world’s most expensive parking lot. Five minutes later, the engines shut
down and, tie-down chains in place, Sanchez popped the canopy and
climbed down the steel ladder that his brown-jerseyed plane-captain had set
in place.
“Welcome aboard, Skipper. Any problems?”
“Nary a one.” Sanchez handed over his flight helmet and trotted off to
the island. Three minutes after that he was observing the remainder of the
landings.
Johnnie Reb was already her semiofficial nickname, since she was named
for a long-term U.S. Senator from Mississippi, also a faithful friend of the
Navy. The ship even smelled new, Sanchez thought, not so long out of the
yards of Newport News Shipbuilding and Dry dock. She’d done her trials off
the East Coast and sailed around the Horn to Pearl Harbor. Her newest sister,
United States, would be ready for trials in another year, and yet another was
beginning construction. It was good to know that at least one branch of the
Navy was still in business-more or less.
The aircraft of his wing came in about ninety seconds apart. Two squad-
rons, each of twelve F-I4 Tomcats, two more with an identical number of
F/A-i8 Hornets. One medium-attack squadron of ten A-6E Intruders, then
the special birds, three E-3C Hawkeye early-warning aircraft, two C-2
CODs, four EA-6B Prowlers . . . and that was all, Sanchez thought, not as
pleased as he ought to be.
Johnnie Reb could easily accommodate another twenty aircraft, but a car-
rier air wing wasn’t what it used to be, Sanchez thought, remembering how
crowded a carrier had once been. The good news was that it was easier to
move aircraft around the deck now. The bad news was that the actual strik-
ing power of his wing was barely two-thirds of what it had once been.
Worse, naval aviation had fallen on hard times as an institution. The Tomcat
design had begun in the 19605-Sanchez had been contemplating high
school then, and wondering when he’d be able to drive a car. The Hornet had
first flown as the YF-I7 in the early 19705. The Intruder had started life in
the ii)5()s, about the time Bud had gotten his first two-wheeler. There was
not a single new naval aircraft in the pipeline. The Navy had twice flubbed
its chance to buy into Stealth technology, first by not buying into the Air
Force’s F-i 17 project, then by fielding the A-I2 Avenger, which had turned
out to be stealthy enough, just unable to fly worth a damn. And so now this
fighter pilot, after twenty years of carrier operations, a ‘ ‘comer” being fast-
tracked for an early flag-now with the last and best flying command of his
career, Sanchez had less power to wield than anyone before him. The same
was true of Enterprise, fifty miles to the east.
But the carrier was still queen of the sea. Even in her diminished capacity,
Johnnie Reb had more striking power than both Indian carriers combined,
and Sanchez judged that keeping India from getting too aggressive ought not
to be overly taxing. A damned good thing that was the only problem on the
horizon, too.
“That’s it,” the Air Boss observed as the last EA-6B caught the number-
two wire. “Recovery complete. Your people look pretty good, Bud.”
“We have been working at it, Todd.” Sanchez rose from his seat and
headed below toward his stateroom, where he’d freshen up before meeting
first with his squadron commanders, and then with the ops staff to plan the
operations for DATELINE PARTNERS. It ought to be a good workup, Sanchez
thought. An Atlantic Fleet sailor for most of his career, it would be his first
chance to look at the Japanese Navy, and he wondered what his grandfather
would have thought of this. Henry Gabriel “Mike” Sanchez had been the
CAG on USS Wasp in 1942, taking on the Japanese in the Guadalcanal cam-
paign. He wondered what Big Mike would have thought of the upcoming
exercise.
“Come on, you have to give me something,” the lobbyist said. It was a mark
of just how grim things were that his employers had told him it was possible
they might have to cut back on their expenditures in D.C. That was very
unwelcome news. It wasn’t just me, the former Congressman from Ohio told
himself. He had an office of twenty people to take care of, and they were
Americans, too, weren’t they? And so he had chosen his target with care.
This Senator had problems, a real contender in his primary, and another,
equally real opponent in the general election. He needed a larger war chest.
That made him amenable to reason, perhaps.
“Roy, I know we’ve worked together for ten years, but if I vote against
TRA, I’m dead, okay? Dead. In the ground, with a wood stake through my
heart, back in Chicago teaching bullshit seminars in government operations
and selling influence to the highest bidder.” Maybe even ending up like you,
the Senator didn’t say. He didn’t have to. The message carried quite clearly.
It was not a pleasant thought. Almost twelve years on the Hill, and he liked it
here. He liked the staff, and the life, and the parking privileges, and the free
plane rides back to Illinois, and being treated like he was Mitnchmlv every-
where he went. Already he was a member of the “Tuesday-Thursday
Club,” flying back home every Thursday evening for a very long weekend
of speeches to the local Elks and Rotary clubs, to be seen at PTA meetings,
cutting ribbons for every new post office building he’d managed to scrounge
money for, campaigning already, just as hard as he’d done to get this god-
damned job in the first place. It was not pleasant to have to go through that
again. It would be less pleasant still to do it in the knowledge that it was all a
waste of his time. He had to vote for TRA. Didn’t Roy know that?
“I know that, Ernie. But I need something,” the lobbyist persisted. It
wasn’t like working on the Hill. He had a staff of the same size, but this time
it wasn’t paid for by taxes. Now he actually had to work for it. “I’ve always
been your friend, right?”
The question wasn’t really a question. It was a statement, and it was both
an implied threat and a promise. If Senator Greening didn’t come over with
something, then, maybe, Roy would, quietly at first, have a meeting with one
of his opponents. More likely both. Roy, the Senator knew, was quite at ease
working both sides of any street. He might well write off Ernest Greening as
a lost cause and start currying favor with one or both possible replacements.
Seed money, in a manner of speaking, something that would pay off in the
long run because the Japs were good at thinking long-term. Everyone knew
that. On the other hand, if he coughed up something now …
“Look, I can’t possibly change my vote,” Senator Greening said again.
‘ ‘What about an amendment? I have an idea that might-”
“No chance, Roy. You’ve seen how the committees are working on this.
Hell, the chairmen are sitting down right now at Bullfeathers, working out
the last details. You have to make it clear to your friends that we’ve been
well and truly rolled on this one.”
“Anything else?” Roy Newton asked, his personal misery not quite
showing. My God, to have to go back to Cincinnati, practice law again?
“Well, nothing on point,” Greening said, “but there are a few interesting
things going on, on the other side.”
“What’s that?” Newton asked. Just what I need, he thought. Some of the
usual damned gossip. It had been fun while he’d served his six terms, but
not-
“Possible impeachment hearings against Ed Kealty.”
“You’re kidding,” the lobbyist breathed, his thoughts stopped dead in
their tracks. “Don’t tell me, he got caught with his zipper down again?”
“Rape,” Greening replied. “No shit, rape. The FBI’s been working the
case for some time now. You know Dan Murray?”
“Shaw’s lapdog?”
The Senator nodded. “That’s the one. He briefed House Judiciary, but
then this trade flap blew up and the President put it on hold. Kealty himself
doesn’t know yet, at least not as of last Friday-that’s how tight this one
is-but my senior legislative aide is engaged to Sam Fellows’ chief of staff,
and it really is too good to keep quiet, isn’t it?”
The old Washington story, Newton thought with a smirk. // two people
know it, it’s not a secret.
“How serious?”
“From what I hear, Ed Realty’s in very deep shit. Murray made his posi-
tion very clear. He wants to put Eddie-boy behind bars. There’s a death in-
volved.”
“Lisa Beringer!” If there was anything a politician was good at, it was
remembering names.
Greening nodded. “I see your memory hasn’t failed you.”
Newton almost whistled, but as a former Member, he was supposed to