He drove them in an old Zil to an ancient stone church and they followed him in. Tombstone was just starting to wonder just how far Russo would take the charade when Russo turned in to a small chapel. He led them to the altar and past it to a door in the back. They followed him through a dimly lit corridor that seemed to run the length of the back of the church. It opened out onto a small garage. Another Zil was waiting for them.
“Let’s go,” Russo said, his voice more animated than before. “There are enough Zils heading in and out of here that we’ll be able to slip away. Somewhere around eight hundred priests will be attending vespers, so I don’t think anyone will miss us.” Again Russo took the wheel. “Stay low until we’re away from the church, though.”
Fifteen minutes later, he signaled that they could sit up. Tombstone was starting to feel a bit uneasy at the total lack of control he had over their comings and goings, and it showed in his voice when he said, “Mind telling me exactly what’s up?”
“Not at all,” Russo said, his voice jovial. “We’re heading for a small private airfield to get you some time in a MiG. That’s what you’re here for, right?”
“You seem to know a lot about us,” Tombstone said.
“Not as much as I will in a little while,” Russo said, and turned to look back at him, grinning.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tombstone snapped. What the hell is this? I don’t know what he’s been told, what I can say, who the hell I’m supposed to meet.
“I’m about to kick your ass,” Russo replied. His grin broadened.
“So I take it you’re not a priest,” Greene said, his voice surly. “What the hell is going on around here?”
Russo pulled the car into a parking area. Not far away, two MiGs waited at the end of a runway. “Cool your jets, young man. And, yes, I am a priest, but don’t let that bother you.” He turned to face them, a hard look of joy on his face. “For the next two days, I’m your instructor pilot. I’ll either teach you to fly a MiG or I’ll pray for your souls when you fuck up and auger in. Your choice.”
Conversation stopped when Lab Rat walked back into CVIC from a briefing in TFCC. Petty Officer Lee, a linguist in the department, asked, “Are we going in, sir? We gonna go kick some Russian butt?”
“Not yet,” Lab Rat answered. “Politics, ladies and gentlemen. Stay loose, stay ready — we’ll get our chance.”
The briefing had been less that encouraging. The Jefferson was ordered to stand by, and, from the reports they were seeing over ACN, it didn’t look like that was going to change anytime soon. Public furor over the possibilities of casualties was already starting to pick up, and the White House had been oddly silent about the whole affair.
Lab Rat had taken advantage of a lull in Coyote’s schedule to ask to talk to him about the Omicron offer, and that had also been less than satisfying. Wasn’t there anything to career counseling other than being told to stay in the Navy? That was a lot of help — he could’ve told himself that.
Senior Chief Armstrong was unloading the additional data-base documentation he had brought back from Norfolk. He was smiling, and humming a cheerful song as he worked. He glanced up as Lab Rat walked in, and smiled. “How’s it going, sir?”
“I’ve been better,” Lab Rat said. The senior chief was the last person he wanted to talk to right now.
“Sorry to hear that, sir. Armstrong was still smiling, looked anything but sorry. “Have you thought anymore about what you’re going to do?”
“I’ve been thinking of little else, to tell the truth,” Lab Rat said. “It’s a tough choice to make.”
“It is, and it isn’t,” the senior chief said.
“Believe me, sir, we’d love to have you. But, I can understand if you want to stay in the Navy, too.”
“Yeah, well. I’m still thinking, okay?”
Something changed the senior chief’s face. He put down the volume he was working on and turned to face the commander. “Sir — could I ask a question?”
“That’s a question itself, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it is. But it’s not the one I’ve got in mind.”
“Sure; shoot.”
“Sir, this offer from Omicron that you’re thinking about — is there any problem with the fact that you’d be working for me?” Armstrong looked straight in Lab Rat’s eyes with a trace of dismay on his face.
“No, of course not,” Lab Rat said. “How could that possibly make any difference?”
The senior chief sighed. “With all due respect, sir — of course it makes a difference. And to pretend it doesn’t — well, I thought we were a little beyond that.”
“What do you mean by that?” Lab Rat asked, now irritated.
The senior chief shrugged. “I’m not certain, sir. It just seems to me that it does make a difference — after all, we’ve both spent almost twenty years in a system where who you are is determined by what’s on your collar. And if we’re both at Omicron, well… that would reverse everything, wouldn’t it? All I’m asking is if that makes a difference in your thinking.”
“It doesn’t.” It does. God help me, but it does.
The senior chief stared at him steadily now, disappointment in his face. “If you say so, sir.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
Armstrong shrugged. Whatever you want it to, sir.”
Lab Rat slammed his hand down the desk. “Enough! If you have something on your mind, go ahead and say it.”
“Why should I?” The senior chief shot back. “You’re not.”
Lab Rat’s jaw dropped. Sure, the senior chief had always been willing to stand up for what he believed in, but it had never been on a personal level like this. For the senior chief to question his decisions, well, that was just too much.
But he’s right. It does make a difference, I’m just not willing to tell him that it does.
The full implications of what had just happened sunk in. And Lab Rat felt a surge of relief. This, then, was the critical issue to deal with, whether or not he could cope with working for the senior chief. Once he decided that, everything else would fall into place.
Am I that rigid? Do I value people more for their rank than for who they are? If you asked me, I wouldn’t have said so, but this is certainly putting a different light on it, isn’t it? And one that’s not very attractive.
Just then, the vault door swung open and a small woman peered in. “Commander Busby?”
“Yes,” Lab Rat said, not taking his eyes off of the senior chief. “What is it?”
She stepped into the vault and extended her hand. “Lieutenant Johnnie Davis, sir, with VF-95. I have a few questions about what might be on the island and the skipper told me you were the person to talk to.”
“I’ll be right with you,” Lab Rat said, finally looking away from the senior chief. “And Senior Chief,” he said, “We’ll continue this discussion later. At my convenience.” He hated himself even as he added the last phrase.
The senior chief’s face was an impassive mask. “Of course, sir. At your convenience.”
Lieutenant Davis spread out the proposed flight schedule on a table in front of her. “It’s the first time I’ve done this for an entire air wing. I’ve only been in strike planning for two weeks. Anyway, before I make a fool of myself in public, I wonder if you might take a look and tell me if I’ve missed anything from an intelligence perspective.”
“Sure.” Lab Rat pulled the flight schedule over in front of him and ran his finger down the assignments. “Looks good — you’re on a one-point-five cycle, which is fine. The air wing is broken up into just two flights — why is that?”