principal, but nobody believes that. Even if that were true, they always have understudies ready to go on.”
Brad let his expression of mild amusement express his disbelief.
“And there’s more,” she pressed. “As I said, the Russians hosted a huge reception.
“And you find that significant? Couldn’t it have just been a screwup of some sort, either in their office or ours?”
She shook her head firmly. “Mr. President, this is a textbook example of the diplomatic corps sending a message. Believe me, the oversight was intentional, and carefully coordinated with the Russian president. Just as with their recalling the Bolshoi Ballet.”
“Usually they recall the ambassador, not their dancers.”
“That will be next. Within a week or so. That gives us a window of opportunity, Mr. President, to defuse this. We have to find out what’s going on over there before we’re surprised by it. Things are moving too quickly.”
Brad held up a hand to forestall comment. “Now hold on, Sarah. You’re moving awfully fast on not much evidence. Can you imagine the Senate Foreign Relations Committee’s reaction if I tried to convince them that we ought to base foreign policy on what Russian stars in which ballet? I’d be laughed out of the office.”
“I’m not suggesting you consult Congress. I
“Sarah, Sarah. Really — you know that if I pass this on to the military, it’ll be all over D.C. in a few hours. They’ll be calling me a warmonger again. Listen, if you turn up any hard intelligence or other evidence that we’re about to face problems with Russia, I’ll act on it immediately. But until then…” Brad laid his palms flat on the desk and shoved himself up to a standing position. “Thanks for coming by, Madam Ambassador. I’ll see you to the door.”
Wexler stared at him. Brad stared back. “That’s how it’d go, and you know it.”
After a long silence, Wexler said, “Call Captain Hemingway. Ask her if she’s got time for a cup of tea.”
The C-2 Greyhound banked hard to left, virtually standing on its wingtip as it made its turn onto final. In the back, the passengers were thrown against their restraining harnesses, and more than one let out an involuntary yelp. Among those who silently gritted their teeth and bore it was Lieutenant (junior grade) Clarissa Shaughnessy.
Shaughnessy barely met the height requirements for a pilot. At five feet three inches, she had a slender frame and delicate features. White-blonde hair formed an unruly halo around her face, framing angular cheekbones and deep blue eyes. Her appearance had earned her a nickname in the Tomcat training pipeline — Elf. Whether or not it would stick with her throughout the rest of her naval career would be up to the squadron.
Like most pilots, Shaughnessy hated flying as passenger. After eighteen months in Flight Basic and the Tomcat trading pipeline and two years of enlisted service before that as a plane captain on board the USS
As a young airman, Shaughnessy had been responsible for maintaining her aircraft, coordinating with the more sophisticated technicians as required, and helping pilots preflight and board their aircraft. When it wasn’t in the air, it belonged to her. On one occasion, her sharp eyes caught a problem with the control surfaces of a Tomcat that was about to launch. Her quick thinking and disobedience to orders had saved an aircrew’s lives. In recognition, Admiral Tombstone Magruder, then the battle group commander, had done everything in his power to see that she was admitted to the Naval Academy.
Now, almost six years later, she was back where she started. But this time as a pilot in VF-95, not as a plane captain. A young nugget, admittedly, but a pilot nonetheless.
And a lousy passenger.
The Greyhound gyrated through the air like a roller coaster as it fought the mass of roiling air in the carrier’s wake. At the slower approach speeds used by the COD, the aircraft fought every burble of air. Up, down, sideways, it seemed as though the pilot had absolutely no control over the aircraft.
Shaughnessy tried not to think about the mishaps she’d seen as a plane captain. Instead, she thought of the one she’d prevented, the one good move that had gotten her her appointment to the Naval Academy. The pilot whose life she’d saved had later finagled his way around the rules and taken her up for her first-ever ride in the bird she was responsible for. He’d flown aerobatics, let her fiddle with the radar, and then finally brought her back on deck in what she now realized had been an exceptionally smooth landing.
Lieutenant Robinson, he’d been back then, although she was sure he’d been promoted since then. Bird Dog, the other officers had called him. She’d heard he was still on board the
She shook her head, determined to quit being stupid. She wasn’t enlisted anymore. She was an officer — hell, she’d even been promoted once — and a pilot in her own right. She’d have to get over this inferiority complex.
With a sickening screech, the aircraft slammed down on the deck, caught the three wire with its tail hook, and jolted to a halt. There was a moment of wild relief among the passengers, a thankfulness that they’d somehow made it through the landing alive. Yet, as Shaughnessy knew, it was no more than a routine landing, one executed dozens of times every day on board this very aircraft carrier.
The crew captain was standing in the aisle of the Greyhound now, and making an announcement over the intercom, ordering them to remain in their seats until they arrived at their spot, the area of the deck that would be the parking spot. Shaughnessy felt the COD lurch backward, felt the thud against the undercarriage as the tail hook withdrew, and a slight surge of power as the COD headed for its spot. Outside, in front of the COD, would be somebody very much like who she had been, a plane captain. It was night, so the plane captain would be using lighted wands to direct them toward their spot on the deck. Once they came to a full halt, the passengers would be allowed to disembark.
Finally, the Greyhound lurched to a halt. After a few moments, the tail ramp dropped down, and cool night air flooded the compartment. Shaughnessy unstrapped herself and reached under her seat for her briefcase. Her large duffel bag was in the baggage compartment, but her briefcase contained her orders, her financial records, and a change of underwear — just in case.
Shaughnessy followed the herd of passengers straggling out across the flight deck and into the ship. “VF-95?” The petty officer standing behind the counter checked her orders, then passed them back to her. “You know how to find it, ma’am?”
“Yes, I do, thanks.”
“Need any help with that duffel bag, ma’am?” He eyed her doubtfully, comparing the mass and probable weight of the duffel bag with her figure.
“Nope,” she said cheerfully, hoisting the duffel bag easily. “I pack it, I can carry it.” All her hours in the gym building muscle mass paid off as she saw a new respect in his eyes, but that wasn’t the reason she’d sweated away half her free time.
Although the Tomcat flew by guided wire and contained multiple redundant hydraulic systems, there was no telling when you might have to manhandle the aircraft all by your lonesome. Guys, even average guys, usually had no problem with it. But if you were small, nicknamed Elf, and generally a physical lightweight, you had to do what she had done: haunt the gym, pumping larger and larger loads, knowing that you would never reach the numbers that some of the guys did, but determined to be able to bench press enough to be safe in your aircraft.
Shaughnessy moved easily down two ladders, expertly maneuvering the bulk of the duffel bag behind her, to reach the 03 level. The 03 passageway housed most of the squadron ready rooms, including that of VF-95. The captains, XOs, and operations officers of the squadrons also had their staterooms on this level, as did the admiral and his staff.
She made her way forward along the port passageway to the VF-95 ready room. The passageway smelled of popcorn. Every squadron had its own popcorn machine, and, as with everything else an aviator did, the competition
