starboard bow, acting almost as though they could somehow buoy him up
should his fuel tank suddenly run dry.
Ah, but the luck was flowing his way now. A smooth plug, fuel good at
probe tip within minutes. The tanks sucked the fuel in, and within
moments he felt the Tomcat start to grow heavier. He corrected
automatically, keeping the probe centered in the basket while the sun
rose behind him.
Fifteen minutes later, they’d topped off enough to make a run on the
boat. Tombstone thanked the tanker crew, then peeled away from the
formation.
“Now about that last kill . . . ,” he said casually. “Not bad for an
old guy, huh?”
Tomboy was silent for a moment, then said, “It was brilliant for any
pilot. And that it was you just makes it that much better.”
A grin crept across Tombstone’s face. Nothing like having your new
bride admiring your latest kill.
Four minutes later, he dipped quickly into the starboard marshal, then
was vectored in toward the ass end of the carrier to make his
approach.
The trap went smoothly, as professionally done as anything he’d ever
executed in his life. He followed the yellow shirt’s direction across
the flight deck, moving the Tomcat into an unoccupied spot right behind
the island. He popped the canopy and waited for the plane captain to
safe the seat and assist him in unfastening the ejection harness.
“Really something. Admiral,” the airman said as he climbed up the side
of the Tomcat. “I heard about that MiG sir, I mean it was-I mean.
Admiral” The airman’s voice trailed off into a confused panic as he
realized who he was talking to. Behind him. Tombstone could hear
Tomboy chuckling.
Finally unstrapped. Tombstone sauntered back into the carrier and
headed for Flag Plot. Bird Dog might have thought he was hot shit
flying JAST birds back at Par River, but he was willing to bet that
he’d earned bragging rights after today’s kill.
Tombstone strolled into TFCC and was greeted by a wave of cheers. He
started to wave in a self-deprecating manner, ready to display the
traditional false modesty over a daring aviation exploit. Then he
realized that none of the cheering men and women were even looking at
him. Batman clapped him on the back. “Good news. Tombstone! An
American sailboat just outside of Cuba’s territorial waters just picked
up one of our aviators. You probably remember him Gator, Bird Dog’s
RIO. That damned ejection seat of his must have had an extra forty
pounds of charge or something.
He was way the hell off where he ought to have been.”
Tombstone tried to smile. “That sure is good news. Hey, about that
MiG” “Hold on, old buddy. I need to get some SAR on this boy, then
we’ll talk.”
Tombstone stood silent for a moment in the middle of the roiling pack
of aviators, each one celebrating Gator’s rescue. Finally, he Chuckled
and headed off for his stateroom. It was always dangerous, getting too
damned impressed with oneself. He’d be better off going to the Dirty
Shirt and grabbing a quick slider than looking for a pat on the back.
Thursday, 04 July 1000 Local (+5 GMT) United Nations Ambassador Sarah
Wexler smiled as she walked into the crowded subcommittee meeting
room.
In the last twenty-four hours, there had been more than adequate proof
that Cuba was in possession of nuclear weapons and intended to use them
against the United States. While all of the island nations might not
feel completely supportive of everything the United States had done in
this scenario, neither were they willing to have that capability so
easily retargetable and so deadly to the flora and fauna of the
Caribbean basin unleashed against them. They would side with her, of
that she was certain. The behind-the-scenes discussions with each of
them had confirmed what she’d already known.
The tiny island nations that crowded the Caribbean basin would insure
that the United Nations sanctioned every action the United States had
taken. War on this scale, involving weapons of mass destruction, was
far outside of anything they ever saw their nations playing a role
in.
She surveyed the ambassadors and assembled staffs, favoring all of them