you will be Tsarina and sit upon the throne. I will find you a suitable husband, don’t worry. But I will have an heir worthy of my legacy. Do you understand me?”
“Papa, I am already carrying his baby. I am pregnant.” Her voice broke, and the tears came.
“You’ll just have to get rid of the little bastard.”
“Oh, Papa.”
“Stop this blubbering! What will people think?”
“I’m sorry, Papa, I cannot help it. I-I don’t know what to do now. What am I to do? I love him with all my heart. And he loves me. I want to have his baby, Papa. You must let me have his baby.”
“Never!”
“Oh, God. Oh, God,” she sobbed, and her father quickly saw that she was nearing hysteria. He held her tightly to his chest and whirled her about, whispering feverishly into her ear.
“Listen, my darling. Perhaps you are right. We should talk about this later when there is not so much attention focused on me. After the ceremony in Stockholm, we will go away somewhere for a few days. Like we used to do. A father-and-daughter vacation. Perhaps on the fjord in Sweden. Our old summer place at Morto. There we will try to resolve this unfortunate affair in a way that is acceptable to both of us. How does that sound?”
“Oh, Papa, you must believe me. I would never do anything to hurt you. Yes. Thank you for trying to understand. We will talk later when we are both not under so much pressure. I understand what you are saying. I will try to make you happy with me again.”
“That’s my girl.”
“I love you, Papa. I know you will make a wonderful Tsar. Wise and kind. The father of our country.”
He released her then and bowed to her, deeply, from the waist. The crowd burst into long and sustained applause.
“Her imperial majesty, the Princess Anastasia!” the Tsar cried out, and then the crowd went simply mad. She smiled, turning so that she might gaze into the gathered faces, waving at them all, saying “Thank you, thank you” in a small voice that no one could hear but everyone understood.
“Thank you for the dance,” her father said coldly as they walked back to the podium.
Russia’s new princess couldn’t stop her tears. But she kept her smile.
56
Alex Hawke had the best seat in the house. He was just aft of the pilot. Under normal circumstances, his was the Weapon System Officer’s seat. Hawke’s WSO position, the Yank flyboys called it wizzo, was slightly elevated above and behind the pilot, so he had a good view ahead over the pilot’s helmet. The WSO who normally resided here was the air navigator, involved in all air operations and the weapon systems of the aircraft. The plane was an American Navy F/A-18 Super Hornet, the two-seat F model that flew its first combat missions in 2002.
But these were not normal circumstances. There was no need for any wizzo on this flight. This F model had been heavily modified and was one of a small number of twin-canopied fighters built by the Navy for black ops missions like this one.
Two Super Hornets were streaking wingtip-to-wingtip just above the wave tops at 1,360 miles per hour, flying beneath any possible enemy radar, the heaving blue Atlantic a blur fifty feet below the aircraft. Off Hawke’s starboard wingtip was an identical, heavily modified fighter aircraft. Harry Brock was riding wizzo in that one. The two fighter jets, having arrived on station, were operating approximately fifty miles due north of Bermuda. Suddenly, in tandem, both aircraft hit the afterburners and, pulling serious g’s, went into a steep climb.
Ascending rapidly to a new altitude of 5,000 feet, the fighters immediately leveled off and hit the air brakes. Hawke checked his gear, deliberately slowing his breathing. Since they were maintaining radio silence, he looked over at Harry and gave him the okay hand signal. It was returned. It was almost time.
There was a bit of static in Hawke’s headphones, and then he heard the slow West Texas drawl of the pilot, Captain Leroy McMakin.
“Howdy, folks, this is your captain speakin’, up here in the front of the airplane. Certainly has been my pleasure having you onboard today for our short flight from Germany to the middle of nowhere. Like to thank y’all for choosing Black Aces Air today. We do know you have a choice of air carriers, and we sure do appreciate your business.”
Hawke laughed. American Navy pilots, always a breed apart.
“Thanks for the ride, Cap,” Hawke said, craning his head around to look at the surface of the sea below.
“Well, we want to wish you a pleasant stay here in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean or wherever your travel plans may take you, and if your future plans should call for air travel, I sure do hope you’ll think of the Black Aces.”
Captain McMakin craned his head around and smiled a big Yankee grin at his passenger. Hawke gave him a thumbs-up in return.
Hawke reached down for one of the two oh-shit handles built into the sides of his padded seat bucket. He pulled one of them up into firing position. He waited a beat. Then he pulled the trigger. For one long second, nothing happened. Then the canopy ejection initiator fired, causing the single aft canopy to jettison. Next, the rocket catapult under the seat fired with a roar of flame, ejecting a strapped-in Hawke and his seat out of the aircraft, 300 feet, straight up, pulling three g’s.
He was now riding a Zero-Zero ejection seat, capable of saving his life even if deployed at zero velocity and zero altitude.
Two-tenths of a second after the catapult fired, the seat stabilization gyros canceled asymmetric forces producing seat tumbling and rotation. Six-tenths of a second after the seat left the floor of the aircraft, his seat- separator system activated. Hawke’s lap belt released, and he was forced away from the seat, into thin air. His chute popped and began his descent toward the sea under a normal canopy. At the same time, a survival kit and a small raft had deployed.
Hawke had never ejected before.
It was a unique experience, having the wind blast whip the air out of your nose sideways. In the old days, when he’d first learned to jump out of airplanes, it was a bit less exciting. You were supposed to be facing the ground with your head a little lower than your feet when you pulled the chute, so that when the lines paid out and your chute opened, the risers would swing you under, and you wouldn’t get that terrific grab up through the crotch that could be so unpleasant in so many ways.
Hanging in his straps, he saw Harry’s chute deploy. He checked his watch.
So far, so good.
Ten minutes later, he was paddling his raft toward Harry. Harry was in his raft but seemed to be having a few problems separating from his chute.
“Harry!” Hawke called out when he was twenty feet away. “You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. If I could get rid of this damn harness.”
Hawke nudged his raft up next to Brock’s. Harry had a vicious-looking knife out and was sawing away at one of the straps.
“Some thrill ride, eh, Harry?”
Harry finally got rid of his harness and shoved the tangled mess over the side. He looked up at Hawke.
“It was all right, I guess. Hell, I been kicked in the ass harder than that.”
The two men drifted around each other for a few minutes, bobbing along with the rollers, staring at the vast blue sea and sky.
“Well, this is fun,” Brock said finally.
“Yep,” Hawke replied, trailing his fingers through the water. “Beats the hell out of Energetika, trust me.”
“Got any ideas?”
“Afraid not. You?”
