You people are just following orders.”
The SEAL OIC-officer in Charge shook his head.
“That plan’s got my name all over it. Admiral. With all due respect, I wouldn’t mind getting hung for that one little bit.”
“You may get your chance,” Tombstone snapped. He glanced at the standard Navy-issue black clock up on the bulkhead. “And sooner than you want.”
“Admiral, at the risk of sounding like an optimist,” Batman broke in, “this is a damned fine operational plan.
It’s classic. We get our people out, take ownership of the airspace, then proceed inward to strike our objectives.
They’ll be studying this one at the War College.”
“They study Grenada, too, for what it’s worth.” Tombstone shifted his gaze to Bird Dog. “They do, don’t they?
And Beirut as well.”
Bird dog nodded, “i think this one will work, Admiral.
Tombstone stood and started pacing back and forth. Had it been any other officer. Batman decided, it would have been a sign of nerves.
But with Tombstone it was more an indication of the pent-up rage and anger seething through him, a physical release of that which kept him from exploding in temper. It was from such small physical activities that Tombstone got his reputation for being utterly unflappable and granite-faced.
“We need to get going,” Sikes said finally. “If we want to leave on time.” He glanced uncertainly from Batman to Tombstone.
Batman nodded slightly, giving permission. “Get your people ready.”
With another gesture. Batman cleared the room of the rest of the personnel, indicating that they should go to their racks and get some sleep while they could. When they were alone, he walked over to his old lead and said, “Don’t sweat the load. Tombstone. You know this has got as good a chance of working as anything.”
Tombstone wheeled on him. “If it were simply a matter of taking out those missile structures, do you think I’d be worried? Hell, even that damned Bird Dog could figure out how to do that! There’s no mystery to how we operate.” His mouth clamped into a thin, taut line.
“Yeah. What? What is it that’s got you so wound up about this plan?”
Batman pressed, already suspecting that he knew the answer. Should he say it? No, with a man like Tombstone, it was better to let him come to his own conclusions about when to publicly air a matter. If Batman mentioned Pamela first, it would simply drive his old lead against the wall, cementing his silence for good.
Batman felt Tombstone’s eyes searching his face, looking for something there. The younger admiral willed himself into immobility. Finally, Tombstone nodded, and the tension seemed to drain out of his body. He flung himself down on the flat leatherette couch against one wall, onto his back, feet propped up on the far armrest. The sudden change in posture was as disconcerting to Batman as having Tombstone actually smile.
“Don’t get diplomatic on me. Batman,” Tombstone said finally. He turned his head and stared over at his old wingman, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“We’ve known each other too long for this. You know what it is.”
“Then you say it first. Tombstone,” Batman challenged.
“Anytime I bring it up, you start back pedaling on me.”
“Pamela Drake.” Tombstone pronounced the name quietly, neutrally.
“That’s what it is. And that downed pilot, too.
Thor. Both of them but especially Pamela.”
“Can they get her out?”
Tombstone shrugged. “The SEALs seem to think so. And if they can’t damn it. Batman, you know I’ll do it. I’m going to quit thinking with my dick. She’s there illegally, against all U.S. policy, and interfering with our operations.
If they can’t get her out, I’ll send a strike in anyway.”
“And Thor?” Batman’s voice was hard and cold. “What about him?”
Tombstone levered himself up and swung his feet back down on the floor.
“Same answer, for a different reason.
Major Hammersmith’s paid to take chances. He’s a Marine; he understood the risks he was taking. I’ll try my best to get him out, but if I can’t …”
“You’ll go ahead with that strike, too.” Batman had not realized how much he wanted to believe that wasn’t true.
Deep down, he’d known this was exactly what Tombstone would order, and why Tombstone had been sent up to the battle force. Even before he himself had suspected it, Batman’s superiors had known that he might flinch from this last and deadliest military decision. He tried to feel resentment, but all he felt was relief. Relief that the decision was someone else’s, an unwillingness to face the ultimate reckonings of life and death that took place in the correlation of forces.
“I think-I think I’m happy with one star. Admiral,” Batman said slowly.
He stood, walked to the center of the room, and offered a hand to his old lead.
Tombstone took Batman’s hand, used it to lever himself up from the couch, then turned the grip into a warm handshake. “You never know what you’ll do until you’re there, shipmate. You know it’s the right decision. It’s the same one you’d make if you were in my shoes.”
“Let’s get some sleep, Stoney,” Batman said. “If tomorrow is as long a day as I think it’s going to be, we’ll need it.”
Colonel Santana ran his hand over the.45 pistol holstered on his hip. The gun was smooth, gleaming better cared for than 90 percent of the houses and people living in his country. But his life did not depend on people right no wit depended on this gun. And on the temper of the man seated opposite him.
Santana left his fingers resting gently on the butt as he glared at the Libyan. “Your plan is not working. The Americans are here in force and have already penetrated and destroyed our deception.”
Kaliff Mendiria lounged lazily in the chair, seemingly unaware of the gun at Santana’s hip. He lifted one hand and waved away Santana’s concerns with a light flip of his fingers. “You think short-term, my friend. That is why our partnership is so good. You have experience and are excellent in executing the immediate, the tactical. But for the longer-range planning, you need an outside viewpoint to balance your impetuousness. Ah, that hot Cuban blood it has landed you in trouble more than once, has it not?” The Libyan took a deep breath, then yawned. “It is growing late.
I suggest we retire until tomorrow morning.”
Santana jerked the pistol from his holster and slammed it down on the table, butt first. The nine-inch barrel pointed menacingly in Mendiria’s direction. Not at him directly no, Santana was not willing to make that threat just yet but certainly in that direction. “What of the missiles!
You promised them by now.”
Mendiria frowned. “You threaten me, then demand concrete evidence of our friendship? Is this how Cuba thinks?”
“We had a deal,” Santana said tightly. “A distraction here, so that you could proceed with your plans in Africa. We have drawn the American battle group away from the Mediterranean as you requested, and what good has it done us? Merely invited a missile launch that decimated an empty field.”
“An empty field,” Mendiria echoed. “And do you suppose that if we had already delivered the missiles to you, they would have been in that field? Undoubtedly so. You see, Santana, you simply must learn to look ahead.”
Santana paused uncertainly. Was it possible? Had the swarthy African sitting across from him actually foreseen the American strike at Cuban soil, and planned around it?
He studied the Libyan more closely now, cataloging his features. An ugly man, but one with a compelling sense of power about him that even Santana only rarely dared to brook.
Santana holstered the pistol and sat down in the chair opposite the Libyan. “So. Enlighten me, then. Explain
