CARRIER 3: ARMAGEDDON MODE

The VF-95 Vipers were a good squadron, green and yellow marks predominating, with a few white patches and no reds. Their overall record was not as good as that of either VFA-161 or VFA-173. The intense competitions between squadrons— recorded on a huge greenie board for the entire Air Wing in a passageway outside Pri-Fly—were nearly always taken by those squadrons, for the nimble F/A-18 Hornet was a lot easier to plant neatly on the number-three arrestor wire than the massive Tomcat.

But the Vipers were good, and Tombstone was fiercely proud to be one of them.

It would hurt to leave them.

He reached into the breast pocket of his khakis, pulled out the last letter from Pamela, and began rereading it.

You ‘d think a TV news anchor would know everything that’s going on, she’d written. It seems like I’m hearing just enough to know how hairy things are getting over there. Everything coming into the network here points to a major war breaking out between Pakistan and India before the end of the month.

She’d certainly guessed right about that Tombstone looked up, his eyes going to the PLAT monitor. An A-6 Intruder was descending toward the roof. He watched it touch steel, seeming

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to flatten itself to the deck, then rebounding slightly, nose down as the arrestor wire dragged it to a halt. Good trap.

He looked back at the letter, his eyes shifting down the page to what she’d written later on. / worry so about you, my darling Matt. Maybe this isn ‘t the best time to bring it up, but 1 have to admit that I’ve been thinking about us, about our future, an awful lot in the past weeks.

Have you thought much about what our life together will be like? ACN will be sending me out on special assignments every so often, and I’ll be tied down in Washington the rest of the time. And you? Assignments at naval air stations all over the country, interspersed with nine-month deployments at sea.

We ‘ve talked about getting married quite a lot during our last few letters. I love you, Matt, but I think the time has come to take a hard and decidedly unromantic look at our careers, and our futures.

Leave it to Pamela to be practical about all this, Tombstone thought. He turned the page to a smudged and oft-read paragraph just before the end.

You wouldn’t have to give up flying. A friend of mine at the FAA told me the other day that the airlines are crying for experienced pilots, and that Navy aviators are prime candidates. Scheduling our time together might stilt be a problem, but at least we would have schedules, and not be apart for so long at a time.

I love you more now than when I was with you last in Bangkok. I want to marry you. But we have to face reality. As long as you stay in the Navy, I don’t see how we can have much of a life together. . . .

“About time for the show, sir.”

Startled, Tombstone looked up and found himself staring into the pudgy features of Master Chief Julius Fleming, the Avionics Technician assigned to the squadron. “Oh, right.” Hastily he stuffed Pamela’s letter back into his flight suit, then glanced around at the other men in the squadron taking their seats. “Put it on, Chief.”

Each squadron ready room on the carrier had a television monitor tied into the closed-circuit network. Moments after Fleming turned it on, the Air Wing 20 logo was replaced by the face of CAG Steve Marusko. With a wry flash of humor.

ARMAGEDDON MODE

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Tombstone thought to himself that CAG looked none the worse for wear after the harrowing trap the day before. He remembered that he’d been supposed to go down to CAG’s office and talk things over. Somehow, there’d been no time since yesterday afternoon.

Well, the talk wouldn’t change his mind now. Tombstone’s mind was made up.

“Good morning, men,” Marusko said briskly. He was standing at the CV1C podium. By broadcasting his address over the CCTV system, he could speak to all of the aviators aboard Jefferson simultaneously. It saved time.

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