The ACOS Ops glared up at him from his seat at the desk.
“You want to drag this out? I thought you hated being behind a desk
instead of in a cockpit.”
Bird Dog swallowed hard. “Of course I want to get it over with. It’s
just that” The ACOS cut him off. He spoke, his voice softer than it
had been before. “Listen, son, it’s never easy going to a FNAEBa Fleet
Naval Aviator Evaluation Board. I went once myself made a couple of
bad passes at the boat back when they were starting to downsize, and a
guy who didn’t like me decided he might try to railroad me. It was
painful, but nothing you can’t survive. The basic question they’re
asking is whether or not you’re safe in the air.” He stopped, and
looked quizzically up at Bird Dog. “Are you?”
Bird Dog nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m a damned hot stick. It’s just that
the other day . . .” His voice disappeared to nothing.
“You weren’t thinking,” the ACOS finished. “You just pulled a damned
foolish stunt, and now you’re going to a FNAEB board. Okay, stand up
and take it like a man.
Maybe it will make you think twice next time you get a wild hair up
your ass.”
And maybe there won’t be a next time. Bird Dog added silently. The
FNAEB had the power to revoke his designation as a naval aviator,
leaving him permanently grounded.
Would he stay in the Navy if it came to that? Of course not absent the
sheer joy of flying the F-14 Tomcat, the rigors of military life held
no real attraction for him. Then there was Callie … ah, Callie.
He’d spend more time with her, maybe start a second career no, he
decided, none of that would make up for losing his designation as a
naval aviator. To know that he would never again fly the screaming
Tomcat at Mach 1 plus, buzzing around the superstructure of an Aegis
cruiser to annoy the captain, chasing MiGs through skies so blue they
looked translucent, or screaming over the tops of waves with the spray
flashing to steam in his afterburner fire. No, nothing was worth
losing that nothing.
“I’ll be ready, sir. And thank you.
The ACOS nodded abruptly. “Get out of here. And be readythat’s all I
can tell you.”
2200 Local (+5 GMT) Fuentes Naval Base The night sounds of Cuba drifted
in the front door, finally reaching Pamela Drake in the back room of
the building.
The air was still warm, heavy and humid, scented with the exotic blooms
and heavy vegetation around the base.
“How much longer?” she demanded of her guard. “I came here to report
a story. I can’t do that stuck in one room.”
The guard shrugged. ‘We sea.” He eyed her carefully.
“You stay here,” he continued, evidently the entire extent of his
English language abilities.
Pamela sighed and resumed pacing around the room.
Something to kick, she decided. No, maybe a scream. How did one say
“rape” in Spanish? Surely that would bring someone with enough power
to resolve this situation, she fumed.
Forty feet away, Mendiria was asking the same questions.
“You can’t keep her here forever.” He touched his mustache, smoothing
the stiff bristles down against his face. They sprang back up as soon
as he released them, producing a bushy caterpillar on his upper lip.
“And why not?” Santana demanded. “We have control over everything she
releases from here. And when she cooperates . . .” He lifted his
shoulders in a gesture of resignation. “She travels without notifying
her own authorities, no doubt. If something happens to her, who will
be able to say that we are at fault? An illegal entry into our
country, during a time of so much turmoil? The guerrilla sone cannot
trust them. They are, as the Americans say, unpredictable.” He
smiled, too-large white teeth catching the light from the bare
lightbulb overhead.
“But what is the point?” the Libyan persisted. “I see no advantage to
us. The longer she remains here, the sooner she will figure out she
does not have freedom to travel where she wishes. Her interest in