“I know. But just before we pulled in, he must have realized how serious it was. He came to me and admitted what was happening. I took him off the watch bill, of course, and talked to the captain. He would have been transferred out immediately. Any routine medical workup would have caught the aneurysm. It’s possible it was operable, and if so, they could have saved him.”
“He knew that?” Forsythe asked.
The doctor nodded. “He knew everything I’m telling you now. And still he came back on board. I think the captain figured there was no harm in letting him stand watch in port.”
A deep sense of shame rolled through him, followed shortly by an icy cold determination. In that moment, Forsythe knew that he would not obey Cowlings’s last order. The
“What’s the procedure?” Forsythe asked. He pointed at the isolation chamber. “With—?” He caught himself as he almost said, “with the captain.”
“Body bag and stored in the reefer,” the doctor said. “If you think it’s a health hazard, you can order him buried at sea.”
“I want to see him,” Forsythe said abruptly.
The doctor nodded, as though expecting that. “There’s a hole in his throat — I was putting in a trach tube, trying to find a way to keep him breathing. It’s all stitched up, of course.”
The doctor led the way, opened the hatch to the isolation chamber, and stepped aside. “We will have to inventory the contents of his pockets and his stateroom,” the doctor said. “That requires both of us.”
“Eventually — probably when we get back to port,” Forsythe said.
He stared down at Cowlings’s body, trying to see exactly what it was that made the difference between being alive and being dead. He had never seen a dead body before, not outside of medical programs on television. It was an eerie sensation, looking down at someone he knew well, seeing Cowlings’s familiar features, the short clipped brown hair. He tried not to look at the jagged hole in Cowlings’s neck, but his eyes were drawn to it. It was a clean incision about an inch long. Blood had run down the side of it, creating a circle around Cowlings’s neck. Some of it had been cleaned up, but there were a few traces of smeared blood still there.
Had Cowlings felt the doctor cutting into his neck? Or, had he been dead by then? Forsythe touched his own neck, imagining how it would feel to have a knife slice through his skin just above his Adam’s apple, and hoped Cowlings had already been gone. There was a sense of stillness about the body, a sense of, well, lifelessness. You’re a rocket scientist, he thought, then realized he had really never understood what lifeless meant. Not until he saw Cowlings’s body, flesh deprived of spirit.
Forsythe reached out and laid one hand on Cowlings’s forehead. The flesh under his fingers was still warm, but starting to cool, a few degrees below what you’d expect to feel. The skin was still resilient.
Forsythe tried to think of what else he should say, some prayer — there was probably a Navy-issue prayer book somewhere around, but right now he didn’t have time to look for it. Cowlings would understand, and by now would have been chiding him for being away from Maneuvering.
Out loud, Forsythe stumbled through the Lord’s Prayer, then took his hand off Cowlings’s head.
Forsythe straightened, then turned to the doctor. “Go ahead with what you need to do. I’ll be in the control room if you need me.”
Forsythe started out of sick bay, but the doctor, a full commander, caught his elbow as he walked by. “What are you planning on doing?”
“What he would have done,” Forsythe said, jerking his thumb back toward the isolation compartment.
“You’re not ready for this, Ensign. What we need to do is get out of here and call for help. Look at the ship. It’s practically empty. You don’t have enough people to maintain safe watches, you don’t even have any other officers on board now, except for me. I’m afraid I must insist—”
“Refer to your copy of
“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” the doctor shouted. “You’ll get everyone on this ship killed.”
Forsythe stared him, letting his anger build. “I intend to carry out our mission, Doctor.”
“You’re just an ensign. I’m a commander. You have to listen to me!”
Forsythe shook his head. “No. You are the doctor. I am the senior line officer present on board. And the
Finally, just after dawn, the last detail was nailed down. It was essential that it appear that Russia herself was solving the problem, but the current president of Russia was adamantly opposed to anyone finding out that Tombstone would be flying a MiG. It was an awkward position for him, since he supported the American plan. He simply wanted complete deniability, and that meant he was neither willing to provide Tombstone with a MiG nor participate in any training.
Fortunately, not every member of the CIS felt the same way. In the end, Armenia agreed to provide both training and hardware. Covering Russia’s butt appeared to serve some political purpose for her, and she had been quite eager to cooperate. In exchange, the United States agreed to attempt to behead the snake immediately before Maskiro’s command element could reach the island. That would make the mop-up operation all the easier. There was even some speculation that the forces on the island would simply surrender once they knew Maskiro had been eliminated. Current intelligence reported that the rebel leader had sought sanctuary in Chechnya, to the irritation of the Russians and the amusement of the Armenian government. This was the quid pro quo — Korsov would be eliminated in Chechnya. After countless international phone calls, the plan was ready.
Since the plan was not being channeled through normal Defense Department command, getting accurate intelligence proved to be the most difficult part. Sure, there was overhead imagery of Bermuda, of Chechnya, and probably of Korsov himself. But getting it meant telling someone that they wanted it, and, more importantly, telling them exactly
Tombstone and his uncle, retired Admiral Thomas Magruder, formerly Chief of Naval Operations, both stared at Captain Hemingway. For the past fifteen minutes, she’d been filling them in on various concerns having to do with the Commonwealth of Independent States. As she detailed Ambassador Wexler’s concerns and correlated them with available military intelligence, Tombstone’s expression and his uncle’s expression grew somber.
Finally, she finished. “Well, that’s that. What do you think?”
Neither Tombstone nor his uncle spoke for a moment. Each was occupied with his own thoughts. His uncle, a Cold War veteran, knew all too well what the Russians were capable of. And Tombstone had seen first the Soviet Union and then Russia and the CIS intervening in international conflicts whenever the opportunity presented itself. Russia had always been a player, always, if not on the front lines, then certainly behind the scenes.
“It would solve a lot of their problems,” his uncle said finally. “Particularly if they retake Ukraine — food and oil are in critical shortage in Russia, and Ukraine has more of both. With modern technology, some of those oil sites around the Black Sea could be productive again.”
