Tombstone thought about his own early days, the progression in his career into increasingly important positions of responsibility. The time when he had been CAG and had ended up in command of the battle group. The attack on Pearl Harbor, and putting together a pickup team as a battle group staff. All those events, and countless others, had made him who he was.
Had he been holding Batman back without intending to? Tombstone considered the matter for a moment, then reluctantly admitted it might be true. No matter that he’d never intended it — that would have been the result nonetheless.
“It’s a lot to think about, Stony,” his uncle said. “And we’ll do it on our own time, not on the government’s telephone time. I’ll see you when you get back to D.C. We’ll talk then.”
His uncle hung up, and Tombstone listened for a few minutes to the static hissing on the line before he followed suit.
Flying — a new career, and moreover one that involves combat flying. Not the safe, predictable, and boring flights of the commercial airline pilot, or even a pilot hauling freight cross-country. No, although his uncle hadn’t given him any details, this sounded like it would be far more serious.
And fun. Definitely fun.
Commander Hillman “Lab Rat” Busby studied the detailed charts lying on the plot table in front of him. The computer-generated historical data tracks were precisely inked on the charts, showing the last four days of air activity around the
His leading chief, Intelligence Specialist Chief Petty Officer Armstrong Perry, was tapping a pencil on the top chart. “Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. Not so far as I can see. Computer’s not alerting on anything, either.”
“I know, Chief.” Lab Rat continued to stare down at the charts. So much data, so little information. While it was true that often historical data could tell you when things were ramping up, it wasn’t an exact science. It looked like it was, with these immaculate charts that the laser printer spat out, with the tabulated columns of data and average flight times and load-outs all carefully correlated against external events and the Islamic calendar — just for a second, he felt a flash of yearning for a hand-drawn chart. When you saw erasure marks and wobbly lines, you didn’t tend to think of yourself as infallible. You saw the evidence right in front of you that mistakes happened. It was too easy to be lulled into a false sense of infallibility when the charts were so pristine — columns of very accurate numbers calculated down to two decimal points that meant absolutely nothing.
Everything in front of him told him that the situation was normal. Oh, sure, there were the usual diplomatic flare-ups and violations of the Iraqi no-fly zone. Air Force jets still flew bombing missions to the far north in Iraq and the Kurds were still being massacred by both the Turks and the Iraqis. But all that was par for the course for this part of the world. The only real new factor was the continuing American military presence, at least on the time scale that these people used to measure history.
So why this hinky feeling? Where was it coming from, this uneasiness that woke him up in the middle of the night wondering what he’d missed, the uneasy conviction that the storm was building and that it was just a matter of time before all hell broke loose?
Lab Rat saw the chief was staring at him. “You okay, sir?”
“Yeah, Chief. Fine. Charts look great.”
“Yes, sir. But it’s like… I dunno, sir. It’s like we’re missing something.” The chief looked away, as though embarrassed. “I been pulling duty in CVIC on carriers since we had CVICs, and there’s something about this… aw, never mind.”
Chief Armstrong Perry had one of the most keenly analytical minds that Lab Rat had ever met. He saw patterns where others saw chaos, felt the undercurrents of military planning in a way that few others seemed to appreciate. In the two months since the chief had checked on board, Lab Rat found himself relying more and more on the intuition and judgment of his senior enlisted sailor. He hid his brilliance beneath a bluff, weather-battered, and scarred face and a slow Southern drawl. But you underestimated him at your own peril.
Lab Rat patted the chief on the shoulder. “Don’t say that. I know exactly what you’re talking about. It’s that feeling you get just before lightning strikes, like something is happening right in front of you that you just don’t see.”
“You got it, too?”
“You bet. And if you’re feeling it, too, that means we’re missing something. Let’s go over this morning again — something bothers me about that whole flyover.”
“Yes, sir.” Perry pulled out a new printout. “Here’s the track.”
“Flight composition?”
“What we’ve seen before.”
“Track?”
“Within normal parameters. But sir, I’d bet my bottom dollar that this wasn’t a routine surveillance patrol. Something about the flight profile — right here, I guess.” The chief stabbed a stubby finger down on the chart. “They’re about two thousand feet lower than usual.”
“Why would they deviate? Any weather account for it?”
“No, sir. In fact, if anything, they’d want to be higher, in cooler air. It’s just a normal scorcher.”
“Any unusual activity on the ground around then?”
“Maybe.” The chief hauled out a sheaf of photos. “This.”
Lab Rat studied the photos. They were a download from a geo-stationary satellite over the area, and capable of astounding resolution. He’d seen this particular set yesterday when they were fresh off the printer, after the photo intelligence specialists had conducted their analysis, and hadn’t been struck by anything in particular. But evidently something had caught the chief’s attention.
The picture showed bare dirt and sand, inland about fifty miles from the coast. It was a largely uninhabited stretch of land, except for the wandering tribes that still lived the traditional desert lifestyle. Now, though, it showed evidence of construction activity.
“And this.” The chief handed him another photo.
This one showed what might be charitably called a road to the north. A cloud of dust obscured most of the details, but the infrared resolution picked up smears of light easily against the cooler night air.
“A convoy of some sort, right?” Lab Rat asked.
“Yes, sir. That’s what we make of it. Originally, we thought it was routine troop maneuvers of some sort, but now I’m not so sure.”
“No, wait. No pussyfooting around, Chief. You
“Yeah. Yeah, I am, sir.” A look of frustration passed over the chief’s face. “But it doesn’t make sense. Those aircraft have been parked there since the first days of Desert Storm and Desert Shield. They haven’t flown since Iraq flew them into Iran for safekeeping. Everybody knows that.”
Lab Rat felt something jell in his stomach, a deep conviction accompanied by a flood of relief. Exactly how and why he was so certain, he couldn’t have said. But Armstrong agreed with him, and between the two of them, they could manage to convince the admiral and his staff.
“Avionics aren’t that hard to come by,” Lab Rat said quietly. “And the desert’s an ideal place to store aircraft.”
“Except for the damage the sand has done,” the chief supplied. “You know how it is out there. That damned stuff gets in every nook and cranny. The abrasion is something awful.”
“Right. But that’s not a showstopper. Our own graveyard is located in the desert in the U.S.”
“Yes, sir. But those aircraft are usually properly mothballed. Plastic wrapping and nitrogen packing, and there’s no way they leave the avionics on them. But these babies — god knows what a decade in the desert has done to them.”
The two men were silent for a moment, each caught up in his own thoughts. Every fact they had argued against the former Iraqi aircraft flying again. There was no indication of new trouble brewing in the Middle East.
