tracing out a route through the woods behind the house. “But it’s a long haul — it runs right along the base of these mountains and would be pretty easy to keep under observation. Going over the mountains isn’t practical, and the other approaches are all clear-cut. We can get there, but whether we can do it covertly is a big question mark.”
“OK, that’s it,” Tombstone said. “For now, we’ll operate on the assumption that the Carters were behind the reserve center raid. Ops, get our air assets looking for that truck. Greenfield, call off the state boys — I don’t want them spooking that truck.” He raised his voice slightly. “Bug out, folks. I want everything critical packed and in the vehicles in fifteen minutes. We’re headed for Lands End.”
“And then we wait,” Greenfield added. “This time, we wait.”
Jackson Carter pounded on the window that separated him from the truck’s cab. It slid back and he shouted, “Take the next left! We need to get this stuff in the caves and get to HQ.”
The driver said nothing. Jackson studied the road behind him, searching for any sign of pursuit. “OK, keep a sharp eye out, but I think we’ve lost them. Another twenty minutes, and we’ll be at the cave. Ten minutes to off- load and then we’re history.” Jackson put his head back and let loose a loud, fierce war cry.
Finally, Jackson stopped his howling. Mertz had a sickly smile pasted on his face. “This is just the beginning, buddy,” Jackson said. “This is just the beginning.”
EIGHTEEN
Despite what Air Force pilots thought, pulling Alert Five on board an aircraft carrier was considerably more unpleasant than sitting in an F-15 ashore. The black tarmac nonskid reflected up the heat, assaulting the aircraft with shimmering waves from every direction. The smaller huffers, rarely used in the Navy, were overwhelmed almost immediately trying to provide cooling air. The pilots sweated inside G-suits, silently damning the Iraqis who had forced them to bake in their own sweat. It was one thing to want to fly, to risk being killed on a combat mission — another matter entirely to sweat to death on the deck of an aircraft carrier.
Fastball was probably the least patient of any of the pilots of the squadron, Rat reflected. He had been bitching for the last twenty minutes, complaining about everything possible on board the ship, and had now regressed to reciting indignities he had suffered while in Navy ROTC. Given enough time, she was sure she would hear all the details of how unfair his potty training had been.
She tried to concentrate on the book she’d brought with her, but his whining voice interfered with her concentration. Finally, when she could stand it no longer, she snapped, “Is it at all possible you could maintain radio silence long enough for me to finish this chapter? I’ve read the same page five times.”
“Well, excuuuuuuuse me,” Fastball said, seriously aggrieved. “Pardon me for assuming that perhaps some light conversation would make time go by faster. I guess I should never have assumed thought that the RIO I fly with every day would be interested in talking to me.”
“Talking, maybe. Listening to you whine, no.”
“Doesn’t Commander Busby ever whine?”
She had wondered how long it would take him to get to the heart of it. Every time she disagreed with him, he began making sardonic remarks about her possible relationship with Busby. It had been going on for a week now, and she was getting damned tired of it.
“Well, doesn’t he?” Fastball asked again, unaware of how dangerously close he was to the edge of her temper.
“No, now that you should mention it. He doesn’t. I suppose he has better things to do with his time than complain about every detail of Navy life,” she snapped.
“I knew you were seeing him,” Fastball said, satisfaction in his voice. “Don’t bother denying it anymore.”
“And just how the hell do you ‘see’ someone on board an aircraft carrier?” She snapped.
“I guess you should tell me. He’s senior enough to rate a private stateroom, right? And senior enough to be able to manage his own schedule.”
“You got something to say?” Rat demanded.
From behind, she could see him shrug. Then he turned back to glare at her, turning as far as the ejection harness would allow him. “I’m not the only one, you know. Everybody sees you two at chow. Busby’s showing up in the dirty-shirt mess all the time these days. Before, you never saw him outside of the flag mess. And you two all chummy, sitting by yourselves — you’re a helluva cheap date, Rat.”
She loosened her harness and reached forward to smack him on the side of his helmet. He let out a yelp and tried to turn to reach her, but the seat blocked his movement.
“Who I eat with is none of your business. And neither is what I do in my off hours. Not unless and until it begins affecting my performance in the cockpit. And if you got a complaint in that department, I suggest you take it up with CAG.”
“Jesus, Rat. I’m just trying to look out for you.”
“What are you, my big brother?”
“No. Just a guy who knows how other guys talk. And there’s a lot of talk going around, Rat. You may not be doing anything, but when you come out of his cabin late at night with that stupid shit-eating grin on your face, it doesn’t help matters any.”
“You’re jealous.” She stated it as a fact, not a question.
He shook his head. “No. Don’t flatter yourself. But you might keep in mind that what you do reflects on me, too. We’re a team. Or at least I thought we were.”
Not just jealousy. She realized that in a flash. No, she been closer to the mark when she’d called him a big brother. She had a sudden flash of insight. Sure, he would have heard the remarks — she’d overheard some of them herself. But she’d let them pass, not deigning to acknowledge them. Fastball wouldn’t — he was constitutionally incapable of avoiding a fight. He would stick up for her, and probably had taken a lot of crap over it. No matter that nothing inappropriate had happened between her and Lab Rat. Nothing would, not while they were on the ship. But someday, when liberty ashore was a reality again, when they were both sure about how they felt, there was a very good chance that—
“You’re right,” she said finally. “I ought to avoid the
Stunned silence from the forward seat greeted her admission.
“And you know there’s nothing going on.” Again, she stated it as a fact.
“Yeah, I know,” he muttered. “You’re too much of a tight ass to get laid on the ship, aren’t you? Or maybe anywhere?”
She bit back a sharp reply, recognizing the outburst of testosterone for what it was. A few moments later, she was greeted with, “Sorry about that.”
Petty Officer Carl Ellison loved his job. He was a tall, well-built man with broad shoulders that had carried him through a stellar career as a high school quarterback. He stayed in shape working out with the Marines in the gym. He had large, bold features, the overall impression of sheer physical prowess muted only by a full, sensitive mouth.
Despite his appearance, Carl was at heart a bookish fellow. As one of the more junior members of the intelligence team, he read all the incoming traffic, picking out messages of immediate importance and arranging the others for the watch officers who prepared their daily briefs. Most traffic readers simply glanced at the subject line and tossed them in the appropriate pile.
Not Carl Ellison. He read every detail, savoring the feeling of being on the inside of the war, looking forward
