couple of weeks, and you’ve got a full can wait. There’s no other admiral in this Navy with as much actual combat experience as you’ve got, and nobody I trust more. So cut the modesty and give me a simple yes or no, will you?”
“Yes. Of course I’ll go. Did you really have any doubt?”
“No.” A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of the admiral’s mouth. “But I thought I’d give you an out if you wanted one. You and that young lady of yours. Hell, Stoney, we’ve got to start producing Magruders for the next century sometime, don’t you think? I thought maybe-“
It was Tombstone’s turn to interrupt. “With all due respect, you thought wrong, Admiral,” he shot back quickly. “My young lady, as you put it, is a combat-blooded Naval aviator. If she thought I’d turned down this assignment just to stay with her, she’d kick my ass from here to Honolulu.”
A silence settled over the room, not an uncomfortable one. It was the feeling between two men who trust each other absolutely, who were related not only by blood, but by the even more binding ties of honor, loyalty, and duty. “You’ll leave immediately,” the CNO said finally. He stared at Tombstone as if trying to memorize his features. “Old stomping grounds for you, Stoney. Since La Salle is completely non-mission-capable, you’ll have to park your flag on Jefferson. Any problem with that?”
A sudden fierce joy shook Tombstone, surprising in its intensity. To be back at sea, just when he thought he was going to be deskbound at Southcom for a two-year tour. Not in command of the carrier, of course?that honor would remain with his old wingman, Rear Admiral Edward Everett “Batman” Wayne, the man who’d relieved him only a year earlier as Commander, Carrier Battle Group 14.
Tombstone stood. “If there’s nothing else, Admiral, I need to make some preparations to get underway.”
The CNO stood and extended his right hand. Tombstone grasped it, the warm configurations so like the flesh of his own hand, a pulse that was more than a physiological function beating in unison in the two hands.
Tombstone held the handshake a moment longer than was necessary, then released his uncle’s hand reluctantly. “I’d best get going.”
“The Chief of Staff will type up your orders.” The CNO regarded him gravely. “I don’t have to tell you how important this is, Admiral.”
“I know, Admiral.”
Bradley Tiltfelt glared at the man fidgeting before his desk. “Whose side are you on?”
As Deputy Assistant Director for Eastern European Affairs, he had every right to ask the question. Ask it, and expect the appropriate answer from his subordinates. If the man standing in front of him didn’t understand that, it was time Bradley knew that now.
The Section Chief for Turkey appeared to be giving the matter some thought, which Bradley deemed entirely inappropriate. The answer was obvious, or should be. That there might be other concerns than the political standing of his office?and more importantly, of himself?never even entered Tiltfelt’s mind.
“I’m in favor of peaceful resolution of this matter before the military knee-jerk reaction escalates it into a full-scale war,” the man offered tentatively.
Bradley leaned back in his chair, caressed the leather arm, and stared pointedly at the Chief. “What manual did you plagiarize that from? When I want politically correct jargon out of you, I’ll tell you. Now answer the question.”
The Chief’s face reddened, and his fidgeting stopped. Bradley could see the anger rising in the man’s eyes, felt the tension in the room build.
It was unfortunate that he had to rely on individuals such as this in conducting foreign policy?extremely unfortunate. Where were the cadres of loyal subordinates that he saw staffing the offices of the other Assistant Deputies?
He shook his head, feeling vaguely bitter. The State Department was supposed to be a haven for a better sort of human being, the ones that understood the intricacies of world affairs and that such matters could not be entrusted to men whose only idea of an appropriate response to turmoil was an explosive device.
His Chief started to speak, choked back a few words, and then remained silent.
“Well?” Bradley demanded. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours, of course, sir,” the Chief finally muttered. He looked down at the carpet, finding something incredibly intriguing just in front of his feet.
Well, it was less than the wholehearted support to which he was entitled, but it would have to do, Bradley decided. Indeed, the care and feeding of his subordinates had become of increasingly little significance to him. They were there to do a job, to feed him the information he required in order to make the appropriate decisions, and they’d damned well better understand that. It wasn’t as though he could trust them with anything more than mechanical tasks, not after their conduct during the last flare-up with China. (Carrier 8: Alpha Strike)
He let the man squirm for a few minutes more while he studied his fingernails. Finally, when he deemed that the full weight of his dissatisfaction had settled in on the man, he spoke. “Turkey is an old and valued ally of the United States,” he said slowly and distinctly. “During the decades of the Cold War and even before that, there has never been an incident of this kind. Therefore, our first priority is to determine exactly what provoked this reaction from her.”
“Provoked?” his section chief said wonderingly. “Sir, with all due respect?there has been an attack on American forces. A nuclear attack. Regardless of any supposed justification, I cannot see any possible rationale for such an egregious breach of international protocol. It’s simply-“
“You’ve just demonstrated why you’ll never be anything more than a Section Chief,” Bradley interrupted. He pointed an accusing finger at his area expert. “The inability to see beyond the obvious. Of course this is an egregious act. That’s obvious. I don’t need you to tell me what I can hear on ACN every morning.”
Bradley sighed, contemplating for perhaps the thousandth time the difficulty of working with lesser minds. If only at least a few of them had possessed a degree of class, he might have been able to live with the lack of intellectual capacity. But the buffoonish, crass man standing in front of him was all too typical of the minions that inhabited the State Department. “What we need,” Bradley continued, enunciating each word carefully, “is a reason. And a solution. If you can’t supply it, I’ll find someone who can.”
“With your permission, then,” the Chief said, his voice a tightly controlled filament of rage, “I’ll be getting back to my desk. We’ll see if we can produce the answers you seem to think exist.”
Without waiting to be excused, the Chief turned sharply and left the office, pulling the door shut behind him with a bit more force than perhaps was necessary.
Bradley dampened down his own annoyance, and pulled a legal pad toward him to outline his thoughts. The situation had the potential to be an absolute disaster. Not for the United States?the nation would survive, as she had for centuries. He had an unshakable, inchoate belief in the divine immortality of his country. No, there was a much more serious danger before him?the damage that any mishandling of this affair could do to his own career.
He laid the Mont Blanc pen on the pad, carefully centering it in the middle of the page. “I’ll have to go myself,” he said thoughtfully. “If I don’t, something’s bound to go wrong. Any mishandling of this incident, and we could end up with another war on our hands.”
A vision formed in his mind, one that he found pleasing. He promptly embellished the appropriate details. It was based on a photo taken in Tiananmen Square, of the single Chinese student who’d stood in front of an oncoming tank and held Chinese military forces at bay during the student protests there. Yes, the Chinese student?and Bradley Tiltfelt. He alone could stand in front of the United States military and prevent an entirely inappropriate reaction from occurring.
A sense of duty, of destiny and historic import, settled over him.
Yes, that was what he’d do. Stop the war before it started.
And what better place to serve as a base for his operations for implementing a true solution to this conflict than aboard the potentially aggressive American warships that were undoubtedly steaming toward Turkey at this very moment?
Bradley reached down and punched the intercom button that would summon his administrative assistant. When the attractive young woman appeared at his door, he barked, “Call my wife. Have her pack me a bag?casual,
