“I will fly the next mission myself, General,” he heard himself say. He waited for some comment from Arkady, but the general simply nodded.
Arkady’s window overlooked ancient hillsides, soaked through the centuries in military blood. Battles and campaigns that the entire world now studied had been waged in these hills, not so far from that very location. And even then, the Macedonians and the Greeks had been at odds.
His brother was married to a Macedonian woman, albeit not from the upstart republic itself. The same blood, though, threaded throughout this land. His nieces and nephews were of the ancestry, too. In truth, there was little difference between the two cultures, apart from the names by which they called themselves.
Was it worth it? Lives squandered arguing over which set of ancestors back in the mists of time had created certain forms of pottery, had settled certain islands, had brought forth Alexander the Great. In today’s world, growing smaller through commerce and the Internet, was it right to cling to those ancient claims to glory?
Yes. For without history, a nation had no basis for insisting on taking its place in the world community. Ancient blood ran in his veins, coursed through every inch of his body. Greece had earned its place in the world, and he would do his part to make sure it remained untarnished. And despite his revulsion at Arkady’s conduct as an officer, Zentos knew that Arkady understood that as well. They agreed on the end — just not on the means.
“History is upon us,” Arkady said out loud, breaking the silence in his office. “This question has been left unresolved for too many centuries.” He stood and began pacing. “Not one more year. Not one more month or week. I will settle this matter once and for all.” The general’s voice grew louder as he recited the ancient list of wrongs between Greeks and Macedonians. “They are Greek, can’t they see that? And they will be Greek, will admit it to the world. I will see them dead before they disgrace our blood. Every last one of them.” The general appeared to have forgotten that his chief of staff was still in the room.
His words sent chills down Zentos’s back. Had it come to this? Brother murdering brother, and in the interest of what? Old stories of glory and ancient birthright?
For the first time in his thirty-five years of military service, after campaigns ranging from fighting the British to the Italian incursions, the chief of staff began to wonder whether he had made the right choice in joining the Army.
“You will fly the mission, Colonel.” Arkady turned to glare at him, his eyes refocusing and seeming to stare straight through the colonel. “Find the helicopter, the people onboard. And bring them to me.”
As he left, Zentos felt a profound satisfaction that he’d volunteered. It was foolish, dangerous beyond any threat that the air could offer, but it was the right thing to do. If the consequences for his men were to include execution for an unsuccessful mission, then he could not order them into the air unless he was willing to face Arkady’s justice himself.
Tombstone could see the aircraft carrier now, a barely discernible pip on the horizon. Not that visual mattered right now, though. It wouldn’t until he was on final approach.
The sound of a healthy Tomcat filled the cockpit, reverberating in his bones until he could feel the sound merge with his own heartbeat. Twin turbofans, each capable of generating 20,900 pounds of thrust. Over the years that he’d been flying, the Tomcat had seen continuous upgrades. This bird, the F-14D, was one of the most advanced fighters ever built. Even the older airframes had gotten the upgrade, including a change-out of the engines and avionics. Almost like new — except that eventually metallic stress would win. You could only expect so much from aging metal.
Still, this old gal had a few years left in her. He patted the canopy affectionately, as though she were his favorite dog. How lucky he’d been after Flight Basic to get Tomcats! It was a choice he’d never regretted.
“Three zero four, I hold you at forty miles, bearing one niner two,” a voice said in his ear. “Admiral, you will be vectored in for immediate landing, sir. We have a green deck at this time.”
“Roger.” Tombstone sighed. They had to do it that way, of course. An admiral inbound on the carrier took priority over all the other lowly aviators. He could see the faint glint of sunshine on wings off to the right of the ship, the starboard marshal pattern. Planes in air would be stacked up there, waiting for their shot at the deck. They’d been out flying missions, maybe even on a double cycle, and were probably ready to get back on deck. His arrival would throw the whole sequence out of whack, maybe even forcing some of them to peel out and refuel if the wait got too long. And it wasn’t like someone could save your place in line for you. You’d start over at the top of the stack and have to work your way back down.
“I wouldn’t mind spending some time in a starboard marshal,” Tombstone said out loud, careful not to toggle the transmit switch. “Not one little bit.”
His backseater, Commander Gator Cummings, heard him even over the cockpit noise. He clicked his ICS twice in acknowldgment. “Missing the stick time, sir?”
“You bet, Gator.”
It had been a struggle to get his uncle to carve out a week’s worth of time in Norfolk to allow him to requalify on Tomcats. It had been an abbreviated syllabus, one designed to bring a senior aviator who had been out of the cockpit back up to speed quickly. He knew the RAG personnel hadn’t been happy, would’ve liked to have him for another few weeks, but there simply wasn’t time. In the end, he’d managed to convince them that he was safe to fly after a couple of carrier qualification landings, and insisted that they sign off on his flight quals.
Now, feeling the warm reassuring thrum of the Tomcat around him, he knew it had been the right decision. The aircraft was a part of him, an extension of his own body. The avionics that fed into his and Gator’s displays were extensions of his mind. The movements to control the aircraft were by now so automatic that he barely had to think of them. Instead, he could simply enjoy the flight.
“Tomcat 304, maintain 10,000 feet and continue inbound, sir,” his operations specialist said. Tombstone clicked his mike twice in acknowledgment. He took the Tomcat down in a slow, controlled descent, gradually bleeding off his altitude while increasing his speed slightly.
“Roger, sir, hold you on course, on speed. Continued inbound on this radial. Say state and souls, sir.”
Tombstone glanced down at the fuel indicator. “Six thousand pounds, two souls on board.”
“Roger, sir, copy six thousand pounds and two souls. Commander Cummings, is that correct, sir?”
“That’s correct.” For a moment, Tombstone wondered how Gator had managed to wheedle his way into a free trip to Sigonella to meet him, but decided not to ask.
Gator and Bird Dog had flown in together, and the pilot had been left to find his way back to the ship on a COD. Tombstone tried to feel sorry for the young pilot, but couldn’t. Bird Dog had had his fair share of good deals, including having been paired so often with Gator. By now the two were a well-oiled team, with Gator supplying the raw brain power and Bird Dog the natural reflexes that made them a superb fighting team. Still, it had been Gator who had more than once pulled Bird Dog’s butt out of the fire.
“Tomcat 203, turn right to course 010.” The operation specialist continued on to rattle off the standard speed and descent requirements for an approach on the carrier, concluding with, “Tomcat 203, call the ball.”
It was a request that Tombstone notified the landing signals officer, or LSO, located on ship’s stern when he caught sight of the ball for the first time.
The ball, the common name for the Fresnel lens, was the mainstay of carrier aviation landings. It was a visual indication of the aircraft’s relationship to the proper and safe glide path when approaching the carrier. Too low or too high, and a pilot saw a series of red lights. Right on course, the ball looked green. The LSO would keep an eye on the Tomcat’s approach, checking for proper speed, orientation and attitude, and providing a visual confirmation that the aircraft landing gear was down.
The carrier was growing larger now, a solid, massive postage stamp in ocean ahead. Always, at these times, the deck looked impossibly small. Even after almost thirty years of landing on carriers, Tombstone still found it a miraculous way of landing.
He could see it now, the glint of green and red on the port side of the carrier. He made the call. “Tomcat 203,
