five thousand feet,” Bird Dog continued, maneuvering his hands to
indicate the relative positions of the aircraft. “He was on my six,
see? I was trying to shake him, but ” “Bird Dog, give it a rest,”
Gator said wearily. He glanced at the young lady standing between
them. “I think she’s heard enough about your air battles.”
The young woman shook her blond head vigorously. “Oh, no, I think it’s
fascinating! In fact, it reminds me a lot of my dad’s stories. He was
in Vietnam, and he was a pilot.” She paused doubtfully, and studied
Bird Dog carefully. “You look like him, too. How old did you say you
were?”
Gator almost choked. He took a sip of his beer to disguise his
amusement, then started laughing again as he saw Bird Dog’s
expression.
“Face it. Bird Dog you’re getting older, buddy.”
“I’m just thirty,” Bird Dog protested. “Hardly an old man.
Not like you.”
Gator studied him for a moment. “Come on, let me introduce you to
someone,” he said abruptly. He set his beer down on the bar and led
Bird Dog off toward a table at the back of the room. Three women were
sitting there, sharing nachos and mixed drinks. “Mind if we join
you?”
Gator asked politely.
“Hey, Gator,” a striking brunette said. “What you been up to?”
“Not much,” he said, taking the proper chair and gesturing Bird Dog
into the other vacant seat. “Like you to meet a friend of mine Bird
Dog, a pilot.”
The brunette shot him an appraising look. “Tomcat?”
Bird Dog was slightly taken aback by her knowing smile.
He nodded, at a loss for words.
She stuck out a hand. “Me too. Name’s Chris Hansen.”
“Lobo.” Bird Dog stared at her, awe dampening the first tricklings of
lust tickling him in the normal places. “Weren’t you the one who was”
Lieutenant Chris “Lobo” Hansen Lieutenant Commander Hansen by now, he
figured. On a previous cruise, Jefferson had confronted the Russians
on the Kola Peninsula. Lobo had been shot down during a mission over
the Polyamyy submarine base and been taken prisoner by the militia in
control. She’d been tortured, gang-raped, and finally rescued by the
Marines. Rumor had it she’d finally made a successful recovery from
the mental and physical havoc the experience had wreaked on her and
been declared fit for duty.
She cut him off. “Yeah, that was me.” She grimaced.
“Being a POW isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’d advise against it as
a career path. But that was then. I’m back in the cockpit now.”
Gator studied the two of them with amusement. During the last two
tours, he’d watched Bird Dog chase more women across the landscape than
any other pilot he’d ever seen. Following Bird Dog’s engagement to
Callie, Gator had seen the first traces of maturity begin to show in
the young pilot’s character. Now, he figured, it was time Bird Dog met
a real woman, one who could probably out fly him.
Lobo and Bird Dog. Gator sat back to watch the fireworks.
So what do we do about Cuba? And how are newer, smarter, and more
deadly weapons going to influence our choices?
Will we repeat our mistakes of the last century or make new ones?
Regular Carrier readers may notice a difference between this book and
earlier ones. Arsenal is longer, going into more depth on the battles
and conflicts we’ll be righting in the next decades. Let me know if
you like the longer style.
My thanks, as always, to the following: Jake Elwell and George Wieser,
the finest agents in the world. John Talbot, the next-finest agent and
superb new writing mentor. Tom Colgan, my editor, who’d make a great
fighter pilot. Captain Bud Weeks, USN, my first CO on USS Jouett (CG
29). Cyndy Mobley and Ron Morton, technical advisors and war
consultants. Lynette Spratley, who types faster than I can talk and
reads my first drafts. Bobby, the guy that cuts my hair and knows
about Cubans.
And finally: to the men and women who go to sea in the service of our
country BRAVO ZULU.