Lincoln’s deployment. However, despite what you may think, I’m more than a little concerned about the situation out there. I’ll ask the captain to steam north, commencing immediately, and we should be within COD range by tomorrow. What do you think?”
“COD?” Involuntarily, Tombstone shuddered. As bad as flying on the C-130 out to Adak had been, he hated the workhorse personnel transports more. Suddenly, what should have occurred to him earlier dawned. “Wait. You can’t land a COD on the Coronado.”
“Ah. I see you haven’t gotten the word on something,” Admiral Carmichael said pleasantly. “On the Coronado, a two-seater training Harrier jump jet is considered a COD. The Marines own twenty-eight of the training version, and they’re damned generous about loaning me one. I can arrange for tanking support out of the Air Force in California, and have that Harrier in Juneau in a matter of hours. What do you think?”
“Yes, sir!” An odd tingle of excitement ran down his back. Despite his years of aviation, Tombstone had managed to miss the opportunity to take a check ride in the Marine Corps’ vertical takeoff and landing jet, the AV- 8B Harrier. One of the mainstays of an amphibious assault ship air wing, along with the tactical helicopters the Marines used, the Harrier was built in close partnership by McDonnell-Douglas and British Aerospace.
Since its introduction into both nations’ fleets in 1986, it had seen action in Desert Storm, flying missions both from airfields and from U.S. amphibious ships. In one mission alone, four of the AV-8B’s were credited with destroying twenty-five Iraqi tanks. All totaled, the Harriers had dropped over three thousand tons of ordnance during the short conflict.
What made the Harrier seem so alluring to most aviators was its ability to both hover like a helicopter and fly like a jet, with its single Rolls-Royce Pegasus turbofan jet engine providing both lift and thrust. Two large air intakes on either side of the fuselage fed into the upgraded engine, and the swiveling exhaust nozzle replaced conventional systems. Outboard weapons stations could carry a wide range of bombs, air-to-air and air-to-surface missiles, as well as rockets or fuel pods.
“Okay, I’ll have my guys pick you up tomorrow. Our operations people will talk later today to determine the exact flight schedule,” Admiral Carmichael said.
“Aye, aye, Admiral.” A small smile tugged at the corners of Tombstone’s lips for the second time in the last ten minutes. “I’ll be there, sir.”
“Oh, and Tombstone,” Admiral Carmichael said before breaking the connection, “since we’re going to be working together, why don’t you drop the ‘sir’ and ‘Admiral’ business when we’re in private? My friends call me Ben. Big Ben, if you want the whole nickname,” he added unnecessarily.
“Thank you, sir — Ben,” Tombstone said carefully. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Two clicks on his circuit were his only reply. Tombstone turned away from the patch panel in the communications center, all traces of amusement gone from his face as he carefully resettled his public facade. He turned toward the doorway and saw Pamela Drake standing there, an amused smile on her face.
“Can’t ever miss the chance to go flying, can you?” she asked, a trace of bitterness in her voice. “It’s still the boys and their toys, isn’t it?”
“I don’t deserve that, Miss Drake,” Tombstone said formally. “And just what the hell are you doing in communications, anyway?”
She held out a single sheet of typed paper. “Your memo granting us access to certain areas to transmit our releases. Or did you forget?”
“It damned well doesn’t include eavesdropping on my private conversations,” he snapped. “As of this moment, you’re barred from any further access here.”
She walked over to him slowly, an insolent sway in her hips. “Oh, really?” she asked archly. “You seem to forget that we’re still on U.S. soil, Admiral, and I have an absolute right to return to the mainland anytime I wish. And isn’t it going to be a fascinating story that I file from Juneau that ALASKCOM and Third Fleet are pulling a blanket of secrecy over problems in the Aleutian Islands. That they’re holding secret meetings on a ship to decide what to do, and that nobody is bothering to tell the American public what is going on in their own territory. And that civilian ships in the vicinity of USS Jefferson seem to keep disappearing suddenly, with no explanation in sight. Now what kind of lead story do you think that will make?” She smiled.
“Damn it, Pamela, you can’t do this.” His face took on a look of icy rage. “Push me too far, and I’ll have you jailed for espionage,” he said, regretting the words the moment they left his mouth.
“Oh, really?” Her smile broadened. “And the rest of my fellow journalists as well? Or don’t you think they’d notice if I disappeared suddenly, and was held incommunicado.”
Tombstone sighed. Whatever lingering fantasies he’d had about Pamela were fast disappearing. “Okay, tell me,” he said finally. “What will it take to keep you quiet?”
Pamela strolled around the small room, carefully observing the equipment. She glanced up at the overhead, then wrapped her arms around herself. “Claustrophobic, isn’t it?” she said, apropos of nothing in particular. “Being on land too long always makes me feel that way. Not like being on an aircraft carrier, or an amphibious ship.” She looked at him meaningfully.
“You can’t be serious. It’s not even my ship, Pamela. Not that I’d take you on board if it were, but USS Coronado is under Admiral Carmichael’s command, not mine. I have no say in who goes on board, and how. What you’re asking is impossible, never mind that it’s entirely unreasonable.”
She walked forward, stopping only one pace in front of him. She was so close he could smell the unique mixture of sharp, spicy perfume and female that had always driven him insane with desire. Involuntarily, one hand wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder, caress the taut line of her jaw, trace its way down her neck to-Stop it, he told himself sharply. Whatever Pamela had been to him before, it was evident that more had changed than he’d thought with their broken engagement.
“I suggest you see what you can do, then, Admiral,” she said harshly, something ugly in her voice. “Because whatever you’re up to, you and Admiral Carmichael, I damn well don’t intend to be left out of it.”
“Bird Dog, you stupid idiot, do you have the slightest notion of what the concept ‘airspace’ implies?” Gator asked. “Because if you don’t, now would be a very good time to listen to your RIO.”
“Airspace? You want airspace? Then how about this.” Bird Dog slammed the throttles forward and hauled back on the control yolk, wrenching the Tomcat into a steep climb. “Just exactly how much airspace do you want, my friend?” he asked sarcastically, straining to force the words out against the G-forces. “Just tell me when there’s enough.”
“Asshole,” Gator said. “I suppose you thought one hundred feet off the deck was good enough for government work?”
“Skipper said to get a good look at the island, didn’t he? And I wouldn’t want to miss that precious little Greenpeace boat, would I?” Bird Dog shot back angrily. “How the hell am I supposed to see anything if we don’t get up close and personal with the ground and the water?”
“Skipper knows damned well that you don’t have terrain-following radar in this bird,” Gator said, his voice tart. “At one hundred feet, you have absolutely no room for error. If we hit a flameout, a bad drink of fuel, you’ve got no room to recover.”
“Then you ought to be real happy about now,” Bird Dog said. He let the aircraft continue on through 38,000 feet, finally pulling out of the steep climb as the Tomcat started to complain about the attack angle. The aircraft shivered slightly as she fought against gravity, shedding airspeed and approaching the edge of her stall envelope. As the very first tremors that indicated approaching stall speed shook the aircraft, Bird Dog dropped his rate of climb and slowly resumed level flight.
“Hell, can’t you ever compromise?” Gator asked bitterly. “You forget who’s on your side, Bird Dog. Me. The guy who stuck with you through the Spratlys, the guy who climbs into the backseat of this goddamned Tomcat every day with you, and the one who has to keep answering questions from CAG and the admiral about why I can’t keep you under control. You want a new RIO? Fine, you got it. As soon as we get back to the boat, I’ll ask for a crew swap.”
Bird Dog considered his RIO’s words. Gator sure sounded pissed off. True, he played smart ass with the balls to the wall climb, and he had to admit, one hundred feet was a little outside the envelope. Still, he’d been flying safe, hadn’t he? They were both still alive, weren’t they? And just what exactly was the point of being a fighter pilot
