“Did you see his chute?” Batman asked carefully.
Skeeter furrowed his brow, trying to think. Had he seen a chute?
He shook his head, tried to force his mind to yield up the details of the ejection. Nothing came to him. “I don’t know.”
He looked up at the admiral, his eyes blurring. “But it had to work. They always do. Don’t they?”
His voice begged desperately for reassurance.
“Most of the time they do,” Batman said. It was tempting to offer the young airman what he wanted, reassurance that the missing man would be found eventually. But to do so would only prolong the agony. Batman was just coming to terms with it himself, the probability that the RIO’s parachute had failed to deploy and the man would never be found. As painful as it was, it was better that Skeeter start facing that now.
“We’re doing everything we can. We have every helo on deck airborne during daylight, and the Shiloh is quartering a search pattern now. If he’s out there, we’ll find him.”
“Daylight? What time is it?”
Batman glanced over at the doctor, who nodded. “Three o’clock in the morning. You’ve been out for a while.”
“Unconscious?”
“Skeeter, I hate to do this, but I need to ask you about the attack,”
Batman said, skillfully avoiding the details surrounding Skeeter’s own rescue. It troubled him in a way, although it would normally be understandable, following on the heels of Skeeter’s incident on the flight deck. It made him wonder whether the young man had the temperament to make it as a fighter pilot. It took guts and passion to climb into that Tomcat every day. He wanted people who cared about flying, cared desperately.
But that was only part of the equation.
To be successful, a fighter pilot had to compartmentalize his mind.
When he walked out of the island and onto the flight deck, he had to drain every bit of emotional tension out of his mind, lock it away in some dark corner for the duration of the mission. Later, he could worry about his wife, fret over his kids, or generally be pissed off at the world. But while you were on the flight deck, while there were airplanes turning nearby or while you were airborne, everything ceased to exist except the mission.
“You saw the Falcon in plenty of time, didn’t you?” Batman asked, focusing in on his current mission?gaining information that could save the life of another pilot. “I saw the radar picture?what really happened?”
Skeeter began detailing the encounter with the Falcon, using his hands to illustrate the relative position of the two aircraft during the rolling scissors he’d been trapped into. When he reached the part of it where he’d decided to pop his speed brakes, Batman smiled appreciatively. “Good call. Who taught you that?”
Skeeter thought for a moment. “Something I read in Fighter Combat, Admiral. The Duke?Duke Cunningham.”
Admiral Wayne nodded. “Hell of an aviator?even a better Congressman.”
“The thing is, that Falcon’s not a typical Falcon. Not the way they told me, at least. He just jumped right into the vertical, didn’t stick to an angles fight like he was supposed to.”
Skeeter frowned. “It was almost as though he didn’t know what he was doing. No, but that couldn’t be it?he was too damned good.”
Skeeter looked up at the admiral, puzzled.
“It was like a Chihuahua that thinks it’s a Great Dane.”
“Come again?” the admiral asked, failing to follow Skeeter’s analogy.
“You know how some dogs are, Admiral. They may be little, short, and not any more dangerous than a gnat. But you get some of’em, they get sort of this complex?they yap and yell and charge at you like they were a Great Dane. I guess nobody ever bothered to tell them they were just small dogs.”
He chuckled, then winced at the pain in his ribs. “That’s what this Falcon guy was like?nobody ever bothered to tell him he ought to be in an angles fight.”
Batman frowned. “Anything else unusual about his performance?”
Skeeter’s face lit up suddenly. “I know what would explain it?it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Batman nodded. “We may be thinking the same thing?an equipment change-out.”
“That’s exactly it.”
It did explain it, Batman thought. The intelligence briefing on the Turkish Falcons had made the assumption that they were outfitted with one of the two engines normally used on that airframe. But what if they weren’t?
What if Turkey had found a way to put a different power plant in the airframe, one with more thrust?
It wouldn’t take a lot, not as light as that aircraft was. Fuel would be the main problem, but Turkey’s strategy probably called for fighting close to home. It wasn’t like fighting from an aircraft carrier, where every gallon of fuel counted, not when you stayed close to home base and fuel support.
Batman laid a hand on Skeeter’s shoulder. “The Intelligence guys will be down to talk to you soon. They’ll want to follow up on this?you up to seeing them in the morning?”
Skeeter nodded. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere for a while, Admiral.”
On his way back to his cabin, Batman considered the possibility of a higher thrust-to-weight Falcon and what impact that would have on his tactics. Or was this just an especially canny Falcon pilot, one who knew that the American aviators would be expecting an angles fight?
Wasn’t that one of the first tenets of Naval warfare?do what the enemy least expects?
No matter. He stopped by CVIC on his way back to his cabin, and quickly filled the duty officer in on what he’d learned from Skeeter. The officer promised to tell Lab Rat and have a full briefing on the possibilities ready by ten o’clock that morning. As he left, Batman saw the duty officer was calling the on-watch team around him for a war conference.
There was still no sign of Skeeter’s RIO, the XO of VF-95. No debris, no international air-distress beeper, nothing. While the search would continue for another twenty-four hours, Batman already knew what the final result would be. Another good pilot lost. Tomorrow he’d have to start thinking about the memorial service, about dealing with the squadron’s grief and anger over losing their XO.
Tired, so tired?finally, he reached the door to his office and shoved it open. Stacks of messages spilled over on his desk. He considered taking a shot at clearing the paperwork, and finally gave up. He could hear his rack calling him.
The representatives from the various countries filed in in a flurry of aides, position papers, and protocol. Tombstone had been briefed on their relative seniority, on how essential it was that each took exactly the correct position around the long rectangular conference room, with precisely the correct number of chairs positioned behind each for aides and assistants. Tombstone had tried to explain that there simply was not enough space in his conference room to comply with all of Tiltfelt’s demands. The State Department representative had acted as though Tombstone were intentionally interposing difficulties into the negotiation process, and it was only after Tiltfelt had actually seen the arrangement of chairs crammed into the room that he’d finally subsided. Tombstone had suggested moving the proceeding into a portion of the flag mess, and Tiltfelt had reluctantly agreed.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
Tiltfelt had an expression of grave sincerity on his face, thoughtful yet concerned, open and willing to talk. Tombstone tried to believe that he meant it.
“Welcome to the USS Jefferson. We are honored that you have chosen to participate in this process.”
And just as happy when you get the hell off my boat. Tombstone watched each of the representatives carefully mirror Tiltfelt’s expression.
Was it something that they taught in diplomacy school?
Or merely a quality of dissimulation that permitted one to rise in diplomatic circles in any country?
No matter?his own poker face had served him well in the Navy. He wouldn’t begrudge another department their peculiarities of custom.
“And our thanks to our host, Admiral Matthew Magruder. Admiral?”
Tiltfelt yielded his place at the podium.
Tombstone rose and walked slowly to the forward part of the room. His carefully prepared remarks, already vetted by Tiltfelt and his minions, were laid out on a three-by-five card he carried in his right-hand pocket.
