we see if Jefferson is getting her shit together, then we worry about where
we go. A CAP station, maybe, in case there’s adversary air inbound.”
“It’s a plan. Not sure I can come up with anything better at this
point,” Gator agreed. “I’ll help you spot in on the tanker.”
1200 Local
TFCC, USS Jefferson
Rogov leveled his weapon at Tombstone. He took a deep breath, and
when he started speaking, his voice was firm and forceful. “You will turn
this aircraft carrier toward the west,” he ordered. “Due west. Heading
for Petropavlovsk.”
“Petro?” Tombstone said, stunned. “Surely you don’t think you can
force us to attack Petro.”
“It’s been in your war plans for twenty years, now, hasn’t it?” Rogov
countered. “That was one premise of the entire Cold War scenario–that the
Pacific Fleet would attack and capture the Soviet Union’s easternmost
stronghold, containing the submarines there and destroying the amphibious
forces and air-power. After so many years, I would hope you knew how to do
that.” He stopped and considered Tombstone’s shocked look. “I will know
how, at least. And with an operational American carrier under their
control, no Cossack will ever have to curry favor with a foul Russian
bastard.”
“You’d turn the Jefferson into a Cossack carrier?” Tombstone asked,
dumbfounded at the idea.
“And why not? A cohort of Roman soldiers, a platoon of mounted
Cossack–men of war have always had their methods of taking the war to
their opponents. Today, the modern equivalent is the aircraft carrier.
Who better to understand how to use this vessel? We’re not putting your
own war plans to a real test. Instead, you will approach to thirty miles
off the coast of Petro, and wait for further instructions.” He fixed
Tombstone with a steely glare. “Do not test me on this, Admiral. If
necessary, I can have two hundred more Spetsnaz on board within eight
hours, more than enough to assist me in controlling your crew.
Additionally, if you force me to such measures, we will begin executing one
of your crew every five minutes until you agree to comply. We will begin
with the women,” he ended, gesturing toward a woman dressed in a flight
suit standing in the corner of TFCC. “With her, I think.”
Tombstone felt the blood drain from his face. He resisted the impulse
to turn and look at that bright red hair on the diminutive form one last
time. Tomboy had returned to the ship.
“I see I have your attention,” Rogov observed. He glanced from
Tombstone to Tomboy, and then back at Tombstone. A careful, considering
look crossed the Cossack’s face. “So it is like that, is it?” he murmured.
“Guard him.” He pointed at two Spetsnaz.
The designated men swiveled around and trained their weapons on
Tombstone. Rogov crossed the room quickly, grabbed Tomboy by her hair, and
yanked her head back. He pulled her to a standing position and twisted his
hands to turn her to face him. “So this is an American pilot,” he noted,
touching the gold wings over her left breast.
“I’m not a pilot,” she said sharply. “I’m a naval flight officer–a
radar intercept operator, if you must know.”
Rogov’s hand flashed out, and he smacked her across the face. “Then
you have learned some bad habits, riding always in the backseat. While I
am here, you will speak when spoken to, and at no other time. Is that
clear?”
Tomboy stood mute, her face pale except for the red mark on her face
where Rogov’s hand had landed. He jerked her up sharply by the hair,
causing her to wince.
“Is that clear?” he repeated slowly.
“Yes,” Tomboy spat.
“Good.” Rogov shoved her back in her chair. “In my tribe, a woman is
not permitted to wed until she has killed. A pity you have no such customs
here.” He turned back to Tombstone. “And that you have so little control
over your face and emotions, Admiral,” the Cossack sneered. “it is always
dangerous to expose one’s weaknesses to an enemy, is it not?” Rogov turned
back to his squad. “If the admiral does not order the ship to turn west in
the next thirty seconds, you are to shoot her. Take her into the