battle group to resolve this matter. Or, given the way Senator
Williams is talking, a carrier and an Arsenal ship battle force not
just a battle group. Seems to me that that rates more than one star in
command.” He waited for his astonishing proposal to sink in.
For one of the few times in his life. Tombstone was at a loss for
words. To go back to seaGod, yes. He’d give anything to simply be
around the aircraft that had been his life for the first twenty-five
years of his career, to roam the flight deck again, listening to the
hard thunder of finely honed jet engines and the squealing rake of
catapult wires across the deck. “How probable is that?” he asked
finally, not daring to ask the other questions hammering in his head.
The chairman leaned back in his chair. “From where I sit, very
probable. You know the commander of the carrier group, don’t you?”
Tombstone almost laughed. “Yes, Admiral Wayne is an old friend.” And
you damned well know that, you sneaky old bastard. But why be so coy
about it?
“How do you think he’ll feel about it?” the chairman asked. “Because
what we’ll want on this, quite frankly, is a positive spin. I don’t
need any disgruntled admirals squabbling over seniority arguments, not
if we’re going to rehabilitate you and resolve the situation at the
same time.”
“Batman won’t be a problem,” Tombstone said. But, for a moment, he
wondered. How eager would he himself have been to have an old shipmate
turn up to take over tactical command of this scenario? “He’d stay as
CARGRU commander.”
“Of course.” The chairman stood up abruptly. “Give it some thought.
What’s best for you; what’s best for this country of ours.”
“I will, sir.”
“Get back to me tomorrow. I should have more information then,” the
chairman said in dismissal.
1600 Local (+5 GMT) Fuentes Naval Base Santana walked across the open,
muddy field. The thick black dirt clumped on his boots, moist and
lumpy. Ahead of him, the partially constructed missile launcher was
completely exposed, its sheltering shield of canvas pulled back.
He walked around the installation, two aides trailing in his wake.
From the daily reports he’d been receiving, he would have expected it
to be much more complete much more looking like it was about to be
operational. His gaze wandered to the long metal boxes arrayed next to
the crane.
An impressive achievement, to be sure, but without the launchers they
would be nothing.
“When?” he asked. He saw his two aides glance at each other uneasily
before the more senior of them spoke.
“Two weeks, I believe. According to our Libyan technical advisors.”
Santana restrained the urge to spit in the dirt. “When have they been
right about anything? Not the schedule, not the American operations,
not anything.” He stopped abruptly, gazing at the stacked weapons, his
eyes caressing them.
“The only thing they have managed to do correctly is deliver the
weapons, and even those are worthless without the launchers.”
“Sir, the American battle group perhaps if we ignore them, they will
leave us alone?”
Santana whirled on him. “You would allow them to continue to invade
our territorial waters? To mock our very sovereignty?”
“No,” the aide said in a shaky voice, “not at all. However, I have an
idea that might prevent further intrusions into our airspace. And I
think you might find it particularly appealing, under the
circumstances,” he continued, his voice gaining strength. “May I
explain?”
Santana bit back angry words and nodded abruptly. The aide was the son
of one of his oldest friends, and showed occasional signs of astute
operational thought. It would not do to let his own temper prevent him
from hearing what must be best for his mission, not at all.
“Continue.”
Ten minutes later, Santana’s earlier rage had vanished as quickly as
the mist had over the water. “A fine plan, my friend,” he said, and
clapped the man on the shoulder. “I think that will work just fine.”
1750 Local (+5 GMT) USS Jefferson “A week from tomorrow?” Bird Dog
said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “That’s quick.”