The comforting roar of the Tomcat was the only sound in the cockpit. Reality came crashing in on Elf. She had just told her new commanding officer that if he didn’t like the way she flew, he was welcome to take his chances by ejecting. This was not the way to pass a check ride.
The silence dragged on, and Elf tried desperately to think of something to say. Should she apologize? Under normal circumstances, she and RIO would be fighting the aircraft together. But in the end, even with a more senior RIO, she was the pilot.
“Stop the clock, stop the exercise,” Gator said finally, his voice showing no trace of his earlier emotion. “Bird Dog, we’ll join on you for a return to the carrier.”
Elf turned and vectored in on Bird Dog, dropping neatly into position off his right wing, and following him back to the boat. She waited as he made his approach, snagging the three wire neatly. Then she turned in on final, shutting all of her concerns about the previous engagement out of her consciousness. Landing on a carrier was a good deal more dangerous than getting shot at with pretend missiles, and this was no time to be wondering about what Gator thought. There would be plenty of time to hash that out later.
“Two zero three, call the ball,” she heard Pri-Fly say.
“Roger,” she acknowledged. Just as she said it, she saw the green flash of the Fresnel lens to the left of the stern. “Two zero three, ball.”
“Two zero three, LSO,” a new voice chimed in. “Say needles.”
“Needles show high and right,” she said, referring to the crosshair indicators that showed whether or not she was on flight path. Her needles showed she was off the glide path slightly.
“Two zero three, I understand high and right. Roger, concur, fly needles.” LSO’s voice changed from a bored rote recitation to a more friendly tone. “Okay, Elf, let’s get you back on board.”
The landing was almost anticlimactic. Elf made small corrections to her course and attitude, slamming down on the deck to catch the three wire. Not a perfect landing, not like Bird Dog’s had been. But, still, a pretty damned good effort for a first approach on a new boat, she thought.
There was not a word from the back seat.
After she’d followed the plane captain’s directions to her spot, she said “Commencing preshutdown checklist.” She announced it crisply, her voice betraying no hint of her nerves. “Are you ready, sir?”
“Yes, go ahead.” As she ran through the checklist, Gator made the necessary responses, his voice distant and detached. Finally, she shut down the engines and popped the canopy and came down the boarding ladder. She dropped lightly to the deck, flexing her knees as she landed. Bird Dog and his RIO were waiting for her. Gator followed slowly, his knees cracking as he landed.
“Little eager with those guns,” Bird Dog said. She saw a scowl on his face.
“It seemed like the best option at the time, sir,” she said formally.
“Well, there are a few points we might go over,” Bird Dog said. Then, as though suddenly remembering his place, he took a step back and glanced over at Gator.
“Well, thank you,” Gator snapped. “Awful thoughtful of you, XO, to allow me to express my opinion.”
“Ah, sir, come on, I didn’t—”
Gator waved him into silence. He turned and fixed Elf with a glare. All her worries and fears she’d put aside during the trap came crashing back down in on her. Was it possible she could be stripped of her wings after only one landing — even if she hadn’t crashed? “Sir, I just want to say…” she began, suddenly frantically trying to find a way to salvage her career as a naval aviator. How could she tell her parents that she’d been shitcanned after only one trap?
“Shut the fuck up,” Gator snarled. He turned to Bird Dog. “She’s just as bad as you were at her age. If not worse.” With that, he turned sharply and stalked off.
A broad grin broke out on Bird Dog’s face. He held out his hand, smacked it hard palm-to-palm against hers. “High five, Elf!”
“But—” she began.
Bird Dog cut her off. “What, you were worried? Hell, coming from a RIO — my old RIO, that old fusspot Gator in particular — that’s about the highest compliment you can get. Come on, I’ll buy you some popcorn. We’ll talk about MiGs and guns. I got a little experience with both of ’em.”
FIVE
Yuri Maskiro pitched forward slightly in his seat as the Boeing 747 made its first screeching contact with the runway. The tires emitted a high-pitched yell, bounced off, then immediately settled back down. After a few seconds of rollout, the nose dropped gently and the front tire hit the runway.
There was a loud roar as the pilot immediately reversed the thrust of the engines and deployed all speed breaks. The aircraft settled in to a gentle roll.
The pilot and the flight attendants made the usual announcements about remaining seated until the aircraft came to a complete stop. Maskiro waited, excitement surging through every millimeter of his body. Close, so close — and no one even suspected he was here.
Between his contacts and those Korsov had, it has not been difficult to make his way from the Black Sea to Greece. There, he changed identities and boarded a scheduled transatlantic flight to Bermuda. He paid for a first- class ticket, on the theory that no one would suspect that as much. Besides, Andrei told him that the first-class passengers were often moved through Customs more quickly.
Customs had not proved to be a problem. Maskiro’s passport was indistinguishable from the real thing, primarily because it had been made by someone who worked in the passport department of the Greek government. No matter that he spoke no Greek. Instead, they had agreed that Maskiro would simply ignore anyone who spoke to him in Greek, insisting that he wished to practice his English. And if the accent sounded a little off to some, well, he could count on the wide range of British and American accents to help disguise him.
He passed quickly through Customs, speaking a few words of English to the functionaries, then moving with his luggage to the flight terminal itself. There, he scanned the crowd and finally located a small, dark-skinned man who matched the description he had been given.
“Sir, I’m supposed to meet you.” The man’s tone was respectful.
Maskiro nodded. “My luggage is all here.” He gestured to a suitcase.
“That’s it?”
Maskiro nodded. “Let us go.”
The man handed him a long gym bag made up in bright colors, advertising itself as belonging to a guest of the Hamilton House. “Everything you required,” he said finally, patting the matching bag on his own shoulder. “Come, follow me. You have reviewed the diagrams?”
“Yes, of course,” Maskiro said. Even in a place like Bermuda, the locals knew where to obtain weapons. This should be quite simple, really.
Quite simple in part because security at the airport was remarkably lax. He noted uniformed men and women in short pants and some sort of official-looking shirt clustered randomly about the terminal. None of them was armed with anything more than a billy club. Judging from the way they were talking and laughing, few of them had any military training and even fewer had experience for what they were about to face.
Or, maybe not. One man standing at the fringe of a group looked toward Maskiro and an uncertain look crossed his face. He studied Maskiro for a few moments, as if considering whether or not he should do anything. But then a poke in the ribs from one of his compatriots and a new round of jokes drew his attention back away from the Russian.
“Down here,” the man said, leading Maskiro down the hall. There was a door that required a pass to open. The man produced a thin, credit-card-sized security pass and swiped it through the scanner. Something clicked and he pushed the heavy door open.
“Up four flights,” he said. “There is an elevator, but we won’t use it.”
“And at the top of the stairs?” Maskiro asked.
