found some reason to feel extremely threatened by the American presence in the Mediterranean. Our only hope for a peaceful resolution to this conflict is to bring all parties together to uncover the underlying rot in U.S.-Turkey relationships. We must talk, Admiral, not fight. Can’t you see that?”
“You want to talk to them?” Tombstone couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Talk. And not only with Turkey. I have authority,” he continued, drawing an intricately sealed and stamped document out of his briefcase, “to invite representatives from area nations on board this carrier in order to work out a lasting peace proposal.”
“On my ship.” Tombstone had passed from shock into sheer incredulity. “You must be joking.”
“Read this.” Tiltfelt thrust the document at him. “I have appropriate copies for you, of course, signed by your superiors. Including,” he continued pointedly, “your uncle.”
Tombstone scanned the document rapidly. It was just as the State Department official had said. Admiral Matthew Magruder was directed to provide air support, transportation, and berthing for such concerned nations as would agree to attend an Eastern Mediterranean peace conference.
Moreover, it appeared that his uncle and the other Washington cohorts had been busier than he’d thought.
No wonder they wanted to get me out here so quickly. There’s no way I’d sit still for this, not if I were back in D.C. They must be insane.
Or maybe they weren’t. Perhaps the pressure brought to bear on the Navy establishment had simply been too great. Uncle Thomas might have known that, might have even made sure that Tombstone was on site so that at least one admiral tied to him with additional ties of loyalty and kinship would be on scene.
To ensure that I’d go along with it?
Or to serve as an extra set of eyes and ears?
Suddenly, Tombstone desperately needed to make a secure phone call to his uncle, to hear the words from his own mouth. He needed an explanation, some framework in which this entirely unprecedented maneuver would make sense.
“When?” Tombstone shook his head in resignation. “This will take time to arrange. Security alone will be a nightmare.”
“We have nothing to hide from our allies, nor will I have you offend them by assigning Marine Corps escorts’ to make them feel as though we don’t trust them,” Tiltfelt said firmly. “If you will read the last paragraph, you will find the intended commencement date.”
Tombstone leafed rapidly through the document, finally coming to the last page. His eyes lingered on the paragraph, then widened in shock. He looked across the table at Tiltfelt. “You must be joking.”
“I am hearing that phrase entirely too often from your mouth, Admiral,” Tiltfelt snapped, evidently at the end of his patience. “What is there that you do not understand? Or is your ship simply incapable of fulfilling any mission that doesn’t involve dropping ordnance on a civilian target?”
Tombstone stood, icy with rage. He glared down at the five civilians and said, “I think you’ll find this ship far more capable than you ever dreamed, Mr. Tiltfelt. And as for your damned directive?Jefferson will be ready to receive these representatives on the scheduled date. Tomorrow.”
“Okay, let’s see an Immelman,” Commander Steve Garber ordered. “So far, so good.”
Skeeter obediently eased the Tomcat into a picture-perfect Immelman, completing the maneuver to settle into rock-stable level flight. He’d said barely two words to his squadron XO since they’d gotten airborne, and had no intention of changing. He’d been on the carrier less than twenty-four hours, and he was already in hack. A not- unusual experience for a nugget pilot, but still a squadron record, the XO had assured him.
As instructed by Lieutenant Commander Robinson, Skeeter had made his way directly to the VF95 Executive Officer and shame-facedly reported his incident on the flight deck. The XO had transitioned rapidly from a relatively pleasant greeting to irritation. Ten minutes later, Skeeter had left the XO’s stateroom dragging ass. In hack. And with a new set of orders?report to CAG and get himself slotted for a checkout flight with his new XO the next day.
“You look like you’ve got the makings of a good pilot,” the XO said over the ICS.
“Thank you, XO.” Skeeter’s voice was polite, noncommittal.
“Were Tomcats your first choice?”
“Yes, XO.”
An uncomfortable silence descended in the cockpit.
Finally, the XO said, “Talkative little shit, aren’t you? Listen, mister, everybody screws up once in a while. You’d best get that chip off your shoulder most-skosh, or I’ll be all over you like stink on shit! You copy?”
“Yes, sir.” Skeeter’s heart sunk even lower in his chest. Well, this was just fine. Now he could add giving the XO a hard-on for him to his list of sins.
How had everything gone so bad so quickly?
It had all started on the La Salle. He’d been confident?too confident?hell, he’d barely been out of the RAG for a month before he’d screwed up big-time. No matter that some paperwork shuffle in D.C. had led to him being stashed on board La Salle until his orders could get straightened out. He hadn’t minded it, except for the complete lack of stick time. In fact, once he’d gotten over his initial outrage, Skeeter had been rather pleased at it. Some exposure to some senior officers, a chance to get an inside look at how a fleet staff functioned?he’d been determined to make the best of it.
First Sixth Fleet, now his own XO. Where was that fabled Naval leadership he’d heard so much about in ROTC?
It sure as hell hadn’t worked on him so far. If it hadn’t been for his completely fulfilling and insanely intoxicating passion for flying the Tomcat, for flying in absolutely anything at all if the circumstances required it, but especially in the Tomcat, he would have bailed out of this canoe club a year ago. But his first contact with the sleek, powerful fighter had been love at first sight. As soon as he’d settled into the cockpit, even in the simulator, he’d known that this was what he’d been born to do. To be the master of this nine thousand pounds of steel and hydraulics, strap it on his ass every day and become as one in the sky. It was more than he’d ever thought it could be, more completely satisfying and fulfilling than the finest lady he’d ever had a chance to spend an evening with. Given the choice between sex and flying, he was fairly sure which one he’d choose on any given day.
“Skeeter?that’s your call sign, right? Let me try this one more time,” the XO said, breaking into his reverie of lost dreams and stolen hopes. “You seem to have gotten off to the wrong foot around here. Do you get that feeling?”
“Oh, I don’t know, XO,” Skeeter said suddenly, still feeling the pangs of anticipated loss that not making it as a Naval aviator would bring. “How could you possibly say that? In the past two days, I’ve only gotten the Sixth Fleet flagship shot up on my watch, managed to piss off the entire aircrew on board Jefferson, taken a swing at a chief petty officer, and landed myself in hack. That’s nothing, right? Just good old Naval aviation at its best.”
Skeeter heard the bitterness dripping out of his voice, and wished desperately to call the words back. All he’d managed to do with his little tirade was to prove conclusively to the XO that he had no control over his temper and that he was a sullen, whiny child. He’d thought it impossible, but his spirits sank even lower.
“You were on watch when it happened?” the XO said quietly. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, sir, I had the watch, I was TAO, and I’m the one that made the call?I let that aircraft sucker-punch us, wiped out a whole ship. Pretty impressive, huh?”
“Boy, that’s-“
“Don’t call me boy.” Skeeter’s voice lashed over the ICS like a snapped arresting line. “Goddamn it, XO, don’t you ever call me that again.”
“I’m sorry?it’s just an expression I use with some of the younger pilots. But you’re right?I can see how it would sound patronizing.”
“Anyone ever call you boy, XO? You hear any of the white pilots called boy?” Skeeter demanded.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.” The XO’s voice turned frosty. “But for the record, I won’t make that mistake again. Anything else on your mind?”
“No, sir.”
