CARRIER 3: ARMAGEDDON MODE

CAG Manisko leaned forward in his swivel chair, hands spread helplessly on the desk in front of him. “I don’t make ’em, Stoney. I just read ’em. The word I got was that you’re off the flight line until they can pull a full investigation of the battle. There . . . may be some problem with your interpretation of the ROEs. May be, I said.”

Tombstone knew that they meant Admiral Vaughn. “Court-martial?”

“I don’t think it’ll come to that, Stoney.”

It was very quiet in the office. Despite the fact that each department in a supercarrier was manned and fully operational around the clock, it was always quieter in the admin and other office spaces during the late hours. Indeed, Tombstone knew that many men went back to their offices in the evening to read, to strum guitars, or just to be alone and escape the crowding and noise of their quarters. For a long moment, the only sounds Tombstone heard were the whir from the air vent high up on the bulkhead and the never-ceasing, usually forgotten throb of the ship’s engines through the deck.

Court-martial. Tombstone thought back to the chain of decisions he’d made that night over the ocean and knew that there was nothing he would change now. But he’d also been in

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the Navy long enough to know that the wisdom of any decision or order can be picked apart by some higher authority.

“I’m assigning you to Air Ops, Stoney,” Marusko said, breaking the silence. “We’re getting some new aviators in tomorrow, and we’ll need some experienced hands looking over their shoulders up in CATCC.”

There were always several aviators assigned to the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center. Sometimes they could read impressions or emotions in a squadron mate’s words as they came in over the speaker that the men manning the consoles would miss. More often than not, though, the Air Ops watch slanders were Me Jo types, the ensigns and newer lieutenants jokingly referred to as marginally effective junior officers. By watching operations in CATCC and Ops, new flight officers could get die feel of the electronic network that would be backing them up once they were in the air.

“So I’m a Me Jo now, huh?” Tombstone felt the growing anger, tried to keep it out of his voice . . . and failed. “Do they trust me with that much responsibility?”

“Getting a damned attitude isn’t going to help, Stoney,” CAG said. “We’re both stuck with this, and there’s not a thing we can do about it. Not now anyway.”

Tombstone looked around the tiny room. It was cluttered with bits and pieces of Steve Marusko’s life: a photograph of his family, a plastic model from the ship’s store of an F/A-18 Homet, books from the ship’s library. Tacked to a bulletin board was a crudely rendered crayon drawing of an aircraft carrier with huge stars scrawled on the wings of each misshapen airplane. As much as he wanted to lash out at someone, Tombstone found it impossible to be angry at CAG. The decision had not been his.

“Right, CAG.” He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I’ll accept this as a paid vacation.”

“That’s the stuff. Now haul ass out of here.”

As Tombstone stepped into the deserted passageway outside CAG’s office, he wondered if his getting grounded might not actually be a twisted kind of blessing. It would give him a chance to think about his role as a career fighter pilot, about his decision to quit the Navy.

He glanced at his watch. He could still get a bite to eat at the Dirty Shirt Mess. He turned and started down the passageway,

ARMAGEDDON MODE

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pacing his steps to the knee-knockers that interrupted its endlessly dwindling perspective.

How much did he really love carrier flying? These next few days might tell him.

1315 hours EST (2345 hours India time), 24 March Oval Office, the White House, Washington, D.C.

“Thank you for coming, Admiral.” The President gestured to the upholstered chair in front of the desk. “Please, have a seat.” The Oval Office was brilliantly lit by the early afternoon light streaming through the Rose Garden window.

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