my ship and threaten me like this!”
“It’s not your ship anymore, Admiral,” Tombstone responded. “Not after what you’ve done to her.”
“This attack-“
“?on a nugget who should never have been left alone by himself on a console, not even for a moment.”
“This change of command-“
“Will take place right now. The only choice you have in the matter is whether you reach deep down inside of yourself and find some shred of military honor and do this gracefully, or whether you force me to use stronger measures. Now which is it?”
Latterly deflated like a target-practice balloon taking a direct hit from a five-inch fifty-four Naval gun. The hard angry mask of his face sagged into despair. He reached behind him, retrieved his hat from its place on the credenza, and placed it slowly on his head, pausing to adjust it so that it was straight. His hand came up slowly to the brim. “I stand relieved.”
Tombstone dropped his salute, as did Latterly.
“Under the circumstances, I’m sure you’ll excuse me if I make immediate preparations to depart the ship,” Latterly said. “If that meets with your approval, Admiral.”
The man was beaten, no doubt about it. Normally, Tombstone would have granted him some final shred of dignity with which to leave the scene.
Even now, he sought a reason to do so, wondering if he was really lacking in compassion, as Pamela had always said.
But this was a matter beyond emotion, beyond the normal rules of relationships that governed human beings. Tombstone hadn’t beaten him?Latterly had done it to himself. He had endangered his ship, his crew. Had Sixth Fleet had any claim to honor?the former Sixth Fleet, Tombstone corrected himself?it might have been different. But by abdicating his responsibility, by taking incoming fire in a way that never should have happened, he’d voluntarily set himself outside military traditions. “I don’t object, Admiral,” Tombstone said slowly. “Under the circumstances, it’s best for all concerned. I consider you a hazard to navigation, no different from undetected reefs or shoal waters. The sooner you’re off my ship, the better.”
The now-relieved Latterly nodded once. “Easy words, Admiral.”
He pointed to the high-backed leather chair sitting behind a solid wood desk.
“I hope they come as easily to you when you’re sitting in that chair instead of standing in front of it.”
Lieutenant Commander Jake “Snake” Wells found his imaginary point in the sky and put the Tomcat into a lazy, economical orbit around it. In the backseat, Lieutenant Tom “Kraut” Germany fiddled with knobs, refining his radar picture and tweaking the data link with the carrier.
Keeping on station allowed a pilot some degree of latitude, and Snake generally chose fuel efficiency over fun. Not as compulsively as the Marines, however?give them a CAP station and they damn near stood their Hornets on wing tip in tight, anal-compulsive circles.
The Tomcat was one of two F-14s assigned for carrier air patrol?CAP?over the La Salle. The other Tomcat was far to the north, controlling the approaches from Istanbul and the Black Sea. Tomcat 301 took station between the crippled flagship and Turkey’s western coast.
The Tomcat carried a standard anti-air missile load?two Phoenixes, two Sidewinders, and two Sparrows?along with a full load of rounds for its nose gun. The fever-pitch tensions generated by the Turkish attack the previous day were already starting to dissipate as the routine and monotony of guarding the air approaches to his ship displaced the initial shock.
“Got one of those insects departing in ten mikes,” Snake reported.
The enlisted air intercept coordinator on board Jefferson had just notified him that Admiral Latterly would be departing La Salle shortly. “Wanna go in closer and take a look?”
“Negative,” Kraut answered. “I lose too much radar horizon if you go any lower. Besides, we know what those ugly little bastards look like,” he said, referring to the CH-46 that would be ferrying Admiral Latterly to Gaeta. “One million parts flying in close proximity to each other. It’s a crime against nature if you ask me.”
The pilot chuckled. “Yeah, but the guys at the bottom of the class out of flight basic have to fly something, don’t they?”
He curled his fingers appreciatively around the Tomcat’s controls. It was well known that the top officers graduating out of basic flight school received priority slotting to the most demanding airframes, and were often given their choice of which aircraft they wanted to fly. Nobody ever chose helos. Not if they could help it.
Besides, who wants to ferry the big dogs around?
That or fly cargo back and forth during UNREP?
Snake shuddered, as much from the possibility that he might have to someday execute an UNREP maneuver in one of the ungainly workhorse helicopters as from the prospects of being a helicopter pilot at all. During UNREP, the CH-46 would drop down low over the deck of the replenishment ship, snag a load of pallets with a hook-and- wire contraption, and then ferry the dangling cargo back over to the receiving ship. It was tedious, monotonous work that was likely to get you killed quickly if your attention wavered.
“What else is in the area?” the pilot asked, glancing at his own heads-up display.
“Nothing much on the schedule. A COD flight due out from Gaeta. Old friend of ours on it. Remember Bird Dog Robinson?”
“Hell, yes, I remember Bird Dog! That crazy motherfucker, I thought he was safely stashed away in Newport for a year,” Snake said.
“I don’t know how he did it, but he’s on his way out here. I saw his name on tomorrow’s manifest.”
“You want to fly with him?”
“Not on your life. I don’t know how the hell Gator puts up with him.”
“I think Gator deserves?what’s that?”
Snake broke off his running commentary on the reputations and foibles of Bird Dog’s RIO as a new blip popped into being on his scope. “Contact?”
“One of the interesting kind,” Kraut said tightly, his fingers flying over the differently shaped knobs that comprised the Tomcat’s radar controls. “Based on its radar, I’d call it an F-16. And not one of ours.”
“Turkish?” the pilot asked.
“I’d say so, based on where it’s coming from. Other than that…” The RIO let the sentence trail off.
Both men knew that an aggressive manufacturing program by General Dynamics had equipped more than sixteen nations with the versatile lightweight fighter. Turkey had been a leading proponent of the program, and had an inventory of over 140 F-16 Falcons that were manufactured at its plant in Ankara. Peace Onyx, the program was called. The coproduction agreements had made the F-16 Falcon a mainstay of military aviation in countries ranging from Israel, Bahrain, Egypt, and South Korea to Venezuela.
“Definitely a Falcon,” the RIO said. “I’m getting APG-68 radar off it.”
“What’s she doing out here? They haven’t been flying for a day and a half now, and all at once they put a fighter up just as Admiral Latterly is leaving the ship? I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Neither do I,” Kraut said uneasily. “Talk to Homeplate, see what they want us to do.”
“Admiral, Intel confirms the launch of one Turkish F-16. It’s currently on an intercept course with USS La Salle at seven hundred knots.”
“What’s her altitude?”
“Thirty-one thousand feet. Admiral, she made a high-speed run up to that altitude. It’s an unusual flight profile.” Lab Rat’s pale eyebrows beetled together.
Batman took in a deep breath, and felt the beginnings of an adrenaline surge. That altitude was reserved for commercial flights, but since all traffic in and out of Turkey had ceased since yesterday, it wasn’t out of the question for a military aircraft to use Angels 31. But given the prior attack, with the enemy aircraft evidently hiding itself as a commercial flight, the profile was more than unsettling. It was downright dangerous.
