stand down and stay out of the way.
“I must emphasize,” Tombstone said, “that we still don’t know for
certain whether the Russian deployment constitutes a full-scale attack,
or if they’re just making a feint, warning us off from their coast.
BARCAP will be positioned to test them, and by the time the rest of you
get airborne, we ought to know one way or the other. Until we do,
however, weapons will be locked, and released only upon direct order
from the Combat Information Center. Once it has been determined that
the Russian force is intent on hostile action, weapons-free will be
issued by the Shiloh CIC.”
Tombstone concluded with several more items about deployment, and a
report from the Met Office–sky clear, ceiling unlimited, winds from the
northeast at ten knots.
“That’s it,” Tombstone said at last. “Good luck, men. And God go with
you.”
Amused, Batman wondered if Tombstone’s use of the word “men,” obviously
an oversight in the pressure of the moment, had bothered any of the
women.
None of them appeared to have noticed.
Good. This was no time to let petty sexual politics interfere with the
smooth operation of the squadron.
“Okay, people,” Batman said, raising his voice to blanket the room. As
the Viper XO, he was squadron commander in Coyote’s absence. “You all
heard the man. Let’s go kick ass and take names!”
“Yeah!” Slider Arrenberger yelled back, punching his clenched fist at
the overhead. “Today we kick Russki ass!”
Arrenberger hadn’t been aboard on Jefferson’s last deployment, during
the fiercely fought battles over Romsdalfjord or off the Lofoten
Islands. The chances were all too good that, while the American
aviators were kicking Russian ass, the Russians would be kicking their
share of American ass as well. Some good people were likely to die
today.
Batman was no more superstitious than any other naval aviator, but he
suddenly remembered the date–Friday the 13th. Bad luck for who, the
Americans or the Russians?
As the squadron rose with a scraping and squeaking of chairs, Batman
noticed Striker–Lieutenant Strickland–reach out and grab Lieutenant
Hanson’s arm. When she turned, he leaned over and gave her a quick,
hard kiss on the mouth.
No one said anything, but Batman felt a small twist in his gut. Any
PDA–public display of affection–was both inappropriate at the moment
and strictly contra-regs. He’d already heard scuttlebutt about those
two and hoped they didn’t get into trouble for it.
He remembered Tombstone’s concerns about sexual relationships between
members of the squadron, though, and thought he understood. It was
embarrassing to admit it, even to himself.
Twenty-nine years old, and Edward Everett “Batman” Wayne was unmarried.
At the moment, he didn’t even have a girlfriend, though he was notorious
for his skill in acquiring attractive dates when he was ashore. Ever
since his experiences in Thailand a few years ago, however, he’d found
himself increasingly dissatisfied with his lifestyle and unable to
pinpoint the cause.
Now he was beginning to think it was time to settle down, maybe even get
married.
Well, maybe he wouldn’t go that far. But he recognized a certain small,
sharp pang each time he saw a couple who obviously shared a deep, mutual
affection. It wasn’t jealousy, not really, but it was an awareness, a
reminder that his life wasn’t complete.
Sometimes it hurt.
“Let’s go strap on an airplane, Batman,” Malibu said, punching him in
the arm and jarring him from less-than-pleasant thoughts. “Betcha Chief
Leyden’s already got Two-oh-two opened up and warming for us.” Leyden
was the crew chief for Tomcat 202, Batman’s and Malibu’s aircraft.
The passageways and decks between VF-95’s ready room and Jefferson’s
flight deck were still crowded as the carrier’s crew proceeded with
their assigned battle station duties. Out on the flight deck, the scene
was one of frantic, purposeful activity; of steam and thundering,
brawling noise; of dozens of men in color-coded jerseys carrying out
their assigned duties in surroundings that might have been lifted from
one of Dante’s hells.
Moving this many of Jefferson’s complement of combat aircraft to the
proper place at the proper time was a fantastically complex operation,
one requiring split-second timing and precision to carry out. At any