Nuke Zone

3

The carrier was little more than a gray smudge on the horizon as seen from the cockpit of the approaching F-14. Tombstone squinted, craning his head around to see forward from the backseat of the Tomcat. Dear Lord, he hated riding backseat–but there was no way around it this time. As sharp as he still felt, he wasn’t current in the F-14 cockpit. It was hard to stay in specs flying a desk, but most of the time he managed it. It was only during the last two weeks at D.C., following his assignment at ALASKCOM, that he’d managed to get out of proficiency. So here he was, an aviator en route to fleet command, riding in the backseat. And from what he’d been briefed on the situation, it wasn’t likely he was going to get any stick time in the near future.

Maybe after this was resolved he could steal a few hours in the flight schedule. Just a few. Just long enough to feel a throbbing engine strapped on his ass, to satisfy the need for speed. It was why he’d joined the Navy some twenty-five years ago, and only an overriding sense of duty to his country and the off chance that an opportunity just such as this would arise had kept him in the service.

Sitting in the backseat with his hand itching to take the controls was like kissing your sister. Or worse, being interrupted on a couch by an irate father just as you were about to score. He longed to reach out and take control, to feel the stick in his hand and the rudder controls under his feet, to feel how the sheer raw power of the aircraft changed in response to his decisions, his control.

Being Sixth Fleet ought to be enough for any officer. It wasn’t.

“On final now,” the pilot in the front seat said. “I’ll be a little bit busy for the next couple of minutes.”

And there it was again, that classic sense of understated irony that underlay the bravado of a fighter pilot. Busy was hardly accurate–totally focused and concentrating on the pitching carrier in the sea was more like it. Studies had shown that a pilot’s pulse during a carrier-landing evolution could easily reach 160 during final approach.

“I’m all right back here, son,” Tombstone said. “Like to see a three-wire trap out of you, though,” he continued, referring to the model method of getting aboard an airfield moving at thirty knots. Two short clicks acknowledged his transmission.

The carrier was resolving itself into its shape, the familiar island jutting above the flight deck, the Fresnel lens now a pinprick of light off to his left. If his pilot stayed on flight path, the Fresnel would continue to glow green. Too high or too low, and it would look red to the incoming aircraft. As a final sanity check, a Landing Signals Officer–LSO–was stationed on a small platform that jutted out from the side of the carrier just below the level of the flight deck. The LSO would be an experienced F-14 pilot. As the approaching pilot “called the ball,” the LSO would take over direction of his approach, coaching him into the proper lineup, neither too far right nor too far left, and gently wheedling him into the proper attitude in relationship to the deck.

If he or she were dissatisfied with the pilot’s approach, the LSO could call a wave-off–an order to the pilot to cease the approach, maintain airspeed, and circle around the aft end of the carrier for another try. It wasn’t a permanent black mark on a perfect pilot’s record–even the most experienced aviators sometimes got waved off by either the LSO or the Air Boss for a variety of reasons. Gear or personnel fouling the flight deck–inside the yellow lines that delineated the actual airstrip, an unacceptable degree of pitch on the ship, or simply because an experienced aviator was having an off day and was a bit off glide path. It happened. You learned from it and went on from there. Too many wave-offs, though, might warrant a close look by a FNEAB–A Fleet Naval Evaluation Aviation Board. The FNEAB could recommend that a pilot be stripped of his wings if his airmanship weren’t up to snuff.

They were a mile off now and descending rapidly. The air was increasingly turbulent as the massive ship plowed its way not only through sea but air as well, creating eddies and ripples that disturbed the atmosphere that buffeted the jet. The Tomcat lurched and bobbled, found its glide path, and settled firmly into it. Tombstone kept up the scan by reflex, glancing from the Fresnel lens to the needles–the cross-hairs on the panel that indicated his position relative to glide path–and the airspeed indicator. So far, the kid was doing a good job.

Kid, hell. Tombstone snorted at his own description. The “kid” was probably thirty-five years old, a commander, and in command of one of the squadrons on board Jefferson. A two-star passenger rated no less.

The landing was, as always, a violent, controlled crash. Tombstone could feel the tailhook grab hold of the arresting wire–the three wire, if he wasn’t mistaken. It spun out eighty feet down the deck, dragging the Tomcat to a screeching halt. The nose-wheel slammed down, jarring both pilot and passenger.

As soon as the aircraft touched the deck, the pilot slammed the throttles forward to full military power. If he missed the wire, or if the Tomcat did a kiddy trap where its tailhook skipped over the wire or otherwise failed to be restrained by it, the Tomcat engines would be turning sufficiently to get them airborne again off the forward end of the ship. Not a pleasant maneuver–it was called a bolter, and was far more embarrassing than a wave-off. It meant you were close, too close, but just couldn’t manage that final bit of effort required of a Naval aviator to get his aircraft on deck.

Finally, the yellow-shirts jumped out in front of the aircraft, and made the looping right-arm-under-left motion that indicated that the pilot was to raise his tailhook. The pilot eased back on the power, disengaged from the arresting wire, and taxied forward in response to hand signals from the yellow-shirt directing them to a station near the island.

“Good trap,” Tombstone said as he unbuckled his ejection harness.

“Thank you, Admiral.”

The pilot’s breath was still coming in hard gasps as he let the adrenaline bleed out of his system. “Good day for flying.”

“Any day’s a good day for flying, Commander. You’ll understand that once you get parked at a desk.”

The commander looked startled, as though the prospect of getting promoted to admiral and never getting to fly again was a new thought.

“Don’t know that I’d like that much, Admiral,” he said neutrally. He gestured out toward the flight deck, toward the brown-shirts teeming around the aircraft and the green-shirted technicians darting from problem to problem. “This is what it’s about, I mean. No disrespect intended.”

Tombstone clambered out of the cockpit, stopping on the middle step to turn and look back at the pilot. “No offense taken, Commander. You enjoy it while you can.”

He eased on down the side of the aircraft, feeling stiff leg muscles slowly stretch out.

On the deck, a khaki-clad aviator sporting captain’s eagles saluted smartly. “Welcome aboard, Admiral Magruder. Admiral Wayne is tied up in TFCC right now, but he asked me to be on deck to greet you. I’m Captain Leary, the Chief of Staff. This way, sir.”

He motioned toward the door into the island.

“I think I can still find my way around,” Tombstone said gruffly. “It hasn’t been that long.”

“Of course not, Admiral.”

Three decks later, Tombstone stepped out into the flag passageway, the blue linoleum demarcating the admiral’s quarters and staff areas from the rest of the ship. Each end was hung with fireproof blue plastic curtains.

Tombstone dismissed the Chief of Staff, and headed for TFCC. He walked through the conference room, then on into the space itself. So familiar–how long had it been?

Less than two months, he realized.

“Welcome aboard, Admiral.”

Admiral Edward Everett “Batman” Wayne extended his hand. “Good to see you again, sir.”

“And you as well, Batman,” Tombstone said easily. He gestured toward the large-screen display. “What’s up?”

Batman shrugged. “That’s the question of the day, isn’t it? The only thing flying out there is hot and heavy messages between the embassy and the State Department. Everything’s grounded, even commercial flights. And not so much as a peep out of our liaison in Turkey. The Air Force is even laying low at Incirclik.”

Tombstone frowned. “What ROE are you operating under?” he asked, referring to the Rules of Engagement that governed peacetime and armed conflict. “Any special modifications?”

Batman shook his head. “If it were up to me, I’d have a squadron airborne and inbound on Turkey right now, max load of bombs,” he said bluntly. “You know that. But according to my orders–here, let me show you,” he said, handing Tombstone the message. “I’m to maintain a neutral but forceful posture off the coast of Turkey. Would you like to explain that to me? A neutral but forceful posture?”

Tombstone took the message and read the details of the Rules of Engagement. It was as Batman had said, the weaseling sort of message that provided little guidance and less exculpation for the commander in the field. In essence, Batman was ordered to keep anything else from happening, but was to maintain a reactive posture only, except for matters that affected the safety of the ships under his command. “Typical Washington bullshit,” Tombstone concluded, and handed the message back.

“What do you want to do first, Admiral?” Batman asked. “I can have a full-scale briefing ready in about half an hour if you wish.”

“The first thing I want is for you to call me Stoney,” Admiral Magruder said. “Shit, Batman, I keep ending up on your boat–and I’m sure as hell sick of Ruffles and Flourishes.”

“As the Stoney One desires, oh, Flight Leader,” Batman said.

“The first thing I want to do is see the La Salle,” Tombstone said.

“I’ve read the reports, but I want to see the damage myself. Got a helo I can borrow?”

Batman smiled. “Lots of’em–even got some people who know how to drive’em. When do you want to leave?”

“As soon as possible.”

Batman smirked. “Somehow, I thought you might say that. Got a crew standing by for you right now.”

Tombstone nodded curtly. “The sooner I see what happened, the faster we can get to work on a solution.”

He shot Batman a somber glance. “This one isn’t going to be easy.”

“An unusual request, Commander.”

The Dean of Academics sounded thoughtful. “I’m not prepared to approve it immediately, but I certainly see the merit in your position.”

Bird Dog tried again. “Captain, the entire focus of my studies here, including my Advanced Research Project–my ARP–has been on crisis response. What could be better than marrying up the academic with the practical, with basing my final paper on an actual honest-to-God crisis?”

The Dean nodded. “As I said, it’s a good point. We’re always in favor of kicking our students out of the ivory tower and exposing them to the real world. But truthfully, haven’t you already had quite a bit of that?”

Bird Dog had to admit that was true. On his first cruise, he’d been on the pointy end of the spear in the Spratly Islands when the Chinese made a grab for the oil-rich islands off the coast of Vietnam. Later, he’d taken part in ejecting Ukrainian Cossacks from the Aleutian Islands, and had started to learn some of the harder realities of war. And there had been more confrontations after that.

This tour at the War College was supposed to be a time of decompression, a reward for a job well done. Even though he was drawing flight pay, it didn’t feel like it. It had been months since he’d flown anything other than the single-engine owned by the local flying club. And as crazily gratifying as he found his relationship with Callie, he felt part of his soul was missing without access to the cockpit of a Tomcat.

Maybe, just maybe, if he could get back aboard Jeff–no, don’t let the Dean even guess that was what he was thinking of. Concentrate on the academic benefit, not the chance that he might get to do a little bit of flying.

“I’ll discuss it with the admiral,” the captain said. “We can let you know in another day or so. That okay?”

Bird Dog nodded. “Thank you, sir. I promise you, you won’t be disappointed with the final result.”

As he left the Dean’s office and headed back to the parking lot, a sudden conviction hit him. The Dean would approve him–he knew he would. He couldn’t wait to tell Callie.

Unfortunately, Callie was not as excited about his taking part in the Turkish conflict as he’d thought she’d be. Surely she could see what an opportunity it was!

After all, if she’d had a chance to get on board Shiloh, she would have jumped at it and he wouldn’t have begrudged her that opportunity.

Would he?

Suddenly, the full implications of his deepening relationship with a hot-running surface-warfare officer in the United States Navy started to hit him. How would he feel if it were Callie who was out on the front lines, if she were the one in the middle when missiles started flying?

The thought was a sobering one. Bird Dog considered himself a model of equal opportunity, and certainly he’d flown with women in his squadron. Commander Flynn, for instance–Tomboy to her squadron mates. One of the finest RIOs he’d ever met, and an aviator he’d be proud to have in his backseat.

But that was different, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t dating Tomboy Flynn–Admiral Magruder was, although that particular fact was a well-kept secret within the Tomcat community. But if it were Callie instead of Tomboy–all at once he wasn’t so certain.

“You’d just walk away from us?” Callie asked acerbically. She tossed her notebook and a few reference sources down on the couch. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bird Dog felt himself go on the defensive, although for the life of him he couldn’t figure out exactly why.

“It’s the C word, isn’t it? Commitment.”

Callie spat the word out as though it tasted foul in her mouth. “We start getting serious, and all at once you’re afraid I’m going to tie you down. Well, hell, buddy, you can just forget it.”

She stormed out of the room, leaving a puzzled and confused Bird Dog in her wake. Just what the hell had he said?

“The American embassy,” Pamela ordered. She leaned back against the rich leather cushions, keeping a tight grip on the center console as the car darted and weaved through Istanbul traffic. Mike had provided her with the car, as well as a driver and a cameraman. He’d tentatively broached the possibility of occasional updates, but had quickly shut down that line of inquiry when he saw the cold gleam in her eyes.

“We talk to the embassy every hour or so,” the cameraman offered hesitantly. “Do you really think we’ll learn anything there?”

Pamela turned slowly toward him and impaled him against the seat with a cold glare. “What are you, some sort of cub reporter? Or a spy for Mike?”

The cameraman stuttered and stammered, “No, not at all, Miss. Drake. I was just–I mean sometimes it’s–we know the way things work around here, you know. I was just trying to be helpful.”

She held the glare until he looked away. “Thank you. When I need some help, I’ll let you know.”

She turned to face forward again, and was quickly lost in her own thoughts.

Of course, the cameraman was right. There would be nothing new to be learned at the American embassy, not without some personal contacts who would be willing to work off the record with her. But it had been too long since she had been in this area of the world, and she tried to summon up the faces and names of the last two men she’d known at the embassy. How long had it been–eight, maybe nine years?

There was little chance they would still be there.

Nevertheless, she resolved to at least ask if they were. Hell, they’d remember her. Who wouldn’t?

“Where is the USS La Salle headed?” she asked suddenly. She turned to the cameraman. “Do you know?”

Sensing a chance to redeem himself, the cameraman said, “I heard it was Gaeta. There’s no official word, but that would make sense.”

Pamela nodded. “It does make sense.”

She filed this bit of information away as a potential lead, or as possibly a sidebar assignment for one of the lesser lights with ACN.

How to cut to the heart of this conflict?

When Ukrainian Cossacks had seized the Aleutian Islands, she’d hired a commercial helicopter pilot to ferry her out from Alaska to the location of the USS Jefferson, then convinced him to simulate engine problems. The Jefferson had been forced to let her land, and she’d been privy to a good firsthand look at the United States Navy’s operations. It hadn’t hurt anymore, now that she’d reflected on it, helped–that her old fiance, Tombstone Magruder, had been in command of the carrier battle group.

Tombstone. Now there was a subject best left untouched. If she’d had the slightest doubts that their engagement was fully and finally terminated, they’d been dispelled in the Aleutians. Never had she seen him so cold, so completely focused on his job to the exclusion of even her best efforts to distract him. In a way, she’d come to admire him more during those days than she had at any time in the past. Admire him, and realize he was lost to her.

No matter. Rumor had it that he’d taken up with some female chippy off the ship, an aviator at that. She mulled that over for a few moments, contemplating with some satisfaction the thought of Tombstone hitched up with someone just as driven and career-oriented as he was himself.

“Take me to the airport,” she said suddenly. In thinking about Tombstone and his new chick, an idea had occurred to her. A relationship with two people so alike could lead to bitter battles. Who, then, was Turkey’s equivalent in international politics?

The Islamic nations to the east?

Possible, but she had her doubts. Turkey had spent too many centuries as an open, internationalized society with close ties to the United States to revert so easily to the social tenets of fundamentalist Islam. And certainly not Greece to the west. No, the border skirmishes between the two countries had created too much permanent ill will. But there was one other option, one she hadn’t heard discussed publicly yet, though certainly some think-tank pundit had floated it in closed meetings.

The north–Ukraine, the fertile breadbasket of both Eastern Europe and Asia. For centuries battles had been fought over Ukraine and her resources, and since the fragmentation of the Soviet Union, Ukraine had been increasingly vulnerable to outside influences.

But what could an attack by Turkey on U.S. forces have to do with Ukraine?

She didn’t know–not yet. But something was niggling at her, insisting that she look at the relationship between Turkey and Ukraine more closely. There was no rhyme or reason for it, not really–yet some of her most insightful forays into investigative reporting had come from just such strange connections as the one she’d just made.

She quelled the questioning look the cameraman shot her with a glance.

The cameraman repeated her request to the driver.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up outside the Istanbul International Airport. Guards ringed the perimeter–set every two hundred yards or so, she estimated. There was no traffic, none, and the parking lot surrounding the airport held only a few civilian cars, scattered amongst several platoons of drab official-looking cars and police vehicles.

“Nothing comes in or goes out,” the cameraman said finally. “The Prime Minister announced that yesterday.”

“Oh, really?” Pamela said scathingly. “Then what’s that?”

She pointed at the horizon, at the commercial cargo ship now on final approach.

As it swept by them, touching down lightly on the runway into its roll-off, she noted the name emblazoned in Cyrillic letters on the tail fin–Aeroflot.

“A good job, Yuri.”

The Naval Aviation commander gave him an approving look. “Superb flying in a difficult platform. Your tactical decisions were entirely appropriate.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Yuri tried to relish the compliment, but felt only a sense of mounting frustration. The endless hours and days of familiarization flights, tactical drills, and training for the mission were over. Consequently, with fuel always in short supply in Ukraine, he was grounded. There was no longer any need for him to maintain flight proficiency, so scarce resources were allocated to other units. The possibility that he might be given another mission to fly was almost nonexistent–not until his superiors decided they needed his special talents again. Then, and only then, would they waste fuel bringing him back into currency.

“You have proven most reliable,” his commander continued. He gave him a long, appraising look. “You are that, are you not, Yuri?”

Yuri stiffened. “Of course, sir. Is there any question?”

The commander shook his head. “None. That is why you have been selected for another mission. One that requires a good deal of skill of perhaps a different type than you demonstrated in the air.”

The feeling of freedom he’d felt in the air flooded him. To have that back for just a while, to escape the drab walls and shoddy construction of this office building–to go anywhere, to just be outside again. And if at all possible, to be airborne–he’d do anything.

“What mission is that, sir?” he said, forcing his voice into a calm, professional tone.

His commander extended a set of orders. “You’re going to Turkey. Again.”

“To Turkey? But-“

A shiver of fear scampered up his spine. If they ever found out what he had done…

“As part of an assistance mission,” his commander continued calmly. “We have, as Turkey knows, a degree of experience in dealing with nuclear matters.”

He grimaced slightly. “The Chernobyl affair–a prime example of Russian engineering if anything is. Those bastards–well, no matter. In any event, the tragedy makes us all experts, does it not?”

“But what does Chernobyl have to do with–ah.”

Finally, comprehension dawned. With the prevailing winds in this part of the world running west to east, Turkey would be worried about the aftereffects of a nuclear detonation that occurred off her west coast. While the Americans could provide technical support, it was unlikely that they would be willing to extend much assistance given the attack on their forces. The next logical source of assistance would be Ukraine herself, rife with hard-won lessons born out of desperation. In the early days of Chernobyl, they’d all become experts, learning about the pituitary uptake of strontium, the basic sanitary precautions to make sure that nuclear fallout was not ingested–too many hard changes in a daily routine that was defined by poverty and deprivation.

“I am primarily an aviator, of course,” Yuri began carefully. “However, if the State believes I can be of assistance, I would like to do so.”

Immediately, thought Tombstone. Back when he’d been a lieutenant, that meant as fast as you could get your ass up the ladder into your aircraft for launch. But when you got to be an admiral, life got more complicated. Even given Tombstone’s best intentions and Batman’s willing support, getting off the carrier had taken longer than he’d planned on. It hadn’t been Batman’s fault, nor the aircrew’s, but simply that the life of a two-star admiral who was heading for command of Sixth Fleet was so much more amazingly complicated than anyone thought.

In the time that he’d been en route from Gaeta to Jefferson, the carrier had fielded six op-immediate calls for him, two P4–personal for–messages addressed eyes-only to him, and six inquiries from the news media requesting either embarkation on Jefferson or La Salle, or in-depth personal interviews. He’d tossed those to Jefferson’s public-affairs office and turned his attention to other matters.

Nothing, he determined, that couldn’t wait a little while. But advising the centers of those messages took a little time, as did ironing out the chain of command and operational responsibilities between his new staff, still on board the La Salle, and the Jefferson. Most of the Sixth Fleet staff would have to transfer to Jefferson, and finding everything from working spaces and technical consoles to staterooms and quarters took time.

Tombstone scribed his initials on the last op-immediate response and tossed it toward the waiting communications officer. “Anything else comes in, hold it for me until I return.”

The communications officer nodded. “I’ve got one circuit up with La Salle, and if anything truly immediately comes in, I’ll see that it’s relayed to you.”

Tombstone nodded sharply. “Stay in touch with CVIC,” he said, referring to the Carrier Intelligence Center. “I’m more interested in information coming into the carrier than demands that we send data out. There’s too much we don’t understand about this situation, and I need to know immediately if there’s the slightest indication of another attack.”

And that, Tombstone thought as he strode down the passageway, was the six-million-dollar question. Not only was there going to be an attack, but why did the first one happen?

Maybe there would be some answers aboard La Salle.

Three ladders later, he pushed through the hatch and out onto the flight deck. Bright autumn sun beat down on him, the sky radiant blue. He took just a second to look around him, breathe in the familiar salt air, linger in the feel of hot tarmac under his boot and the familiar weight of his cranial on his head. He pulled his goggles down from their position on the headgear, and settled them over his eyes.

Now, two hours later, USS La Salle’s ungainly profile loomed on the horizon. She was underway, steaming slowly toward him, generating favorable winds for the helicopter across her deck.

The helicopter’s pilot brought the Seahawk around smartly, and settled neatly onto the flight deck at the direction of the LSO. Before the rotors had even stopped turning, two officers in flight suits darted across the flight deck to greet him. Salutes were foregone since they weren’t wearing headgear, and introductions were postponed until they were inside the skin of the ship. Tombstone stood in the narrow compartment and waited for the door to the flight deck to close. He peeled off his cranial and goggles while the officers waited.

There was an awkward moment. Then the senior officer said, “Welcome aboard, Admiral. I’m Charlie Baker, Chief of Staff. The admiral’s expecting you.”

“I wish the circumstances could be better, Captain,” Tombstone said. “How’s the ship?”

“Still steaming, sir. Just barely. We have tugs alongside. We think we may have one of the radars operational by this evening. The technicians are working miracles with it.” He gestured toward the other officer. “Lieutenant j.g. Harmon, Admiral. He was on watch when we took the shot. The admiral thought you would want to speak with him immediately.”

Tombstone turned to the very junior aviator standing before him, and let his eyes run over him. A pilot–he could see that by the wings on the man’s flight suit–and not a very experienced one at that. Probably straight out of the RAG–what the hell had he been doing on watch here by himself?

I’ve got more time in the chow line than this youngster’s got in the cockpit. And they sent him down like a sacrificial lamb for me to devour the moment I step on board?

Maybe they’re hoping I’ll chew him up and spit him out and calm down before I reach the admiral’s quarters. Sort of a symbolic bloodletting, if you will.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant. I’m sure we’ll have time to talk later.”

He turned back to the captain. “I’d like to see the admiral–immediately.”

The captain appeared slightly taken aback at the lack of response to his introduction of Skeeter. He nodded uncertainly and led the way forward to the admiral’s cabin.

“What do you mean the transport’s not arranged?” Tiltfelt demanded. “God, man–I believe our message was quite specific.”

The attache nodded uncomfortably. “We received the message, of course, Sir, but no clearance from the Navy yet.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s only been eight hours, Sir. I imagine they’re a little busy out there right now.”

“We’re all busy, mister. And one of the things you’re supposed to be busy with is assuring that requests from senior State Department officials are acted upon in a somewhat timely and occasionally correct fashion. It appears that neither has happened in this instance, Mr.–Mr. Peals. I take it this is typical of your performance in your post here?”

“No, not at all. It’s just that–if you could excuse me for a few moments, Sir, I’ll follow up on that request.”

Tiltfelt turned to his aide. “This is just the sort of thing you must expect from the military. Delays, excuses–any reason to run amok on their own rather than working as part of a coherent national strategy.”

Tiltfelt was pleased to note that the aide looked suitably attentive.

Ten minutes later, the attache returned. “Sir, the last flight cleared out to the carrier left eight hours ago from Gaeta.”

“Why didn’t you have it held? You knew when I was arriving.”

“We couldn’t, Sir. The new Sixth Fleet, Admiral Magruder, was manifested on the flight. And the Navy owns the aircraft–I’m sure you understand that.”

“What I don’t understand is why you appear to be taking the Navy’s part in this, young man,” Tiltfelt said acidly. “I will give you ten minutes to make alternate arrangements and obtain the appropriate clearances. After that point, you will find that a permanent reprimand will be placed in your file. Unless you are quite eager to participate in the demanding professional duties at an embassy in some southern African country, I suggest you try to impress me in the next few moments.”

“Well, well, well,” Pamela said, holding her binoculars steady to her eyes. “Isn’t it nice of them to commence the off-load out in the open like this?”

The cameraman didn’t respond, she noted with satisfaction. Evidently, she’d managed to appropriately convince him of his place on the food chain for this assignment. “You’re getting all this?” she asked.

“Getting it,” he replied shortly. And she was. The telescopic lens zeroed in on the figures swarming around the Aeroflot flight. He panned slowly away from them, and focused on the tail insignia. “Did you notice that?” he said as Pamela looked at the monitor.

“Notice what–that it’s Aeroflot?”

The cameraman experienced a brief moment of satisfaction, then shuddered at the prospect of being permanently assigned to this woman for the duration of her stay in Turkey. Reluctantly, he divulged the one bit of information he had that she needed. “It’s not Russian. It’s Ukrainian.”

“You’re certain?”

He nodded.

“Even more interesting,” she said softly, speaking more to herself than to him. “Ukraine–now what did they–of course.”

She immediately made the connection between the nuclear weapon fired in the proximity of the USS La Salle and the Ukraine’s own experience in Chernobyl. “It takes a thief to catch a thief.”

“What? Was something stolen?”

The cameraman subsided into silence at her glare.