Nuke Zone

6

“How is he?” Batman asked the doctor, his voice pitched low to avoid disturbing the unconscious pilot. “The face–just normal ejection injuries, right?”

The doctor nodded. “Some bruises, a couple of lacerations. None of them even required stitches. The only reason he’s still here instead of in his own rack was that he got a bit agitated with the helo crew when they pulled him out of the water. The corpsman had to jam him with some morphine to get him to calm down.”

Batman let out a long, troubled sigh. “His backseater.”

It wasn’t a question, more a statement of fact. It was the first thing you worried about, the last thing you thought of as you departed controlled flight on the rocket-powered ejection seat and headed for the deck. Your backseater, the other part of your team, who helped keep you both alive.

“Have they found him yet?” the doctor asked.

Batman shook his head. “No one saw his chute. The more time passes, the more difficult it will be to find him.”

The doctor nodded, understanding the unspoken implication. No chute, no sighting, and no emergency beacon from either the sea or the portable radio each aviator carried. It didn’t look good.

“But–there’s always a chance.”

Batman straightened, then looked back at the pilot sprawled out on the bed. “How long before he’s conscious?”

“That’s just normal sleep,” the doctor answered. “The morphine’s worn off. If you need to talk to him, you can wake him up.”

“I guess I should let him sleep,” Batman fretted. “But I need to know what actually happened up there. We’ve got the radar picture, the cat-and-mouse game they were playing up there. What I don’t have is a firsthand report, what the pilot on scene did and saw and thought.”

“He’ll have to find out about his RIO sooner or later,” the doctor said. It was not something he looked forward to telling the pilot, and he could sympathize with the admiral’s concerns.

“I know. I’ll do it when the time comes. But for now, what he saw up there might make a difference–might save some other man’s life.”

The doctor walked over to the bed, and placed one hand gently on the sleeping pilot’s shoulder. He tightened his hand slowly, trying not to put too much pressure on damaged muscles and tendons. He listened to the pilot’s breathing change, becoming shallower and quicker, then saw his eyelids flicker open. “Good morning,” the doctor said softly. “Do you remember where you are?”

Skeeter groaned, and rolled to one side as though trying to prop himself up on his elbows. The doctor placed his other hand gently on the opposite shoulder and forced him gently back down on the bed. “Don’t get up yet. Your body took a beating, and it’s going to hurt for a few days. You’re okay other than that, though.”

“What happened?” Skeeter shook his head, trying to clear out the fog. “Why am I-“

The sentence went unfinished as the details came back to him.

“We ejected, didn’t we? My RIO-“

Again he tried to struggle back up into a sitting position, even flung one foot off the edge of the bed as if he were going to jump out.

The doctor held him down more firmly. “Admiral Wayne is here. He’d like to ask you a few questions, if you’re up to it.”

Too weak to resist further, Skeeter lay back down on the rack. His eyes were brighter now, focusing on his surroundings. “Admiral–my RIO. How is he?”

Batman walked over to the hospital bed and laid his hand over Skeeter’s. “We haven’t found him yet.”

Skeeter moaned. “He got out–I saw him. Heard him, at least.”

“Did you see his chute?” Batman asked carefully.

Skeeter furrowed his brow, trying to think. Had he seen a chute?

He shook his head, tried to force his mind to yield up the details of the ejection. Nothing came to him. “I don’t know.”

He looked up at the admiral, his eyes blurring. “But it had to work. They always do. Don’t they?”

His voice begged desperately for reassurance.

“Most of the time they do,” Batman said. It was tempting to offer the young airman what he wanted, reassurance that the missing man would be found eventually. But to do so would only prolong the agony. Batman was just coming to terms with it himself, the probability that the RIO’s parachute had failed to deploy and the man would never be found. As painful as it was, it was better that Skeeter start facing that now.

“We’re doing everything we can. We have every helo on deck airborne during daylight, and the Shiloh is quartering a search pattern now. If he’s out there, we’ll find him.”

“Daylight? What time is it?”

Batman glanced over at the doctor, who nodded. “Three o’clock in the morning. You’ve been out for a while.”

“Unconscious?”

“Skeeter, I hate to do this, but I need to ask you about the attack,”

Batman said, skillfully avoiding the details surrounding Skeeter’s own rescue. It troubled him in a way, although it would normally be understandable, following on the heels of Skeeter’s incident on the flight deck. It made him wonder whether the young man had the temperament to make it as a fighter pilot. It took guts and passion to climb into that Tomcat every day. He wanted people who cared about flying, cared desperately.

But that was only part of the equation.

To be successful, a fighter pilot had to compartmentalize his mind.

When he walked out of the island and onto the flight deck, he had to drain every bit of emotional tension out of his mind, lock it away in some dark corner for the duration of the mission. Later, he could worry about his wife, fret over his kids, or generally be pissed off at the world. But while you were on the flight deck, while there were airplanes turning nearby or while you were airborne, everything ceased to exist except the mission.

“You saw the Falcon in plenty of time, didn’t you?” Batman asked, focusing in on his current mission–gaining information that could save the life of another pilot. “I saw the radar picture–what really happened?”

Skeeter began detailing the encounter with the Falcon, using his hands to illustrate the relative position of the two aircraft during the rolling scissors he’d been trapped into. When he reached the part of it where he’d decided to pop his speed brakes, Batman smiled appreciatively. “Good call. Who taught you that?”

Skeeter thought for a moment. “Something I read in Fighter Combat, Admiral. The Duke–Duke Cunningham.”

Admiral Wayne nodded. “Hell of an aviator–even a better Congressman.”

“The thing is, that Falcon’s not a typical Falcon. Not the way they told me, at least. He just jumped right into the vertical, didn’t stick to an angles fight like he was supposed to.”

Skeeter frowned. “It was almost as though he didn’t know what he was doing. No, but that couldn’t be it–he was too damned good.”

Skeeter looked up at the admiral, puzzled.

“It was like a Chihuahua that thinks it’s a Great Dane.”

“Come again?” the admiral asked, failing to follow Skeeter’s analogy.

“You know how some dogs are, Admiral. They may be little, short, and not any more dangerous than a gnat. But you get some of’em, they get sort of this complex–they yap and yell and charge at you like they were a Great Dane. I guess nobody ever bothered to tell them they were just small dogs.”

He chuckled, then winced at the pain in his ribs. “That’s what this Falcon guy was like–nobody ever bothered to tell him he ought to be in an angles fight.”

Batman frowned. “Anything else unusual about his performance?”

Skeeter’s face lit up suddenly. “I know what would explain it–it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Batman nodded. “We may be thinking the same thing–an equipment change-out.”

“That’s exactly it.”

It did explain it, Batman thought. The intelligence briefing on the Turkish Falcons had made the assumption that they were outfitted with one of the two engines normally used on that airframe. But what if they weren’t?

What if Turkey had found a way to put a different power plant in the airframe, one with more thrust?

It wouldn’t take a lot, not as light as that aircraft was. Fuel would be the main problem, but Turkey’s strategy probably called for fighting close to home. It wasn’t like fighting from an aircraft carrier, where every gallon of fuel counted, not when you stayed close to home base and fuel support.

Batman laid a hand on Skeeter’s shoulder. “The Intelligence guys will be down to talk to you soon. They’ll want to follow up on this–you up to seeing them in the morning?”

Skeeter nodded. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere for a while, Admiral.”

On his way back to his cabin, Batman considered the possibility of a higher thrust-to-weight Falcon and what impact that would have on his tactics. Or was this just an especially canny Falcon pilot, one who knew that the American aviators would be expecting an angles fight?

Wasn’t that one of the first tenets of Naval warfare–do what the enemy least expects?

No matter. He stopped by CVIC on his way back to his cabin, and quickly filled the duty officer in on what he’d learned from Skeeter. The officer promised to tell Lab Rat and have a full briefing on the possibilities ready by ten o’clock that morning. As he left, Batman saw the duty officer was calling the on-watch team around him for a war conference.

There was still no sign of Skeeter’s RIO, the XO of VF-95. No debris, no international air-distress beeper, nothing. While the search would continue for another twenty-four hours, Batman already knew what the final result would be. Another good pilot lost. Tomorrow he’d have to start thinking about the memorial service, about dealing with the squadron’s grief and anger over losing their XO.

Tired, so tired–finally, he reached the door to his office and shoved it open. Stacks of messages spilled over on his desk. He considered taking a shot at clearing the paperwork, and finally gave up. He could hear his rack calling him.

The representatives from the various countries filed in in a flurry of aides, position papers, and protocol. Tombstone had been briefed on their relative seniority, on how essential it was that each took exactly the correct position around the long rectangular conference room, with precisely the correct number of chairs positioned behind each for aides and assistants. Tombstone had tried to explain that there simply was not enough space in his conference room to comply with all of Tiltfelt’s demands. The State Department representative had acted as though Tombstone were intentionally interposing difficulties into the negotiation process, and it was only after Tiltfelt had actually seen the arrangement of chairs crammed into the room that he’d finally subsided. Tombstone had suggested moving the proceeding into a portion of the flag mess, and Tiltfelt had reluctantly agreed.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

Tiltfelt had an expression of grave sincerity on his face, thoughtful yet concerned, open and willing to talk. Tombstone tried to believe that he meant it.

“Welcome to the USS Jefferson. We are honored that you have chosen to participate in this process.”

And just as happy when you get the hell off my boat. Tombstone watched each of the representatives carefully mirror Tiltfelt’s expression.

Was it something that they taught in diplomacy school?

Or merely a quality of dissimulation that permitted one to rise in diplomatic circles in any country?

No matter–his own poker face had served him well in the Navy. He wouldn’t begrudge another department their peculiarities of custom.

“And our thanks to our host, Admiral Matthew Magruder. Admiral?”

Tiltfelt yielded his place at the podium.

Tombstone rose and walked slowly to the forward part of the room. His carefully prepared remarks, already vetted by Tiltfelt and his minions, were laid out on a three-by-five card he carried in his right-hand pocket.

For this occasion, he had put on his dress blues, an uncomfortable uniform he had been wearing all too often in the last three years. A flight suit would have been infinitely preferable.

“Welcome aboard. We’re glad to have you here. If there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable or convenient, please do not hesitate to let me know personally.”

Tombstone slipped the card back in his pocket and prepared to depart.

“Your uncle–he is in the Navy also?” the gentleman from Ukraine asked quickly. “Thomas Magruder, yes?”

Surprised, Tombstone could only nod. “Yes, Admiral Magruder is my uncle.”

The man nodded, satisfied. He shot a knowing look at the man seated behind him.

“Why?” Tombstone asked. “Do you know him?”

He resisted slightly as Tiltfelt gently tried to hustle him away from the podium.

The Ukrainian shook his head in the negative. “Only by reputation,” he answered, enunciating each word carefully. “A product of the Cold War, is he not? As is your father. Another fine man.”

The Ukrainian’s eyes gleamed, secrets dancing behind them. “I met him once. More than once, perhaps.”

Rage and fear in equal proportions coursed through Tombstone’s body.

The mention of his father, who had been shot in a bombing run over Vietnam, in so incongruent a place at so entirely inappropriate a time, stunned him.

He took two steps toward the man, the import of their current location lost on him.

Tiltfelt finally asserted himself, grabbing the admiral firmly by the elbow. “Not now,” he whispered sharply into Tombstone’s ear. “Admiral, this is neither the time nor the place.”

Tombstone shook free of the smaller man and continued his advance on the Ukrainian. “Why did you ask that question? And make that comment?” Tombstone’s voice was low and deadly.

The Ukrainian shrugged. “It was simply a question, Admiral. I wished to make sure that I had my facts right.”

Tombstone regained control of himself, unsure of how to proceed, but shaken to his very core. There had to be a purpose behind the questions–had to be. But as much as he hated to admit it, Tiltfelt was right. Tombstone nodded, and stepped back toward his seat. As he settled back down into the hard-backed chair, he silently let out a deep, wavering breath. Whatever Tiltfelt had intended to accomplish at this conference, Tombstone had a feeling that the results were going to be quite different from what the State Department representative expected.

After almost an hour of preliminary maneuvering and polite assurances of eternal friendship, the meeting adjourned to the rear of the room for refreshments. Donuts and coffee, along with more delicate pastries provided by the flag mess cooks, disappeared at an alarming rate.

“It’s a hazard of the profession,” Tiltfelt said to Tombstone casually, delicately biting into a croissant. “Too many diplomatic events and you gain weight every day.”

He nodded toward the rest of the representatives. “Not a skinny one amongst them.”

Tiltfelt’s confiding and congenial manner was almost as confusing to him as the Ukrainian’s earlier question. Tombstone stared down at him, is arms planted firmly on his hips. “What happened in there?”

Tiltfelt shrugged. “You were there. What do you think?”

“I think nothing happened. Nothing at all–except for that crack about my father.”

Tiltfelt smiled. “An accurate assessment. This is the way these things always go. It’s almost an art form–the ability to plant the little seeds and casual comments that later grow into major issues.”

He then cited a couple of examples from the members’ opening comments, and speculated on how those seemingly innocent remarks would later turn into intransigent demands. “And as for the question about your father–I’m not entirely certain.”

Tiltfelt regarded Tombstone as though he were a specimen under a microscope. “Do you have any idea?”

Tombstone shook his head. “It was a long time ago–I was very young.”

Briefly, unemotionally, he sketched in the details of how his father had been lost over Vietnam, the fact that his wingman had seen his parachute.

His father had been carried as MIA–missing in action–for almost twenty years. Finally, despite the lack of a body, with his name never appearing on a POW list, he had been declared killed in action.

“Well.” Tiltfelt deposited his coffee cup on a credenza and brushed his hands together lightly. “I don’t know what it was about. Not really. But you can bet it will come up later on. It’s either an opening ploy, or perhaps just a validation of their own in-country intelligence processes. You’d be surprised at what a complete dossier they keep on every senior American military official.”

“But Ukraine–of what possible interest could it be to them?” Tombstone asked. While he neither believed nor trusted Tiltfelt’s change in attitude, he would use it for what it was worth.

Tiltfelt gazed at him gravely. “I have no information, you understand–none at all. And I insist that you keep this completely between the two of us. Off the record, if you will.”

“Understood. Now tell me.” Tombstone was beginning to lose patience with the delicate circumlocutions that seemed an integral part of Tiltfelt.

“During the Cold War, Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union. You’ve heard the rumors. There’s always been speculation–speculation with no basis in fact so far–that American POWs from Vietnam were transported to the Soviet Union for interrogation. That question might have been intended to get you thinking about that possibility, for some reason that we don’t yet know about. Or, it could have been what I think it was–an attempt to throw us off balance, to drive a wedge into the integrity of the U.S. negotiating team. That would be entirely reasonable and certainly in keeping with Ukraine’s style. I wouldn’t give it much more thought than that.”

“He’s trying to make me think that my father might have been alive after all?” Tombstone felt the blood drain from his face as understanding dawned. “He couldn’t have been.”

Tiltfelt shrugged again. “Who knows?”

He abruptly turned back to the delegates crowding the room, leaving Tombstone to try to interpret his last remark.

Tombstone watched Tiltfelt move about the room, glad-handing representatives with careful impartiality. Five minutes with this one, five minutes with that one, remembering each aide’s name long enough to greet them and then ignore them. While it looked random, Tombstone recognized the real skill that lay behind the man’s progress through the room. Recognized it, appreciated it, and had no use for it.

“Thank you for having us aboard, Admiral,” a voice said just behind his left shoulder. Tombstone turned and saw the representative from Turkey.

“If your pilots came any closer to my ship, I was going to wave them in for a trap,” Tombstone said. His face was pointedly neutral. Let the Turk try to decide how to take it, as a poor joke or blatant provocation.

Suddenly, Tombstone didn’t particularly care which.

The Turk’s smile wavered for a moment, then settled firmly on his face. “This is international airspace.”

Tombstone took a step closer to the man, and pitched his voice low.

“We lost an aviator the other day following an encounter with one of your freedom-of-navigation flights,” he said carefully. Suddenly, he wished he could retract his earlier remark. If this man could help, if he knew anything about their downed aviator, then it would be sheer folly to alienate him. Coming so soon on the heels of Tiltfelt’s speculation on his own father, the possibility that he’d done anything to jeopardize another aviator’s safety was unbearable. “Have you heard anything about him, by any chance? Perhaps one of your fishing vessels has seen him?”

The Turkish representative took a sip of coffee before answering him.

“No, I’m quite sorry. We have heard nothing.”

“Would you tell me if you did?” Tombstone asked, unable to keep a trace of bitterness out of his voice.

The Turkish representative drew away from him. “We abide by all international laws of armed conflict,” he answered. “These matters that we are here to discuss–they are between nations, between states. Not between individuals. If your lost airman is found, he will be treated appropriately.”

“Appropriately according to whose standards?” Tombstone asked, his voice slightly louder.

“Admiral,” he heard Tiltfelt say. “Perhaps we could-“

“Answer the question,” Tombstone said.

“According to international law,” the Turkish representative said firmly. He put his coffee cup down on the table with slightly more force than necessary. He turned to Bradley Tiltfelt. “If you might excuse us, I have matters I need to discuss with my staff before our next meeting.”

“Of course,” Tiltfelt said promptly, shooting Tombstone a furious look. “May I have someone escort you back to your quarters? The ship is a maze if you’re not used to it.”

“Very kind.” The Turkish representative bowed slightly, carefully watching Tombstone. “We will see you at eleven o’clock.”

The Turkish entourage departed, flanked by the Marines ostensibly assigned as their escorts. That had been Tiltfelt’s one concession to security during a heated discussion over the dangers of having the delegations on board. The other delegations were provided with escorts only as requested to guide them through the maze of the ship’s passageways as a demonstration of trust and goodwill.

As the door closed behind the Turkish entourage and the low murmur of voices rose again in the conference room, Tiltfelt turned to Tombstone.

“Fuck this up, and you’ll be retired within twenty-four hours. I promise it.”

Yuri Kursk waited until the rest of the room was chuckling appreciatively at a mildly ribald joke told by the Turkish representative.

He slipped quietly out of the door to the conference room, and headed aft on the ship, walking purposefully.

Six frames down, he turned left and moved over to the starboard passageway. He nodded to the sailors he met walking past, maintaining a purposeful look on his face. One stopped, hesitating as though to ask him if he were lost, but Yuri brushed quickly by. Seventy feet later, he was at his destination. This was the only dangerous portion of the mission, for he had no ready explanation for his presence outside Tombstone Magruder’s quarters. He could always say he was lost, and indeed that explanation might hold up. The aircraft carrier was massive, far bigger than he had imagined it from studying its technical specs. Translating the one million square feet of living space into an actual map of this vessel was an entirely different matter.

Still, by watching the frame numbers engraved on metal strips on top of the main support members of the hull, he’d found his way to it with relatively little difficulty.

Now, if he could get his bearings…

The diagrams had shown a separate suite for VIPs on board the carrier, and it had been their estimation that that was where Tombstone Magruder would be berthed.

He walked past his target door, and cast a quick glance at it. He smiled–the Americans made things childishly easy sometimes. Posted in the small metal frame on the doorjamb was Admiral Magruder’s business card.

Yuri kept walking, careful to maintain his pace. He stepped over a knee-knocker and moved past the next frame, still looking for any hatch that showed the slightest possibility of granting him access to the compartment next to Admiral Magruder’s cabin.

He found it. The metal plate indicated it was a teletype repair facility. Yuri tried the handle. It turned. He pushed the door open.

At some time, the space must have served for repairing teletypes, but those days had long since past. Now it was a miscellaneous storage area, cluttered with mops and buckets and the normal equipment used for cleaning compartments.

Perfect. In fact, it could not have been more ideal.

Yuri closed the hatch behind him before he turned on the light to the compartment. He maneuvered between the buckets and wringers to the back wall. If he could only be certain–no, this must be it. He’d seen nothing else that looked like it might do. And there was certainly not enough space between what he’d estimated to be the end of the admiral’s cabin and this compartment for there to be any problem.

Yuri knelt and dug in his briefcase for a moment, then extracted a harmless-looking radio. He adjusted the dials on it, then moved aside some cleaning supplies on a shelf and placed the radio behind them.

So easy. So simple, and easy enough when the foolishly open, trusting nature of the Americans labeled each compartment so clearly.

Yuri straightened, brushed a tiny bit of lint from his pants, turned off the lights, and left the compartment.

As he stepped out into the passageway, he glanced right and left. A young sailor–a female one, he noticed bemusedly–approached him and eyed him oddly. “You need some cleaning gear, sir?” she asked politely. There was an undercurrent of suspicion in her voice.

Yuri spread his hands out in front of him as if he were harmless, deepening his accent slightly. It was odd how that always worked to his advantage. Americans instinctively believed that anyone with a foreign accent was stupid. “I am lost, I think.”

He pointed back toward the hatch. “Those numbers–my room?”

The expression on the young sailor’s face cleared. Visitors getting lost on a carrier was a common occurrence, and the long-suffering permanent inhabitants of the aircraft carrier quickly learned to recognize the mixture of chagrin and embarrassment that went with asking for directions.

“What were those numbers, sir?”

Yuri handed her a scrawled piece of paper, the one that the admiral’s Chief of Staff had given him.

“Here’s the problem.” She pointed to the first digit in the group. “You’re on the wrong deck–the floor, I mean.”

She pointed down and spoke a little louder. “One floor down, you see.”

“Ah, I understand.” He looked up and down the passageway. “But where are the stairs?”

Her suspicions completely vanquished, the young sailor smiled. “If you’ll follow me, sir, I’ll take you straight there.”

“You are too kind.”

Yuri fell into step behind her.

If the device did as its makers claimed, then the bomb would accomplish two purposes. First, since it was set to go off at three o’clock in the morning, it would undoubtedly catch Admiral Magruder in his room. The shrapnel from the shape charge should kill the man. Yuri glanced up at the overhead, smiling as he realized exactly where he was.

Additionally, the upward force of the blast should cause some damage to the deck. In fact, if his estimation were correct, they were now directly below the waist catapult. It would not take much damage to sever the steam lines that ran to the catapult launch shuttle or warp it beyond immediate repair.

At any rate, sometime within the next twenty-four hours, the USS Jefferson would find herself decapitated and severely restricted in her ability to launch aircraft.

Yuri hoped it would be enough.

“Sorry I’ve kept you waiting–let’s get on with it,” Magruder said as he strode into the room. It was a relief to be back among his own kind, other sailors and officers. He felt uncomfortable in his stiff dress uniform surrounded by the other officers in their comfortable working uniforms.

Tombstone turned to the senior Intelligence Officer. “What have you got for me?”

Lab Rat looked grim. “It’s possible,” he said bluntly. “Based on the Falcon’s flight profile, I can’t rule out the possibility that it has a vastly more capable power plant than we suspect.”

He held up one cautionary finger. “I have no hard data to support that, Admiral, but it’s worth briefing all the squadrons on the possibility. They might want to take another look at their tactics against it.”

Tombstone nodded. He was sure that a wealth of technical detail underlay Lab Rat’s warning, and equally certain that he didn’t need to hear it. If Lab Rat said that a warning was warranted, then so be it.

“Anything else I need to know?”

Lab Rat glanced around the room. “Not here, Admiral. If you will step into SCIE-“

Tombstone shot him a surprised look. He followed the Intelligence Officer to the back of the conference room and into the highly secure intelligence spaces located directly off the TFCC. “What gives?”

Lab Rat took a deep breath. “More speculation, Admiral. I’m short of proof on a lot of things these days. But you might want to read this.”

Tombstone stared at the message, reached out to take it, and then drew his hand back. “Give it to me short,” he ordered. He glanced at his watch. “I have to get back to the goddamned diplomats in a while.”

“Stealth technology,” Lab Rat said. “There’s a possibility that somebody besides the U.S. has it.”

“Who?” Tombstone said, unable to contain his impatience.

“The former Soviet Union had the beginnings of a program at the end of the Cold War. Most of the engineers on it were Ukrainian. National intelligence estimates say they returned to Ukraine after the dissolution of the former Soviet Union, and are probably continuing their work along those same lines there.”

Lab Rat paused for a moment, and his frown deepened. “Admiral, if Ukraine has stealth technology–operational or capable–it changes the whole complexion of this scenario.”

It took a moment for Tombstone to catch on. When he did, the implications stunned him. “Turkey–it wasn’t necessarily Turkey,” he said, not wanting to hear his own words. “That makes even more sense, in one way. There’s not much tactical reason for Turkey to have launched on us–none, as far as I can see.”

He thought back to the initial briefings he’d attended in the conference room. “They certainly don’t seem like they’re culpable, at least in public. They even seemed-” He struggled for a moment to find exactly the right word. “Outraged,” he concluded finally.

“Angry at the United States, justifiably angry. And we know that Ukraine has fissionable materials taken from the long-range warheads that were left on her soil after the dissolution.”

He stared at Lab Rat for a moment. “God, man, I’ve got to have more to go on than this.”

Lab Rat nodded. “I know. I’ve asked for a special intelligence analysis of Ukraine’s nuclear capabilities as well as a complete rundown on their stealth program. I sent the query out this morning, and I’ve already got two very concerned intelligence officers calling on top-secret lines to talk to me. Not with answers–with more questions. Evidently, I’m not the first one to think of this possibility.”

“Then why don’t they tell us this out in the field?” Tombstone raged. “I have lives depending on this sort of intelligence, decisions to make–and after yesterday, if we weren’t in a shooting war with Turkey, we almost are now. I’ve got one man injured, one still in the water somewhere, dead or alive.”

“I’ve suggested we redirect satellite coverage to provide continual surveillance of Ukraine,” Lab Rat added. “In particular, I’m looking for any unusual troop movements, anything out of the ordinary, and most particularly, any indication of nuclear material being moved around on the ground.”

“If that’s all we can get, that’s all we can get,” Tombstone answered. “It had better be enough.”