**No, Admiral. I’m Thurman. I’m a Corpsman.” fvVaaghn opened his eyes. In the dancing, smoke-wreathed he could make out a short-sleeved white shirt moving we him. On the right sleeve was the crow and caduceus of jiHospital Corpsman First Class. i£: “We’re gonna get you out of there, Admiral.” r”S’okay. Doc. I think I’ve had it. Can’t move.” /”You’ve got a console on your legs, sir. They’re getting it %Spf’you now.”
He still couldn’t feel anything below his waist. There was a ip jab as the Corpsman jabbed the needle of a morphine Site in his arm. •£”A$tarawjnar’ someone called. “Gatovoh . . . t’ykep’
Vaughn managed to raise his head. In the uncertain light, he wld see two of the Commonwealth liaison officers, Sharov STremTs Tactical Officer, Besedin, straining together to lift ered console from his legs. Besedin wore a bandana
~^%|orn from someone’s white shirt, stained over his left eye with
console stirred, then lifted between the two straining “Harohshee! Harohshee!” They gave a concerted heave, the wreckage crashed to the deck several feet away, glanced down at his legs, half afraid of what he would SOKiThey were still there, though the right leg was turned at an
angle, he could not feel them at all.
away, he saw the bodies, blood-stained and crum-by the force of the blast. One looked like the Russian Polcrovsky.
The other was Bersticer, his chest crushed and bloody. Six men crowded around Vaughn, blocking the sight, the
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horror. “Careful now,” Thurman ordered. “Get that board under his back. Strap it tight . . . under his arms. His legs. Good. Okay, ready? Lift!”
Working together, they lifted him from the deck and lowered him into the wire embrace of a Stokes stretcher. Thurman began strapping him in.
“I think my back’s broken,” Vaughn said. Strange, he felt no emotion.
“Well, now,” Thurman said. “We won’t know until we get you back to the Jeff for some pictures, will we?”
“You can drop the bedside manner, Doc.” He paused, listening to the shouts from outside the shattered CIC. “How bad is the ship?”
“I don’t know, Admiral.” Thurman reached down with a grease pencil and scrawled something across Vaughn’s forehead. It would be the letter “M” for morphine and the time, he knew. “You’ll have to talk to whoever’s in command now.”
Whoever’s in command. Cunningham had been standing a few feet away before the explosion. Was he dead?
“We’re evacuating casualties,” Thurman continued as he pocketed the grease pencil. “We have heios working in relays, taking them across to the Jefferson. She’s got the best sick bay facilities in the battle group.”
Thurman started to turn away. Vaughn caught his arm. “Call . . . Captain Fitzgerald,” he said. “Have him see me … when I get there.”
Thurman smiled. “That shot I gave you might have you under by men, Admiral.”
“Do . . . it! Must see . . . Fitzgerald.” He could feel the muzzy-headed dopiness as the morphine took effect.
He had to fight it, to stay awake. He had to see Fitzgerald. . . .
0320 hours, 29 March Tomcat 200
Tombstone eased his Tomcat into the slot astern of the Jefferson and cut back on his power. He checked his stores listing on his VDI and was startled to see that he’d expended all of his missiles and was down to his last eighty rounds for his
Vulcan, and he wasn’t even sure how many Indian jritcraft he’d downed. The fight had been so confused, the sky with planes and missiles. There was no way to sort it pot
; fight had left him feeling so drained he didn’t even feel charge of adrenaline as he approached for his trap. He felt relaxed. “Tomcat Two-double-oh,” he called. Three point three.”
ball,” the LSO reported. “You’re right in the ;. Check your hook.”
jgtfbtnbstone slapped the switch that lowered his tail hook. *d been so relaxed he’d forgotten.
; Somehow, the Jefferson’s flight deck had never looked so from mis vantage point, half a mile astern and coming in 1 a trap. He held the stick steady, making slight, second-by-
corrections.
the Tomcat swept in over the ramp, settling to the deck in Ipedect approach. Tombstone rammed the throttles forward as i tail hook snagged on the number-three wire, and he felt die wrench of deceleration as he hung by his harness ; for a second. He cut back on the power as the LSO called ay” over the radio.