“I wish you’d called,” she said softly.
“Let me finish,” he said abruptly. “In the last month, I’ve been running scared. You’re one of the finest RIOs I’ve ever flown with, male or female. You’re good, so good it almost scares me. I’d rather fly with you than anyone else. But then you and Batman seemed to hit it off, and — and, damn it, you’re assigned to my ship! I couldn’t say anything, couldn’t do anything. Do you understand?”
Finally, she looked up. Miraculously, the tears had cleared from her eyes. “That’s not what I thought.”
“I know what you thought, and I should have figured it out before. You can’t quit, Tomboy. I don’t want you to, and the Navy needs you. Those junior women pilots coming up behind you need you, too.”
“And what about us? Is there an us?” she asked. “Not now, I mean. But this tour won’t last forever, Tombstone. In another year, we’ll both be rotating back to shore duty.”
“Do you want that, Tomboy?” he asked, suddenly afraid his voice would crack.
“Yes. Very much so.” Her eyes were shining, and the color had returned to her cheeks. “I can live with where we are now. And a year from now, things will be different.”
He stared at her, hope growing in his heart. “You mean that?”
“You’re an idiot, Tombstone, if you can’t see that I do,” she replied tartly. “If I’m allowed to call the Admiral an idiot, that is.”
“Sometimes the Admiral is,” he answered softly. “And he’d like to do something idiotic right now.”
“Then I’d better be leaving before I compromise your reputation,” she said, abruptly standing up. She held out her hand. “We have a deal, I believe.”
He unfolded himself slowly from the chair and took her hand. For a second, the urge to pull her close to him, to feel the lithe body mold itself to his, was almost unbearable. Then he focused on the sharply pressed uniform, the rows of combat medals on her chest, and the empty spot marked with two little holes in the shirt above the ribbons. He released her hand and crossed over to his desk in one step.
“I believe you’re out of uniform,” he said gravely, and handed her the wings.
“It’s customary for a senior officer to pin the wings on,” she said, closing her hand over his.
He slipped one hand inside her shirt, feeling the silky softness of her breast on the back of his fingers. He positioned the wings above her ribbons and pressed the two prongs through the holes already in her blouse. Fumbling under her shirt, he slipped the two retaining clips, commonly known as nipples, over the back of the prongs, firmly attaching her NFO wings to her uniform.
“There,” he said. “I don’t know how many times I could stand to do that on a cruise. That’s the last time I ever take my hand out of your shirt without getting a hell of a lot more physical. You ever try to quit on me again and I’m going to charge you with sexual harassment.”
Tomboy laughed. “I won’t quit on you again, Tombstone. Especially not now. Hell, with what I’ve got to look forward to in a year, I don’t want you flying with anyone else!”
“Then get the hell out of here and let me get some work done,” he snarled in mock ferocity. “And by the way — stop by air ops and see if you can get on the schedule for tomorrow. Among other things, I’m real overdue for five day traps.”
“And we’ll talk about the night traps later,” she said.
“What the hell is this all about?” Third Mate Gringes asked the master of the ship, waving the radio message in his hand. “Since when did we start taking on Navy helicopters?”
“Since they decided one of their people wanted to have a little chitchat with us,” the master replied. “Evidently our complaint about the fly-overs got some attention. And there’s no reason why they couldn’t land here,” he continued, pointing out to the broad, empty expanse of deck. “When we were in the Navy, we had helicopters setting down on a lot smaller deck than that.”
“Guess I’d better dig out that emergency gear,” Gringes replied. “It’s been a while since I was an LSO.”
An hour later, following a hasty FOD walk-down, Gringes saw the helicopter appear on the horizon. The SH- 60F made two exploratory circles of the deck, getting a look at the area, and got an update on relative wind from the bridge of the massive RO-RO. Finally satisfied, it settled neatly onto the deck.
One flight-suited crew member hopped out and darted over to the Third Mate.
“Hi! Commander Busby, USS Jefferson,” the man said, offering his hand. “I gather you were expecting us.”
Gringes stifled the reflex to salute. “Yes, sir, we sure were. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you up to the master — uh, captain.”
“Any chance you could ask him to meet us in your radio room?” the Navy officer said. “It’ll save some time, and things are getting a little urgent out here.”
“Don’t we know it! We’re cranked up to max speed to get away from you people. Guess it didn’t do much good, since you were able to hunt us down so quickly. What’s all this about, anyway? The Navy want to give us a permanent helo detachment?” Gringes asked, his curiosity rising to unbearable levels.
“I’ll brief you in with your master, if he says it’s okay. And, no, we’re not staying. In fact, I’ve got to get back to the carrier as soon as possible. We’re just coming over to ask a little favor, that’s all.”
“I guess we could try to pretend we’re a decoy carrier,” Gringes said over his shoulder as the officer followed him into the skin of the ship. “Don’t know that our owners would like that much, though.”
“Nothing as serious as that. We just want you to send a message out for us.”
“A message? With all the communications gear you’ve got over there, you want us to send a message?”
They paused on a landing between flights of stairs, and Gringes thought he saw a flash of amusement in the other man’s face.
“Let’s just say that the source of this particular message is important,” the officer said finally.
“What kind of message?”
A smile lit Commander Busby’s face. “A weather report.”
CHAPTER 30
The ambassador’s stomach churned uneasily. Even with the president’s words of confidence still ringing in her ears, the thought of the next few hours filled her with an ineluctable dread. She paused for a moment, and the flock of staffers and assistants behind her almost ran her over. She heard a few angry whispers, the almost imperceptible thud of elbows on ribs.
None, save her Chief of Staff, had any inkling of what was about to happen. There were no position papers, no carefully thought out amendments or resolutions. Just her own instincts, honed in years of political maneuvering and international intrigue, to get her — and the nation — through this crisis without irrevocable harm to America’s interests.
She sighed and started forward again. This, as the president had said, was why they paid her the big bucks.
“The ambassador from the United States.” The chairman of the Security Council recognized her. She ignored the puzzled flurry of comments from her own staff behind her.
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. The United States appreciates your courtesy in allowing us to proceed with our message of support for our valued allies in China.”
T’ing looked up sharply. His features quickly smoothed themselves back into inscrutability. He started to speak, then thought better of it.
“Support?” the chairman said doubtfully.
“Yes, of course. By now each member has probably received reports from their own sources,”—read “spies” here, my esteemed colleagues, she thought, allowing a faint smile to reach her lips—”and are no doubt preparing their own statements. However, we wished to be the first.”
