commander continued, rubbing his hands together briskly, “I believe you
mentioned inspecting the airfield this afternoon? What better time than now?”
1900 local (Zulu -7)
Admiral’s Cabin
USS Jefferson
“Good evening, Admiral,” Pamela said. She was proud of her voice–calm
and professional, despite the rage of emotions flooding her.
“And to you, Miss Drake,” he answered gravely. His voice was scratchy,
rubbed raw by too many cups of bitter black midwatch coffee and too little
sleep.
How long can he keep this up? It’s been a week, and there’s no sign that
the Chinese are any closer to doing anything different! Every face I see
looks like death warmed over. If these people don’t get some sleep soon, it’s
not going to matter what happens on some damned rock in the middle of the
South China Sea. Not that I care about him in particular, she added hastily
to herself.
They’d come full circle in their relationship. From friends to lovers,
and then engaged–and now back to merely friends. If it was possible. She
wasn’t entirely sure it was going to be.
And that pilot–what was her name? Tomboy, she’d heard the others call
her. From the way Tombstone looked at her, the younger woman was more than
just another aviator in his carrier group. She wondered if anyone else had
noticed the sparks that flew between their admiral and the pilot. It was more
than just the close bond that grows up between men and women facing mortal
danger together.
Not that Stoney would do anything about it, of that she was certain. As
long as Tomboy was under his command, she had no permanent claim on his
attention. To get involved with a woman on his ship–no, the meticulously
proper Rear Admiral Tombstone Magruder would never commit that sin.
She listened to the morning briefing half-attentively. Too little had
changed to warrant more than a cursory discussion. Chinese fighters still
challenged the edges of the carrier’s air envelope, still in small groups and
still in unthreatening mission profiles. Despite the apparent lack of
progress, Commander Lab Rat–Busby, she corrected herself–still looked as
optimistic and determined as ever. Pamela forced herself to start paying
attention as the intelligence officer stood to give his portion of the morning
brief.
“Situation unchanged, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. An incongruously
cheerful smile spread across his face. “No news is good news, in this case!”
“How much longer?” CAG grumbled. “I’ve got people walking around asleep
on their feet! We can’t keep this many alert aircraft manned and the flight
deck in this state of readiness forever.”
Busby looked thoughtful. “I know it’s a problem, CAG, but it shouldn’t
be too much longer. We have some reasons to believe that something may happen
soon.”
“You keep saying that!” Ops burst out. “How about some specifics,
Commander?”
Commander Busby drew himself up to his full height and stood his ground.
“There are some things I can’t brief, sir. No disrespect intended.”
“Typical intelligence,” Ops snapped. “Too late to do any good. And if
you’ve got something useful for us, it’s too classified for the people that
need it most to see!”
“Enough,” Tombstone said. “Ops, CAG–I appreciate the difficulty of your
positions. I see the same faces you do, and I know what you’re up against.
In this situation, however, Commander Busby has my full support. And my
utmost confidence. That good enough for you?”
Ops grunted and CAG nodded. Neither one, Pamela noted, appeared to be
reassured by their admiral’s statement.
“End of discussion,” Tombstone added. “Commander, I believe that is the
end of the brief as well.”
The intelligence officer shot him a grateful look and began rolling up
his charts and overlays. Pamela wondered what arcane bit of intelligence
information the two of them shared–and why it was secret from the rest of the
staff.
1000 local (Zulu +5)
Ambassador Wexler’s Office
United Nations
“Well, I don’t see how we could possibly work you into her schedule until
next Tuesday. It’s just-”
Ambassador Wexler paused at the coffeepot and watched her aide. His
normally congenial expression had just faded into something that resembled the
look of a shell-shocked POW. She stirred in some creamer, wondering what