than Admiral Ilanovich did. Still, he had home court advantage ? one rarely gets in trouble for being too courteous.
Ilanovich's appearance puzzled me for a moment, and it took me a couple of seconds to dredge up the information from Lab Rat's briefing.
The Russian admiral was clearly not a pure-blooded Russian. His eyes were narrowed and dark, and the high cheekbones and coloring hinted of an exotic mixture of Cossack and Asiatic blood. Probably some Ukrainian as well, since that country is noted for producing the very finest naval officers.
Enough Ukrainian, at least, to compensate for the general prejudice against the Far Eastern blood.
Ilanovich himself was part of the Russians' attempt to demonstrate their similarity to American culture. My team had two white men, one black man, and one white woman on it. The admiral was Russia's attempt to cover all bases in one body.
Well, almost all.
I made the introductions of the rest of my team quickly, first my RIO, then Skeeter and Lieutenant Commander Kennedy. We'd been through this drill a thousand times, and each one followed my lead, a salute followed by a handshake.
'It is very cold out here,' the admiral said finally. He gestured toward the hangar. 'We will tow your aircraft inside, and if you will come with us ? a brief reception, nothing formal. No need to change, you will be meeting with fellow aviators.' He shot me a sidelong glance, rich with sly amusement. 'They, like yourselves, dislike undue formality.' I smiled politely, realizing that it was probably true. Aviators the world over are renowned for their lack of the traditional military courtesies and ceremonies that mark every important event. Given a chance, about 99 percent of us would rather be in a flight suit and airborne.
Admiral Ilanovich fell into step beside me. 'I think I know much more about you than you know about me,' he began. He looked at me, as though waiting for a response.
'I'm sure you're correct,' I said neutrally. It was an amateurish sort of foray into the world of intelligence, a quick attempt to find out just exactly what I knew about him. And what I didn't. 'I hope we will have the chance to remedy that over the next several weeks.'
Admiral Ilanovich regarded me with quiet amusement. 'Oh, I am sure we will. Especially in the air.'
'I look forward to it.'
'They told you, did they not?' he continued without missing a beat.
'That I will be flying the MiG-31 against your Tomcat.' He gestured back in the direction of the hangar, vaguely indicating my aircraft. 'The Hornet ? now, that would have presented a real challenge. I would like to do that someday,' he continued. 'Go one-on-one with one of your Hornets.
Much more maneuverable than the Tomcat, wouldn't you agree?'
'In all except one instance,' I agreed amiably. 'They can't pass a tanker without wanting a drink.'
Ilanovich laughed. 'Oh, of course. That is the problem with all of the smaller aircraft, is it not? Fuel consumption ? why, until we developed an in-flight refueling capability for the MiG-31, that very thing imposed serious limitations on our combat readiness. No, I was speaking of course about the weight-to-thrust factor.'
'Of course,' I answered, feeling a slight twinge of uneasiness. Just what was this admiral driving at? Everyone knew about the performance characteristics and differences between a MiG and a Tomcat ? no news there.
Nor any opportunity for any intelligence gathering ? anything I could tell him about that he would have already read in Aviation Weekly.
'And your young Navy lieutenant, his name was… Kyrrul?' I asked, changing the subject. 'He will also be flying?'
'Yes, he is the one.' Gregorio Ilanovich looked faintly amused. 'A fine flyer ? with perhaps not as many kills as your young Skeeter, but very capable nonetheless.'
Another small bit of intelligence ? while it was no great state secret, Ilanovich had made a point of telling me that he knew my young lieutenant's call sign. And my own, most likely.
'Tell me, Admiral,' I said casually, 'in naval aviation, do your aviators adopt call signs such as ours? I'm certain that you've heard mine ? Tombstone.' I wondered how many hours of Russian intelligence it had taken to fight over the exact meaning of that one. Did it mean that I was a gunfighter, one who consistently reduced my opponents to graveyards? Or were they perhaps misled, as some were, by thinking it had to do with a gunfight at the O.K. Corral in Tombstone, Arizona? The actual answer was far less interesting ? some of my early squadron mates had simply thought that my face was as expressionless as a tombstone. They said I looked stern all the time, and hinted that I lacked a sense of humor. While nothing could be further from the truth, I didn't mind having most people believe that. It keeps them off guard.
'Something similar, and perhaps a good deal racier. We are not bound by considerations of political correctness.' The admiral walked on for a few steps longer, his boots tapping out a staccato rhythm on the pavement.
'My own call sign, for instance ? it has changed several times, but the latest one I have had for fifteen years. Translated loosely from the Russian proverb from which it is taken, it comes out as ' Your Ass.''
I laughed out loud, despite my resolution to maintain a somber and professional demeanor. 'Watch Your Ass? Hell of a call sign, Admiral. I like it.'
The admiral clapped me on the shoulder, obviously amused at my reaction. 'We will see if you like it over the next several weeks. I think you will not be laughing then as much.'
'Well, I guess we'll see. When is the first engagement scheduled?' I asked.
'This afternoon.' The admiral noted my look of surprise with sardonic amusement. 'Unless, of course, that is too soon? Perhaps you have maintenance problems with your aircraft, or need to rest up after your grueling journey?' The sarcasm was in the words, not in the tone ? it had been merely a forty-five-minute flight from Jefferson's windswept deck to this airfield.
'Not at all,' I said immediately. 'I'm ready to fly right now.'
'We thought perhaps the younger men would begin.' He motioned behind him, pointing out the young officer carrying on a conversation in broken English with Skeeter, a translator hovering behind them. 'Ah, their endurance, their stamina ? it makes one wistful, does it not?'
I wasn't sure how to take this statement. Did he mean that the reflexes and stamina of our young pilots outweighed the experience that he and I undoubtedly possessed in equal measure? I wasn't certain, so I settled for an expression of vague neutrality. 'No vodka at the reception, then,' I said. 'Not if we're flying.' I raised my voice slightly to make sure that Skeeter heard me, and turned my head to see him nod in agreement.
'Well, then. A little refreshment, then back in the air.' Admiral Ilanovich smiled.
I followed him into the crowded hangar and saw the large buffet tables covered with food, a cluster of aviators already well into the vodka by their appearance. Not for the first time, I wondered just what we'd gotten ourselves into.
Another flash of anger at the sight of so much food and drink. If my father had been brought here, odds were that he hadn't had quite such a sumptuous feast spread out in front of him, that the faces weren't smiling, slightly flushed with vodka and good cheer. For just a moment, I felt my father's presence so close and near to me that I could almost see him. I tried to make out his expression, but the details were too fuzzy.
I'll find out what happened, I swore as I stared at the welcoming Russian forces. I'll find out ? and I'll make them pay.
2
CVIC-pronounced 'civic' ? is the Carrier Intelligence Center. It is located on the 0–3 level of Jefferson, just
