the Spratly Islands and testing the twelve mile limit with Vietnam seemed like
a good compromise between doing FON and not limiting our options in the South
China Sea.”
“Additionally,” Busby added, “Vietnam is currently in a state of flux.”
“When in the last fifty years has it not been?” Tombstone said. “But
you’re right–Vietnam knows that whatever her relationship with the United
States, she will have to live with China as her neighbor. With all the issues
surrounding normalization of relations with Vietnam, it might not hurt to
remind them that the United States has the power to intervene in Southeast
Asia’s backyard. Okay, let’s go with this plan. Starting tomorrow morning.”
“CAG,” Tombstone said, turning to Captain Cervantes. “Let’s talk about
that flight schedule. I want to make damned sure we’re not sending the wrong
signals at any point. And make sure your pilots understand how critical the
twelve-mile limit is. Under no circumstances are they to go wandering off
inside it–in fact, just for safety’s sake, let’s set the limit at fifteen
miles for aircraft. We can creep up to the twelve-mile limit a lot more
safely at fifteen knots with surface ships than at four hundred knots with an
aircraft.”
The CAG looked slightly put out. As I would in his shoes, Tombstone
thought. Still, he was not prepared for what followed.
“I’ll brief the aircrews personally, Admiral. But we’ll also need to
make sure the surface ships are just as careful. Not all of the battle
group,” CAG said, picking his words carefully, “has always understood how
critical that limit is. A shoot-out is the last thing we need.”
For a moment, Tombstone was tempted to dismiss CAG’s remarks as simply
evidence of the rivalry that had always existed between aviators and the
“shoes.” He glanced around the room and saw a number of officers studiously
examining the deck. Then it hit him.
Vincennes. Early on in her career, the cruiser had shot down that airbus
in the Persian Gulf. Evidence was now surfacing that Vincennes might have
been inside Iran’s territorial waters when she’d fired. If the real truth
about her location had ever been fully determined, it was classified at the
highest levels.
“All of our assets will be very clear on my orders, CAG. And thank you
for bringing up that point.”
And now I know what it was I was trying to recall. The shoot-out at the
OK Corral in Tombstone, Arizona. Wyatt Earp’s last battle. The diagram I saw
last night had those same double lines marking off the boundaries of the
corral, tracing out Earp’s path to the showdown.
Tombstone had never been superstitious, and he wasn’t about to admit that
the strange coincidence of the graphics in a book and the diagram of a FON box
had anything in common. This was no calculated warning, no psychic
premonition. It was merely more evidence that the human brain was hard-wired
in ways that might never be fully understood.
Just the same, whatever else he could roll downhill to his staff and the
COS, the matter of the Vincennes required his personal attention and the
weight of the stars on his collar to back up his orders. Sometime in the next
sixteen hours, Rear Admiral Magruder was going to have to have a very serious
talk with Vincennes.
CHAPTER 7
Friday, 28 June
0900 local (Zulu -7)
Flag Mess
USS Jefferson
The moment came eventually, as Tombstone knew it would. He stepped out
of his cabin and into the Flag Mess. Pamela was standing next to the
coffeepot, carefully pouring the thick, hot brew into an insulated plastic
coffee cup, holding the lid wedged between two fingers.
“Care for a cup, Admiral?” she asked politely. Her eyes took him in
carefully, noted his discomfort, and flashed amusement.
“Thank you, Miss Drake.” He held out his own mug, emblazoned with the
VF95 squadron insignia. He dreaded the moment when she would finish pouring
the coffee, when he would have to decide whether to stay and talk with her or
retreat to his cabin.
Damn it! It’s my ship, my battle group! My world, the one she wouldn’t
share me with. If anyone ought to be squirming, it’s her. He took a deep