The car ahead of him moved forward several feet. Tombstone pulled the gearshift back to Drive and closed the gap between them. Traffic stopped again. He sighed and reset the parking brake. No sense in wasting time.
He reached across the well-cared-for vinyl seat and drew a small notebook out of his briefcase. “At least some skills you learn as an aviator come in useful later,” he remarked aloud, more to keep himself company than for any other reason. “Keep up the scanthat’s the first rule.”
He positioned the legal pad on his lap and began making notes, shifting his gaze between the paper and the traffic ahead.
Thirty minutes later, following a check of his ID card by the Marine guard, Tombstone pulled into his designated parking spot near the main entrance to the Pentagon. At the entrance, he went through another ID check line, which included a check of his briefcase. The Marine Corps guard was polite, formal, but doggedly thorough.
When he finally reached his temporary office, it was almost 0500. The rabbit warren of temporary offices and cubicles that comprised the floating working staff of the Chief of Naval Operations was already lit, with at least half of the spaces occupied.
Tombstone parked his briefcase in the private office he’d been assigned for the duration of his temporary duty, and headed for the Chief of Staff’s office. Not surprisingly, the captain was already in.
“Morning, sir,” the Chief of Staff said. Tombstone noted he already looked drawn and haggard. How long would it be before he looked the same way himself?
Not long, he suspected. Along with every other officer assigned to the Pentagon, Tombstone would be living at his desk or in the command center until this crisis was resolved.
And as for Tomboyher recall to her squadron had come only moments after his own notification of the incident in the Aegean Sea. Her flight back to Pax River would leave at 0700. Any chance they’d had of stealing some time away from their busy careers for each other had vanished as quickly as that unknown contact had blipped onto La Salle’s radar.
“Is he in?” Tombstone asked, gesturing toward the Chief of Naval Operations’ office after acknowledging the Chief of Staff’s greeting.
The Chief of Staff nodded. “He just got back from the JCS briefing. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Tombstone paused outside the paneled door, wondering how many other nephews in the world had to be announced in to see their favorite uncles.
Not many. But then again, not many uncles were Chief of Naval Operations, one of the most powerful positions inside the Pentagon.
The captain replaced the telephone receiver and gestured toward the door. “He’s got a few minutes, Admiral.”
A small frown crossed his face.
“I need him back in ten, if that’s convenient for you.”
“Having trouble keeping him on schedule?” Tombstone asked.
The Chief of Staff shrugged. “Well, he’s been better than most, but you know how it isany problems that reach his desk are tough ones. In the last six months he’s been here, he’s never had to make one single easy decision. And now…”
Tombstone nodded. “And now it just got tougher. I’ll do what I can, Captain.”
Tombstone turned the knob on the heavy door, tapped lightly, and shoved it open. He took one step into the room and waited for his uncle’s greeting.
“Stoney,” Admiral Thomas Magruder said. “Come on in.”
He gestured at the piles of ubiquitous red folders already crowding the edge of the credenza. “I was looking for you. Come on, have a seat.”
He pointed at the leather chair positioned in front of the desk.
“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”
The CNO grimaced. “You can tell me why the hell the Turks took a shot at us, for starters. And after that, explain the theory of general relativity, the quantum physics in a black hole, and what the hell it is that women really want from us. Is that enough for starters?”
His uncle’s wry, self-deprecating voice coupled with his self-assured gestures touched something ancient in Tombstone. It was a feeling of deja vu, as though he
Of course. His father. Tombstone’s father, like most of the Magruder men, a Navy pilot.
Tombstone stirred uneasily in his chair, uncomfortable with the memories that came flooding back. He’d been young, so young, the last time he’d seen his father. Could he even have comprehended at that age that it would be the last time?
Military service was more than a career choice for a Magruder. It was a way of life, the hard lessons and dangers that came with it the backbone of their family traditions. His grandfather had served on Nimitz’s staff during World War II. His great-great-grandfather had commanded one of Farragut’s monitors at Mobile Bay. His father and the man sitting behind the massive desk had continued the tradition, both attending the Naval Academy. They’d both been fast-trackedboth, at least, until his father had been shot down above the Doumer Bridge in downtown Hanoi in the summer of 1969. Sam Magruder had finally been listed as killed in action, and the family had long since given up hope that he was still alive.
“I’m relieving Sixth Fleet,” the CNO said bluntly, interrupting his nephew’s reverie. He fixed Tombstone with that somber, unreadable stare that all of the Magruder men possessed. His slate-gray eyes, a shade lighter than Tombstone’s, revealed no trace of emotion.
“Loss of confidence?” Tombstone asked, referring to the standard Navy reason for relieving officers of command absent cause for disciplinary action.
“Yes. The early reports indicate he damn near pulled a Stark,” the senior admiral said.
Stark. One of the most critical failures of naval leadership in the last several decades. Coupled with the USS Vincennes shoot-down of an Iranian airbus, the two incidents neatly book-ended the delicate line a commander was required to walk between caution and recklessness.
In the case of the Stark, an Iranian P3 Charlie in an overflight had approached the vast frigate in a threatening posture. The Stark’s TAO had treated it as a routine mission, relying on their past experience with Iranian maritime patrols. The captain, in fact, had been in the head during the actual first attack on Stark.
Closing to within tactical range, the Iranian P3 had fired an antiship missile at the USS Stark. With the close-in weapons systems masked by her aspect to the attack, the Stark hadn’t had a chance. The missile had plowed into the ship’s midsection. The resulting explosion had killed a number of men, and the Stark herself had managed to stay afloat only through the superb professionalism and damage control of the remainder of her crew.
“How bad is La Salle?” Tombstone asked. “The EMP is something we’ve been worried about for a long time. Were there any personnel casualties?”
The CNO sighed. “It’s bad. Real bad, I suspect. Every bit of electronic circuitry on the ship is fried. She’s underwayjust barelyen route to Gaeta for full damage assessment.”
He shook his head gravely.
“We’re looking at a full refit of all combat systems, of every bit of twidget equipment on board La Salle. Fortunately, Shiloh’s EMP hardening worked like it was supposed to, and Jefferson was out of range. We’ve got fifty-one sailors with either complete or partial loss of vision from the nuke flash. Which brings us to the critical questionwhy?”
“It makes no sense whatsoever, sir,” Tombstone said immediately.
“Turkey is an allyan uneasy one at times, perhaps, especially since the fundamentalist Islamic forces began dominating her politics. They’ve always been hard to figure outa primarily Muslim country that elects a female, Tansu Ciller, as Prime Minister. As a practical matter, they’re heavily dependent on the foreign aid we provide, both militarily and in the civilian population. Aside from our disagreement with them over the Kurdsand we’ve been damned weak-spined about thatwe tend to see eye to eye on things. It just doesn’t make any sense.”