“Nice landing, Tombstone said coolly, letting the understatement express his relief to be on the ground again.
“Yeah. Not bad.” Greene was just as determined to be cool.
A mixture of languages flooded the compartment, primarily Russian but with other dialects as well. The passengers behaved as airline passengers do everywhere, getting up quickly, trying to organize their belongings and jockeying for position in the aisles. Like their American counterparts, the Russian flight attendants pleaded with the passengers to remain seated until the airline had come to a complete stop, and, like their counterparts they were mostly ignored.
Finally, the aircraft taxied to a halt outside the small, low terminal building. A metal rollaway ladder was pushed up and the plane began to empty. Tombstone and his copilot had carry-on bags containing a few essentials in case their luggage was lost. Neither of them had much faith in the Armenian baggage handling system, and doubted that the Russians would be any more efficient.
Inside, long lines had already formed at the Customs stations. Tombstone and Greene gathered up their luggage and looked at the lines with dismay.
“I thought we didn’t have to do this?” Greene asked.
Tombstone shook his head. “We’re not supposed to, but maybe something got screwed up. It wouldn’t be the first time and it won’t be the last time. Let’s get in line and try to look inconspicuous. Remember, we’re attending a religious conference.”
The fact that an international Russian Orthodox church conference was scheduled in the city at the same time was fortuitous. His uncle in particular had appeared to enjoy the idea of his two pilots traveling as visiting priests. Tombstone’s somewhat vehement objection to the appropriateness of pretending to be priests, and in particular to wearing the white collar, was overruled. To his surprise, Greene appeared not to mind at all. He ran a finger around the clerical collar, scratched, then said, “Chicks love these things.” Tombstone and Greene got into line, trying to appear inconspicuous, and waited to see if the system would work as it was supposed to. They had advanced just ten feet toward the inspection station when a man in clerical garb approached them. “Father Stone?”
Tombstone nodded. “Yes. And you are…?”
“Gregorio Russo,” the priest said, holding out his hand. “Welcome to Armenia.” He glanced at the line and said, “Come, there’s no need for this. After all, if one can’t trust a priest, who can one trust?”
Tombstone and Greene followed the priest away from the line to an unmarked door at one end of the room. Father Russo led the way, talking idly about the weather, the city, and the scheduled events at the conference. Tombstone tried to keep up his side of the conversation and finally said, “Jet lag, you know. I’m sure you understand.”
Father Russo was instantly solicitous. “Of course. Please forgive me. Your hotel is not far — we’ll get you settled in and you’ll have time to rest up and prepare for vespers. There is a reception planned for this evening. A driver and escort will be by to pick you up at six this evening.”
The Armenian priest’s demeanor was so convincing at that moment that Tombstone wondered if there’d been a serious FUBAR in the plans. But as he looked closely at Russo’s dark, inscrutable eyes and stern face, the priest winked slightly. Tombstone relaxed.
At the hotel, the two pilots were shown to adjoining suites, each modest by American luxury hotel standards, but more than adequate for their purposes. After all, they didn’t intend to spend much time there.
“Six o’clock,” Russo reminded them.
“Right. Vespers,” Tombstone answered.
Once alone, they opened the door that connected the two rooms. Both had been extensively briefed on the probability of surveillance and certainly weren’t going to take the risk of discussing the mission. Yet, what did priests talk about amongst themselves? Tombstone wondered. Somehow he doubted that Jeremy Greene’s analysis of the potential for meeting Armenian women would be suitable.
“Suppose they have room service?” Greene asked, and Tombstone breathed a sigh of relief. His copilot’s other abiding passion, in addition to chasing women, was eating.
“Let’s find out,” Tombstone suggested.
In short order, they learned that not only did the hotel have room service, but that they had a concierge who spoke English exceptionally well. They placed an order for breakfast for Tombstone and lunch for Greene, as their biological clocks were in different time zones.
The food came quickly, and Tombstone found it more than acceptable. Greene stripped off his collar and dug in with his usual gusto. Even as he was polishing off the last of his steak, he was eyeing Tombstone’s hash browns.
After refueling, Tombstone settled in for a nap, vetoing Greene’s suggestion that they go for a walk and insisting that the other pilot/priest remain in his room until their escort came at six.
At precisely six o’clock, Father Russo rapped on Tombstone’s door. He stepped in and grinned at the two pilots, who had reassembled the bits and pieces of their clerical garb. He straightened Tombstone’s collar, checked the tuck on Greene’s shirt, then announced, “If you’re ready, we’ll go to vespers now.”
He drove them in an old Zil to an ancient stone church and they followed him in. Tombstone was just starting to wonder just how far Russo would take the charade when Russo turned in to a small chapel. He led them to the altar and past it to a door in the back. They followed him through a dimly lit corridor that seemed to run the length of the back of the church. It opened out onto a small garage. Another Zil was waiting for them.
“Let’s go,” Russo said, his voice more animated than before. “There are enough Zils heading in and out of here that we’ll be able to slip away. Somewhere around eight hundred priests will be attending vespers, so I don’t think anyone will miss us.” Again Russo took the wheel. “Stay low until we’re away from the church, though.”
Fifteen minutes later, he signaled that they could sit up. Tombstone was starting to feel a bit uneasy at the total lack of control he had over their comings and goings, and it showed in his voice when he said, “Mind telling me exactly what’s up?”
“Not at all,” Russo said, his voice jovial. “We’re heading for a small private airfield to get you some time in a MiG. That’s what you’re here for, right?”
“You seem to know a lot about us,” Tombstone said.
“Not as much as I will in a little while,” Russo said, and turned to look back at him, grinning.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tombstone snapped.
“I’m about to kick your ass,” Russo replied. His grin broadened.
“So I take it you’re not a priest,” Greene said, his voice surly. “What the hell is going on around here?”
Russo pulled the car into a parking area. Not far away, two MiGs waited at the end of a runway. “Cool your jets, young man. And, yes, I am a priest, but don’t let that bother you.” He turned to face them, a hard look of joy on his face. “For the next two days, I’m your instructor pilot. I’ll either teach you to fly a MiG or I’ll pray for your souls when you fuck up and auger in. Your choice.”
Conversation stopped when Lab Rat walked back into CVIC from a briefing in TFCC. Petty Officer Lee, a linguist in the department, asked, “Are we going in, sir? We gonna go kick some Russian butt?”
“Not yet,” Lab Rat answered. “Politics, ladies and gentlemen. Stay loose, stay ready — we’ll get our chance.”
The briefing had been less that encouraging. The
Lab Rat had taken advantage of a lull in Coyote’s schedule to ask to talk to him about the Omicron offer, and that had also been less than satisfying. Wasn’t there anything to career counseling other than being told to stay in the Navy? That was a lot of help — he could’ve told himself that.
Senior Chief Armstrong was unloading the additional data-base documentation he had brought back from Norfolk. He was smiling, and humming a cheerful song as he worked. He glanced up as Lab Rat walked in, and
