the memory of World War II might keep them going for a while.”
“The Soviet empire,” Lindstrom said softly. “Reborn.”
“Maybe not.” Tombstone told them what he’d heard that morning, that
Britain’s socialist Labor government had fallen.
“This I have heard,” Lindstrom said, nodding. “With Britain in the war,
we will see the old NATO alliance alive once more.”
“It’ll take time for Britain to get her act together, though,” Pamela
pointed out. “What do we do in the meantime?”
“We hang on,” Tombstone said. “We hang on and do everything we can to
keep the Russians from shutting down Norway. Because if they do, it’s going
to be damned hard to pry it out of their grip again.”
“They will have problems closing their hand on us,” Lindstrom said, his
eyes ice. “I promise this!”
“There could be a problem with the United States too,” Pamela said. Her
eyes locked with Tombstone’s. “The people are convinced that Europe never did
take its share of its own defense. There could be a push for a political
settlement.”
Tombstone dropped his eyes to the half-full glass in his hand. “That’s
more your department than it is mine, Pamela. Public opinion, and all that.
But I know every man in my air wing is after Russian blood right now. We’ve
lost too many good men to those bastards and their damned power games for us
to pull out and leave the field to them!”
“Perhaps, Commander,” Lindstrom said, “it would be well if we finished
our business, you and I. You think as do we. You understand the danger.
Working together, your people and mine, these Russik avfaller have no chance.”
2245 hours Zulu (2345 hours Zone)
Norge Hotel
Bergen, Norway
It was almost dark–well past nine-thirty–when Lindstrom ordered a
convoy to return Pamela and Tombstone to Bergen. The rain had stopped, but it
was still overcast. With further meetings between Tombstone in his capacity
as CAG and the senior staff of the Norwegian defense forces scheduled for the
next morning, the general had arranged for him to be put up for the night at
the Norge, an impressively grand hotel on the Ole Bulls Plass in the heart of
the city.
Pamela and her ACN crew were registered at the Royal Hotel, but, as she’d
somehow known would happen, she ended up spending the night with Tombstone.
She was confused about her own feelings. She’d been finished with him,
finished with the Navy, unwilling to allow the military to take her husband
as, fourteen years earlier, it had taken her brother. But seeing Tombstone
again had brought back all of the memories, of long walks and lovemaking and
being together, of understanding, humor, and tenderness.
God, she thought, snuggling her head against his chest as they lay
together in bed. God help me, I still love him.
“Remember the first time we spent the night in a hotel together?” she
asked. That had been in Bangkok, where she and Tombstone had become pawns in
a Communist-inspired coup against the government.
“Mmm. We were interrupted by rude people with guns.”
“I hope you locked the door this time.”
“I locked the door then,” he murmured sleepily. “Didn’t help.” He moved
his arm, drawing her closer, caressing the base of her spine with his hand.
“Matt?”
“Mmm.”
“Can Jefferson make a difference? I mean, just one ship?”
“Not one ship. It’s Jefferson and her battle group. If the Russians
don’t run us down and sink us, yeah. She can make a hell of a difference.
Why?”
Run us down and sink us. Not her, the ship, but us. The way he
identified himself with the battle group bothered her.
“Oh, Matt. What does Washington expect you to do here anyway? What can
one carrier do against the whole damned Russian navy?”
“Quite a bit, actually. Just being here could make a difference. The
Russians don’t want a general war any more than we do.”
“But you told General Lindstrom-”
“They need a small war to unite them. A big war could destroy them.”
“Don’t you ever question why you were sent out here?”
“What is this, an interview for your news program? I’m an aviator, Pam,