against Tombstone to see political standards ? worse, standards of political correctness ? used to make decisions such as who would go ashore on this mission, rather than more straightforward considerations such as who was best qualified.
And of all the women aboard the Jefferson, why did it have to be Joyce?
She’d flown as his RIO over the Kola Peninsula seven months before, when the squadron had been shorthanded and an alpha strike had been needed against a Russian Typhoon submarine base. They’d been shot down, had punched out together, and she’d broken a leg on landing. When he’d reached her, a Russian soldier was already there, standing over her; in a blurred confusion of a firefight that would have been funny had the situation not been so deadly, Tombstone and Tomboy both had shot the man with their service pistols before he could reach his AK. A recon force of U.S. Marines had arrived shortly afterward, beating a large Russian unit in a race to the downed fliers by two minutes.
The two of them had shared… something. Call it the camaraderie shared by all warriors who face fire and death together. Or the camaraderie of people who owe one another their lives; in that last desperate firefight, as they’d tried to bring the Russian soldier down with pistols before he could bring his AK to bear, they’d saved each other’s lives. She’d then demanded he leave her and save himself, and he’d refused. There was a bond there, as undeniable as it was deep. It was not sexual, either, though Tombstone could easily imagine it becoming such.
But he was engaged to Pamela Drake. At least he assumed they were still engaged. They never wrote much in the best of times, and after that last quarrel… Well, he guessed they’d both needed time to cool down. Perhaps they could patch things up now that she was coming out here. He grinned to himself as he wondered if Pamela would understand the warriors’ bond, the mutual friendship of military professionals that he shared with Tomboy Flynn.
Tombstone often thought of those hours on the Kola Peninsula… just as he tried not to think about what would have happened if the Russians had gotten there first. Lobo ? Lieutenant Chris Hanson ? had been captured that same afternoon.
It wasn’t, he told himself, just the fact that female combat personnel might be ? often were ? raped or otherwise sexually assaulted when they were captured. Despite the Geneva Convention, a protocol that somehow seemed almost quaint nowadays in its assumptions that signatories would obey the limits it set, POWS could be subjected to a variety of indignities, assaults, and outright tortures, both physical and mental, regardless of their sex. No, his concern went deeper, to the very basic question of whether women should serve in combat at all, partly because of the physical threat to them, of course, but more because of the damage it did to the military system that Tombstone was a part of.
Tombstone was still old-fashioned enough to believe that biology had assigned men the task of defending home and hearth… a decidedly sexist attitude that he’d learned to keep to himself in these days of political correctness and enlightened attitudes toward women at the higher levels of both the military and the political bureaucracies. He was more than willing to admit that many women tended to be not only the equals but the superiors of men in some combat-related skills, especially technical skills like flying an aircraft, which required dexterity and brains as opposed to the upper-body strength demanded of grunts on the ground. They resisted G- forces better, were often more dexterous, and frequently dealt with stress better than their male counterparts.
But no matter how many directives there might be descending from Washington, the fact remained that men were men, and men acted differently when women were present. All the rhetoric about equality and all the regulations and orders in the world couldn’t overcome the biological instincts that led men to want to protect women when they were in danger, instincts that could completely scramble a mission. “Striker” Strickland had disobeyed orders trying to protect Lobo after she’d been brought down, and he’d paid for it with his life and the life of his RIO. A ZSU had knocked them out of the sky as they came in low for a strafing run.
There was no question at all in Tombstone’s mind that this visit ashore was dangerous. While not technically a war zone, the Crimea could become one at any moment. Worse, the Russian men and officers present would have nervous trigger fingers ? and might be less than pleased to see Americans on Russian soil. Seven U.S. Marines with M-16s would not be able to provide much in the way of a defense if things turned sour.
There were, of course, the UN personnel already on the ground in the Crimea. According to the word Tombstone had gotten last night, they’d flown in yesterday from Turkey, part of the same contingent slated for peacekeeping activities in Georgia. Most were administrators and negotiators, but there were supposed to be about fifty Spanish troops along to provide security for the group.
Not a hell of an army, no matter how you looked at it.
“Hey, CAG?” It was Tomboy’s voice, speaking over the Sea Stallion’s intercom. “What kind of a reception do you think they’ll lay on for us?”
Before Magruder could answer, Sykes spoke up. “Probably pretty low-key at least for now, Commander,” he told her. “General Boychenko doesn’t have anything to gain from moving too fast or too far.”
“There could be some question about how many of his people know what’s going on,” Vanyek added. His voice didn’t carry well against the sound of the rotors, and Tombstone had to strain to catch the words. “Boychenko is technically committing treason. Some of his people may not care for that.”
“We’re going to have to watch our steps down there,” Tombstone told them.
“Watch what we say, and watch who we talk to, at least until the surrender is official and we have a sizable UN contingent in place.”
“Do you think Krasilnikov will attack Boychenko, once he finds out?”
“The Ukes’ll save him the trouble,” Whitehead said. “Unless we can convince them that invading the Crimea is a bad idea.”
“Final approach, people,” the chopper’s pilot informed them from the cockpit. “Grab onto something and hang on. Please observe the seat-belt and no-smoking signs!”
The SH-53 came in fast and low, as if the pilot were determined to impress the Russians with his style and panache. Looking out the side door’s window, Tombstone caught a blurred impression of blue sea, rock cliffs, and a small airport, with gray-purple mountains visible in the distance. Then they were down with a gentle bump, and the engine noise dropped in pitch as the rotors started to slow.
“End of the line,” the Sea Stallion’s loadmaster called cheerfully. He touched a control and the helicopter’s rear ramp began opening with a grind of electric motors and the clatter of chains. Tombstone, with his personal effects and clean uniforms in a seabag over his shoulder, was first down the ramp and onto the tarmac. Captain Whitehead was close beside him.
As Sykes had predicted, there wasn’t much of a welcoming committee on hand. A couple of elderly limousines were drawn up on the tarmac a few yards away, with a handful of Russian soldiers clustered around them. As Tombstone cleared the rotors and straightened up to his full height, two figures detached themselves from the waiting group and advanced toward the disembarking naval personnel.
The one in the lead wore a Russian army uniform with insignia that identified him as a colonel. He saluted Whitehead stiffly and spoke in careful, precise English. “Captain… Whitehead. Welcome to Yalta. I am Bravin. General Boychenko has asked me to see you and your party to your accommodations.”
Whitehead returned the salute with a smile. “Thank you, Tovarisch Polkovnik,” he said. “And please convey my thanks to the general, as well.”
Before the stilted conversation could go any further, the second man stepped forward. He was in civilian dress, a short, slight man whose quick movements and brisk manner made Tombstone think of a bird searching for worms. “Captain Whitehead,” he said. He spoke with a distinct Hispanic accent that sounded jarring in these surroundings. “I am Jorge Luis Vargas y Vargas, personal aide to Special Envoy Sandoval. He has placed me at your disposal until you have settled in and there is time to arrange a meeting with him and the rest of the United Nations delegation.” The little man studied the new arrivals for a moment, his forehead creasing in a distinctly disapproving frown. “Captain, you and your people must not appear again without proper uniforms. His Excellency will be most displeased. Most displeased.”
“Proper uniforms?” Tombstone asked.
“Your carrier group is attached to the UN command. You should wear the proper blue berets or combat helmets, and UN armbands.” He gestured at the Sea Stallion, in its dark gray livery and muted rounder. “And for that matter, your helicopter should not display American insignia. Please be sure to let your people know what is expected. His Excellency is very precise when it comes to questions of protocol.” Before either Magruder or
