Overhead, the stars were just memories in the gradually lightening sky. The restaurant had all the windows open, and the early morning breeze ruffled his hair gently. He took one of her hands in both of his and said, “There’s nothing else in the world except us. Nothing.”
She sighed happily. “Us and the stars.” She pointed with her chin at the sky outside. “It looks like that sea, too. Even better there, with no ambient light.” Just then a light streaked across the blackness. “Oh, look,” she exclaimed. “Shooting star — make a wish, quick.”
Something about the path the light traced across the sky made him pause. He felt an uneasy churning in his stomach. “That star… something’s not right.”
“Pshaw,” she said lightly. “Go ahead, make a wish.”
“I wish I’m wrong,” he said, talking to himself more than complying with her request. “But — ” he was on his feet, moving toward the entrance to the restaurant and the telephone.
“What…?” she started to ask, then a look of dawning horror crossed her face. She was on his heels in an instant.
The peaceful night world outside exploded into blots of light and noise, the light flashing away their night vision just seconds before the sound and fury of multiple explosions reached them. The pressure wave arrived then, blasting the glass out of the windows.
Tombstone grabbed Tomboy and pulled her into the inner entrance to the restaurant. He dove for cover, pulling her down with him and covering her body with his own. Glass and debris peppered his back.
“No,” he heard Tomboy wail, then felt her writhing underneath him as she struggled to get free. “No, it can’t be!”
He let her up then, but caught her as she started to run for the exit. He pulled her around to face him, holding her just above the elbows and pulling her up on her tiptoes. “It’s going to get crazy right now.” He pulled her into a hard, brief kiss. “You know what that was, just like I do. We’ve got to get down to CinCPac Fleet. If we get separated, find a way to get back to
Tomboy nodded, all trace of panic and confusion gone from her face. “I’ll go with you to CinCPac, and we’ll figure it out from there.”
As they approached the Commander in Chief, Pacific, headquarters located on the Camp Smith Army compound, it became obvious that there were no answers to be found there. Guards blocked the gate, all with that itchy trigger finger look in their eyes that warned the two Magruders that this was as far as they were getting.
“Anyone know what happened?” Tombstone asked. His tone of voice, that of a senior naval officer who wanted answers — and wanted them now — had the desired effect. Although the soldiers appeared no more likely to open the gates to their rental car, he did see a slight softening in their manner.
“Bombs, sir.” The soldier waved in the direction behind him, never completely taking his eyes off the occupants of the car. “Air launched, if it matters.”
“Casualties,” Tombstone demanded.
“Still sorting it out, sir. It’s pretty bad. We can’t find everyone, so Captain Smith’s taken charge of CinCPac Fleet.”
“Sir, the other senior officers are mustering at the officers’ club,” the sergeant said, his eyes drifting over to something behind him. “We’re a little busy right now with the rescue and damage control efforts — there’ll be someone there organizing transport back to your commands there, sir. And ma’am.”
Tombstone nodded. Yes, there would be a plan for everything in Hawaii, and most certainly for getting officers back to their commands. And for damage control.
Still, it was all well and good to say they’d get him back to his command. If you had one.
Tomboy did. As commanding officer of VF-95, they’d slap her skinny little butt onto the first COD bound for
Not unless the unthinkable happened.
Tombstone pulled the Taurus into a tight circle and headed back the way they’d come. For now, the officers’ club looked like the best bet.
“Stony?” Tomboy asked. “Drop me at Base Operations.”
“Why? He said transport was being arranged out of the officers’ club.”
Tomboy’s face was pulled into the hard mask that he recognized as her command face. “I’m not relying on somebody else’s prioritization of passengers. There’ll be pilots and aircraft at Base Ops. That’s all I need to get back to
“You’ve got a pilot right here,” Tombstone said. “Half the problem solved.”
Tomboy nodded. “I’d thought of that. And you’re current, aren’t you?”
“Indeed I am.” Just before departing on their honeymoon, he’d spent a couple of weeks in Norfolk scraping the rust off. “Card-carrying naval aviator, I am.”
“I probably ought to take a combat pilot, though, if I can,” Tomboy said thoughtfully. “Whatever’s happened, we’ll need warfighters more than planners.”
A cold chill seeped through Tombstone. Had she really said that? Implied that there would be someone more useful to her in the air than her husband? Some twenty-something-year-old nugget with maybe one cruise under his belt? Who’d never taken on a MiG one-on-one, flown combat missions over hostile territory?
“I fly missions,” he said thickly.
She shook her head. “No, you don’t. The Navy’s not paying you admiral’s pay to sit in a cockpit. You’re the front end of the solution, the one who figures out how to keep pilots from getting killed. Not the one who flies the mission.” She glanced over at him, suddenly aware how it’d all sounded. “Not that you’re not a fine pilot, Stony.”
“Sure. Just not the one you want to fly with.” The words he’d intended as a joke came out entirely too harshly.
“Don’t be an ass,” she said sharply. “You know exactly what I mean.”
The bitch of it was, he did. Jobs for a combat pilot got scarce as hen’s teeth as you got more senior. You flew a desk more often than a Tomcat. His uncle had realized that, and had come up with the solution that would make best use of his nephew’s combat experience and practical knowledge — troubleshooter. Not for paperwork and administrative problems, or for the various political situations the navy faced today. No, Tombstone was the warfighter that his uncle, the CNO, sent into sticky situations and nasty little wars. The sort of problems where nobody could figure out how to achieve their objectives without losing a lot of men and women and aircraft in the process. A troubleshooter who not only knew the enemy, but had killed his fair share in the past decades.
“Let’s see if they’ve got an aircraft,” he said, putting aside for the moment the question of who’d actually fly it out to the ship. There was no point in pointing out that he outranked everyone that they were likely to run into at Base Ops, and if he wanted an aircraft, they’d damned well come up with one for him. And no one, not even his pretty little tiger-wife, was going to stop him.
A COD was just pulling up in front of Base Ops as they pulled into the parking lot. A stream of passengers clad in survival gear was already heading toward the loading area.
“Not a full load,” Tomboy noted. “If we hurry, we can be on it.” She opened the door and hopped out before Tombstone had even brought the car to a full stop. “I’ll get our names on the manifest.” She was out of sight before Tombstone could get his own seat belt unfastened.
