But the higher you got in rank, he reflected, the tougher the answers got. There were political trade-offs, power plays and rice bowls, not the least of those was in Central Asia. It was already evident that the State Department would play a role in this mission. Hell, the JCS had been unwilling to discuss potential targeting scenarios without consulting with the limp dicks over in State. It had even indicated that if the Navy couldn’t work with the rest of the U.S. government, they’d put the Air Force in charge of the operation.
The Air Force. The CNO snorted. Not on my watch.
“He’s going with you,” the CNO said flatly. “Get used to it, Admiral. We pay you to act like a guy wearing two stars, not like some hotshot fighter pilot.”
He hated the words the moment they left his mouth.
Stoney seemed to withdraw into himself, a trait the CNO had noticed all too often in the last several years. He sighed, wishing life had dealt Stoney a better hand. To lose his father so young, especially when the full details of his father’s mission had never been made publicdamn, it had to affect the man, no matter that he had a father-figure substitute in the form of an older uncle who loved him dearly.
“Yes, Admiral,” Tombstone said finally. He shot his uncle an accusing look. “You’ll get my best efforts, sir. Have no doubt about that. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s the concept of taking orders.”
“Stoney, I-“
The CNO broke off. What could he say now that would bridge this gap between uncle and nephew, that could soften the iron dictates of duty that bound them both?
Nothing, he realized. In circumstances such as these, duty superseded all blood relationships. And as much as he disliked it, the admiral had his orders. “Good luck,” the CNO said finally, wishing desperately there was some way to break through the new wall he felt between himself and the younger admiral. “Not that you’ll need it.”
Tombstone stared at his uncle for a moment, and his glare finally softened into something that held twinges of regret. “If we have to depend on luck, Uncle Thomas, we’re in a world of shit. Who am I taking anyway?”
“His name is Bradley Tiltfelt,” the admiral said, relieved to be back on less treacherous ground than the emotional health of a family. “I don’t know much about himhe’s a political appointee. They all are,” he added with some degree of bitterness. It was one of the trends that had bothered him most, especially seeing it in his own service. Appointing those who were politically correct and in favor after years of D.C. tours instead of true, operationally hardened warriors with extensive time at sea. Luckily, his nephew was an exception to that trend.
“Well.”
Tombstone seemed at a loss for words. Suddenly, without warning, he thrust out his hand at the man standing across the desk from him. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
The CNO surprised himself by walking around the desk, taking the hand, and drawing his nephew in toward him for a brief, hard embrace. “Take care of yourself, Stoney.”
Bleating goats competed with the sharp staccato of automobile horns to drown out the continual underlying roar of crowds and machinery that was a constant background in Istanbul. The ancient city crowded down to the water, fronting on the Bosphorus Strait. From the earliest times, it had provided a demarcation between Eastern and Western worlds, cosmopolitan and tolerant of almost every culture and religion.
Pamela Drake, combat reporter for the prestigious ACN news network, studied the crowds flowing and eddying around her. Usually, she could pick up vital country details from her studies of the crowds, details that lent her reports an air of authenticity that few others could rival. It was almost a sixth sense, one anchor had once commented, the ability to be on scene at the most godforsaken and remote areas of the world just as all hell was breaking loose. It was also the reason her salary had edged up steadily toward the seven-figure mark, making her the highest-paid foreign correspondent at any network.
Istanbul was hardly a backwater, however. As the world grew increasingly smaller, major metropolitan centers started to look more and more alike, she thought, studying the cars streaming down streets originally built for goat herds. The past slowly faded out, replaced by electrons and tarmac and concrete. Yet for all the modern progress it had made, Istanbul had managed to retain the flavor of an exotic, foreign port.
The crowds today were quiet, and felt puzzled and frightened. She couldn’t quantify it exactlyit was less a data-point than a personal observation born of long experience in combat theaters. And Lord knows she had experiencefrom the Arctic to the South China Sea and all points in between, she’d chased the vagaries of geopolitical eruptions across the globe.
At least here she wouldn’t have to rely on portable satellite up-links with their mysterious grumblings and dependence on atmospheric conditions.
Istanbul boasted a fully staffed ACN office, complete with dedicated satellite dishes bristling across the roof and enough telephone line to satisfy any reporter. Sometimes too much technology was more of a pain in the ass than a help. The main bureau in Memphis tended to clamp down during breaking stories, trying to micromanage the stories pouring out of a war.
If they could just get the politics out of the way, the interminable ACN maneuverings for status and position, she thought wearily, she might even be able to figure out what the hell was going on.
She strode into the office, chin high and carriage erect, quickly scanning the crowded room for the man she wanted. There he was, encased in his glass cubicle at the back, talking on the telephone while waving a rancid Turkish cigarette in the air. She grimaced, wishing the health-conscious mandates of the ACN Stateside offices had made it out this far. Still, his disgusting personal habits were of less concern than his approach to the current crisis.
Without asking permission, she strode to the back of the room and shoved open his door. “Mike,” she said warmly, “how good to see you again.”
The man waved one hand at her, and motioned toward a seat. He finished off a conversation in clipped, guttural Turkish, then replaced the receiver and turned to greet her. “Pamela, I wondered how long it would be till you turned up.”
He made a vague gesture toward the rest of the newsroom. “We’ve been taking bets on it, as a matter of fact. If you’d waited another two hours, I’d be eighty bucks richer.”
Pamela laughed. “It’s your own fault, Mike. You should have known better after all the times we’ve worked together.”
And he should have, she thought, studying him carefully. If not from personal experience, at least from her legendary reputation within ACN.
Anyone who bet on Pamela Drake being late to the fight was sorely misguided.
The years had been harder on Mike than they had on her, she was pleased to note. Deep furrows creased his forehead, and the curly dark hair was streaked with gray in an oddly puzzling pattern: random patches of white frost in between stretches of glossy dark hair, giving him a harlequin look.
It would be a mistake to let that mislead you, though, she thought.
His eyes were the same sharp, peculiar shade of light brown, piercing and knowing. He smiled, revealing perfectly formed teeth slightly stained with nicotine.
The ACN Istanbul office, while fully staffed, was a small operation.
There were five reporters, a handful of multitalented technicians, and Mike. He was double-hatted as both the bureau chief and the producer, overseeing all aspects of the operations in the area.
“How can we help you?” he queried, holding out his hand. “Always delighted to have you grace us with your presence, of course.”