busting ass to get in the office and show the Old Man how on top of things they are. Politicians, half of them. Wonder how much time they spend thinking about the men and women out there on the front line.

For Tombstone, the question was more than academic.

The Mediterranean was one part of the world he knew well, particularly this small corner of it. In earlier years, as CAG of Carrier Air Wing 20 on board the USS Jefferson, he’d taken his men and women into harm’s way to give air support to UN forces involved in a civil war. It had been about this time of year too–no, wait, a little later. (Carrier 7: Afterburn) October and November, if memory served. The water had taken on an icy sheen as winter approached, a harder, more brilliant shade of blue. The islands themselves were still green, basking in the warm waters that eddied and flowed around them as they had since the days of the Peloponnesian Wars. And the entrance to the Black Sea itself–the narrow funnel of Bosphorus that opened into what the Russians had once considered their own private lake.

Not that Turkey had agreed. He grimaced at the memory. The Battle of Kerch as it was now called had ended with a clear victory for the American battle group and the Marine expeditionary unit that accompanied them.

However, the odds of maintaining a permanent peace among the nations bordering the Black Sea seemed slight. To the north, there was Ukraine. Once a part of the Soviet Union, this newly independent state was suffering the ravages of decades of Communist rule. Its people were an odd mixture of European and Asian cultures. It was also the home of the legendary Cossacks he’d confronted so recently in the Aleutian Islands. (Carrier 9: Arctic Fire)

In that conflict, he’d found that the legendary savagery of their warriors had not been exaggerated.

The recent political maneuverings between Ukraine and Russia gave him no reason to feel confident about the Black Sea nation’s future.

Politically and culturally, the two nations were close. Russia had already provided some evidence of her determination to re-form the former Soviet Union, albeit encompassing a slightly smaller area. Belarus had already been reabsorbed into the Russian hegemony, and Ukraine appeared to be not far behind. Despite Ukraine’s protestations of democracy and prayers at the altar of capitalism, the tenets of socialism were too deeply ingrained in its culture for anyone to expect any miracles.

The other nations surrounding the Black Sea were just as worrisome.

Turkey held the southern coast of the Black Sea, and for that reason had been for years the recipient of massive American foreign aid. The pundits in Washington called her the gatekeeper to the back door of the Mediterranean, and permanent military missions as well as ongoing technical support were a routine part of the relationships between the two nations.

However, like many nations in the region, Turkey was moving away from the centered, global approach to politics and toward a hard-line fundamentalist Islamic approach. With it came the ever-so-subtle realignment of attitudes. While formal treaties and alliances remained in place, in recent years Turkey had begun to view American support as an unwanted and unwelcome intrusion. Not the money, not the technology–just the influx of Western culture. As a result, Turkey appeared to be moving away from the Western world and reestablishing her ties with Iraq and Iran.

Finally, the west coast of the Black Sea. Bulgaria and Romania shared that coast, and both had substantial ties to Ukraine.

And Greece. The ancient nation, with its smattering of islands and reefs, comprised the western border of the Aegean Sea, the entrance to the Black Sea, while Turkey held the east. Since ancient times, the Aegean Sea had been a naval battleground of renown. Through the Aegean and into the Black Sea via the Bosphorus was a trade route as old as history could record, and it had been the site of the final battles between the Greek and Roman empires.

No, there was no reason to be surprised that trouble was brewing again in this part of the world. History has a memory, and those lessons that nations failed to learn they were doomed to repeat.

The car ahead of him moved forward several feet. Tombstone pulled the gearshift back to Drive and closed the gap between them. Traffic stopped again. He sighed and reset the parking brake. No sense in wasting time.

He reached across the well-cared-for vinyl seat and drew a small notebook out of his briefcase. “At least some skills you learn as an aviator come in useful later,” he remarked aloud, more to keep himself company than for any other reason. “Keep up the scan–that’s the first rule.”

He positioned the legal pad on his lap and began making notes, shifting his gaze between the paper and the traffic ahead.

Thirty minutes later, following a check of his ID card by the Marine guard, Tombstone pulled into his designated parking spot near the main entrance to the Pentagon. At the entrance, he went through another ID check line, which included a check of his briefcase. The Marine Corps guard was polite, formal, but doggedly thorough.

When he finally reached his temporary office, it was almost 0500. The rabbit warren of temporary offices and cubicles that comprised the floating working staff of the Chief of Naval Operations was already lit, with at least half of the spaces occupied.

Tombstone parked his briefcase in the private office he’d been assigned for the duration of his temporary duty, and headed for the Chief of Staff’s office. Not surprisingly, the captain was already in.

“Morning, sir,” the Chief of Staff said. Tombstone noted he already looked drawn and haggard. How long would it be before he looked the same way himself?

Not long, he suspected. Along with every other officer assigned to the Pentagon, Tombstone would be living at his desk or in the command center until this crisis was resolved.

And as for Tomboy–her recall to her squadron had come only moments after his own notification of the incident in the Aegean Sea. Her flight back to Pax River would leave at 0700. Any chance they’d had of stealing some time away from their busy careers for each other had vanished as quickly as that unknown contact had blipped onto La Salle’s radar.

“Is he in?” Tombstone asked, gesturing toward the Chief of Naval Operations’ office after acknowledging the Chief of Staff’s greeting.

The Chief of Staff nodded. “He just got back from the JCS briefing. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Tombstone paused outside the paneled door, wondering how many other nephews in the world had to be announced in to see their favorite uncles.

Not many. But then again, not many uncles were Chief of Naval Operations, one of the most powerful positions inside the Pentagon.

The captain replaced the telephone receiver and gestured toward the door. “He’s got a few minutes, Admiral.”

A small frown crossed his face.

“I need him back in ten, if that’s convenient for you.”

“Having trouble keeping him on schedule?” Tombstone asked.

The Chief of Staff shrugged. “Well, he’s been better than most, but you know how it is–any problems that reach his desk are tough ones. In the last six months he’s been here, he’s never had to make one single easy decision. And now…”

Tombstone nodded. “And now it just got tougher. I’ll do what I can, Captain.”

Tombstone turned the knob on the heavy door, tapped lightly, and shoved it open. He took one step into the room and waited for his uncle’s greeting.

“Stoney,” Admiral Thomas Magruder said. “Come on in.”

He gestured at the piles of ubiquitous red folders already crowding the edge of the credenza. “I was looking for you. Come on, have a seat.”

He pointed at the leather chair positioned in front of the desk.

“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”

The CNO grimaced. “You can tell me why the hell the Turks took a shot at us, for starters. And after that, explain the theory of general relativity, the quantum physics in a black hole, and what the hell it is that women really want from us. Is that enough for starters?”

His uncle’s wry, self-deprecating voice coupled with his self-assured gestures touched something ancient in Tombstone. It was a feeling of deja vu, as though he–

Of course. His father. Tombstone’s father, like most of the Magruder men, a Navy pilot.

Tombstone stirred uneasily in his chair, uncomfortable with the memories that came flooding back. He’d been young, so young, the last time he’d seen his father. Could he even have comprehended at that age that it would be the last time?

Military service was more than a career choice for a Magruder. It was a way of life, the hard lessons and dangers that came with it the backbone of their family traditions. His grandfather had served on Nimitz’s staff during World War II. His great-great-grandfather had commanded one of Farragut’s monitors at Mobile Bay. His father and the man sitting behind the massive desk had continued the tradition, both attending the Naval Academy. They’d both been fast-tracked–both, at least, until his father had been shot down above the Doumer Bridge in downtown Hanoi in the summer of 1969. Sam Magruder had finally been listed as killed in action, and the family had long since given up hope that he was still alive.

“I’m relieving Sixth Fleet,” the CNO said bluntly, interrupting his nephew’s reverie. He fixed Tombstone with that somber, unreadable stare that all of the Magruder men possessed. His slate-gray eyes, a shade lighter than Tombstone’s, revealed no trace of emotion.

“Loss of confidence?” Tombstone asked, referring to the standard Navy reason for relieving officers of command absent cause for disciplinary action.

“Yes. The early reports indicate he damn near pulled a Stark,” the senior admiral said.

Stark. One of the most critical failures of naval leadership in the last several decades. Coupled with the USS Vincennes shoot-down of an Iranian airbus, the two incidents neatly book-ended the delicate line a commander was required to walk between caution and recklessness.

In the case of the Stark, an Iranian P3 Charlie in an overflight had approached the vast frigate in a threatening posture. The Stark’s TAO had treated it as a routine mission, relying on their past experience with Iranian maritime patrols. The captain, in fact, had been in the head during the actual first attack on Stark.

Closing to within tactical range, the Iranian P3 had fired an antiship missile at the USS Stark. With the close-in weapons systems masked by her aspect to the attack, the Stark hadn’t had a chance. The missile had plowed into the ship’s midsection. The resulting explosion had killed a number of men, and the Stark herself had managed to stay afloat only through the superb professionalism and damage control of the remainder of her crew.

“How bad is La Salle?” Tombstone asked. “The EMP is something we’ve been worried about for a long time. Were there any personnel casualties?”

The CNO sighed. “It’s bad. Real bad, I suspect. Every bit of electronic circuitry on the ship is fried. She’s underway–just barely–en route to Gaeta for full damage assessment.”

He shook his head gravely.

“We’re looking at a full refit of all combat systems, of every bit of twidget equipment on board La Salle. Fortunately, Shiloh’s EMP hardening worked like it was supposed to, and Jefferson was out of range. We’ve got fifty-one sailors with either complete or partial loss of vision from the nuke flash. Which brings us to the critical question–why?”

“It makes no sense whatsoever, sir,” Tombstone said immediately.

“Turkey is an ally–an uneasy one at times, perhaps, especially since the fundamentalist Islamic forces began dominating her politics. They’ve always been hard to figure out–a primarily Muslim country that elects a female, Tansu Ciller, as Prime Minister. As a practical matter, they’re heavily dependent on the foreign aid we provide, both militarily and in the civilian population. Aside from our disagreement with them over the Kurds–and we’ve been damned weak-spined about that–we tend to see eye to eye on things. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

The CNO nodded. “The Intelligence wienies agree with you. It makes no sense–yet they’ve opened a Pandora’s box of tactical nuclear weapons as a first strike. That seems to indicate that everything we know or think we know about Turkey misses the mark. Quite frankly, my immediate inclination is to order a devastating counterforce strike against them. But that’s going to meet with some resistance from both State Department and the president.”

Tombstone leaned back in his chair and stared at the world map dominating the wall behind the CNO. The intricate politics, the ebb and flow of loyalties and alliances, all driven by the vast machine of religious fervor in that part of the world–how were a couple of pilots supposed to make sense of it?

The State Department sure as hell didn’t have the answers.

But there’d been an attack on American forces at sea. Aside from any other political considerations, that matter had to be dealt with.

Decisively and immediately. To do less would simply open the flood-gates, encourage every tin-pot dictator anywhere in the world to take his best shot at American forces, lulled into security by the United States’ failure to retaliate against Turkey. He shook his head. No, that would never do.

Many more would make similar attempts in the years to come if America demonstrated any lack of resolve or inability to avenge herself. That must not be allowed to occur.

“Any word from State?” Tombstone asked, knowing he was not going to like the answer.

The CNO sighed. “Assholes have got a better intelligence network than we do,” he said bitterly. “I’ve already had two calls from them urging restraint, moderation, some sort of nonsense that sounds like healing the wounded bastard child of Turkey’s psyche.”

Fury rose in the admiral’s face, transforming his normally impassive expression into a mask of anger.

“Those assholes shot at my ship! And they’re going to pay for it.”

“As they ought to,” Tombstone said crisply, uncomfortable immediately with the strong ebb and flow of emotion in the room. “How can I help?”

“Tombstone, what I’m about to tell you–you can decline if you want to, son. I’m hoping you won’t, but I’ll leave you that option. I’ve got to have somebody on the scene whom I trust absolutely, an officer in command whose view of the situation mirrors mine exactly. If Turkey is committed to using tactical nuclear weapons, we could lose communications with our forces there at any point. At the very least, we’re going to lose ground-support capabilities from our base in Turkey.”

He shook his head. “I can’t risk putting an unknown quantity on the front line. Hell, if I could get away from this desk, I’d go myself. But I can’t. Unless you have some objection, as of this second, you’re Sixth Fleet.” The CNO fell silent and waited for his nephew’s response.

“Sixth Fleet? Admiral, I’m flattered at your confidence, but-“

“Don’t give me any crap, Stoney,” the CNO said quietly. “I want you there, partially for reasons I can’t even tell you about. The only question is, how fast and for how long? I know you’re due to turn over with Southcom in a couple of weeks, and you’ve got a full can wait. There’s no other admiral in this Navy with as much actual combat experience as you’ve got, and nobody I trust more. So cut the modesty and give me a simple yes or no, will you?”

“Yes. Of course I’ll go. Did you really have any doubt?”

“No.” A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of the admiral’s mouth. “But I thought I’d give you an out if you wanted one. You and that young lady of yours. Hell, Stoney, we’ve got to start producing Magruders for the next century sometime, don’t you think? I thought maybe-“

It was Tombstone’s turn to interrupt. “With all due respect, you thought wrong, Admiral,” he shot back quickly. “My young lady, as you put it, is a combat-blooded Naval aviator. If she thought I’d turned down this assignment just to stay with her, she’d kick my ass from here to Honolulu.”

A silence settled over the room, not an uncomfortable one. It was the feeling between two men who trust each other absolutely, who were related not only by blood, but by the even more binding ties of honor, loyalty, and duty. “You’ll leave immediately,” the CNO said finally. He stared at Tombstone as if trying to memorize his features. “Old stomping grounds for you, Stoney. Since La Salle is completely non-mission-capable, you’ll have to park your flag on Jefferson. Any problem with that?”

A sudden fierce joy shook Tombstone, surprising in its intensity. To be back at sea, just when he thought he was going to be deskbound at Southcom for a two-year tour. Not in command of the carrier, of course–that honor would remain with his old wingman, Rear Admiral Edward Everett “Batman” Wayne, the man who’d relieved him only a year earlier as Commander, Carrier Battle Group 14.

Tombstone stood. “If there’s nothing else, Admiral, I need to make some preparations to get underway.”

The CNO stood and extended his right hand. Tombstone grasped it, the warm configurations so like the flesh of his own hand, a pulse that was more than a physiological function beating in unison in the two hands.

Tombstone held the handshake a moment longer than was necessary, then released his uncle’s hand reluctantly. “I’d best get going.”

“The Chief of Staff will type up your orders.” The CNO regarded him gravely. “I don’t have to tell you how important this is, Admiral.”

“I know, Admiral.”

Bradley Tiltfelt glared at the man fidgeting before his desk. “Whose side are you on?”

As Deputy Assistant Director for Eastern European Affairs, he had every right to ask the question. Ask it, and expect the appropriate answer from his subordinates. If the man standing in front of him didn’t understand that, it was time Bradley knew that now.

The Section Chief for Turkey appeared to be giving the matter some thought, which Bradley deemed entirely inappropriate. The answer was obvious, or should be. That there might be other concerns than the political standing of his office–and more importantly, of himself–never even entered Tiltfelt’s mind.

“I’m in favor of peaceful resolution of this matter before the military knee-jerk reaction escalates it into a full-scale war,” the man offered tentatively.

Bradley leaned back in his chair, caressed the leather arm, and stared pointedly at the Chief. “What manual did you plagiarize that from? When I want politically correct jargon out of you, I’ll tell you. Now answer the question.”

The Chief’s face reddened, and his fidgeting stopped. Bradley could see the anger rising in the man’s eyes, felt the tension in the room build.

It was unfortunate that he had to rely on individuals such as this in conducting foreign policy–extremely unfortunate. Where were the cadres of loyal subordinates that he saw staffing the offices of the other Assistant Deputies?

He shook his head, feeling vaguely bitter. The State Department was supposed to be a haven for a better sort of human being, the ones that understood the intricacies of world affairs and that such matters could not be entrusted to men whose only idea of an appropriate response to turmoil was an explosive device.

His Chief started to speak, choked back a few words, and then remained silent.

“Well?” Bradley demanded. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, of course, sir,” the Chief finally muttered. He looked down at the carpet, finding something incredibly intriguing just in front of his feet.

Well, it was less than the wholehearted support to which he was entitled, but it would have to do, Bradley decided. Indeed, the care and feeding of his subordinates had become of increasingly little significance to him. They were there to do a job, to feed him the information he required in order to make the appropriate decisions, and they’d damned well better understand that. It wasn’t as though he could trust them with anything more than mechanical tasks, not after their conduct during the last flare-up with China. (Carrier 8: Alpha Strike)

He let the man squirm for a few minutes more while he studied his fingernails. Finally, when he deemed that the full weight of his dissatisfaction had settled in on the man, he spoke. “Turkey is an old and valued ally of the United States,” he said slowly and distinctly. “During the decades of the Cold War and even before that, there has never been an incident of this kind. Therefore, our first priority is to determine exactly what provoked this reaction from her.”

“Provoked?” his section chief said wonderingly. “Sir, with all due respect–there has been an attack on American forces. A nuclear attack. Regardless of any supposed justification, I cannot see any possible rationale for such an egregious breach of international protocol. It’s simply-“

“You’ve just demonstrated why you’ll never be anything more than a Section Chief,” Bradley interrupted. He pointed an accusing finger at his area expert. “The inability to see beyond the obvious. Of course this is an egregious act. That’s obvious. I don’t need you to tell me what I can hear on ACN every morning.”

Bradley sighed, contemplating for perhaps the thousandth time the difficulty of working with lesser minds. If only at least a few of them had possessed a degree of class, he might have been able to live with the lack of intellectual capacity. But the buffoonish, crass man standing in front of him was all too typical of the minions that inhabited the State Department. “What we need,” Bradley continued, enunciating each word carefully, “is a reason. And a solution. If you can’t supply it, I’ll find someone who can.”

“With your permission, then,” the Chief said, his voice a tightly controlled filament of rage, “I’ll be getting back to my desk. We’ll see if we can produce the answers you seem to think exist.”

Without waiting to be excused, the Chief turned sharply and left the office, pulling the door shut behind him with a bit more force than perhaps was necessary.

Bradley dampened down his own annoyance, and pulled a legal pad toward him to outline his thoughts. The situation had the potential to be an absolute disaster. Not for the United States–the nation would survive, as she had for centuries. He had an unshakable, inchoate belief in the divine immortality of his country. No, there was a much more serious danger before him–the damage that any mishandling of this affair could do to his own career.

He laid the Mont Blanc pen on the pad, carefully centering it in the middle of the page. “I’ll have to go myself,” he said thoughtfully. “If I don’t, something’s bound to go wrong. Any mishandling of this incident, and we could end up with another war on our hands.”

A vision formed in his mind, one that he found pleasing. He promptly embellished the appropriate details. It was based on a photo taken in Tiananmen Square, of the single Chinese student who’d stood in front of an oncoming tank and held Chinese military forces at bay during the student protests there. Yes, the Chinese student–and Bradley Tiltfelt. He alone could stand in front of the United States military and prevent an entirely inappropriate reaction from occurring.

A sense of duty, of destiny and historic import, settled over him.

Yes, that was what he’d do. Stop the war before it started.

And what better place to serve as a base for his operations for implementing a true solution to this conflict than aboard the potentially aggressive American warships that were undoubtedly steaming toward Turkey at this very moment?

Bradley reached down and punched the intercom button that would summon his administrative assistant. When the attractive young woman appeared at his door, he barked, “Call my wife. Have her pack me a bag–casual, yet formal. She’ll understand what that means. And have the Travel Section arrange transport and passports. Get Military Liaison to send out the appropriate messages for embarkation on board the USS Jefferson.”

Bird Dog was only half awake when he felt the unmistakable touch of a small female hand trail softly across the hard ridges of his gut, lightly tickle the thin band of dark hair that ran between his groin and his navel, and descend unerringly and relentlessly toward its objective. He groaned, stretched hard to release the sleep kinks in his shoulders and hips, and rolled over on his right side. Morning had never been one of his favorite times of the day, but over the past two months, Callie Lazure had been doing her best to change his mind.

“You’re awake?” a soft voice said in his ear. Her hand closed around him, tightened. He could feel his pulse pounding against her delicate skin. “Part of you is, at least.”

There was a warm, affectionate note in her voice.

Bird Dog groaned, threw one arm around her waist, and pulled her close. “The best part of me is.”

He moved his hips forward, and felt an answering surge of her hips.

“It’s not your mind I’m interested in, sweetheart.”

She shoved him slightly, rolling him back over on his back. A few seconds later she was astride him. “Just this.”

Bird Dog drove deep into her, marveling at the incredible hard wetness that engulfed him. The sensation was all-encompassing, literally driving every coherent thought from his head.

He reached up, caressed the outsides of her breasts with the palms of his hands, his thumb and forefinger tracing out the rock-hard nipples. Callie planted her hands on his chest and settled back, driving him even deeper into her.

Time dissolved into the rhythmic motion, minutes and hours now counted by the slow surge and beat of the motion between them. It seemed to take hours, weeks, for the steadily rhythmic rocking to pick up speed, accelerating until it drove him almost insane from the sheer relentlessness of it. He groaned, pulled her down to him so that her face was nestled against his, and exploded inside her. He heard her answering cries, soft and insistent, as she came herself.

As his sanity returned, and he began to be able to distinguish the contours of her body from his own, he had but one thought. God, he loved shore duty.

“I’ll be damned if I will,” Tombstone said, his voice cold level menace. “Not on this operation.”

“You’ve got no choice, Stoney,” his uncle said quietly. “Neither do I.”

The call from the State Department had come just minutes after his nephew had left the CNO’s office, and had carried with it an ominous feeling like the first clouds on a storm front. JCS had approved replacing the current Sixth Fleet commander with Admiral Matthew Magruder, but it had added a complicating factor to the entire strategic scenario. Given the delicate longstanding relationship between Turkey and the United States, the president was insisting that the answer to this potentially explosive conflict be thought of in the broader spectrum–as an entire political and national response rather than purely a military one. As a result, the USS Jefferson would be entering the operating area carrying a senior State Department official, a supposed expert in the area.

There wasn’t a damned thing about this the CNO liked, and he couldn’t blame his nephew for sharing his opinions. After all, wasn’t that why he was sending Stoney?

To have someone whose judgment so mirrored his own on scene?

But the higher you got in rank, he reflected, the tougher the answers got. There were political trade-offs, power plays and rice bowls, not the least of those was in Central Asia. It was already evident that the State Department would play a role in this mission. Hell, the JCS had been unwilling to discuss potential targeting scenarios without consulting with the limp dicks over in State. It had even indicated that if the Navy couldn’t work with the rest of the U.S. government, they’d put the Air Force in charge of the operation.

The Air Force. The CNO snorted. Not on my watch.

“He’s going with you,” the CNO said flatly. “Get used to it, Admiral. We pay you to act like a guy wearing two stars, not like some hotshot fighter pilot.”

He hated the words the moment they left his mouth.

Stoney seemed to withdraw into himself, a trait the CNO had noticed all too often in the last several years. He sighed, wishing life had dealt Stoney a better hand. To lose his father so young, especially when the full details of his father’s mission had never been made public–damn, it had to affect the man, no matter that he had a father-figure substitute in the form of an older uncle who loved him dearly.

“Yes, Admiral,” Tombstone said finally. He shot his uncle an accusing look. “You’ll get my best efforts, sir. Have no doubt about that. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s the concept of taking orders.”

“Stoney, I-“

The CNO broke off. What could he say now that would bridge this gap between uncle and nephew, that could soften the iron dictates of duty that bound them both?

Nothing, he realized. In circumstances such as these, duty superseded all blood relationships. And as much as he disliked it, the admiral had his orders. “Good luck,” the CNO said finally, wishing desperately there was some way to break through the new wall he felt between himself and the younger admiral. “Not that you’ll need it.”

Tombstone stared at his uncle for a moment, and his glare finally softened into something that held twinges of regret. “If we have to depend on luck, Uncle Thomas, we’re in a world of shit. Who am I taking anyway?”

“His name is Bradley Tiltfelt,” the admiral said, relieved to be back on less treacherous ground than the emotional health of a family. “I don’t know much about him–he’s a political appointee. They all are,” he added with some degree of bitterness. It was one of the trends that had bothered him most, especially seeing it in his own service. Appointing those who were politically correct and in favor after years of D.C. tours instead of true, operationally hardened warriors with extensive time at sea. Luckily, his nephew was an exception to that trend.

“Well.”

Tombstone seemed at a loss for words. Suddenly, without warning, he thrust out his hand at the man standing across the desk from him. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

The CNO surprised himself by walking around the desk, taking the hand, and drawing his nephew in toward him for a brief, hard embrace. “Take care of yourself, Stoney.”

Bleating goats competed with the sharp staccato of automobile horns to drown out the continual underlying roar of crowds and machinery that was a constant background in Istanbul. The ancient city crowded down to the water, fronting on the Bosphorus Strait. From the earliest times, it had provided a demarcation between Eastern and Western worlds, cosmopolitan and tolerant of almost every culture and religion.

Pamela Drake, combat reporter for the prestigious ACN news network, studied the crowds flowing and eddying around her. Usually, she could pick up vital country details from her studies of the crowds, details that lent her reports an air of authenticity that few others could rival. It was almost a sixth sense, one anchor had once commented, the ability to be on scene at the most godforsaken and remote areas of the world just as all hell was breaking loose. It was also the reason her salary had edged up steadily toward the seven-figure mark, making her the highest-paid foreign correspondent at any network.

Istanbul was hardly a backwater, however. As the world grew increasingly smaller, major metropolitan centers started to look more and more alike, she thought, studying the cars streaming down streets originally built for goat herds. The past slowly faded out, replaced by electrons and tarmac and concrete. Yet for all the modern progress it had made, Istanbul had managed to retain the flavor of an exotic, foreign port.

The crowds today were quiet, and felt puzzled and frightened. She couldn’t quantify it exactly–it was less a data-point than a personal observation born of long experience in combat theaters. And Lord knows she had experience–from the Arctic to the South China Sea and all points in between, she’d chased the vagaries of geopolitical eruptions across the globe.

At least here she wouldn’t have to rely on portable satellite up-links with their mysterious grumblings and dependence on atmospheric conditions.

Istanbul boasted a fully staffed ACN office, complete with dedicated satellite dishes bristling across the roof and enough telephone line to satisfy any reporter. Sometimes too much technology was more of a pain in the ass than a help. The main bureau in Memphis tended to clamp down during breaking stories, trying to micromanage the stories pouring out of a war.

If they could just get the politics out of the way, the interminable ACN maneuverings for status and position, she thought wearily, she might even be able to figure out what the hell was going on.

She strode into the office, chin high and carriage erect, quickly scanning the crowded room for the man she wanted. There he was, encased in his glass cubicle at the back, talking on the telephone while waving a rancid Turkish cigarette in the air. She grimaced, wishing the health-conscious mandates of the ACN Stateside offices had made it out this far. Still, his disgusting personal habits were of less concern than his approach to the current crisis.

Without asking permission, she strode to the back of the room and shoved open his door. “Mike,” she said warmly, “how good to see you again.”

The man waved one hand at her, and motioned toward a seat. He finished off a conversation in clipped, guttural Turkish, then replaced the receiver and turned to greet her. “Pamela, I wondered how long it would be till you turned up.”

He made a vague gesture toward the rest of the newsroom. “We’ve been taking bets on it, as a matter of fact. If you’d waited another two hours, I’d be eighty bucks richer.”

Pamela laughed. “It’s your own fault, Mike. You should have known better after all the times we’ve worked together.”

And he should have, she thought, studying him carefully. If not from personal experience, at least from her legendary reputation within ACN.

Anyone who bet on Pamela Drake being late to the fight was sorely misguided.

The years had been harder on Mike than they had on her, she was pleased to note. Deep furrows creased his forehead, and the curly dark hair was streaked with gray in an oddly puzzling pattern: random patches of white frost in between stretches of glossy dark hair, giving him a harlequin look.

It would be a mistake to let that mislead you, though, she thought.

His eyes were the same sharp, peculiar shade of light brown, piercing and knowing. He smiled, revealing perfectly formed teeth slightly stained with nicotine.

The ACN Istanbul office, while fully staffed, was a small operation.

There were five reporters, a handful of multitalented technicians, and Mike. He was double-hatted as both the bureau chief and the producer, overseeing all aspects of the operations in the area.

“How can we help you?” he queried, holding out his hand. “Always delighted to have you grace us with your presence, of course.”

She slipped into the chair, relieved that at least initially there wouldn’t be any wearying battles over who she worked for–or who worked for her. “I got here as fast as I could. What do you know about this nuclear detonation?”

His face looked somber. “None of us knows very much at all. I swear to God, Pamela, it’s the damnedest thing. There’s been no real hint of a change in Turkish position vis-a-vis the United States. No underground rumblings, no petty sniping from our sources, nothing. Not even any unexpected military movements or ‘war games,’ like there usually are.”

He spread his hands and shrugged. “Quite frankly, we’re at a loss.”

“What’s the official reaction?” Pamela asked.

“Complete denial. In fact, if I didn’t know what the U.S. military was reporting, I’d say the Turks are as puzzled by the whole thing as we are. Worried too. We’re too close to Chernobyl for comfort. These people know what effect a nuclear problem can have on their country. We talked to the Minister of Health earlier today, and he was damned near in a panic.”

“Strange.”

More than strange, Pamela thought, downright inexplicable.

Her experience, like Mike’s, had been that every unexpected conflict was not really that unexpected. There were always murmurings, traces of political unrest, the first few harbingers of war floating around the countryside. If you knew what you were doing, had enough sources in enough countries, you could keep track of them. Keep track of them, and beat every other reporter to the story. It was one of her specialties.

“More than strange,” Mike Packmeyer said. He paused, making sure he had her full attention. “More than strange,” he repeated slowly. “There’s something going on here, Pamela, and I don’t mind telling you it scares the hell out of me. Something’s very wrong.”

Pamela stood abruptly. “I’ll need the standard support package, Mike,” she began. “Satellite time, up-link resources, and somebody to get my material out of here. With the way this thing is breaking, I don’t have time to dick around. Let me be blunt about it–are we on the same team or not?”

She fixed him with a cold look.

Packmeyer shook his head. “Always the same Pamela. Listen, I live here–have for the last ten years. What I want right now is to figure out what the hell is going on.”

He paused and shot her a significant look.

“You’re the person to do it, Pamela. You’ll have every bit of support that you need and more.”

Pamela nodded, satisfied. “I appreciate that, Mike.”

And indeed she did. Now she could concentrate on the one thing that drew her on professionally, a source of endless fascination and intrigue for her–the real story.