Hellfire c 20, p.9
Hellfire c-20, page 9
part #20 of Carrier Series
Wexler stopped, aware that she was starting to babble. It wasn’t that she wasn’t making sense. She was, and she had worked with the president too long to believe he didn’t understand her point. So why hadn’t he called the Russians? What possible reason could he have?
As she studied him and saw him look away from her, saw a faint line of red creep across his jaw, she knew. With a heartsick lurch in her gut, she knew. He had proved himself beyond this before, but evidently he wasn’t the man she thought he was.
“There’s a problem,” he said finally. “Evidently one of our cruisers fired anti-air missiles at the missile launched by the Russians, intending to intercept and destroy it before it could hit anything. It may—may—have intercepted the other missile in the vicinity of the Montego Bay.”
So that’s it. You are pretty sure the Russians are at fault, but you can’t prove that our missile didn’t hit the cruise liner. And right now, that’s got you more worried than the people that died.
“What do you think the public perception of this is going to be?” she asked, careful to keep all traces of horror and disgust out of her voice. “How is the best way to approach this?”
“It’s hard to say,” he said neutrally, but it was too late. She had already seen a flicker of relief on his face as he decided she understood what his concern was. “On the face of it, it appears completely outrageous. But it’s dangerous to work off first assumptions without a complete report. For now, see what you can find out from their side. I’ll talk to their president soon, but I’d like to be a step ahead of him when I do.”
“I understand, of course,” she said. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
The president stood and the ambassador followed suit. He came around the desk and laid one hand on her shoulder as he escorted her to the door. “Thank you, Sarah. Let me know as soon as you can.”
As she stood in the hallway outside the Oval Office, Wexler wondered just what was going on.
After she left, the president stared down at the papers in front of him, trying to concentrate. There would be nothing critically important in the pile — officer appointments, routine matters, a few personal letters his chief of staff had decided he should sign. Anything of substance, such as legislation, would have been hand-carried in to his office by the appropriate action officer, and he would have been rebriefed on the importance of it before he signed it.
Not that everything of importance got signed in front of his staff. Much as they might not like it, the president did have some matters pending that his staff knew nothing about. Oh, they’d caught hints that something was afoot, but he’d managed to deflect their suspicions, and for the most part, his staff believed that Betty Lou was entirely more human than she was.
“Mr. President?” his chief of staff asked. “Admiral Magruder is here.”
“Send him in. And keep everyone else out,” the president said, holding up his hand to forestall protest from his chief of staff and from the Secret Service. “Just do it.”
“Admiral,” the president said warmly as the senior Magruder entered the room. “Thank you for coming.”
“I am always at your disposal. You know that.”
“Sit.” The president waited until Magruder was seated, then said with a sigh, “That satellite business. It’s not going to stop there, is it? The Russians have really screwed the pooch on this one.”
“It was a risk,” Magruder conceded. “We knew that from the start.”
“I know, I know. Still, now that things are hosed up, what do you recommend?”
“We do nothing,” Magruder said promptly. “After all, we haven’t yet evaluated the Russians’ information, have we? And until we do, there’s no point in second-guessing ourselves on allowing them to take out the satellite.”
“That’s true. So when will we know something about their quid pro quo?”
The senior Magruder smiled, a wintry expression settling in around his eyes. “In a few days Mr. President. In a few days. We’ll also know more about what happened with our missiles and theirs and the Montego Bay. But even if we had final answers to those questions, I wouldn’t want to move until we knew the rest of the answers.”
The president sighed. “I know you’re right. But I’m going to be getting a lot of pressure here real soon.”
“I know. Let them think you’re just worried about the election. Or that you’re having some sort of illicit relationship with this Betty Lou.” Magruder stopped, seeing the look of distaste on the president’s face. “Just stall, Mr. President. Just for a few days.”
“Okay. I can do that. But get back to me as soon as you can on the other stuff. If they’re feeding us disinformation, I’m going to haul their asses into international court over that satellite.”
After Magruder left, the president forced himself to concentrate on the innocuous papers still needing his signature. The important matters, like the decision to let the Russians test their laser system on an obsolete American satellite, were never committed to paper.
EIGHT
North Island Naval Air Station
San Diego
2100 local (GMT-9)
When all the commercial flights had proved full, Carter had sprung for using the network’s corporate jet. The two women, plus their cameraman and baggage, flew in royal comfort from Denver to San Diego’s Lindbergh Field. There, the local affiliate had had a rental car and driver waiting for them. They had been picked up and were now being transported to the North Island Naval Air Station operations center.
“There’s a COD leaving today, but no one is exactly certain when,” their escort said, briefing them on their latest travel arrangements as he drove. He passed a brown envelope to Drake. “Those are your orders, shot records, clearance information. The usual stuff.”
“Like the clearance will make a difference,” she said, as she passed out the papers to the appropriate people. “They never tell us anything classified. At least not intentionally.”
“What’s a COD?” Winston asked. The cameraman smirked, and Drake turned away, a smile of amusement on her face. “Carrier on-board delivery. We’ll be CODing out to Jefferson, of course. It’s a lot of fun.”
“I see.” Winston’s voice belied her statement, but she asked no further questions. Pamela grinned.
Fun. Damn right. If you consider a controlled crash at one hundred and forty miles an hour onto a steel deck in the middle of nowhere fun, then I guess it qualifies. And do that facing backwards in what seems to be the flimsiest aircraft you have ever been in. But she’ll have to get used to it, just like the rest of us did.
Now, sitting on the hard plastic chairs in the operation center, their stomachs full of hot dogs from the snack bar, they waited. And waited and waited. The cameraman and Pamela took some background shots, then so did Winston. That accomplished, Pamela settled down and opened a book to read.
Winston had not brought anything to read. She shifted uneasily in her chair, watching the sailors pass. Finally she asked, “What the crap are we waiting for?”
“Who, probably. Not what,” Drake said, not looking up from her book. “Getting a seat on the COD right at the beginning of something is primarily a function of how much water you draw. Everybody wants to be on the scene right away, including a lot of people that are actually useful. Like them,” she said, gesturing at the junior sailors and technicians that made up most of the passengers. “But sometimes they don’t get out until the top brass and senior officer and reporters are on board the carrier.”
“Who, then?” Winston said, clearly bored and trying to prolong the conversation.
“No telling.”
“Don’t you even have a theory?”
Drake sighed and closed her book, using her finger to mark the spot. “No, I don’t. Lesson learned, Winston. A lot of waiting is part of it. Be prepared for it. Now, unless there was something else?” Drake waited politely for a moment before returning to her book. Winston sighed in frustration.
Suddenly, the noise level near the entrance picked up markedly. In one smooth motion, Drake snapped her book shut, jammed it in her bag, and darted off to shove her way through the crowd to the front door. Two Marine Corps sergeants entered, blazing a path through the waiting crowd for the man behind them.
“Who is it?” Winston asked, struggling to catch up with Drake and the cameraman, who had already positioned himself to get a shot of whoever was entering.
Tombstone Magruder stepped through the door. The tall, lean frame, those piercing dark gray eyes, the short clipped hair now going gray at the temples. She had every line of his face — indeed, of his body — memorized. Her fingers had touched every inch of his skin and she knew his body as well as she knew her own.
Even after all these years since she’d broken off their engagement, she still found herself short of breath when she saw him. No one had ever come close to him, in bed or out of it, and over the years she had become resigned to the fact that no one ever would.
One of the reasons she had been so angry at Winston’s callous remarks about Tombstone’s availability was that that thought had crossed her own mind more than once. She had been foolish, so foolish, not to marry him when she had the chance. Sure, it would have meant compromises in her career, but if she had known how much she would miss him, she would have been willing to make them.
But the compromises only went one way, didn’t they? There was no way he was willing to settle down, no way he would’ve been happy without flying around the world every couple of weeks. Somehow Tomboy, with her own career in the Navy, had been able to stand it. Drake knew she couldn’t have. There was never any hope of a future for them, not as long as Tombstone refused to compromise.
But there could have been, one part of her mind insisted. He would have changed, I know he would. And he’s not in the Navy anymore. He’s retired now, a civilian, although it’s hard to tell it by looking at him.
Indeed, even in civilian clothes, Tombstone Magruder looked every inch the admiral. His erect posture, the ease with which he moved through the crowd of sailors, the lazy way his eyes were half closed as he surveyed the crowd — all said that this was an officer who was used to command and accustomed to being obeyed.
Pamela felt her breathing grow unsteady as he turned in her direction. His eyes passed over her lightly, and then came back to her. They widened slightly and he nodded in acknowledgment of her presence. There was no smile or any change in his expression.
What do you expect from a man nicknamed Tombstone? She shoved her way through the crowd, which didn’t give way for her as it had for him. She stepped in front him, almost too close, and looked up at him. His familiar musk smell reached her.
“Good afternoon, Admiral. Are you headed out to Jefferson?” she asked, holding the mike unobtrusively at her side. It was sensitive enough to pick up any comments he might make.
Tombstone just looked at her for a long moment then said, “I assume you’re waiting for the COD?”
“And I assume it’s waiting for you, isn’t it?”
He studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering over her features, and she knew he was remembering how well they knew each other. With a flash of insight, she realized how desperately lonely he must be these days. Tomboy had seemed to complete part of him, and although he carried on in her absence, there was always a sense that he was withdrawn.
There was a commotion at her side, and then Winston stepped up beside Drake, elbowing her slightly as she did so. She smiled brightly and held out her hand. “You must be Admiral Magruder,” she said. “Cary Winston. I’m working with Pamela now.”
“For. Not with.” Pamela corrected the preposition immediately, and she saw a flash of amusement on Tombstone’s face. As she had known he would, he picked up instantly on the tension between the two women. With just a hint of sardonic amusement in his eyes, he said, “How do you do, Ms. Winston. If you’ll excuse me, I need to check in. I’m certain we’ll have a chance to speak later.” He turned away without saying any more to Drake, and she could have kicked him in the shins. It was evident what he was doing, at least to her and her cameraman. But not so to Winston.
Winston turned back to her, a bemused expression on her face. “Wow. He’s really something.” Another one bites the dust. Just what is it about Tombstone?
Ten minutes later, the check-in clerk was calling out names and leading passengers with their luggage out to the waiting COD. Tombstone was not in line. Then again, Drake did not expect he would have to go through the same procedures that they did. He was probably already on board, perhaps up front talking to the pilots.
But when they followed the clerk across the hot tarmac, piled their luggage as directed, and then proceeded to board through the tail ramp, she was surprised still not to see him. She grabbed a petty officer helping the passengers to their seats and asked, “Isn’t Admiral Magruder on this flight?”
The sailor regarded her levelly. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The movements of senior officials are always classified.”
“Yes, but I saw him in the terminal.”
“If you’d proceed to board, ma’am.”
Frustrated, she started toward the ramp and paused to let Cary Winston and the cameraman precede her. She trotted back to her luggage, as though she’d forgotten something, and took a quick look around the airfield. Sure enough, about four hundred feet away, she saw Tombstone climbing up the boarding ladder and into the cockpit of a Tomcat. She turned back to the crewman who had refused to answer her questions, a grin on her face. As he started for her, she waved to Tombstone, and then trotted back to the COD’s ramp. “Sorry. I forgot my book.”
So he’s flying out in a Tomcat, is he? I wonder how he stays current. And I wonder why the Navy is letting a retired admiral get stick time anyway? Surely they have plenty of pilots who are dying for some stick time. What’s going on here?
“Maybe he’s taking the later flight,” Winston said, disappointment in her voice.
“Maybe,” Drake said. She fastened the restraining harness, tightened the straps, and opened her book. And then again, I bet he beats us out there.
Tomcat 201
2105 local (GMT-9)
“Who’s that?” Jeremy Greene asked, pointing across the tarmac. Tombstone, halfway up the boarding ladder, twisted around to see Drake’s familiar figure standing near the COD.
Pamela, dammit — why do you always have to be everywhere I am? And why are you here when Tomboy isn’t?
It made no sense at all, the intrusive train of thought that started every time he saw her. Pamela was not responsible for Tomboy being gone. He knew that, kept repeating it to himself. Yet every time he saw his former fiancée, he felt a completely irrational flash of rage that she was here, dogging his footsteps, and Tomboy wasn’t. Tombstone looked down at Greene, who had already completed his preflight and was strapped into his ejection seat. “Ignore her.”
“Civilian, right? Maybe we’ll see her on the boat.”
“Maybe you ought to be a RIO instead of a pilot,” Tombstone said. “You didn’t recognize her?”
“I don’t wear glasses,” Greene said hotly. Then he remembered exactly who was in the front seat. Retired or not, you had to be polite to an admiral.
“That, my friend, was the esteemed Pamela Drake. And when we get on board, you’ll say nothing to her. Not a word. Zip. Nada.” The plane captain who had followed Tombstone up the boarding ladder double-checked Tombstone’s straps then pulled the safeties that kept the ejection seat from firing on the ground and held them up for Tombstone’s inspection. Tombstone counted them out loud, as was his habit, and then nodded.
“I’m not a RIO, I’m a pilot,” Greene grumbled. “And speaking of being a pilot—”
“You’re not current, are you?” Tombstone said calmly. “If you had been in shape to fly, you could have gotten your quals out of the way yesterday. I told you I’d make sure you’d get more stick time.”
“A touch of the flu,” Greene muttered. Not exactly true, since the alcohol he’d consumed the night before had killed off any germs.
“Right. Pre-start checklist,” Tombstone said, and opened his flight manual to begin to run through it. “Ready?”
With a sigh, Greene opened his own manual. He knew Tombstone did not believe him, and he couldn’t blame him. Yes, he should have gotten his quals taken care of yesterday, but what the heck? After all, there would be time on the boat, wouldn’t there?
But it’s your own fault. You missed the chance to fly out there, one small part of his mind insisted. Tombstone is never out of qual, is he? He makes time.
Responding automatically to Tombstone’s questions as he completed the backseat pre-flight actions, Jeremy mulled that thought over for a moment.
Technically, Jeremy Greene was not on active duty. When he agreed to become part of the small, highly specialized special operations group that Tombstone and his uncle headed up, he had been discharged from the Navy and offered a civilian contract with the company. True, should he leave Advanced Analysis, as their Beltway front was known, he would immediately be recalled to active duty. But technically, at least, he was a civilian right now, wasn’t he?
Technically.
So how did Tombstone figure he was entitled to tell Jeremy who he could and couldn’t talk to? Pamela Drake — of course, he knew who she was. And he knew her history with Tombstone as well. It wasn’t like he had a romantic interest in her, was it? Hell no. But that chick he’d seen with Drake in the terminal, now that was a different matter. Maybe her secretary or something. He’d find out once they got on the boat. There were no secrets there.
“Pre-fight complete,” Tombstone announced.
“Complete,” Jeremy agreed.
Tombstone started the Tomcat’s engines, increasing power as they rumbled to life. Inside the cockpit, Jeremy felt the familiar vibrations of a Tomcat on the ground radiate through the fuselage, up the frame of his seat, and resonate in his bones. It was a warm, welcoming sound, as though the aircraft had missed them and was eager to be airborne.
