disposal.”
Tombstone waved aside Batman’s concerns. “No, you stay just where you
are. You’re still in command of this carrier battle group. Admiral
Wayne. You remind me if I forget that.” The corner of his mouth
twitched. On any other man’s face, the movement would have been
meaningless, but it was as close to a smile as Batman had ever seen
Tombstone sport in public.
Some tension melted out of Batman’s face. “Maybe we’ll have a chance
later to discuss exactly how you would like this task force
organized.
Admiral. My people have a couple of ideas.”
“I’d welcome their help,” Tombstone said quietly. He let his eyes
drift back to survey the faces arrayed behind Batman. “Bird Dog,” he
said. “You’re still on board?”
The young lieutenant commander shifted uneasily. “I’m back, sir. I
spent a year at the War College. Just reported back on board two
months ago.” He hesitated as though about to add something, then fell
silent.
“This is right up your alley, then. You make sure you share that
expensive education with the rest of the staff, understand?”
Two years earlier, when Tombstone had had command of this very carrier
battle group. Bird Dog had been a nugget pilot. Events had thrust him
into the thick of the combat in the Spratly Islands, and later he’d
played point man in a careful game of cat and mouse over the Aleutian
Islands.
Yes, Tombstone thought, studying Bird Dog’s face, still young, still
feeling his way through this mess. His first staff tour, of course,
and he’s anxious to make a good impression.
And, remembering his own tour of staff, not getting enough flight
time.
Tombstone let his eyes move on, careful to keep any trace of his
thoughts from showing in his face. He greeted other staffers by name,
reestablishing the bonds that had once drawn them together.
Finally, he turned back to Batman. “You got some time to talk?”
“At your disposal, of course. Admiral.”
Tombstone took a quick step closer to him and spoke in a low voice
pitched for his ears only. “Don’t be polite, Batman, I know this job
almost as well as you do. If you’ve got stuff that needs doing, let me
know. We owe each other that much courtesy, don’t we? After all we’ve
been through together?”
The final traces of nervousness melted away from Batman’s face. “Now
would be very convenient. Admiral.”
1130 Local (+5 GMT) Five Miles North of Cuba The small tugboat churned
through the gentle waves like a thrashing, injured fish. She was bow
on to the swells now, making steady headway but heeling from port to
starboard in a rapid motion designed to discomfort all but the
strongest stomachs. Waves battered her gunwales and the deck was
slippery and damp from condensing spray and early morning mist.
It had been dark when she had left port, the sky obscured by the
perpetual mist and fog. Later, as the sun had burned it away, the
sailors had peeled off their shirts and donned hats, weathered brown
backs giving evidence of their experience with this climate.
This mission was more important than fishing for tuna, or pursuing any
of the myriad activities that they used to supplement the income
generated by their legitimate occupation. Jaime Rivera, the master of
the vessel, stood in the pilot house, staring aft at the small
contingent of Cuban navy officers on board. So like them, the
arrogance with which they’d commandeered his vessel. The drug running,
the smuggling, or even the normal routines of trolling for fish were
merely memories now. The officers had arrived at 0500, in a battered,
rusted jeep. Two deuce-and a-half trucks, on their last set of brakes
and their suspension springs merely a distant memory, had followed.
Their cargo had been quickly loaded onto the aft of the fishing boat
and then covered with canvas. What had been a surprisingly precise
arrangement of mines was now a massive, dirty tan lump occupying most
of the fantail.
“Now,” the officer in the pilothouse ordered. “We are at the first
position.”
Rivera nodded. It would do him no harm to make friends with the naval
officers, people who might one day in the future look the other way at