yellow shirt’s direction across the flight deck, moving the Tomcat into an unoccupied spot right behind the island. He popped the canopy and waited for the plane captain to safe the seat and assist him in unfastening the ejection harness.
“Really something. Admiral,” the airman said as he climbed up the side of the Tomcat. “I heard about that MiG sir, I mean it was-I mean.
Admiral” The airman’s voice trailed off into a confused panic as he realized who he was talking to. Behind him. Tombstone could hear Tomboy chuckling.
Finally unstrapped. Tombstone sauntered back into the carrier and headed for Flag Plot. Bird Dog might have thought he was hot shit flying JAST birds back at Par River, but he was willing to bet that he’d earned bragging rights after today’s kill.
Tombstone strolled into TFCC and was greeted by a wave of cheers. He started to wave in a self-deprecating manner, ready to display the traditional false modesty over a daring aviation exploit. Then he realized that none of the cheering men and women were even looking at him. Batman clapped him on the back. “Good news. Tombstone! An American sailboat just outside of Cuba’s territorial waters just picked up one of our aviators. You probably remember him Gator, Bird Dog’s RIO. That damned ejection seat of his must have had an extra forty pounds of charge or something.
He was way the hell off where he ought to have been.”
Tombstone tried to smile. “That sure is good news. Hey, about that MiG” “Hold on, old buddy. I need to get some SAR on this boy, then we’ll talk.”
Tombstone stood silent for a moment in the middle of the roiling pack of aviators, each one celebrating Gator’s rescue. Finally, he Chuckled and headed off for his stateroom. It was always dangerous, getting too damned impressed with oneself. He’d be better off going to the Dirty Shirt and grabbing a quick slider than looking for a pat on the back.
SEVENTEEN
Ambassador Sarah Wexler smiled as she walked into the crowded subcommittee meeting room.
In the last twenty-four hours, there had been more than adequate proof that Cuba was in possession of nuclear weapons and intended to use them against the United States. While all of the island nations might not feel completely supportive of everything the United States had done in this scenario, neither were they willing to have that capability so easily retargetable and so deadly to the flora and fauna of the Caribbean basin unleashed against them. They would side with her, of that she was certain. The behind-the-scenes discussions with each of them had confirmed what she’d already known.
The tiny island nations that crowded the Caribbean basin would insure that the United Nations sanctioned every action the United States had taken. War on this scale, involving weapons of mass destruction, was far outside of anything they ever saw their nations playing a role in.
She surveyed the ambassadors and assembled staffs, favoring all of them with a calm, confident smile. There were times during the last two days when that smile would have been a lie, and victory was all the sweeter for having been uncertain. In the delicate balance of international politics, sometimes appearances mattered more than reality.
Reality: The United States could have smashed Cuba into a glowing ember, had it wished. Illusion: The United States was a force for stability in the region. Result: Smaller nations would flock to America’s side, providing training opportunities and much-needed votes on the main floor and, she had to admit, a bigger drain on the State Department as they demanded money and technical assistance as their just due.
No matter. In the long run, it was better for those nations to be allied with the United States than to be open to foreign influences such as Libya. She sighed, and wondered if this entire scenario could have been averted had the first Cuban Missile Crisis been handled appropriately. What would it have taken to tempt Castro away from the Soviet yoke?
Money? Would that alone have been enough? She doubted it, and there was no point in second-guessing President Kennedy at this point. What mattered was that Cuba was once again a nuclear-free part of the United States’ backyard.
She took a deep breath and began her address. “My fellow ambassadors, I know you will join with me in expressing deep remorse over the industrial accident that occurred in western Cuba just this morning.”
She turned a sympathetic gaze on the Cuban ambassador. “Sir, my staff tells me that you have recently discovered a large coal deposit on the westernmost dp of your island.” She noted with pleasure the puzzled expression on his face. “What a tragedy, to have such a massive cave-in so soon after you began exploiting those resources. Perhaps, if the offer would not be taken amiss, I could suggest that we render some technical assistance and support to your nation? If it would be acceptable or desired, of course.” Ball in your court, she thought, watching the range of emotions flit across his face. Will you reject the offer here, in front of so many others who have taken advantage of our generosity? I suspect that you have the authority to do absolutely nothing, and will initiate the appropriate stalling measures until you can confer with your grand supreme leader. For just a moment, she wished that the Cuban president had been visiting the naval base when the American firepower had rained down on it. How much easier it would have been for everyone had he simply ceased to be alive.
But no, those consequences would have been unacceptable as well.
Assassination was not a part of American foreign policy, as evidenced by the Coalition restraint during Desert Storm and Desert Shield. In earlier centuries, nations such as Cuba and, of course, those of the Middle East had found assassination to be the quickest way to clarify difficult questions of sovereignty and succession.
But in the modern world, even the collateral damage of killing a nation’s leader while pursuing a valid military objective would have been looked at askance by the world community.
“Of course, I will have to ascertain the status of the rescue operations before replying,” the Cuban ambassador managed finally.
“Your gracious offer will not be forgotten.”
She glared back. “See that it’s not. It remains available, since you have need of it.” She turned back to the chairman.
“And now, on to other business. I understand that the representative of the Bahamas is having a birthday today.
May I be the first to extend my congratulations?”
And so the business of international diplomacy churned on, a tangled web of personal relations, illusions, and political power. As she watched the nations struggle through the morass of conflicting loyalties and orders, she marveled that the august body, conceived with such good intentions, could ever accomplish anything.
Pamela Drake stormed past the secretary and barged into Admiral Loggins’s office. She was pale, still drained looking, although a quick shower and change of clothes at her hotel in Crystal City had washed away most of the dirt and grime from her Cuban adventure.
“What the hell were you doing? What were you thinking?” she raged, pounding her fist on his desk. “How dare you criticize Senator Williams after all he’s done for the military!”
Keith Loggins leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers in front of him, and realized that he’d just arrived at another point of no return. For the past day, he’d been daydreaming about his next meeting with Pamela, fantasizing about how masterfully he would ask her to marry him, imagining her ecstatic and eager response. It would have been, he was certain, a marriage made in heaven. With the right planning and dreaming, they could have metamorphosed into the most powerful couple in Washington outside the White House. Her connections, her inside knowledge of the political process, and his background in the military would have well, no matter. He studied her carefully, seeing the anger boiling close to the surface.
