“Then the answer isn’t turning in your wings. If things are getting
tough and the bad guys are closing in from every side, sometimes the only
thing you can do is wade back in with both fists swinging. Like they say in
the Marines: attack, attack, attack!”
“It’s not that easy.”
“it never is. And it’s not easy to jump back in when you’ve been knocked
on your ass.”
“Damn it, CAG, you’re right! Okay? I fucked up! I could’ve killed
every man on the Hopkins. Or the Jefferson-”
“And you don’t want the responsibility. I’ll tell you something, old
buddy. Responsibility is one thing in this man’s Navy you can’t duck.”
Tombstone gestured at his desk and the stack of paperwork on it. “Ask me how
I know.”
“I screwed the pooch this afternoon, Stoney! I lost it! I’m afraid …
scared!”
There, he’d said it, the one thing that no aviator ever dared admit to
another. At least Coyote had called him Stoney, an appeal to the camaraderie
they’d once shared.
Tombstone closed his eyes, then took a deep breath. “If I told you that
I’m afraid every time I go up, Coyote, you’d think I was patronizing you. But
it’s true. Every man in the wing is scared every time he climbs into the
cockpit. You know it, and I know it. They wouldn’t be human if they
weren’t.”
“Bullshit, Stoney. I-”
Tombstone stood suddenly behind the desk, the palm of his hand coming
down on the desk. “I need you, damn it. Your people need you! You’re not
going to let them down! You’re not going to let me down! You hear me?”
“Yes, sir!” Coyote’s face pinched, and there was a paleness beneath his
tan. “Will that be all, CAG?”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
Coyote turned on his heel and left, banging the door behind him.
Tombstone sat down again behind his desk. He remained there for a long time
after that, watching the coffee in his half-full mug shift with the gentle
roll of the boat.
CHAPTER 7
Wednesday, 18 June
2000 hours Zulu (1600 hours EDT)
Press briefing room
The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
Admiral Thomas Magruder glanced a final time over his notes, then brushed
past the curtains and onto the stage, walking with measured pace to the
podium. The press room was crowded, filled with reporters and, vaguely seen
behind the glare of lights, the cameramen and technicians who would be
recording his every word and gesture. It was an uncomfortable feeling, one
he’d never yet adjusted to as long as he’d been the Joint Staff’s Director of
Operations.
He paused a moment at the podium, blinking into the lights. Microphones
were arrayed before him like reptilian heads rising from a den of snakes, and
the steady pop-pop-pop of strobes was accompanied by the clicks and purring
whirrs of cameras. Beyond the sea of faces in front of him, he saw the
unblinking gaze of a dozen tiny red lights, the red eyes of TV cameras and
camcorders; he was on the air.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I’ve been directed to brief you this
morning on the crisis which has arisen over the past few days in the Norwegian
Sea.” He waited as the buzz of conversation faded. The tension in the room
was almost palpable.
For forty-eight hours, there’d been a virtual news blackout from the
Norwegian Sea. There’d been plenty of speculation–and rumors–about fighting
between U.S. and Soviet forces north of Great Britain. but no hard news, and
no official announcement.
It was Admiral Magruder’s job to break the news to the American public.
“Two weeks ago, on June fifth, the Soviet Union invaded the countries of
Norway and Finland. You’ve been briefed on the events since … on the
Russian claim that their forces had been invited into Norway to restore order
after the assassination of the Soviet president, on the condemnation of Soviet
aggression by both the UN and the President of the United States, and on the
subsequent creation by the Soviets of a military exclusion zone encompassing
all of the Norwegian Sea, an area bounded, roughly, by Iceland, Scotland, and
Norway itself. The Soviet Union, in a communique issued through their embassy