Nuke Zone

4

Tombstone went immediately to TFCC, the nerve center of the flagship.

No matter that the admiral’s cabin was merely fifteen or twenty paces down the passageway. With the eastern Mediterranean in an uproar, his first priority was maintaining a complete tactical picture.

There were other reasons to delay his meeting with the current Sixth Fleet as well, not the least of which was to give his own temper time to cool. While many of the officers who served under him would not have believed it, Tombstone Magruder possessed an incendiary temper, not often ignited, but an almost overwhelming force when it did. Sixth Fleet had tripped that trigger by sending the young Naval aviator down to take the full brunt of the relieving admiral’s displeasure.

We tell them that people are our most important asset, but do we really believe it?

A surface guy eating his young like that–I can believe it. But a pilot–he should know better. It was his call, his watch–and he blew it by putting this youngster on the console by himself. I’ll be damned if I’ll validate that mistake by executing this nugget at dawn.

Finally, when he felt he’d regained control of himself sufficiently, Tombstone said, “Let’s go see the admiral.”

The Chief of Staff nodded, relieved that the burden of following his new boss around was about to be lifted. The new Sixth Fleet was pissed–that much was clear. But at whom? Ascertaining that at the very earliest opportunity was essential.

“This way, sir.” The Chief of Staff led the way out into the flag passageway and down toward the admiral’s cabin. At the door, he knocked once, opened it, and stepped aside to let Admiral Magruder precede him.

The Chief of Staff hesitated at the door frame, wondering whether or not his presence was required in the compartment, desperately hoping it was not. When elephants dance, captains get out of the way.

Vice Admiral Dan Latterly was seated behind his desk, contemplating a stack of folders poised uneasily at the edge of it. He looked up at Tombstone, his face set in a hard mask of outrage. “Military courtesy is a dying tradition.”

He’s older than me–but not by that much. That gut, those bags under his eyes–he looks greasy, unkempt, like a junior officer coming off a three-day drunk. No senior aviator should look like that. And this ship looks worse than he does. Grimy–and it smells.

The anger Tombstone had struggled to get under control flashed into fiery incandescence. He stood at attention, snapped his hand up to the brim of his cover, and said, “I relieve you, sir.”

The abrupt entry into the traditional words of change of command startled Latterly out of his truculence. His scowl faded into dismay, then down a new path to annoyance. “Just like that? I’m aware of your reputation, Admiral, but even you might find it useful to have a brief turnover period. I had thought perhaps tomorrow-“

“Not acceptable,” Tombstone snapped, still holding the salute. “Get your ass up and do one thing right before I call the Master of Arms to remove you from this cabin.”

“Just who the hell do you think you are, mister?” Latterly shouted, surging to his feet. “You can’t come onto my ship and threaten me like this!”

“It’s not your ship anymore, Admiral,” Tombstone responded. “Not after what you’ve done to her.”

“This attack-“

“–on a nugget who should never have been left alone by himself on a console, not even for a moment.”

“This change of command-“

“Will take place right now. The only choice you have in the matter is whether you reach deep down inside of yourself and find some shred of military honor and do this gracefully, or whether you force me to use stronger measures. Now which is it?”

Latterly deflated like a target-practice balloon taking a direct hit from a five-inch fifty-four Naval gun. The hard angry mask of his face sagged into despair. He reached behind him, retrieved his hat from its place on the credenza, and placed it slowly on his head, pausing to adjust it so that it was straight. His hand came up slowly to the brim. “I stand relieved.”

Tombstone dropped his salute, as did Latterly.

“Under the circumstances, I’m sure you’ll excuse me if I make immediate preparations to depart the ship,” Latterly said. “If that meets with your approval, Admiral.”

The man was beaten, no doubt about it. Normally, Tombstone would have granted him some final shred of dignity with which to leave the scene.

Even now, he sought a reason to do so, wondering if he was really lacking in compassion, as Pamela had always said.

But this was a matter beyond emotion, beyond the normal rules of relationships that governed human beings. Tombstone hadn’t beaten him–Latterly had done it to himself. He had endangered his ship, his crew. Had Sixth Fleet had any claim to honor–the former Sixth Fleet, Tombstone corrected himself–it might have been different. But by abdicating his responsibility, by taking incoming fire in a way that never should have happened, he’d voluntarily set himself outside military traditions. “I don’t object, Admiral,” Tombstone said slowly. “Under the circumstances, it’s best for all concerned. I consider you a hazard to navigation, no different from undetected reefs or shoal waters. The sooner you’re off my ship, the better.”

The now-relieved Latterly nodded once. “Easy words, Admiral.”

He pointed to the high-backed leather chair sitting behind a solid wood desk.

“I hope they come as easily to you when you’re sitting in that chair instead of standing in front of it.”

Lieutenant Commander Jake “Snake” Wells found his imaginary point in the sky and put the Tomcat into a lazy, economical orbit around it. In the backseat, Lieutenant Tom “Kraut” Germany fiddled with knobs, refining his radar picture and tweaking the data link with the carrier.

Keeping on station allowed a pilot some degree of latitude, and Snake generally chose fuel efficiency over fun. Not as compulsively as the Marines, however–give them a CAP station and they damn near stood their Hornets on wing tip in tight, anal-compulsive circles.

The Tomcat was one of two F-14s assigned for carrier air patrol–CAP–over the La Salle. The other Tomcat was far to the north, controlling the approaches from Istanbul and the Black Sea. Tomcat 301 took station between the crippled flagship and Turkey’s western coast.

The Tomcat carried a standard anti-air missile load–two Phoenixes, two Sidewinders, and two Sparrows–along with a full load of rounds for its nose gun. The fever-pitch tensions generated by the Turkish attack the previous day were already starting to dissipate as the routine and monotony of guarding the air approaches to his ship displaced the initial shock.

“Got one of those insects departing in ten mikes,” Snake reported.

The enlisted air intercept coordinator on board Jefferson had just notified him that Admiral Latterly would be departing La Salle shortly. “Wanna go in closer and take a look?”

“Negative,” Kraut answered. “I lose too much radar horizon if you go any lower. Besides, we know what those ugly little bastards look like,” he said, referring to the CH-46 that would be ferrying Admiral Latterly to Gaeta. “One million parts flying in close proximity to each other. It’s a crime against nature if you ask me.”

The pilot chuckled. “Yeah, but the guys at the bottom of the class out of flight basic have to fly something, don’t they?”

He curled his fingers appreciatively around the Tomcat’s controls. It was well known that the top officers graduating out of basic flight school received priority slotting to the most demanding airframes, and were often given their choice of which aircraft they wanted to fly. Nobody ever chose helos. Not if they could help it.

Besides, who wants to ferry the big dogs around?

That or fly cargo back and forth during UNREP?

Snake shuddered, as much from the possibility that he might have to someday execute an UNREP maneuver in one of the ungainly workhorse helicopters as from the prospects of being a helicopter pilot at all. During UNREP, the CH-46 would drop down low over the deck of the replenishment ship, snag a load of pallets with a hook-and-wire contraption, and then ferry the dangling cargo back over to the receiving ship. It was tedious, monotonous work that was likely to get you killed quickly if your attention wavered.

“What else is in the area?” the pilot asked, glancing at his own heads-up display.

“Nothing much on the schedule. A COD flight due out from Gaeta. Old friend of ours on it. Remember Bird Dog Robinson?”

“Hell, yes, I remember Bird Dog! That crazy motherfucker, I thought he was safely stashed away in Newport for a year,” Snake said.

“I don’t know how he did it, but he’s on his way out here. I saw his name on tomorrow’s manifest.”

“You want to fly with him?”

“Not on your life. I don’t know how the hell Gator puts up with him.”

“I think Gator deserves–what’s that?”

Snake broke off his running commentary on the reputations and foibles of Bird Dog’s RIO as a new blip popped into being on his scope. “Contact?”

“One of the interesting kind,” Kraut said tightly, his fingers flying over the differently shaped knobs that comprised the Tomcat’s radar controls. “Based on its radar, I’d call it an F-16. And not one of ours.”

“Turkish?” the pilot asked.

“I’d say so, based on where it’s coming from. Other than that…” The RIO let the sentence trail off.

Both men knew that an aggressive manufacturing program by General Dynamics had equipped more than sixteen nations with the versatile lightweight fighter. Turkey had been a leading proponent of the program, and had an inventory of over 140 F-16 Falcons that were manufactured at its plant in Ankara. Peace Onyx, the program was called. The coproduction agreements had made the F-16 Falcon a mainstay of military aviation in countries ranging from Israel, Bahrain, Egypt, and South Korea to Venezuela.

“Definitely a Falcon,” the RIO said. “I’m getting APG-68 radar off it.”

“What’s she doing out here? They haven’t been flying for a day and a half now, and all at once they put a fighter up just as Admiral Latterly is leaving the ship? I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Neither do I,” Kraut said uneasily. “Talk to Homeplate, see what they want us to do.”

“Admiral, Intel confirms the launch of one Turkish F-16. It’s currently on an intercept course with USS La Salle at seven hundred knots.”

“What’s her altitude?”

“Thirty-one thousand feet. Admiral, she made a high-speed run up to that altitude. It’s an unusual flight profile.” Lab Rat’s pale eyebrows beetled together.

Batman took in a deep breath, and felt the beginnings of an adrenaline surge. That altitude was reserved for commercial flights, but since all traffic in and out of Turkey had ceased since yesterday, it wasn’t out of the question for a military aircraft to use Angels 31. But given the prior attack, with the enemy aircraft evidently hiding itself as a commercial flight, the profile was more than unsettling. It was downright dangerous.

Tombstone turned to the TAO in TFCC. “Get that Tomcat on its ass. Weapons free if he sees any hostile intent, but for now just VID–visual identification–and escort. I want to know the second he can tell whether or not the wings are dirty.”

If the Turkish Falcon wings were clean, devoid of the Sidewinders, AAMRAM, and Sparrow missiles that made it a deadly air-to-air adversary, he would feel a good deal more comfortable than he felt now. However, until CAP got a good look at it, the only safe tactic was to assume that the Falcon was armed–and deadly.

“Tomcats,” the Falcon pilot reported back to his base in Ankara. “Two of them–one to the north, one directly ahead. Instructions?”

“Continue mission as briefed. You are merely to assert our right to use international airways, not to challenge or otherwise provoke the American forces. Is that clear?”

The pilot sighed and kicked the nimble single-seater F-16C in the ass.

The single General Electric turbofan responded immediately, the muted growl that was a continual background noise in the small cockpit climbing up into a higher octave and increasing the vibration slightly.

These freedom-of-aviation operations were a pain but a necessity. The attack on the American flagship had horrified him, along with most of his colleagues. Rumors were exploding around the base, ranging from one story claiming that the Americans had taken the first shot at a Turkish commercial flight to a barely credible fantasy centering around Kurdish rebels gaining control of Turkey’s nuclear arsenal. It seemed highly unlikely, if not absolutely impossible, that the Turkish government would have authorized such an attack. That fact alone gave credence to some of the more mythical rumors abounding.

On the other hand, the fundamentalist Islamic government certainly had less use for their American protectors than did their predecessors. While such political maneuverings might be far out of his scope of responsibility, the pilot was worried about the consequences of such a trend. Fewer spare parts, perhaps even an end to the coproduction facility with General Dynamics that had done so much to improve his country’s military aircraft inventory. After three years flying Falcons, he dreaded the possibility of being forced to fly an older aircraft. And the Falcon was, without a doubt, one of the finest, most versatile all-weather night-and-day military aircraft in the world.

“He’s turning toward me,” he radioed back to his ground control intercept, or GCI.

“Maintain level flight.” The order was curt, abrupt.

At least he was flying, not sitting in a classroom listening to interminable lectures on wars they’d never see. Or safety lectures–God, he hated those worst of all. It was bad enough that you had nightmares about punching out, but to see the realities of shark attacks during experiments, the effect that blood in the water had on the predators, was enough to distract you. And that was the last thing he needed, distractions–not while flying the Falcon.

Best to be very unthreatening then. The pilot double-checked his radar, making sure that it was in a simple search mode rather than fire-control-targeting. The latter mode would have given the Americans ample provocation to fire on him. Particularly under the circumstances.

“I need some altitude.”

Snake selected afterburners, yanked the Tomcat into a steep climb, and headed for altitude. Against a dissimilar aircraft such as this, the key to tactical superiority lay in exploiting the Tomcat’s greater thrust-to-weight ratio. The Falcon, a lighter, more maneuverable aircraft, would prefer to stay in a flat plane of engagement.

With its smaller turning radius, it would try to force the Tomcat into a scissors maneuver, exploiting its own capabilities to turn inside the Tomcat’s maneuvers and obtain a favorable position on his tail.

Or at least, that was what they’d practiced back in Top Gun school.

The pilot swallowed nervously, praying that he had enough experience to take on the Falcon.

“Got a visual,” the RIO reported. “Seven o’clock.”

Snake caught it then, the tiny smudge on the horizon. With a combined closure speed of over 1600 knots, the shape rapidly resolved into the sky-gray form of a Delta-wing fighter.

“Get under him,” Kraut suggested. “Homeplate wants to know if his wings are dirty.”

Snake obliged, descending to an altitude five hundred feet lower than that of the Falcon. This particular AOA–angle of attack–would give him a perfect view of the wings and fuselage. That would determine the next Move.

“He’s maneuvering,” the pilot said excitedly into the microphone.

“Descending–Control, he’s moving slower than I am. He’s going to have an advantage on me if he gets on my tail.”

“Evade as necessary, but make no threatening maneuvers,” was the response.

Great–evade without looking suspicious. Just how the hell was he supposed to do that?

For just a second, he wished he had the GCI operator in the cockpit with him so that he could strangle the man.

Whose idea was it to carry a standard practice load of dummy missiles on the wings during FON ops?

At this point, what his superiors had glossed over during his brief was beginning to seem like a very, very bad idea.

In all probability, the Tomcats were simply on a VID and escort mission. In all probability. But given the Americans’ claim of a Turkish attack on a flagship, how likely was it that the Tomcats were prepared to be reasonable?

By the time he could answer that question with any degree of certainty, it would be too late. The Tomcat would be firmly on his tail in perfect firing position. It would be too late then to second-guess the GCI.

Better safe than sorry. He stomped the Falcon into a hard right-hand turn.

“He’s maneuvering,” Kraut snapped. “Jesus, Snake, he’s on our tail.”

“Not for long.”

The Tomcat pilot put his aircraft into another steep climb, grabbing for altitude. The more powerful F-14 had to force the more maneuverable aircraft into an altitude game, one that the Tomcat would probably win.

“Did you see his wings?” Snake asked. He had been too busy maintaining safe separation between the two aircraft during their approach to get a good look. But the one glance he had gotten was enough to worry him.

“Roger that. Full combat load, it looked like.”

“You’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be at sixteen hundred knots of closure,” the RIO retorted. “You wanna go back that close for another look?”

“Tell Homeplate.”

The RIO flipped the toggle switch to tactical circuit. “Homeplate, I think we’ve got a problem.”

“He’s gaining altitude,” the Turkish Falcon pilot reported.

“Instructions?”

“Continue the mission as briefed. Approach to within sixty nautical miles of the USS La Salle, then turn back.”

“But he’s-“

“Do it.”

The Turkish Falcon broke off from the preliminary engagement maneuvering and corrected his heading back toward USS La Salle.

“What the hell is he doing?” Snake wondered. “I thought we were–hell, where is he going?”

“Admiral Latterly’s helo!”

Suddenly, it all made sense to the pilot. They were about to be sucker-punched. Who knows what sort of fanatical kamikaze mission the Turkish pilot might be on. After all, they’d launched nuclear weapons, hadn’t they?

Given that and the odd timing of the Falcon’s launch, this had to be more than a routine patrol.

“Tell Homeplate–I’m going in.”

“They’re turning back on me,” the pilot reported tersely. “Control, I don’t like this.”

“Homeplate, he’s inbound on La Salle. Admiral Latterly’s helo just launched. I’m in a tail chase, and he’s accelerating to Mach 1.5.”

Snake’s voice rasped as he spouted off the pertinent tactical details.

He did the time-distance calculations quickly in his head. More speed–he slammed back into afterburner and gave chase. The Falcon was almost within missile range of the helicopter now.

“Tomcat 301, Homeplate. You are to prevent the Falcon from approaching within weapons range the helicopter. Is that clear? They’ve already taken a shot at his ship. They’re not going to get him too.”

The pilot recognized the voice. He smiled slightly–thank God they had an admiral with some balls on board USS Jefferson. “Roger–copy.”

He toggled to ICS. “Can’t get much clearer than that, can you? Lock him up.”

The ALR-56M advance-radar-warning system began its insistent beep, warning that he’d been illuminated by enemy fire-control radar. The Turkish pilot swore, and jerked the Falcon away off its base course. To hell with GCI–no way was he getting caught in the middle of this. No way.

“Fox Three.”

The Tomcat jolted to the left as a Phoenix missile dropped off its right wing. The AIM-54 missile was the most sophisticated and longest-range air-to-air missile in service with any nation. Equipped with an expanding continuous-rod or controlled-fragmentation warhead, the missile had a range of up to 110 miles at Mach 5. Guided by the AWG-9 pulse-doppler radar in the Tomcat, it used semiactive radar homing for initial guidance. The final phase of the attack was carried out with its own pulse-doppler-radar terminal homing.

Although the Phoenix had a history of some unreliability problems in combat, its primary mission in a Naval engagement was to force the adversary on the defensive. While the Phoenix was susceptible to IR and chaff tactics, detecting an inbound Phoenix missile at least forced the adversary to abort any immediate thought of offensive maneuvers and concentrate on its own defense. This would allow the Tomcat to close within range of more accurate missiles.

“Got him–he’s jinking,” the RIO crowed. “Looks like we might get a nice shot up his tailpipes.”

“Fox Three now,” Snake answered in agreement. The Falcon’s turn had closed the range between the two aircraft from sixty miles to less than thirty miles, well within the capabilities of a Sparrow missile, but still too far away for the deadly Sidewinder.

The Tomcat shuddered again as the Sparrow shot off the weapon’s station.

At ten miles, the pilot said, “And now–as a finale–Fox Two. I’m countin’ on this one,” he said as he toggled off a Sidewinder. “Should be a dead kill at this aspect.”

The AIM-9 Sidewinder was equipped with infrared homing. As the Tomcat followed the Falcon out of its turn, rolling in behind it, the tail aspect provided an exceptionally good angle of attack. The heat spewing out of the smaller fighter’s tailpipes would draw the missile in as inevitably as a tidal wave, unless it–

“Damn it–he’s got the flares. And look at the sun.”

The RIO swore quietly in the backseat.

As they watched, the Phoenix Sparrow lost radar lock on its target and abandoned the pursuit. The nimble Sidewinder made it through the turn, but became distracted by the chaff clouds and bright sun, a formidable heat source.

“The sun,” the RIO breathed. “Damn it, Jake, why didn’t you–?”

“What? Wait until he took a shot at the helo?” the pilot demanded. “Not likely. I’ve got a couple of other surprises in line for this guy. No one shoots at my helicopters and gets away with it. No one.”

Kraut prudently declined to note that the Falcon had yet to fire a single shot.

“GCI, I’m under attack,” the pilot screamed. “Get me some help up here–I’ve got missiles inbound, missiles inbound!”

“Scrambling Alert Five aircraft–101, help’s on the way.”

For the first time, the GCI actually sounded like a person instead of a mechanical voice at the other end of a radio circuit.

“Snake, he’s an angles fighter,” Kraut reminded the pilot. “You don’t want to get into a level knife fight with him.”

“I know that,” Snake snapped back. “I’m going to close him and then go high.”

“He’s not doing anything,” the RIO remarked worriedly. “No turns yet for a scissors movement–just hauling ass back to base. Jake, maybe-“

“He’s not, is he.”

The anger started to bleed out of the pilot’s voice. “Breaking off,” he said finally. “Tell Homeplate.”

“Now just what the hell was that all about?” Batman asked of the room in general. “A dirty-winged aircraft makes an attack run on a helicopter, then breaks off and turns away after a missile shot?”

“Better safe than sorry,” Lab Rat said.

Fifteen minutes later, the airspace around them was cluttered with Tomcats looking for a fight. A few of the more nimble F/A-18 Hornets had also been scrambled, with the thought that the more maneuverable Hornet might prove a more potent adversary for the Falcon. Fifty miles back, two tankers orbited, ready to take all thirsty comers. The E-3C Hawkeye sat turning on Jefferson’s deck, waiting for a last-minute repair of a faulty control circuit.

The Tomcat pilot broke off with some regret, eager to try his skill again against the Falcon, but all too aware that his high-speed maneuvers had left his fuel state uncomfortably low. After a quick plug-and-suck on the tanker, he headed back into the fighter sponge. With all of the rapid tactical launches, Alert Five scrambles, and airborne support, there was just one major drawback to the entire air battle–the enemy was still buster back to shore.

“They fired on our aircraft,” the GCI operator said. “There was no provocation–none. He was under close control at all times.”

Yuri shook his head sadly. “The Americans– so impulsive, so insistent on dominating the oceans of the world. It is like dealing with the Russians and the Soviets, yes?”

He proffered a comradely smile to the distraught GCI operator.

“What is absolutely inconceivable is how this entire affair began,” the GCI said slowly. He looked up at Yuri, a pleading expression on his face. “We did not launch that missile–it would make no sense at all for us to do so. The General Dynamics plant, the military assistance and foreign aid that we receive from the United States–we would not throw that all away.”

Yuri held up his hands as if to forestall all further protests. “We have no doubts about that. That is why Ukraine is here, ready to assist our good neighbor in any way possible. If this weapon was of Turkish origin–and let me say that we have doubts about that–then the attack was surely executed without the consent or permission of your government.”

“What do you mean?” The GCI operator’s eyes narrowed.

Yuri shrugged. “The possible explanations are obvious. One merely has to ask the question: Who would benefit from a conflict between Turkey and the United States? And I believe the answer lies to the east.”

“Iraq?”

“Who else?”

The GCI operator appeared to give it some thought. “I had heard the theory discussed, but never completely analyzed. It does make some sense, though. If the United States abandons us, we would have no choice but to look for other sources of support for our national security objectives.”

He shuddered slightly. “But the mad dogs who inhabit Iraq–I am Muslim, of course, but I am Sunni, not a Shiite. The differences between the two have never really been understood by the United States.”

Yuri touched the man soothingly on the shoulder. “We understand, of course. Ukraine possesses a large, peaceful population of Sunni Moslems, all good citizens of our nation.”

“Perhaps it is time for Turkey and Ukraine to pursue a closer relationship,” the GCI operator said slowly. “Of course, this is hardly my decision–I simply control aircraft. But I think that it might make much sense to many of my fellow countrymen.”

A sour look crossed his face. “Anything other than closer ties to the Shiites.”

Yuri left the matter as it stood, not wanting to appear conspicuous by engaging in an extended political discussion with a mid-grade officer. It did no harm, however, to plant the seeds of thought in the man’s mind.

Over the last two days, he had observed that the GCI operator was well liked by his peers, a gregarious and social man who commanded a degree of respect for his thoughtful political and religious statements.

Seeds sprout slowly in this rocky country, Yuri thought, and any beginning is a good one. Let us see how this will affect matters. It cannot help but provoke discussion, and further conceal our true objectives. Every officer on the Ukrainian support mission would be pursuing similar objectives within their own pay grades. With a groundswell of junior briefing officers noting the similarities between Ukraine and Turkey’s interests…

“Stoney, you need to get your star-studded butt back over to Jefferson,” Batman’s voice snapped over the radio circuit. “It’s absolutely untenable for a Sixth Fleet to remain on board that hulk any longer. There’s no reason for it. After that run the Falcon made on Admiral Latterly’s helo, you don’t need to be taking any chances.”

“I’ve been in command a little over two hours and you’re already urging me to quit?” Tombstone asked. He held up one hand as if to ward off the angry words streaming out of the speaker.

“It’s not a question of quitting at all. You should simply shift your flag back to the Jefferson where it’s supposed to be. That was the plan originally. I know you’ve got complete discretion to break your flag wherever you want, but be reasonable about this. Admiral,” Batman continued, switching to a more formal tone of voice, “I can provide air cover for La Salle as she hauls ass back to Gaeta, but if this conflict breaks open any wider, I’m going to need every airframe I have to protect the battle group. What La Salle needs to do is get the hell out of the way and let us run this war from the carrier. Don’t you see?”

Batman’s voice took on an almost pleading quality. “Stoney, it’s the only way.”

Tombstone Magruder sighed. There was too much truth to what Batman was saying for him to so easily reject it out of hand. Still, the situation on board the La Salle had him deeply concerned. It was clear the material condition of the ship had been deteriorating even before the air attack, a result of lack of attention to basic maintenance practices and cleanliness. When he met with the former admiral’s staff, the officers and enlisted personnel had been unwilling to meet his eyes, sullen and unwilling to speak their minds. Had he been going into combat on this ship, Tombstone would have been gravely concerned for their safety.

That’s not the issue now, though, is it?

This ship is not going anywhere except into port–for extended repairs. It will be at least a year before she gets underway as fully mission-capable, maybe longer. Do you really want to try to run this war from a pier in Gaeta, limited to the tactical data aids that survived and a tactical link to a shore-facility?

He knew the answer to that question. You lead from in front, not from behind.

Tombstone reached a decision. He turned to Captain Henry Jouett, La Salle’s commanding officer, a Navy surface captain with twenty-five years in the service. La Salle was Captain Jouett’s fifth at-sea command.

Relationships between flag commanders and the captains of the ships they rode could be a source of real problems. While Sixth Fleet commanded all assets in this part of the world, the commanding officer of his flagship owned the ship on which Sixth Fleet broke his flag. Flag interference with the day-to-day details of shipboard operations was not unheard of, especially when the commanding officer was a true surface sailor instead of an aviator getting his feet wet before going on to the command of an aircraft carrier. The differences between the two warfare communities could give rise to nasty pissing contests.

Captain Jouett’s face, dominated by a strong nose, was weary and lined from the tragedies of the last two days. His expression was cold and impassive. Short, broad-shouldered, and slim-hipped, the man was built like a bulldog. His hair was cut Marine short, sunburnt scalp showing beneath copper-colored hair. Piercing blue eyes stared back.

“I want this ship squared away,” Tombstone said. He watched as an expression of mixed relief and eagerness rearranged the lines in Jouett’s face.

I was right about him. Based on his reputation, I’d lay odds Captain Jouett’s the only man more pissed off over this ship than I am.

“Any problem with that?” Tombstone continued.

“No, Admiral. Not now.” Jouett’s voice was grim.

Tombstone glanced around the room, and caught a couple of sets of eyes glancing furtively his way. “In my cabin,” he said abruptly.

Once inside the admiral’s cabin, which still felt like alien territory to him, he turned to the ship’s CO. “You had a problem with my predecessor, I take it?”

Jouett nodded. “With all due respect, Admiral-“

Tombstone cut off the preliminary and pro-forma disclaimers with a sharp gesture of his hand. “I don’t have time for this now, Captain. You know what I’m up against. I have one question for you–what happens to this ship after I leave?”

“If you take your staff with you, conditions will improve one hundred percent.”

He stood a little taller, looking Tombstone straight in the eye. “I’m a surface sailor, Admiral. I know how to run a ship.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“I can do my job without an aviator trying to grow surface-warfare wings,” the captain replied bluntly. “Admiral, I don’t try to fly your aircraft–no aviator ought to be telling me how to run my ship.”

Tombstone nodded sharply. “Agreed. Captain, you’ve got between now and the time you pull into port at Gaeta to get this ship into proper shape. I’ll be back to take a look at her. You’ve got my support to do whatever is necessary to transform this hulk into my flagship. You run into any problems, you get on the horn to me. Other than that, I’ll leave you alone. That satisfactory?”

The captain smiled. “Oh, I think that will work out quite well,” he said quietly. “Admiral, I’d be honored to have you take a look at this ship in about four weeks. She might not be back up to spec by then, but I think I can show you what a warship ought to look like by then.”

“Then get me the hell out of here. And while you’re at it, manifest that young aviator my predecessor was trying to string up,” Tombstone said.

He pointed at the radio speaker. “You heard Admiral Wayne–we’ve got a war to fight. And if you want to be part of it, you’ve got to get this ship back in shape to fight.”

Forty minutes later, a second CH-46 lifted off La Salle, with another one standing by to rotate and radiate in short order. Tombstone’s Sixth Fleet staff was spread out between the two helos along with–well, what the hell was Skeeter?

A little lost lamb?

Tombstone shook his head, almost smiling at how the young Naval aviator would have reacted to that description. Skeeter Harmon had neither the demeanor nor the appearance to make a very good little lost lamb. Maybe a black sheep–no, that wouldn’t do it either.

He looked across the fuselage at the aviator, noting that the man was already dozing in the web seat running fore and aft in the helicopter. If the young man was as good as he thought he was, then Tombstone was doing him a favor by getting him away from the black-shoe command early and onto where he belonged–on board an aircraft carrier.

“You current?” Tombstone shouted, getting Skeeter’s attention.

“Yes, Admiral. I need a couple of night traps, but that’s about it.”

“So do I.”

Tombstone gazed levelly at the young man. Best to get him back in the aircraft as soon as possible, to wipe out the taste of failure that must surely linger in his mouth over the successful attack on La Salle.

Not that it had been his fault. But Tombstone knew that if he had been in the young man’s shoes, there was nothing in the world that could have convinced him that he couldn’t have prevented the attack. Nothing at all.

And the only way to well and truly get over it was to strike back. If there were any way at all to do it, Tombstone would give him the chance to do just that.

It wasn’t the gentle thump of the helicopter setting down on the flight deck that finally woke him up, but the change in vibration that radiated up through his seat as the pilot disengaged the rotor and the helicopter began to spool down. Skeeter flinched, emerging from the endlessly repetitive daydream/nightmare of the La Salle’s engagement. His eyes jerked open–he stared across the aisle into the somber face of Admiral Tombstone Magruder.

“We’re here,” Skeeter said unnecessarily, for lack of anything better to say. He disengaged his seat harness, stood, and stretched. The admiral, he noticed, was moving with a laconic efficiency, snugging his cranial down and repositioning his goggles over his eyes. Skeeter, halfway through taking them off, decided to follow the older man’s example.

“You probably haven’t spent much time on the flight deck,” Tombstone said. “Fly out, trap, get shot back off during CQ. That about it?”

“One hot-swap crew change,” Skeeter admitted. “They kept me in the handler’s office until I could get a hop back out.”

Tombstone nodded. “You heard it in the RAG, but let me tell you again. The flight deck of an aircraft carrier is the most dangerous place on earth. Your head stays on a swivel, you hear? Because you can’t–hear, that is.”

He moved toward the forward hatch in the fuselage and paused at the rim.

Skeeter moved tentatively up to stand beside him.

“You see that Tomcat turning?” Tombstone asked. “Never turn your back on an aircraft that’s turning–never. Son of a bitch will suck you down and spit you out as puree faster than you can think. And listen to the yellow-shirts.”

He saw the skeptical look in Skeeter’s eyes. “They’re enlisted men, but they know what they’re doing. And they’ve logged more hours on this deck than you’ve logged in a chow line. So if one of them screams at you to get the hell out of the way, you do it. Ask questions later, but don’t even stop to think about disobeying.”

“Aye, aye, Admiral.”

Skeeter tried to look appreciative over the brief refresher training. Hell, it was something–getting chewed out by an admiral before he’d even had a chance to screw up. He ought to appreciate it, the fact that the old guy cared. Still, it wasn’t like he was the admiral’s age. Youth and reflexes still had the advantage over age and experience. Besides, if they let the young enlisted guys hang out around the flight deck, then there was no way an officer was going to get in trouble. Not a chance.

Tombstone disembarked from the aircraft first. As soon as Skeeter took another step toward the hatch, he felt a hand grab the back of his collar. “Not so fast, youngster.”

He looked up into the face of a lieutenant commander.

“Senior officer’s always last on, first off.” A look of amusement crossed the officer’s face. “Seeing as you’re a lieutenant j.g., I’d bet that puts you back toward the ass end of the line somewheres.”

He pointed back toward the rear of the fuselage. “Don’t start pissing us off before you’ve even had a chance to check on board.”

“But the admiral-“

“You fly with us, not the admiral. Now get your happy ass back to the end of the line.”

Skeeter shot the older man a surly look, then did as he was told. All this seniority crap–well, when the fighting started, he’d show them what counted.

But you didn’t before. You froze–hell, if you’d been thinking, you could’ve been a hero. A little faster reaction to what the operations specialist told you, maybe a request for air support–none of this had to happen. And it’s all your fault.

Another part of his mind wailed in anguish. It was a goddamned nuclear weapon. What the hell was I supposed to do? I barely knew how to handle the buttons on the console, let alone–

Results count. That’s all that matters. Even before he’d reported to his first carrier, before he’d even been assigned to a stateroom, he’d fucked up big time. And from the looks of the commander who’d just shooed him away from the hatch, nobody was going to forget it anytime soon.

Skeeter took his place at the end of the line and retraced his steps toward the front of the fuselage. It moved along quickly, and he was delayed maybe two minutes from disembarking, but that wasn’t what mattered.

It was the point of the thing.

Finally stepping down from the aircraft, he followed the line of officers tracking across the flight deck toward the island hatch. Lost in his own surly thoughts, he neglected to do the one thing that Tombstone had just cautioned him about–keep up his scan.

Halfway across the flight deck, the officer in front of him turned abruptly, ran back toward him, and tackled him around the waist, driving him to the deck. His cranial banged painfully against the tarmac, and Skeeter reacted instinctively. During his days at the University of Tennessee, he’d been a star member of the wrestling team. So what if he was a couple of years out of practice–the old skills so long ago memorized during his youth came back quickly. Two seconds later, he had the older officer virtually bound and gagged on the flight deck. He put a little pressure on the back of the other man’s cranial, driving it down across the gritty tarmac.

Suddenly, the two men were surrounded by yellow-shirts. Two of them grabbed Skeeter by the arms and jerked him up off the officer, while a third helped Skeeter’s assailant up off the deck. They lifted Skeeter’s feet clear of the tarmac and carried him toward the edge of the flight deck.

Fuckers are gonna throw me over the side. Shit, what is this?

Skeeter flailed violently, trying to break the grip on his arms, and succeeded only in earning himself an excruciatingly painful armlock. His original assailant, he noted, was following peaceably though quickly.

As they neared the edge of the flight deck, Skeeter saw a short flight of metal steps leading down to a catwalk that ran directly below the level of the flight deck. He heard an increasing roar, and a stiff wind fluttered the legs of his pants. He looked over to his left–the helo that had brought them in was already rotating, easing up and over the side of the deck.

Skeeter quit fighting as the two men shoved him toward the steps. He clattered down them, rage boiling in his veins now that he was finally free. He turned at the bottom of the platform to face them as they came down.

“You dumb shit! Don’t you listen to the Air Boss?”

Skeeter’s hand shot out and he nailed the yellow-shirt on the left side of the man’s face. The blow drove him back and left him sprawled against the metal steps he had just descended. The three other yellow-shirts immediately jumped him and drove him down to the deck, reinstalling the armlock as a permanent part of his anatomy. He might have been a hell of a wrestler, but it was a one-on-one sport–no way he could take all three of them, not unless he could get free.

With his face pinned down to the metal grating, Skeeter saw a pair of brown shoes appear in front of his face. A swath of khaki cloth followed as an officer knelt next to him.

“Before I have them throw you overboard, you might want to consider listening to me for a minute,” a voice said dangerously. “My money is on making you fish food right now, but the chief here thinks there might have been a misunderstanding.”

Skeeter saw an arm gesture over in the direction of one of the yellow-shirts.

“Do you have any idea of what’s going on?”

A slow, cold dread started to seep into Skeeter’s gut. Within ten minutes of embarking on his first real aircraft carrier, he’d managed to get rousted just as though he were still back on the streets of Knoxville, Tennessee. This was the Navy, he reminded himself. It wasn’t a white town that thought that all black boys were up to something they shouldn’t have been, probably a couple of felonies.

Skeeter tried to shake his head, found his cranial still pinned to the deck. “No, sir.” It seemed the only possible answer.

“There’s a Hornet inbound that’s declared an in-flight emergency,” the voice continued coldly. “If you’d been paying attention, you would have seen the yellow-shirts motioning at you to clear the flight line in the fastest manner possible. They were pointing out this ladder to you, my friend. That Hornet’s only two miles out, and if you’d kept going the way you were walking, you’d end up in the engine. And,” the officer added almost as an afterthought, “you’d be dead. Real dead.”

The screaming shriek of a Hornet built to almost unendurable volume, and the entire ship rang as though it had just run ashore. The catwalk beneath Skeeter vibrated, and for one panicky moment he thought it might toss him off and over the side. He heard the Hornet’s roar crescendo, and knew that the pilot was slamming the throttles forward to full military power in case of a bolter. The sound went on and on–for hours, it seemed–and then finally began spooling down. A harsh klaxon sounded.

“Let him up,” the officer said. “Good trap, even if it was the four wire.”

There was one sharp, upward jerk on Skeeter’s trapped arm; then the pressure eased off slowly. A hand stayed on his forearm as though to maintain control in case he continued to act like an idiot.

Skeeter stood slowly and tried to regain some measure of dignity. The four yellow-shirts and one officer were staring at him with grim condemnation. “I didn’t know.” Skeeter tried to make the words sound believable.

The lieutenant nodded. “That was obvious. In the future, keep your head out of your ass.”

The officer turned to the yellow-shirt chief petty officer and said, “Find out where the hell this nugget is supposed to be, and take him there.”

He turned back to Skeeter. “And as soon as you check in, you go directly to your Executive Officer and explain to him or her exactly what just happened out here. If they’ve got any questions, they can call me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Skeeter drew in a deep, shaky breath. God, but he’d screwed the pooch on this one. “And who shall I tell the XO to contact, sir?”

He raised his chin and stared directly into the other officer’s eyes, meeting their glare.

“Lieutenant Commander Bird Dog Robinson,” the other officer said shortly. “I’ll be assigned to the admiral’s staff.”

“Yes, sir.”

Skeeter turned as the chief tugged on his flight suit.

Two other yellow-shirts fell in on either side of him and behind him.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, sir?” the chief asked. He pointed back at the senior officer. “It’s traditional on this ship–when somebody saves your life, a thank-you is in order.”

Skeeter turned back to the other officer. “Thank you, sir.”

The other officer shook his head. “Just stay the fuck out of my way, asshole. I’m not getting killed by some nugget while I’m technically still on shore duty at the War College.”

“How bad is it, Stoney?”

Batman’s face was almost as grave as that of his old lead. “Can she make it to Gaeta?”

Tombstone nodded. “She’s got power and she’s making way. She’s got a couple of tugs alongside as well. If the weather will hold up, I don’t see any problems. The electronics are the main problem, although the EMP damaged some of her engineering-control surfaces as well. Captain Jouett’s worried about the shaft too–says he’s got a bad shaft bearing he thinks may go out soon. Latterly wouldn’t let him keep the ship in port long enough to get it looked at.”

He let loose a deep, gut-wrenching sigh.

“But shipmate, the problems are worse than that.”

Batman looked bitter. “Tell me about it–I’ve been living with that asshole for months now.”

Darkness crossed Tombstone’s face. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Batman snorted. “Would you have, in my shoes? Whine to your old lead about having an asshole for a boss? I don’t think so, Stoney. We didn’t grow up that way.”

“But that ship–Jesus, Batman, you should see it.”

“Captain Jouett is a good man,” Batman answered. “You give him a chance, he’ll give you a ship that can fight.”

“It’s not going to be up to him. Don’t you see, there’s too much damage to her. She hasn’t got a single combat system left intact. The only reason she has any radar at all is they had a spare Furuno stashed below the waterline. Her communications, her data link, her self-defense measures–everything gone.”

Tombstone’s voice was bitter. “Why didn’t we expect this, Batman? We’ve known for years how much damage an EMP blast can do–why weren’t we prepared?”

“Well, the newer ships are, of course. All the Aegis platforms incorporate heavy EMP shielding.”

“That’s not good enough!”

Batman fell silent in the face of his old lead’s rage. It was clear that the specter of the shattered, silent ship had cut deeply into Stoney, and nothing Batman could say or do would change that. As he always had, Stoney would have to puzzle things out for himself. He would, eventually.

But in the meantime, he was sure as hell going to be hard to live with.

“Why don’t we take a look at the things we can do something about?” Batman said to break the uneasy strain in the room. “You’ve brought your staff–I’ve got my people finding them spaces right now.”

Tombstone shook his head slowly. “You’re right, old friend.”

He gestured toward TFCC. “Want to give me a rundown?”

“Now that you mention it.” An odd smile quirked Batman’s face. “I just happen to have a situational brief ready to go.”

“Give it to me in a nutshell–how bad is it?”

Batman drew out a laser pointer and used it to highlight specific contacts on the large-screen display. “Air traffic has resumed between Turkey and Ukraine, though thus far it’s all been inbound from Ukraine to Turkey. The flight plans filed indicate they’re inbound to provide relief–given their expertise after Chernobyl, that makes sense to me.”

“What about that Falcon our Tomcats took a shot at? Is Turkey ready to resume regular freedom-of-navigation operations?”

Batman shook his head. “Lab Rat’s not entirely certain. He’s got some indications that they’re moving to a higher state of readiness–one that we would have expected to see before the shot, not after. But there’s nothing definitive. You know how intel is–if it’s good gouge, it’s too sensitive to tell us.”

“Are Ukrainian flights talking to us? Anything suspicious about their transits?”

Batman looked quizzical. “Nothing out of order at all. We ask for a clearance vector, they give it, although most of their transit is just over the Black Sea. Really, absent a UN embargo of some sort, we’ve got no authority to regulate their commerce.”

“Other than shooting them out of the air.”

“We almost splashed one Falcon,” Batman said. “Would have too if he’d continued inbound on Admiral Latterly’s helo. And if there’s any question about the decision to go weapons free on it, I’ll take full responsibility. I told that pilot to keep the bird away from my carrier and away from Latterly’s helo–and that’s exactly what he did. I looked at the data tapes, and it looked like the Falcon was trying to put him into a scissors. You know how deadly that can be between a big bird like the Turkey and a gnat like the Falcon.”

“Concur–and I would’ve done the same thing. There’s no point in having to put the entire burden on the boys out there–we’ve gotta give them the tools they need to fight with. And that includes guidance from us and accepting responsibility for the consequences.”

“The rest of the tactical picture is degenerating as well. Despite humanitarian aid from the Ukraine, there appears to be some tensions between the Turkish and Ukrainian militaries. Nothing specific–no shots fired–but the routine training flights are harrying each other, playing grab-ass, lighting each other up and shutting down–that sort of thing.”

Tombstone frowned. “I don’t like it. Why would Turkey be pissed at the one nation that stepped forward immediately to help them?”

“And there’s worse news.” Batman circled the laser pointer around the display. “We’re in dirty water now, Tombstone. Our S-3 Vikings have been running sonobuoy barriers out along our street of advance, and yesterday they talked me into laying a pattern near La Salle. You’re not going to like what they found.”

“Submarines? Which ones?”

“Nasty ones. Ship-killers–a couple of Kilos just north of La Salle, and a third that’s confirmed out of port but remains unlocated. All diesel boats, all black holes in the water when they’re running on batteries.”

“You’re keeping up surface surveillance flights?”

“Of course. But you know how these guys are–they run silent and submerged all day, come up and suck down some air when it’s dark. Our best detections have been off radar and flare, not off acoustics. But we’ll keep trying.”

“Jesus, what else?” Tombstone rolled his shoulders back, trying to relieve the tight knot gathering along his shoulder blades. The base of his head was beginning to pound, a headache creeping up his spine and circling around to clamp down on his temples.

“We’ve got one more COD flight inbound today. A special one, on direct orders of CNO.”

“Who’s flying out–God?”

Batman frowned. “Almost. It’s the State Department. And there’s worse news. Rumor has it that a certain reporter acquaintance of yours is prowling around Istanbul. You can guess who. We’re already getting requests to on-load teams of reporters.”

Tombstone swore softly. “Pamela, of course. It figures, there’s shooting going on, she’s in the middle of it.”

He looked up and glared at his friend. “No comment–nothing. As far as I’m concerned, she can watch CNN to get her updates.”