She didn’t know?not yet. But something was niggling at her, insisting that she look at the relationship between Turkey and Ukraine more closely. There was no rhyme or reason for it, not really?yet some of her most insightful forays into investigative reporting had come from just such strange connections as the one she’d just made.
She quelled the questioning look the cameraman shot her with a glance.
The cameraman repeated her request to the driver.
Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up outside the Istanbul International Airport. Guards ringed the perimeter?set every two hundred yards or so, she estimated. There was no traffic, none, and the parking lot surrounding the airport held only a few civilian cars, scattered amongst several platoons of drab official-looking cars and police vehicles.
“Nothing comes in or goes out,” the cameraman said finally. “The Prime Minister announced that yesterday.”
“Oh, really?” Pamela said scathingly. “Then what’s that?”
She pointed at the horizon, at the commercial cargo ship now on final approach.
As it swept by them, touching down lightly on the runway into its roll-off, she noted the name emblazoned in Cyrillic letters on the tail fin?Aeroflot.
“A good job, Yuri.”
The Naval Aviation commander gave him an approving look. “Superb flying in a difficult platform. Your tactical decisions were entirely appropriate.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Yuri tried to relish the compliment, but felt only a sense of mounting frustration. The endless hours and days of familiarization flights, tactical drills, and training for the mission were over. Consequently, with fuel always in short supply in Ukraine, he was grounded. There was no longer any need for him to maintain flight proficiency, so scarce resources were allocated to other units. The possibility that he might be given another mission to fly was almost nonexistent?not until his superiors decided they needed his special talents again. Then, and only then, would they waste fuel bringing him back into currency.
“You have proven most reliable,” his commander continued. He gave him a long, appraising look. “You are that, are you not, Yuri?”
Yuri stiffened. “Of course, sir. Is there any question?”
The commander shook his head. “None. That is why you have been selected for another mission. One that requires a good deal of skill of perhaps a different type than you demonstrated in the air.”
The feeling of freedom he’d felt in the air flooded him. To have that back for just a while, to escape the drab walls and shoddy construction of this office building?to go anywhere, to just be outside again. And if at all possible, to be airborne?he’d do anything.
“What mission is that, sir?” he said, forcing his voice into a calm, professional tone.
His commander extended a set of orders. “You’re going to Turkey. Again.”
“To Turkey? But-“
A shiver of fear scampered up his spine. If they ever found out what he had done…
“As part of an assistance mission,” his commander continued calmly. “We have, as Turkey knows, a degree of experience in dealing with nuclear matters.”
He grimaced slightly. “The Chernobyl affair?a prime example of Russian engineering if anything is. Those bastards?well, no matter. In any event, the tragedy makes us all experts, does it not?”
“But what does Chernobyl have to do with?ah.”
Finally, comprehension dawned. With the prevailing winds in this part of the world running west to east, Turkey would be worried about the aftereffects of a nuclear detonation that occurred off her west coast. While the Americans could provide technical support, it was unlikely that they would be willing to extend much assistance given the attack on their forces. The next logical source of assistance would be Ukraine herself, rife with hard-won lessons born out of desperation. In the early days of Chernobyl, they’d all become experts, learning about the pituitary uptake of strontium, the basic sanitary precautions to make sure that nuclear fallout was not ingested?too many hard changes in a daily routine that was defined by poverty and deprivation.
“I am primarily an aviator, of course,” Yuri began carefully. “However, if the State believes I can be of assistance, I would like to do so.”
Immediately, thought Tombstone. Back when he’d been a lieutenant, that meant as fast as you could get your ass up the ladder into your aircraft for launch. But when you got to be an admiral, life got more complicated. Even given Tombstone’s best intentions and Batman’s willing support, getting off the carrier had taken longer than he’d planned on. It hadn’t been Batman’s fault, nor the aircrew’s, but simply that the life of a two-star admiral who was heading for command of Sixth Fleet was so much more amazingly complicated than anyone thought.
In the time that he’d been en route from Gaeta to Jefferson, the carrier had fielded six op-immediate calls for him, two P4?personal for?messages addressed eyes-only to him, and six inquiries from the news media requesting either embarkation on Jefferson or La Salle, or in-depth personal interviews. He’d tossed those to Jefferson’s public-affairs office and turned his attention to other matters.
Nothing, he determined, that couldn’t wait a little while. But advising the centers of those messages took a little time, as did ironing out the chain of command and operational responsibilities between his new staff, still on board the La Salle, and the Jefferson. Most of the Sixth Fleet staff would have to transfer to Jefferson, and finding everything from working spaces and technical consoles to staterooms and quarters took time.
Tombstone scribed his initials on the last op-immediate response and tossed it toward the waiting communications officer. “Anything else comes in, hold it for me until I return.”
The communications officer nodded. “I’ve got one circuit up with La Salle, and if anything truly immediately comes in, I’ll see that it’s relayed to you.”
Tombstone nodded sharply. “Stay in touch with CVIC,” he said, referring to the Carrier Intelligence Center. “I’m more interested in information coming into the carrier than demands that we send data out. There’s too much we don’t understand about this situation, and I need to know immediately if there’s the slightest indication of another attack.”
And that, Tombstone thought as he strode down the passageway, was the six-million-dollar question. Not only was there going to be an attack, but why did the first one happen?
Maybe there would be some answers aboard La Salle.
Three ladders later, he pushed through the hatch and out onto the flight deck. Bright autumn sun beat down on him, the sky radiant blue. He took just a second to look around him, breathe in the familiar salt air, linger in the feel of hot tarmac under his boot and the familiar weight of his cranial on his head. He pulled his goggles down from their position on the headgear, and settled them over his eyes.
Now, two hours later, USS La Salle’s ungainly profile loomed on the horizon. She was underway, steaming slowly toward him, generating favorable winds for the helicopter across her deck.
The helicopter’s pilot brought the Seahawk around smartly, and settled neatly onto the flight deck at the direction of the LSO. Before the rotors had even stopped turning, two officers in flight suits darted across the flight deck to greet him. Salutes were foregone since they weren’t wearing headgear, and introductions were postponed until they were inside the skin of the ship. Tombstone stood in the narrow compartment and waited for the door to the flight deck to close. He peeled off his cranial and goggles while the officers waited.
There was an awkward moment. Then the senior officer said, “Welcome aboard, Admiral. I’m Charlie Baker, Chief of Staff. The admiral’s expecting you.”
“I wish the circumstances could be better, Captain,” Tombstone said. “How’s the ship?”
“Still steaming, sir. Just barely. We have tugs alongside. We think we may have one of the radars operational by this evening. The technicians are working miracles with it.” He gestured toward the other officer. “Lieutenant j.g. Harmon, Admiral. He was on watch when we took the shot. The admiral thought you would want to speak with him immediately.”
Tombstone turned to the very junior aviator standing before him, and let his eyes run over him. A pilot?he could see that by the wings on the man’s flight suit?and not a very experienced one at that. Probably straight out of
