“It makes sense,” Tombstone added. “Ukraine has always believed that she is the birthplace of modern-day Russia. Culturally and politically, Russia and Ukraine are quite compatible. And if those two merge, Armenia, Georgia, and most of the states with predominately Muslim populations will go along with it.”
“Aren’t we going to have to worry about the Pan-Arabic coalition?” the senior Magruder asked. “Seems like we’ve had trouble out of them from time to time.”
Both Tombstone and Hemingway shook their heads. There was something about his uncle’s mindset that had been formed during the Cold War that tended to see strong alliances in every situation.
“No,” Hemingway said, after Tombstone deferred to her. “From what we’ve seen in the past, the Middle East nations have been able to form short-term working alliances, when it was in their economic interest to do so. But as far as long-term allies, no. The deep divisions within Muslim society supports that conclusion. Additionally, Russia and Ukraine are used to working in tandem. Especially in military matters. We know that they can work in concert long-term.”
“So.” The senior Magruder stood. “We have contingency plans, of course, and we remain at JCS’s disposal. But, until we know the exact nature of any planned Russian aggression, we can’t realistically assess our chances of operational success. But thank you for the heads-up.” He made a move as though to show her to the door.
Hemingway didn’t move, and something in her expression made his uncle pause. “There’s more,” she said finally, and looked away from them both as she reached into her briefcase. She pulled out a red file folder, and without looking at Tombstone, held it out to him.
Tombstone opened the folder. It contained one grainy, slightly blurred picture. Two men, one woman, the woman in the center.
Tombstone felt as though he’d been sucker punched. His breathing stopped and the blood drained from his face. The edges of his vision grayed, and for a moment he was confused, because he wasn’t in a Tomcat pulling max G forces and losing oxygen to his brain, but that’s what it felt like.
“Stoney? You okay?” His uncle moved around to stare over his shoulder at the picture and sucked in a hard, sharp breath. “Sweet Jesus, it can’t be.”
Tombstone still could not speak. The fragile world he’d built around him shattered, the dams he’d constructed against the overwhelming pain collapsed.
The figure in the photo, the woman staring directly up at the sky, had petite delicate features over a strong, forceful jaw, and topped by a halo of ragged red hair, was undoubtedly his wife.
“When? Where?” Tombstone managed to say finally. Hemingway handed him the analysis that went with the photograph.
“Siberia,” Tombstone moaned. “That explains the snow.” Neither his uncle nor Hemingway reacted to his attempted humor. Tombstone felt cold horror grip his heart. “We can — you can — we have to do something.” He looked wildly from his uncle to Captain Hemingway, searching for their acknowledgement of what must be so obvious. “Now that we know where she is, we can get her out!”
Hemingway stared at a corner of the room, apparently completely engrossed by a dusty plastic plant on top of a file cabinet. When she spoke, it was with a distant tone of voice, as though trying to distance herself from his pain. “There was a great deal of debate over whether to show you this,” she said finally. “Most people said it would be cruel, since the photo isn’t that clear. Better to go ahead and let you believe that she died when her Tomcat was shot down.”
“It’s her. I’m certain of it,” Tombstone said.
“That’s not what they were worried about, Stony,” his uncle said, a note of infinite sadness in his voice. “Was it?” he asked Hemingway.
She shook her head. His uncle nodded. “I’ve been on the other side of these discussions. Once or twice. Not often.”
One part of his mind knew. Knew, and refused to shut up.
“They can’t get her out, Stony. They won’t even try,” his uncle said gently. Then he looked over at Hemingway, a new respect in his eyes. “And you lost. You were ordered not to tell him about her, weren’t you?”
Hemingway didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Tombstone felt as though he was being flayed alive. He stared up at her, tears starting in his eyes, agony coursing through his soul. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick. “I know you’re risking your career telling me this. ‘Thank you’ isn’t enough.” He took a deep breath, then continued. “But you understand, don’t you? You
Hemingway nodded, infinite sadness in her eyes. “And if things ran the way they were supposed to in this country, no one else could, either.”
His uncle spoke quietly. “If you solve the Bermuda problem for the Russians and we can find a way to convince them that no international recriminations will follow, we may be able to convince them to let her go.” He held up a cautioning hand. “I’m not saying it’s even a probability. Just a possibility. Say what you will about them, the Russians do have a streak of fairness. Their loyalty is to people, not nations. It may make a difference.”
“Have they put it in those terms? Bail them out and they’ll give me my wife back?” Anger started in the pit of his stomach and flashed through his entire being, so strong and hard that it threatened to consume him.
Hemingway shook her head. “No. But your uncle is right. All politics is personal. And if they’re holding the wife of someone that’s bailed them out of trouble instead of holding just another American aviator… No promise, you understand.”
“Why are they holding her, anyway?” Tombstone asked. “We’re not at war with them. This isn’t Vietnam. There’s no reason for them to keep her.”
“We don’t know,” Hemingway admitted. “It may be that they’re hoping to use her as a bargaining chip some time in the future. Maybe turning her loose would reveal something about their intelligence sources. Or maybe some junior officer just screwed up holding her in the first place and there’s no way to back out of it now without international consequences.”
“That’s not right!” Tombstone said, his voice breaking. “It’s not right.”
“Of course not,” Hemingway said briskly. “Neither is our failure to get her out. But it is what it is. Do you want to bitch about it, or do you want to fly this mission and see if it makes a difference?” She paused and shot him a considering look. “And if you think you can just go public and cause enough outrage to force them to release her, think again. I can tell you this for certain: The only thing you would accomplish would be to ensure that they start covering their tracks as fast as they can. Starting with getting rid of her. Are you really prepared to take that risk?”
“I’ll leave today,” Tombstone said, avoiding her question. “Tell the Armenians to expect me.”
NINE
As the airliner touched down on the Armenian tarmac, Tombstone breathed a sigh of relief. No pilot likes to fly as a passenger, and Tombstone was no exception. He glanced over at Lieutenant Jeremy Greene and saw relief in his eyes as well.
