“I see you’ve heard about Senator Williams’s indictment,” he said neutrally. He pointed to a chair. “I think you’ll have to talk to Senator Dailey if you want any details.”
“I did.” Her rage seemed to seep away, and she collapsed into the chair he’d offered. “His staff said that you were responsible for providing most of the information leading to the indictment, and that you were present when he was taken into custody. Oh, Keith, how could you? Do you know what that man has meant to my career?”
He shook his head. “Do you know what he almost did to mine?”
She leaned forward. “Tell me. Let’s see if we can salvage anything out of this situation.”
He took a deep breath. He started to explain about duty, about a higher cause, and about the service that a man or a woman offers to the nation while in the military. He saw her eyes glaze over and a sour expression cross her face.
“I’ve heard this speech before, Keith,” she interrupted.
“You’re starting to sound like Tombstone, you know. He was always on about that sort of stuff as well. I thought you had more sense.”
“I do. Enough sense to know that what Williams wanted for this country was bad. Political power is one thing, Pamela. That belongs to the politicians, the men and women who are elected to represent the people of this country, not to a military officer. We exist to serve, not to rule. What Williams wanted was to transform the Pentagon into a uniformed version of the Senate.” He shook his head ruefully. “And I almost fell for it, too. Luckily, at the last minute, I came to my senses.” He looked up, pinned her to the chair with a stern glance.
“I have no regrets about what I did, Pamela. Quite the contrary. If there’s any way I can make up for what seems to me now to have been bad judgment, I will. And, if the Navy thinks that includes retiring, that’s what I’ll do.” For a moment, his voice took on a more hopeful note. “Pamela, I thought that if I was no longer in the service, that we might be able to” It was her turn to look grim and shake her head.
“Keith, I thought you understood how the world worked. I’ve already been in one relationship with an idealistic Navy officer. I don’t need another.” She stood, offered him a hand.
“Call me if you come back to your senses.” He took her hand, feeling the smooth skin, noticing the broken nails and grime still embedded beneath her fingertips. What a woman that she would dare the trip to Cuba, stand in the middle of bombs to get her story. In so many ways, they were so much alike.
But there was one critical difference between them.
Regretfully, he realized that that quality was honor. He shook her hand, resisting the impulse to pull her close, then showed her to the door.
He sat down at his desk again and glared at the seemingly endless pile of paperwork crowding his in basket, reflecting that virtue was sometimes its own reward. And no more than that.
“So there we were, at five thousand feet,” Bird Dog continued, maneuvering his hands to indicate the relative positions of the aircraft. “He was on my six, see? I was trying to shake him, but ” “Bird Dog, give it a rest,” Gator said wearily. He glanced at the young lady standing between them. “I think she’s heard enough about your air battles.”
The young woman shook her blond head vigorously. “Oh, no, I think it’s fascinating! In fact, it reminds me a lot of my dad’s stories. He was in Vietnam, and he was a pilot.” She paused doubtfully, and studied Bird Dog carefully. “You look like him, too. How old did you say you were?”
Gator almost choked. He took a sip of his beer to disguise his amusement, then started laughing again as he saw Bird Dog’s expression.
“Face it. Bird Dog you’re getting older, buddy.”
“I’m just thirty,” Bird Dog protested. “Hardly an old man.
Not like you.”
Gator studied him for a moment. “Come on, let me introduce you to someone,” he said abruptly. He set his beer down on the bar and led Bird Dog off toward a table at the back of the room. Three women were sitting there, sharing nachos and mixed drinks. “Mind if we join you?”
Gator asked politely.
“Hey, Gator,” a striking brunette said. “What you been up to?”
“Not much,” he said, taking the proper chair and gesturing Bird Dog into the other vacant seat. “Like you to meet a friend of mine Bird Dog, a pilot.”
The brunette shot him an appraising look. “Tomcat?”
Bird Dog was slightly taken aback by her knowing smile.
He nodded, at a loss for words.
She stuck out a hand. “Me too. Name’s Chris Hansen.”
“Lobo.” Bird Dog stared at her, awe dampening the first tricklings of lust tickling him in the normal places. “Weren’t you the one who was” Lieutenant Chris “Lobo” Hansen Lieutenant Commander Hansen by now, he figured. On a previous cruise, Jefferson had confronted the Russians on the Kola Peninsula. Lobo had been shot down during a mission over the Polyamyy submarine base and been taken prisoner by the militia in control. She’d been tortured, gang-raped, and finally rescued by the Marines. Rumor had it she’d finally made a successful recovery from the mental and physical havoc the experience had wreaked on her and been declared fit for duty.
She cut him off. “Yeah, that was me.” She grimaced.
“Being a POW isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’d advise against it as a career path. But that was then. I’m back in the cockpit now.”
Gator studied the two of them with amusement. During the last two tours, he’d watched Bird Dog chase more women across the landscape than any other pilot he’d ever seen. Following Bird Dog’s engagement to Callie, Gator had seen the first traces of maturity begin to show in the young pilot’s character. Now, he figured, it was time Bird Dog met a real woman, one who could probably out fly him.
Lobo and Bird Dog. Gator sat back to watch the fireworks.
So what do we do about Cuba? And how are newer, smarter, and more deadly weapons going to influence our choices?
Will we repeat our mistakes of the last century or make new ones?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Regular Carrier readers may notice a difference between this book and earlier ones. Arsenal is longer, going into more depth on the battles and conflicts we’ll be righting in the next decades. Let me know if you like the longer style.
My thanks, as always, to the following: Jake Elwell and George Wieser, the finest agents in the world. John Talbot, the next-finest agent and superb new writing mentor. Tom Colgan, my editor, who’d make a great fighter pilot. Captain Bud Weeks, USN, my first CO on USS Jouett (CG 29). Cyndy Mobley and Ron Morton, technical advisors and war consultants. Lynette Spratley, who types faster than I can talk and reads my first drafts. Bobby, the guy that cuts my hair and knows about Cubans.
And finally: to the men and women who go to sea in the service of our country BRAVO ZULU.
