GOOD-BYE TO RUSSIA

By

Alan J. Donnan

1995

DEDICATION

      Dedicated to Rocio, you were the one that broke through all my barriers and let me know what true love could be like.  You will always be my inspiration, my vision, and my dream.  My broken heart has healed, but without pain in life we cannot grow.  You gave me the ability to look at life in a new way and find the first true love in my life. Lucile and Courtney you have been a wonderful supporters and a great asset as daughters. Thanks to all of you!

Acknowledgements

         I could never have made this with the realism without the education from the US Navy.  To the pilots and flight crews in HS-85, many of you were inspirations for the characters I've created.  To my former associates from FIRSTPAC 1287 and 1187, the job that we did was always to perfection.  The times for fun the best.  There are a number of you that I will never forget, will never want to forget.  To the students that I had in "the school," keep the faith and strive for the level of perfection I know that each of you can achieve.

        Alex and Sue with out your help, the realism of the Soviet people could never have been achieved.  Your friendship is very important and your input much appreciated.

 CHAPTER 1

       It was a beautiful day by any standards, the sun was burned gold against a late afternoon crystal blue sky.  A pair of the Navy's premiere all-weather interceptor fighters, the F- 14, seemed to float over cotton-ball clouds with amazing agility.  Inside their cockpits, the crews were clad in olive drab flight suits smattered with numerous brightly colored patches and helmets of bright white with large black spade insignias on either side, the symbol of the Flying Aces, VF-41, off of the USS Lincoln.  It was impossible to see the faces of the crew, because they had their noses and mouths covered by their oxygen masks and the dark blast shields pulled down against the bright sun hid the rest of their face.

      Alan looked out the side of the canopy of his fighter and could see vapor trailing from the end of the wing.  It all seemed like a dream, one sorely missed during the few years he had been assigned to an intelligence command.  But now, he was back in the front seat of an F-14 and had his RIO, Jack, behind him.  RIOs, Radio Intercept Officers, are not pilots and have no physical control over the aircraft itself only the weapon systems and radios.  Alan looked over to his right, where a second fighter was holding position just off of and just slightly behind, his wing with the sun glistening off of the sides of the twin rudders.

      Alan moved the stick to the left and pushed the nose over.  The second fighter followed him and, as they began their descent they accelerated and as their wings folded back, they became like a pair of triangular darts cutting effortlessly through the air while still managing to maintain the only a minor separation between the fighters.  Alan knew that it would not be much longer before the anti aircraft sites on the ground would start to pick them up and begin tracking them.  For the last few weeks this had become a common-place drill, although he was unsure that anyone down there was really bold enough to come up and take them on.

      "Home base, this is one-one-six," Jack started to report in.  "Feet dry."

      "One-one-six, home base.  Copy you're feet dry.  Good hunting gentlemen."  The communications between the fighters and the ship would end now that they were "feet dry," flying in the airspace over the land. 

      "Come right to zero-four-zero, Dancer," Jack instructed,  "drop to twenty-six hundred feet and let's get down under their high-altitude radar."

      "I don't get all this cat-and-mouse garbage, J.W.," Alan grumbled.  "The A-6's should just come in and take out the triple 'A' sites.  This letting them turn on and act like they are going to shoot, is really getting to me."

      "So I hear.  According to the intelligence guys, we don't know for sure that the dips down there even have anything to shoot with.  And until we do, we can't do a blessed thing."

      Alan thought about the irony of it all.  He was flying over the boarder between Turkey and northern Iraq hoping that some idiot on the ground would turn on an anti aircraft missile tracking site, then send up a missile.  All that just so they could have an excuse to take out the sites.  But, he also knew that the majority of the missile sites were Russian built mobile ones.  So they could fire at the fighters and be long gone before the bombers got in.  However, all that had happened over the last few days was the ground sites tracking the fighters and the tracking sites, which were also mobile, were seldom near any missile launchers.  It was not even clear if the missile launchers had anything in them other than maybe some cobwebs.  The ground sites had only gone to a radar lock on a couple of flights.  That was, in and by itself, not considered hostile, so the pilots had to keep flying over the area trying to taunt the ground crews into firing.

      Alan had a colorful military background.  Right after high school he had joined the Army military police corps.  After five years of being all that he could be, he re-enlisted in the Navy as an aviation ordinance man.  Hiss diligent work earned considerable admiration from not only his superiors but his coworkers.  May of his fellow enlisted looked to him for guidance as well as leadership, it was then that he was asked if he had ever considered a commission.  He gave it a lot of serious thought and when he indicated that he wanted to be an officer, arrangements for him to attend ship-board college classes were made.  When he had completed sixty seven units, he was given a review board, which he passed with high recommendations and soon found himself in Officer Candidates School.  His first assignment was in a Naval reserve unit allowing him to finish his degree, fulfilling all of his requirements for his commission.  As he started studying the different classes, he found biology the most interesting.  Soon he had declared his major as  marine biology, with an emphasis on sharks.  He finished his college degree at the College of William and Mary's extension campus, the Virginia Institute of Marine Science.

      After he had received his permanent commission, he was recommended for and assigned to the flight program.  He finished the program and proudly wore his gold wings, even after the unfortunate accident that injured his arm to such a degree that resulted in being taken off flight status.  He had worked in intelligence gathering and photo interpretation and his background gave him a real knowledge of airborne weapon systems.  The Navy doctors gave him permission to return to flight status about twenty months later, only six months ago.

      Alan had requested a return to fleet because he liked to fly and he liked the challenge.  The tour in intelligence was a desk job that had nearly had him ready to climb the walls.  Now that he was back where he felt that he belonged, in the cockpit of a fighter, he was able to give more than a hundred percent to his job.  He gave so much to his job that the woman with whom he had been involved had left him.  It was one of those relationships where they had too much in common.  Both were Navy pilots, both had the same friends, and both liked most of the same things.  In reality they had so much in common, they had started getting on each other's nerves.  The final straw came when she had given the hint that she thought it was time for marriage.  Alan was not going to have any part of that, and had walked out on her.  He was just not ready, and didn't feel that she was really the right one.  Besides, a relationship like that could have had serious affects on his job performance.

      He was shaken back to the reality of the present when the threat indicator panel lit up and the annoying tone started chirping through the cabin.  Alan scanned his panels and checked off the various systems.  The threat panel showed that the radar that was tracking them was locking on from the rear, the instruments showed him on a nearly perfect due east heading.  He responded by bringing the nose up slightly and pushed the throttle forward.  The fighter reacted instantly and did his bidding as it accelerated and passed through 5,000 feet.

      "Here we go again," Jack said with a board sigh as he stretched and settled into his seat to do his job of setting up the electronic counter measures and jamming systems.  He did not move as if he took the threat seriously because there had been no real reason to show any concern.

      Jack was a strange sort, he did not have any trouble befriending someone, but he had always found people that were to his standards to befriend.  He had his degree in library science, literally a Liberian, but that was about all anyone ever found out about him.  He was of Scottish descent and found time to go to Scottish dances in his kilt.  His reddish hair was off set by his hazel green eyes and matched perfectly with his normally soft spoken demeanor.  Alan had been pretty much his only friend for the last several years, a situation that he would not change if he had to.

      "J.W.," Brian's voice came over the radio.  "We're getting a threat from the rear."

      "Same here.  Just give them something to follow with their low-level stuff.  That's what the rules for this game."

      As he settled into the now all too common-place drill of baiting the radar, Alan thought about all of the unusual missions they had been pulling of late.  Using fighters, not bombers, in low level baiting tactics was not only uncommon, but highly unusual.  Not to mention that sending out the "bait" aircraft with only the seasoned combat pilots and without Shrike air-to-ground anti-radar missiles.  All of this began following the arrival of two men who were identified only as efficiency experts.  Alan was having other suspicions as to their true identities.

      "J.W.," Alan started slowly.  "Did you see those guys in the suits and ties talking with the CAG and the skipper?"

      "Yeah.  What about them?"

      "Did they look like DOD efficiency experts to you?"

      "Not really.  No."  Jack responded after giving the question a moment's thought.

      "They looked more like government agents to me.  CIA Maybe?"

      "CIA!  What the hell would they be doing out here?"

      "I don't know.  But, we're taking a lot more chances with some pretty bizarre missions since their arrival."

      Jack was contemplating Alan's analysis when the tone warning that a missile was tracking them pierced the cabin.  He turned and looked out the back of the canopy, taking only a couple of seconds to locate the smoke trails of anti-aircraft missiles heading their way.  He turned around and looked at his panel.  The radar confirmed the tracks of incoming weapons.

      "Well," Jack began as he started throwing switches and studying the radar tracks, "this is certainly a new development."

      "And to think all I wanted to do was just fly around with nothing else to do today," Alan muttered.

      "Hawkeye one-one, this is Tomcat one-six.  We have a ground launch.  We are completely defensive."

      "Copy one-six.  We are tracking your inbounds."

      "What are they sending up, J.W.?" Alan asked.

      "A pair of medium-range tracks.  We should be able to chaff and out-run them."

      As the two missiles closed on the fighter, Alan pressed the button on the left control handle and fired a couple of chaff charges, charges designed to fool the missile's tracking systems.  They give the missile a second heat signature, somewhat hotter than the aircraft's engines, to follow while the aircraft lowers its heat signature and sneaks away.  A second after the chaff was fired, Alan cut the throttles a little and moved the stick back and to the left.  His plane responded to his commands instantly.  As Jack watched the missiles on the radar, one of them exploded far short of the chaff; he turned to watch out the back and when the second missile reached the chaff it, too, exploded.

      The cabin was now quiet and the threat panel cleared.  Alan took a deep breath, pushed the throttles forward and returned to his original heading. 

      "Did we get a location on that fire base?"  Alan asked Jack.

      "That we did."  As Jack looked around he noticed that their wing man was missing.  He looked at the radar, and saw that Brian was out of position.  "Bee, you're way out of position.  Are you having a problem?"

      "Nope," Brian responded.  "When I saw that you had attracted ground fire, I just wanted to stay clear.  That lets me cover you in case the bad guys sent up a fighter."

      "Sounds like you picked up some good habits driving Jinx around," Alan observed.  "Now, let's get the hell out of here before they get serious about things."

      "I've got your lead," Brian reported as he pulled up beside Alan's Tomcat.

      Alan thought about the type of weapon systems that could have just been used against them.  Most of the systems were the mobile Soviet systems, but some were Chinese and could also be moved , just not as easily.  Then he shook his head slightly.

      "You know, J.W., that fire base will be vacant by the time the bombers get there."

      "Probably.  But, if they get there fast enough maybe they can catch them packing up.  I have the bombers inbound on the long range radar now, so they could be over the site in the next few minutes."

      "Let's get out of here then and let them clean up." 

      The pair of fighters turned to nearly a ninety degree bank and headed back to their ship.  As they left the airspace near Iraq they passed another pair of Tomcats heading into the target zone followed by a couple  of A-6's.  Alan waited for a moment then keyed his microphone.

      "They tried shooting me in the back.  Feed them a snake-eye for me."

      "I think we can handle that, Dancer," one of the A-6 crews answered.

      Alan felt that he was in a rut, with the notable exception of the recent event, flying around playing bait to provide the bombers with a target.  Then there were his suspicions about the civilians on board the ship.  The skipper was not one to allow the men in his command to be jeopardized.  It added to the confusion that the fighters were only bait, and the missiles that the bombers were using on the ground sites seemed ineffectual, at least in the practice runs.

      His mind wondered even further back, to several weeks ago when Phyllis and he had a terrible argument that resulted in their break up.  He wondered if getting married would have really been all that bad.  It wasn't that there was anything wrong with Phyllis, in fact she was an extraordinary woman that most men would have done anything to be married to.  Many of the other guys in his squadron thought he needed psychiatric help for not jumping at the opportunity.  He shook his head in slight irritation with himself.  Why did his mind seem to go so many directions at the same time?  Alan found this particular trait of his irritating.

      Jack sat behind Alan and listened to the unusual silence.  As long as he had known Alan, it seemed that his mouth moved in unison with his airplane.  He figured that the break-up with Phyllis was still bothering Alan, and knew better than to bring up the subject.  On the other hand, he knew that he needed to get his mind back in the cockpit.  Suddenly something on the radar screen caught his eye.  He had it set up on long range, and a blip had made its appearance on the edge of the screen.  He pressed the button that was labeled IDNT, this read the transponder code from the other aircraft and determined if it was friendly or hostile.  The system worked very well, provided that every one had the right codes and had the units on.  The screen came back with a "NO REPLY" message, this indicated the possibility of a hostile fighter.

      "Dancer," Jack spoke with concern

      "Yeah?"

      "I got an inbound."

      "Where?"

      "At our six-o'clock, about seventy-five miles out."

      "Is it one of ours?"

      "I'll have to check with the Hawkeye, but I'm getting a no reply off of the transponder.  Hawkeye one-one, this is Tomcat one-one-six."

      "What's up J.W.?" a voice answered back.

      "I'm picking up a trailer.  We have anything following us out?"

      "I don't believe so.  Stand by for a minute."

      As they flew on their course, Jack watched as the track continued to close the distance.  He could sense that Alan was back to normal,  because he heard him checking all of the fire control circuits.  He was preparing for battle.  Maybe this was what he needed to get back to normal.

      "I wish that putz would just lock on," Alan said over the intercom.    "I'm ready for a gun fight."

      "Bee," Jack began as he keyed his microphone button, smiling a little as he felt Alan return to himself.

      "What's up J.W.?"  Bee asked.

      "We have a trailer closing in," Jack explained.  "If you see us start a split S, give us a little room, then follow us through."

      "Aye, aye, sir!"  Brian's excitement was obvious.  He longed for combat, and had with him one of the best teachers in the sky's crazy classroom.

      "One-one-six, this is Hawkeye one-one." The long wait for a response was over.

      "This is one-six," Jack answered.

      "You are cleared to challenge and identify your trailer," the voice reported.

      "All right!" Alan grinned as he fastened his oxygen mask over his mouth.

      "Just keep Dancer under control.  Do NOT engage unless fired upon," the Hawkeye cautioned.  "You are cleared to arm your weapons."

      "Oh, man, those guys just don't want me to have any fun.  Where is he?"

      "Still at our six, two thousand feet below us and closing."

      "Let's get nasty," Alan said as he rolled his fighter upside down and started his split S maneuver.  The split S, a maneuver with a history as long as air combat, starts with an aileron roll, with the plane literally turned upside down.  This causes the lift characteristics of the wing to actually pull the aircraft toward the ground.  As the plane starts downward, the throttles are cut slightly, and the nose is aimed at the ground.  After a free fall of about two thousand feet, the nose is pulled up and the plane is now heading in the opposite direction.  The split S completed, the trailer finds itself straight ahead, and must break either left or right to keep the fighter from getting a head-on weapons lock.

      As Alan leveled out and headed at his opponent, he saw Brian level off and close in tight on his right.  He could see a glint of sunlight reflect off of the other plane as he pushed the throttles full open and the wings swung back.  Alan turned on the heads up display, and rocked his head side to side working the kink out of his neck.

      "Okay, asshole,"  Alan thought aloud to the other pilot, "show me what you're made of."  He aimed his fighter straight at the other plane;  suddenly, the threat-warning panel lit up and the other plane broke up and to Alan's left.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brian break up and right and began to count to himself.  This was one maneuver that drove Jack completely nuts.  When he got to three, Alan rolled the plane to the right, fired the chaff and hit the afterburners.  The fighter rocketed away from the missile that had been fired at him as it exploded harmlessly when it reached the chaff.

      "Where's that SOB?" Alan growled.

      "High at the eight-O'clock," Jack answered as he prepared his controls to track and lock on the aggressor.  " Home base, this is one-one-six.  We have received incoming fire!"  He felt the fighter jerk around to the left and start to climb.  The afterburners shut down and the wings moved forward slightly as they readied for combat.

      "Roger one-six.  You are cleared to fire."

      "That is certainly an intelligent decision.  I've got him," Alan said over the intercom.  "He's at my eleven, climbing and crossing to the right.  Where's Bee?"

      "He's at your five and holding," Jack reported.  "I've got a pre-lock track on the bandit.  You'll be ready for engagement in three seconds."

      "Come to papa," Alan invited, maneuvering his plane in behind the other, which he now identified as a MiG-29 Fulcrum.  The plane is very similar to the American F-18 Hornet, with different markings.  Looking through the heads up display, Alan could see the automated weapons system start to move the green cursor towards the MiG.  Once the cursor was locked on the MiG all that had to happen was to center the cursor in the middle of a circle in the heads up.  This would lock the weapons computer on the target.  The MiG pilot was not as experienced in evasion maneuvers as he was and was making an unsuccessful attempt to out maneuver the more agile F-14.  As the radar's tracking tone started to beep in Alan's head set, he maneuvered his plane so that the computer could get a lock on his prey.

      "I've got tone," Alan reported in a controlled voice.  "Come on baby, lock up on th ..."  The tone went solid and the green circle turned red.  "I have lock!"  Alan reported.  "Missile away!"  As he watched the Sidewinder missile begin the chase.  The unfortunate MiG made a violent roll to the left.  It was all for naught, as the weapon struck the right engine and exploded.  "We have a hit!" Alan announced proudly.  A second later the pilot of the mortally wounded aircraft ejected.  "Pilot's out.  Call it in, J.W."

      "Home base, this is Tomcat one-one-six," Jack called the carrier.

      "Go ahead one-six," a voice answered back.

      "We have a clean shoot down," Jack reported.  "A MiG twenty-nine,  we didn't get close enough to get an ID for markings.  The crew ejected."

      "Roger," the voice responded.  "We'll send a helo out to pick him up.  Return to base."

      "Roger," Jack answered.  "We're out of here."  Alan was already making an easy turn that would put them back on the heading to the ship.  "Nice job, Dancer," he said over the intercom.  "I just don't like the way you escaped that missile."

      "It's just what they always say, you've got to know when to flinch,"  Alan explained, smiling as he released his mask and let in dangle from one side of his helmet.  "The closer the missile is when you break, the less distance it has to make its correction and pick us up."

      "Whatever you say, Dancer," Jack said as he shook his head.  "Take heading two-six-five for home."

      "That was incredible," Brian exclaimed.

      "Just another day at the office," Alan responded.  "Let's close it up and take it in."

      "Aye, aye, sir," Brian answered as he maneuvered his Tomcat in close to the right wing of Alan's fighter.

       Captain Morhardt was standing in the CVIC, the electronic heart of the carrier, where he had been listening to the battle.  He turned toward the two men standing behind him dressed in civilian clothes and smiled.  He was feeling a little better, not that he had any doubts about Alan's abilities, or the outcome of the battle from the onset, he just did not like having his men jeopardized.

      "Well," he began softly.  "Your plan didn't quite work.  All you did was give Dancer his sixth kill.  You guys are real good."  The sarcasm was clear.  "Now that you have proven you couldn't plan the robbery of a piggy bank, can we cease with these cloak and dagger games.  I don't like my crews being placed in danger, not to mention I have a ship to run."

      "They were just lucky," one of the men responded.

      "Lucky!" the captain exploded, getting every one in the CVIC to look over at the trio then try to not hear what was going on.  "If that creep had gotten close enough to shoot without being caught, that would have been a miracle.  One of the best combat pilots in the world is up there.  Letting one of them get shot down in a set up is unacceptable.  I don't know what the rules of this game is that your playing, in fact I'm not totally convinced that you two know what the hell your doing, but I think we've seen enough!"

      "It is in the best interests of national security that we finish what was started in Desert Storm," the man continued.  "But, it is not politically correct at the present time, under the present conditions."

      "So what does that have to do with these idiotic missions?"

      "The American public needs a rallying point," the other man began.  "In World War two it was Pearl Harbor, before that the Maine and the Alamo."

      "You people are truly sick," Morhardt said shaking his head.  "If you want someone to play the pawn, the least you could do is tell them why they're sticking their necks out."

      "I don't see how that could be beneficial.  We'll have to try again later."

      "What?" Morhardt erupted again.  "Enough is enough.  I'm calling Washington and see if I can get you two off my ship."  Morhardt stood there with his arms crossed and glared disapprovingly at the two men.  "You are dismissed!"  That was the captain's way of tell the two to get out of his sight.  The two exchanged looks then left the CVIC.  Morhardt turned and walked over to the radio phone panel.

      "Not a good situation,"  the petty officer at the panel commented to the captain. 

      "No, not at all," Morhardt responded.  "Hook me up with fleet.  Let's see if we can pull the plug on their games and get those two back to their office.  They'll be less likely to cause any real damage there."

      "Aye, Sir."

      "Skipper," a lieutenant called to get Morhardt's attention.  When the captain looked over at him he continued his report.  "The Tomcats are at the outer marker, and on final."  Morhardt nodded acknowledgement.

      "Scott," Morhardt addressed the petty officer.  "When you get through, patch it up to the con.  I want to get back up there."

      "Aye, sir."

      Morhardt walked out of the room and toward the control area of the ship.  His tall frame was just slight out of shape in some areas from the years of nervous eating.  His walk and general personality fit his quiet distinguished air.  He hated dealing with the suit and tie government types.  His hazel eyes reflected his concern for the men in his command and the slight touch of gray from the stress he held deep within.  He took his duties and responsibilities very seriously, and anything that happened to his crew he took personally.  When the two CIA men had arrived and handed him orders that told him to cooperate with their "project", it worried Morhardt.  When he arrived on the bridge he was still trying to calm down.

      "Captain,"  the officer of the deck addressed Morhardt, "Boss on three for you."

      "Thank you," the Captain replied as he pulled the handset to his ear.  "What's up Harry?"

      "Dancer's on final.  I thought you might want to know."

      "Thank you."

      Alan was going through his landing drills.  It was all second nature for him; he no longer needed to look at the check list, but they were there none-the-less.  He had scored highly on all of the performance tests when he came back from his shore duty assignment.  In some was it felt almost as if he had never been out of the pilot's seat yet, it had been far too long for him.  As he lined up on the deck he took a deep breath as he focused on the landing approach lights on the left rear of the flight deck.

      "One-one-six," the landing officer began, "we have you three miles out and on slope.  Call the ball at three-quarter mile."

      "One-six, roger," Alan responded.  Calling the "ball" simply meant the pilot could make out the landing lights and was going to make an attempt to land.  He rocked his fighter back and forth getting into the rhythm that the ship and the ocean had put together so as to maintain the alignment.

      "One-six," the LSO's voice came over the radio, "you're looking good.  On slope - in the grove ...  Power ...  Power."

      Alan followed all of the directions that the landing officer, known as the LSO, instantly and without thought as they came through his head set.  It was necessary to do so in order to survive a landing.  The LSO could see the approaching aircraft, as well as having information from the tower and radar center that were important to the landing. 

      "One-six, the LSO said in his even almost mechanical voice, "at three -quarter mile."

      "One-six calling the ball," Alan replied.

      "Roger ball."

      Moments later his fighter came to a bone crunching, roaring stop on the flight deck.  He pulled the throttles back to a near idle, raised the tail hook, and pushed the right pedal to the floor.  Moving the throttles slightly forward, the plane began to move and he taxied off to the staging area.  He was guided to a stop by a ground crewman and raised the canopy, the sound of Brian's approaching aircraft gained his attention so he watched the landing.  After Brian's fighter came to a stop on the deck, Alan went back to shutting down all of the systems on his plane.

      "Sir," a chief called up to Alan.

      "Yes, Chief."

      "CAG wants you in the PRI-FLY, like now, Sir."

      "Thanks, Chief I'm on my way."

      "By the way, sir.  Congratulations on number six."

      Alan nodded in response to the chief, smiled, then hastened his departure from the cockpit and quickly made his way to the primary flight operations room, or PRI-FLY, and to the CAG, commander air group.

      "You wanted to see me, CAG?"

      "I do,"  the CAG motioned for Alan to follow him out of the room.  "Dancer, I have to send a pilot on a mission that's very dangerous.  As you know, I don't like keeping anyone in the dark, but in this particular situation I don't have a choice.  I can not tell you to go, I am going to ask you to go.  If there is any chance of pulling it off you are the only one, other than maybe the Rainmaker, that can."

      Alan looked at his commander with a look of surprise.  There were a hundred questions, but he held back.  He knew that if the CAG was grouping him with Rain, he probably did not want to know the answers, yet.

      "You need a volunteer, and that's basically the bottom line, right?" Alan quarried.

      "That's right."

      "This is against my better judgment, but you got it."

      "The TARPS  bird will be on the deck in thirty minutes,  you are the driver.  The back seat will fill you in on the mission profile once you are in the air."

      "J.W.'s not my back seat?"  The term back seat was one of the slang terms for the RIO's, not one that many of them particularly liked.

      "Not on this mission.  That's one reason I feel better with you at the controls."

      "Yes, Sir."  Alan watched as the CAG headed back to PRI-FLY.  "Can I swap the TARPS for my bird?"

      "Not this time."

       There was something uneasy about the lack of information as well as the CAG's unusual actions.  The CAG stopped as he began opening the door and looked at Alan who was still standing in the middle of the passageway.

      "Good luck, Dancer," the CAG began, "keep your eyes open and watch your back."

      Alan was now even more puzzled.  What in God's name was that supposed to mean?  Alan was still standing there trying to put the pieces together when Jack walked up behind him.

      "Hey partner," Jack started, "have you talked with CAG yet?"

      "Yeah, sort of anyway."

      "What is that supposed to mean?" Jack gave Alan a strange look.

      "He wants me to fly another sortie in thirty minutes.  In the TARPS."

      "So?"

      "I'm not sure.  But, I'm beginning to think that I'm not going to like the flight plan."

      "Why's that?  Where are we going this time?"

      "We aren't.  He didn't say it but I think one of the 'suits' is riding in the back seat."

      Jack looked at Alan with a look of near total surprise.  He could not think of one thing to say that could have been less out of the blue.

      "Are you sure?"

      "No.  It's just a gut feeling.  Let's hit the mess hall.  If I have to spend time in the air with that TARPS bird, I need a sugar fix, or maybe some junk food."  The pair turned and headed down the passageway to the dinning hall. 

      "Skipper," a Lieutenant reported to Morhardt, "Fleet on button two, Sir."

      Without a word Phil pulled the handset to his ear and pushed the button.

      "Admiral, this is Captain Morhardt, Sir."

      "What is it, Phil?"

      "I can't abide the risks that my crews are having to take because of these two 'visitors'.  Can we close the book on these games and ship this pair of ... men home?"

      There was a pause, this made Phil nervous.  When fleet officers do not answer a question quickly, it usually means that no matter what else was a logical choice that change was not an option.

      "Phil," the Admiral's voice was filled with understanding.  "No.  Not yet."

      "Sir... they're trying ..."

      "Captain," the admiral cut him short, "I know what they are doing.  Like it or not, they have three more days.  At thirty seconds past midnight on Thursday, you may .... Expedite their departure in any manner that you see fit.  Until that time, cooperate!  And, Phil?"

      "Sir?"

      "It pains me to add this, but that is an order."

      "Aye, aye, Sir." Phil hung up the handset and looked at the floor in frustration.  The movement on the flight deck caught his attention.  Phil watched as Alan walked over to the TARPS plane.  The TARPS plane is an F-14 fighter that has been modified to have a camera pod mounted to the left rear belly section of the body of the plane.  The pod is very heavy and results in an extremely slow and ill handling fighter.  Phil watched as Alan began pre-fighting the plane, and was obviously going to be flying the mission.  Phil pulled the intercom handset to his ear and pushed a button.

      "Harry," Phil addressed the Air Boss, "what the hell is Dancer doing on the TARPS?"

      "He's going to be flying the photo recon mission."

      "Who's flying escort?"

      There was a long pause.  Silence that let Phil know that it was going to be yet another answer that he was not going to like.

      "Well?"

      "There is no escort, Sir."

      "Is this another CIA brain storm?"

      "Yes, Sir.  In fact one of the suits is riding back seat for Dancer."

      "That makes me a little more comfortable," Phil sneered with sarcasm.  "Is the suit checked out on flying in the back seat?"

      "According to his records, he has simulator qualifications."

      "That's just Jesus H. great.  Well, at least Dancer is driving."  As he hung up the hand set, he watched Alan check out the plane.  Soon the pilot was joined by one of the CIA agents in a flight suit.  Phil could detect the lack of trust he held for his temporary back seat.  He motioned to the cockpit and the agent hesitated for a moment then climbed into the rear seat in the cockpit.  Phil could only imagine the conversation between the two, figuring that his flight officer had probably already figured out some of what was going on.

       After Alan finished the pre-flight he climbed into the pilot's seat, and began the engine start-ups.  As the time for launch approached, he started to get a really weird feeling.  He looked up to the island and saw the Captain and the pair exchanged salutes. 

      Alan moved the throttles forward slightly and the aircraft moved slowly ahead to the catapult.  The ground crew guided him with hand signals and in several moments he was being locked into the blocks of the cats.  He stared straight ahead at the glow of the sun that was slipping behind the ocean.  The feeling that something was wrong was eating at him, he was unsure what was driving it or what it meant. 

      The deck officer's movement on the deck caught Alan's attention.  It was time to put the feelings behind him and get to work.  He drew a deep breath and rocked his head from side to side, then looked over to the deck crew and gave a "thumbs up" sign.  A signal that he was ready to proceed with the launch sequence and to get in the air.  The deck officer checked off each of the ground crew members as they completed their assigned duties to prepare the fighter for the launch.  As each member completed his particular task he would raise his hands above his head so that the officer could see that he was done.  When the officer acknowledged him, he would run off to a safe area to wait for the launch. 

      After the last crewman had cleared the area, the officer pointed two fingers in the air, sort of like a narrow peace sign.  This was the signal that Alan was supposed to get ready to turn the engines up.  The deck officer started bouncing his fingers, almost like he was keeping time to some music that only he could hear.  Alan started moving the throttles forward as he watched the fingers, he could feel the power of the engines as they gained thrust.  As the throttles hit their full position, referred to by the pilots as full military, the vibrations of the engines and creaking of the parts was testimony to the amount of power that was laying in wait.  Finally the deck officer held up an open palm to Alan, the sign to light off the afterburners.  The next instant a tremendous explosion and jolt went through the cabin.  Alan saluted the deck officer, who returned the salute, knelt down on one knee, and tapped the deck with one hand.

      An instant later the converted Tomcat roared off the deck into the air, then banked around to head for North Iraq.  As the ship grew smaller, the feeling that Alan had became clear.  It was a feeling that he wasn't going to be coming back.  He shook the feeling off.  He was a combat pilot and such a thought could cost him his edge in a fight.  As the summer sun began to disappear behind the horizon behind him, he prepared the plane for its mission.

      "So," Alan asked the agent sitting behind him, "what is the area we are going to be flying over?"

      "The same area you were over today."

      "I got a news flash for you Slappy.  They were shooting at us today."

      "I understand that the missile fell short.  And my name is not Slappy."

      "No, I out maneuvered it.  Not that you would understand the difference.  Oh, this is my plane, so I can call you any damn thing I want."

      "Commander, I find that rather demeaning."

      "I can't take this," Alan muttered.  He shoved the stick to the left and instantly the plane was on its back and heading for the earth.  A maneuver called an inverted dive.  The sounds of the agent fighting to keep his dinner in his stomach, not letting it get up into his mask came through the intercom.  Alan smiled at the small victory he had just achieved.

      "Commander... could you ... please..."

      "I thought you were checked out on combat maneuvers.  Or was that just another smoke screen?"  Alan rolled the fighter back upright, returned to a climb and maintained the heading. 

      The coast of Turkey could be seen in the failing light and Alan maneuvered the fighter to make the first check point.  The Turkish government had granted the Navy permission for operating in their airspace.  It was a way of allowing the Navy to get close enough to the Iraq boarder to see what was going on. 

      "Home base, this is one-one-nine.  Feet dry," Alan reported.

      "Copy you are feet dry, one-nine.  Good hunting."

      After making the first check point at Iskenderun, Alan turned right slightly to a heading that would take them just south of Minor.  It would only be a few minutes at their present speed to make the target area.

      "Are we still clear?"  Alan asked the agent.

      "I think so."

      "You think?  Shit, you're going to get my ass shot off."

      "I'll get the hang of this in a couple minutes."

      "We don't have a couple minutes for you to remember what to do.  If you can't work the electronics, I'm turning ..."

      Alan was interrupted by the threat warning panel.  He quickly scanned his panel and saw that the threat was from the rear.  His radar revealed the situation, another fighter was coming up from behind and was starting to get radar lock on his fighter.  He shoved the throttles forward, and the craft responded, not quite to the level that he was accustomed, but hopefully enough to survive.

      "This isn't where they were supposed to ..."  the agent's voice trailed off.

      "What?" Alan yelled into the microphone that rested inside the oxygen mask as he pushed the lock in place that kept the mask over his face.

      "Nothing."

      "Nothing, hell.  This was another CIA set up, wasn't it?"

      There was no answer from the agent as Alan maneuvered the fighter to escape the radar lock of the incoming fighter.  The tone ended as he jerked the craft around in the air.  As the tracers from the enemy's cannons raced past the canopy, he was wishing that he had his fighter, not this sluggish reconnaissance plane. 

      "Home base, this is one-one-nine.  We are receiving hostile fire."

      There was no response from the radio.

      "Is the radio on?"

      "I think so."

      "When I get this thing on the ground, I'm going to knock you right back into your office in Washington."  Alan gritted his teeth and wanted to hit something.  This guy in the back seat was going to get both of them killed at this rate, and he couldn't let anyone know about it.  He brought the TARPS bird around and now was ready to engage the target, a target that he could not see because of the darkness but, an enemy none the less.

      "Where is he?" Alan asked.

      "I'm not sure.  I think he's back over there on the right."

      "You're clueless, besides being incompetent."  Alan looked down at the radar and saw that the other fighter was at his seven o'clock.  He banked left to engage the fighter.  "Do me a favor, for the rest of this trip just keep your mouth shut, do not touch anything else back there and don't use the word think.  You haven't learned how to do that."

      Quickly, Alan started to set up to engage the enemy fighter.  He got his machine gun ready to fire as the path of the other fighter lined up to cross in front of him.  The machine gun, called the MG-161, is actually not machine gun, but a twenty millimeter Gatling cannon.  Most pilots do not consider it a weapon of choice for several reasons, first you have to get too close to the target and debris could damage your own fighter.  Second was that with the speeds that modern fighter can reach, it is possible to get hit by your own rounds.  Finally was that, unlike the fighters of World War II,  there is a very limited amount of ammunition, so a long dogfight was out of the question.

      Alan turned on the HUD, Heads Up Display, this brought the holographic images of the targeting computer as well as vital navigational information into view as he looked ahead.  The computer was tracking the enemy aircraft as it moved from the left to the right.  The beeping tone of the tracking mode chirped in his ears,  as soon as the tone went solid the computer had a lock.  It was perfect, he pulled the trigger and followed the tracers as they made their way to the target.  Several flashes let him know that he hit the target, a glance at the radar showed a change of direction, then he looked up to see the flames from his victim.  This was not the way he wanted to engage the other fighter, but with the lack of ability of the agent, it was he only weapon he had at his disposal.

      Almost that same second, the threat panel lit up again.  This time they were ground locks.  In this fighter he could never out maneuver them as he had before.  In addition, there were multiple locks.  Simply put; there was about to be several SAM's, surface to air missiles, sent up after them.  Alan shoved the throttles forward waited a moment for the engines to build power then lit off the afterburners for maximum acceleration, pushing the fighter, even himself to the limit to escape.  He pointed the fighter north to try to out run the SAM's, and climbed.

      "Damn it!" Alan muttered.  "I thought we had this one won."

      "What are you doing?" the agent asked.

      "Trying to save our tails.  Your little plan has backfired, and those nuts on the ground are about to be shooting real missiles at us."

      "They aren't really going to send up a missile."

      "Right," Alan said very sarcastically.  "Just watch out the back for the flashes from a launch."

      The agent turned around and looked out the back of the canopy.  He felt confidant the Iraqis would hold to their agreement and not fire at the fighter.  Suddenly he saw a bright flash on the ground then a second and a third.  He swallowed hard as he watched the trails of the missiles.

      "Commander," he said softly.

      "What is it?"

      "There are three missiles coming at us."

      "What happened to your agreement?  Just tell me when the SAM's are ten seconds out."

      "How do I know that?"

      Alan knew that this is a lost cause, he had a man behind him who was completely useless as he shook his head in total disgust.  He had to get himself into the mind set that he was essentially alone in the cockpit.  He took a deep breath and concentrated on the situation.  This is why he liked having Jack behind him, Jack concentrated on the targets while he flew the plane.  He throttled up, giving the rockets a good heat signature to lock on to.  He watched the radar screen to see how close the rockets were getting to him.  He hit the chaff, throttled back and rolled the fighter to the right.  A couple of seconds later there was a pair of explosions as he threw the fighter into a left bank.  As the fighter changed turning directions, he looked at the radar, two of the rockets were gone.  The third was still closing, Alan hit the chaff again, then banked right again.  Almost instantly there was an explosion that rocked the fighter.

      There was no way of missing that something was wrong, Alan knew it.  Then the fire warning light came on and smoke filled the cabin.  He pulled the extinguisher and the chemical filled the air.  Then it struck him, the noise from behind him.  It was the wind whistling through an opening.

      "What's happening back there?" Alan asked.  But, there was only silence in response.  As he looked around the cockpit he could see that a number of the electrical circuits were dead.  He shook the fighter from side to side to check the controls.  There was something wrong, very wrong.  The plane felt very sloppy, even for a TARPS bird.

      Alan started a slow turn to the left.  As he watched his gauges he saw that the compass was not working.  He leveled out and figured that he must be heading west.  Reaching down to the radio panel, Alan flipped the frequency selector to the emergency setting.

      "Any station, any station.  This is Navy Tomcat one-one-nine, have received damage from missile.  Declaring and emergency.  Calling No joy."  No joy is used to declare an emergency, and used only in the most serious situations.  The only response was dead air.  "Damn!"  Alan yelled at the fighter.  The radio was not working.  He turned around trying to see if the agent was all right and what was happening in the back seat.  All he could see were a few sparks in the darkness.  He knew that he could not eject.  If the agent was not ready and he ejected them, it could kill the agent.  He was not fond of the idea of having the agent in his fighter, but was not about to kill him willingly, undoubtedly more than the agent would do for him.

      It was beginning to seem that the situation was not going to get worse, then the fire warning light for the left engine started flashing.  An instant later, the warning horn started sounding in Alan's helmet.  Almost immediately,  he pulled the fire lever for that engine and started the shut-down sequence.  He was almost ready to eject and hope for the best for the agent, when in the darkness he saw a set of lights down below.  As he maneuvered the sluggish fighter towards them, he could see that it was some type of ship.  He was over the ocean, he felt safe.  He was home.

      Alan decided to ditch the fighter then blow the canopy, that way the agent had the best chance.  He dropped the weapons and fuel pods, it made the fighter lighter and handle a little better.  He took a deep breath.  He had never attempted to ditch in a real fighter.  He had done it only in simulators and that was scary enough for him.  He powered back, swung the wings full forward, extended the flaps to full, brought the nose up then held his breath.

      "God, " Alan muttered to himself as he connected the clasp that held his mask in place, "I was having such a wonderful day!"

      Isomov had heard the strange howling sounds of the approaching airplane.  It had brought him out on the deck of his trawler.  It had taken him awhile to locate it, once he did, he knew that there was a lot wrong with the plane.  His daughter came out of the pilothouse and stood beside her father.  The flames trailing the plane made it very clear that it was in distress.  As it got closer to the trawler, the noise of the engines grew to an extremely irritating level. 

      Isomov reached inside the cabin and threw several switches, the water was illuminated by the bright spot lights.  He figured that the pilot was trying to ditch in the water near his ship.  It would be a lot easier to judge the landing if the pilot could clearly see where the surface was.

      Moments later the nose pointed up and shortly after that, the tail hit the water looking somewhat like a speed boat at full throttle.  The fighter slowed slightly, then came crashing to a noisy and foamy stop.  Isomov quickly got to the controls of his ship and headed for the downed fighter.

CHAPTER 2

      Isomov was a veteran of the sea, it had been the family business for many generations.  When he was barely nineteen, he had served in the Russian Navy during World War II.  After the war he had returned home and continued on with the family fishing business, which he ran after his father died.  The sun had burned into his face, the ropes of the fishing industry had calloused his hands, and the sea breezes had streaked his now thinning dark hair.  His hazel eyes focused on the sinking fighter, he reached up and turned on the flood lights and aimed one at the plane.  His five foot eleven frame was a little round in the middle from the years.  Few would guess that he was in his late sixties his age masked by his strong build and hard work.

      Julia, his daughter and sole crew member, entered the cabin and watched as her father maneuvered their trawler close to the distressed fighter.  She was beautiful, her light blue-grey eyes were the type that men could loose themselves in.  Her auburn hair was tucked up under her hat and her clothes did not reveal her nearly perfect figure.  She looked at her father with concern, he was completely absorbed in the events that they had suddenly found themselves involved in.

      As the small fishing trawler closed on the fighter, the scars of its battle could be seen.  Most of the rear portion of the canopy had been blown away and the scorched metal was testimony to the fires.  He could see no movement on the cockpit as they got to within only a few yards.

      "Could it explode?" Julia asked.

      "Possibly.  But, I would guess that the crew dropped the weapons before they ditched."  Isomov paned the spot light along the side of the fighter.  Several panels on the back of the wounded fighter near the canopy were missing and a large number of those remaining were twisted or bent with plums of black smoke oozing out from between the metal ribs that were also visibly damaged.  He saw the US flag on the one semi intact tails. 

      "My God!"  He gasped,  "It's American.  I wonder what they are doing this far out."

      There was still no sign of life from the fighter as Isomov stripped off his shirt, raced out of the cabin and dove into the dark water.  He swam the short distance to the fighter, then pulled himself along it to the side of the cockpit.  The water was filling the plane fast and Isomov knew he had to work quickly to save the crew.  At this point in time he did not care who they were, just that they needed help.  He found the red triangle, and the access panel below it.  He guessed that it must be the rescue mechanism.  He opened the panel and pulled the lever inside.  There was a loud explosion as the canopy blew free.  It startled him for a moment, he almost thought that he had blown up the entire plane.

      Isomov pulled himself into the cockpit, and looked at the two crewmen.  The man in back was obviously dead, most of his helmet was missing and was completely scorched from fire.  The man in front sat still, head and arms down and limp.  He reached down and touched Alan's neck, there was still a pulse.  The pilot must have been knocked out in the crash, he thought to himself.  He had no idea what it must be like to crash land an aircraft, let along something as large or sophisticated as a modern jet, but it must be a tremendous shock to the body.  He supposed it might not be not to unlike being hit by an automobile.

      "Throw me a line," Isomov hollered to Julia.  Several seconds later a rope found its way across the cockpit.  Isomov released the harness and tied the rope around the torso of the pilot, lifted him out of the cockpit.  He pulled the cord that inflated the life collar on the flight suit, then carefully lowered the pilot into the water.

      "Pull him over, then throw me another line!"

      With out response, Julia did as she was instructed by her father.  As she pulled Alan over to the trawler, Isomov began to remove the agent from the plane.  He was less cautious this time, for he was certain that the man was dead.  When the second line got to him the plane was nearly under water.  He quickly tied the rope to the agent's body as he lifted the limp frame out of the seat, the light from the flood lights hit the charred helmet.  Almost that same instant the odor of the burned flesh filled his nostrils.  It was almost too much for someone even as seasoned as he was to not succumb to and vomit.

      "Pull him over!"  Isomov yelled out as he slipped off of the plane and into the water.  By the time he had made it back to his ship, the fighter had slipped to a watery resting place beneath the waves.  The only reminder of its presence, a small oil slick.  He climbed up the ladder on the side of the ship and walked over to where his daughter had placed the bodies of the two Americans.  He saw that his daughter was at the railing.  He walked over to Julia and put his strong hands on her shoulders.  She looked up at him with tears in her eyes as she wiped the vomit from her lips.

      "One of them is still alive and we must tend to him, Julia,"  Isomov said in a soft and gentile voice.  "I realize that this is the first time you've seen death like this.  In the war we got used to it, but it never gets easy.  Sometimes you wish for revenge of a comrade whom you don't even know."  He looked at the body of the dead man and felt sorrow for the family of the unknown man.  "The first priority is always to tend to the living."

      Julia was sure that there was wisdom in her father's words, there always was.  Just at this time it was very hard to find.  She nodded to her father and went to care for Alan.  She bent down and stared at Alan so as not to see the hideousness of the other man's wounds.  First she played with the chrome latches on the side of the helmet until the mask came free.  She pulled it away from his face, then pushed the blast shields up. 

      Julia could see his handsome face and was glad that he was still alive.  She then worked the chin strap loose and pulled the helmet off of his head.  His reddish brown hair, cut to military regulation, was messed.  She straightened it out, then gently and carefully touched his lips and cheeks.  She felt something deep inside her stir, feelings that she could not possibly begin to explain.

      Isomov went over to the agent's body and looked for some identification.  The face of the agent was nearly gone, the helmet that had been white, was charred and black.  There was a large open wound in the throat that afforded a view to the spine.  The flight suite was darkened with blood even though it had been in the ocean.  He continued to search for ID, knowing that the military would want him to give that to the other officer.  He could not find any and that he found very unusual.  He pulled the lifeless body of the agent over to a cold storage hold and carefully lowered it in.  Isomov then went back and found Julia beside Alan gently stroking his face.  He knelt on the other side and looked at him.

      "Rather handsome man, wouldn't you say?"  Isomov commented in a teasing manner without looking at Julia.

      "Yes, father," Julia said as she snapped upright and pulled her hand away from Alan.

      Isomov smiled at his daughter's shyness.  Then he looked at the flight suit, there was a patch that bore his name.  He studied the patch carefully, Alan Lee, LtCdr, USN, Dancer.  He remembered a lot about pilots from his time in the war, but most of this was confusing.  He had not read English in years and that added to the confusion.  He looked at his daughter.

      "You still understand English?"

      "Yes."

      "What does this say?"

      "This is his name, Alan Lee.  The only other thing that makes sense is this, Dancer.  But what it means, I have no idea."

      Isomov studied the young pilot as he stroked his stubble beard.  He was curious as to why an American fighter was way out here.  Who had they been in battle with and if there was a war, where was it?  He moved around so that he could pick up the pilot's shoulders.

      "Get his feet, we'll take him below and put him in a bed.  We can not care for him up here."

      Silently Julia grasped Alan's ankles and helped her father carry him below.

       Phil sat at his desk his face buried in his hands the frustration evident by the veins protruding out of his neck.  Sitting in the chair across the desk was the other agent, flanked by the CAG and the Marine security force captain.  He looked up at the agent the irritation was even more obvious by the expression on his face as the tension was thick in the air.  With a deep sigh, Phil leaned back in his chair.

      "Now," Phil began with control, "do you want to start this over from the beginning?  And humor us, the truth would be an interesting alternative."

      "They were supposed to fly a photo mission," the agent began with a sigh,  "the jet was supposed to fire a missile that would miss and that would give us the hostile act needed to start a military move on Baghdad."

      "Who was flying the second fighter?"

      "I can't say."

      "That's bullshit!  I want an answer and I want it now."

      "I can't say.  It was not supposed to happen this way."

      "Well, it did happen this way.  I guess that happens when you make a pact with the devil, he doesn't always play by the rules.  CAG," Phil looked up from the reports on his desk, "what is the Hawkeye's final assessment on the engagement?"

      "Well, sir, the F-14 apparently was engaged by the hostile with only guns, the Tomcat turned the engagement around and brought down a hostile with guns.  The hostile was not sending any transponder signal, so we couldn't ID what type of fighter it was.  The speed and heading changes by the hostile were consistent with a bird that was hit and going down.  Dancer appeared to start an egress when he took on two, maybe three, SAM's.  It also appears that one of those SAM's may have hit the craft.  We could not raise the fighter on the radio before or after the engagement, almost as if the radios had been turned off.  For reasons unknown he headed north into the Black Sea area, we lost radar contact about one hundred miles short of the Turkish coastline."

      "There were no missiles fired during the entire dogfight?"

      "No, sir.  It appears to have been strictly a gun fight between the aircraft.  All we tracked was cannon fire being exchanged between the planes."

      Silence filled the room.  Phil glared at the agent for several long moments, then leaned foreword in his chair and crossed his arms on top of his desk.

      "What happened to your missile shot?"

      "I don't know, sir."  The agent realized that no matter what he said at this point in time there was going to be a large shroud of doubt hanging over ever statement.  "Really captain, I don not know what went wrong, I can only tell you what was supposed to happen and in what order."

      "Who gave the order?"  Phil demanded.

      "That I can not say, I really am not sure how far up the orders came from.  So I am not at liberty to say who is giving us our orders, we are just supposed to follow them."

      "I do not find this a very cooperative attitude," Phil growled at the agent.

      "Skipper," the CAG spoke up, "I don't think that we will ever get the truth out of this guy."

      "I called fleet this afternoon and asked to get you and your partner shipped out.  I've changed my mind.  You have managed to , most likely,  kill off your partner as well as one of the best flight officers on board this ship, if not in the entire Navy.  Now, when the crew finds out what you have done, your life won't be worth a plugged nickel."

      "You can't tell the crew what happened!" the agent exclaimed.  "This operation is classified."

      "The hell I can't. First off, I am still the commanding officer of this vessel.  Secondly, as far as the classification of your supposed mission, I've seen nothing to support your claims.  So, when you come up missing or dead, I'll gladly write it off as an accident."

      The agent squirmed in his seat uncomfortably.  He wanted to say something that might increase his worth to the Captain.  Nothing of substance came to mind.

      "Captain," Phil addressed the Marine Captain, "make sure that our nameless guest makes it to his quarters.  Once the announcement has been made to the crew, do not endanger any of your men for him."

      "Aye, aye, Sir," the Marine officer reached out and grasped the agent's arm.  "This way, sir."  The agent rose and left with the Marine officer not that offering any resistance would have been very successful.  Phil motioned to CAG to sit in the now vacant seat as the pair left the room.

      "You think they made it?" Phil asked the CAG after the agent was out of the room and the door shut.

      "Dancer's pretty good, sir.  You put him in the air over the water, he's nearly in the ready room.  That is of course if he made to the cost."  He paused for a moment, then tried to change the subject a little.  "Most of the flight crews already know that Dancer is missing and we have lots of volunteers for the search teams.  I have a dozen aircraft ready to go into that area and the Turks are already out there looking on the ground."

      "Do we have any idea if they ejected?"

      "No, Sir.  That's what is going to make the search area so large.  At first light ..." CAG was interrupted by the knock on the door.

      "Enter," Phil said in a clear voice.

      Jack entered the room, his light brown hair and brown eyes showed the lack of sleep and the concern.  His lean six foot frame was all military as he crossed to the Captain's desk, and saluted.

      "Sorry for the interruption, Sirs," Jack's voice quivered with exhaustion, "but, I was just wondering if there was any news?"

      "Not yet, J.W.," the CAG answered.  "I thought I told you to get some rest."

      "Like I can rest, Sir."

      "Commander," Phil spoke up, "I think CAG is right.  Get some rest and report to me first thing in the morning."

      "Yes, Sir."  Jack then quietly turned and left the room and headed to his cabin to get some sleep.

      "CAG," Phil began as soon as Jack had left the room, "I want them found and found quickly.  The way this is set up, even if they survived, these cloak and dagger guys might finish what they started."

      "Yes, Sir."

      Isomov steered his ship toward his home port of Alupka, on the south of Crimea.  Julia had spent the majority of the time caring for the American trying to make his rest comfortable.  In the predawn Isomov slowed his ship to a stop and went to the galley to start fixing some food and get some coffee started.  Surely the pilot would be hungry when he awoke.  Isomov recalled the skill and courage that the American pilots had showed in World War II.  He recalled seeing them fly just a couple of feet off of the water past the ships as they flew escort to the convoys getting past the German blockade of Russia.  He was witness to some of the most amazing manipulations of aircraft that he thought were impossible if he had not seen them.  If this pilot was anything like those he remembered, there was surly many enemy aircraft left in ruin, somewhere.  Isomov left the galley stopping at the pilothouse to view the radar for a moment, before going forward to wake the pilot.  As he departed, the radar made several sweeps that showed that everything was clear.  Suddenly, the edge of the screen showed several contacts moving in the air far behind the ship.  But, there was no one there on the bridge to see the activity.

      Isomov entered the state room as quietly as he could.  Alan was still motionless on the bed were he had been all night.  Julia had fallen asleep in a chair beside the bed, her head resting on his arm on the side of the bed.  He viewed the scene in silent approval and did not share the opinion of the former Soviet Union, though he never openly said so out of fear of disappearing in the middle of the night.

      He actually liked the Americans for reasons that he had never told his daughter or anyone else for that matter.  Silently he approached the sleeping pair, he saw that Julia was holding Alan's hand.  It reminded him of his wife when they had been young.  His wife, Victoria for whom he had renamed his ship, had died many years ago, ever since then Julia had spent her life at sea with her father.  He reached out and gently pulled her hair back and gently kissed the cheek of his only child.  She stirred and slowly sat up and rubbed her eyes then the back of her neck.

      "I've started breakfast," Isomov began.  "Go take a shower, I'll try to wake our guest."  Isomov watched as Julia got her things together and left the cabin to go shower. 

      Isomov sat in the chair next to the bed left vacant by Julia and reached under the bed and pulled out a large blue box.  He sighed, unlatched the box and slowly opened it.  He pulled out some medical gear and prepared to bring his guest out of his sleep.  Isomov placed a small cloth wrapped vial near Alan's nose and broke the capsule.  The ammonia smell filled the room and several seconds passed before there was any reaction.  His head jerked to the left and he coughed, then his hands moved slowly toward his face as a moan left his lips.

      Alan took a deep breath and held it for a second, then exhaled.  As he opened his eyes, it took a moment for his vision to clear.  His head hurt, like he had been hit by a truck and as he looked around he saw the gruff man sitting next to him.  He started to push himself up to look around the room better, this was met by the gentle but firm hand of Isomov helping him.  As soon as he had balanced himself, Isomov picked up one of the larger packets he had pulled from the case and started shaking it, stopping several times to squeeze it.  After about a minute, he placed it on the back of the patient's neck.  The cold seemed to help ease some of the pain.

      "Thanks," Alan said.  "Where am I?"

      Alan looked at the man who said nothing moving the cold compress a little further up his neck..  The aroma of the coffee soon began to replace the ammonia odor in the air and he was starting to feel a little more normal.

      "Can I bother you for a cup of coffee?" Alan asked.  Isomov looked at the confused man and was able to understand the request, mostly because coffee sounds so similar in both English and Russian, then left the room.

      Alan swung his legs over the side of the bed and rested his head in his hands with his elbows on his knees gently massaging his throbbing head.  He recalled the battle in the sky, the way the plane felt while he escaped to the sea, then finally spotting the ship and ditching the fighter in the ocean.  He knew he was lucky to be alive, the number of successful ditches in modern fighters is very low.  He was feeling very fortunate to have found the lone ship, it is difficult enough to find a ship when all of the systems are functioning, let alone in a fighter that was so badly beaten up.  Alive!  He looked around the room quickly to see if the CIA agent was in the room.  He began to wonder if the agent had made it.  The door opened and Isomov returned with a cup of hot coffee and handed it to him.

      "Thank you," Alan said.  "What's your name?"  He looked at the man and realized that the man did not understand what he was saying.  As he sipped his coffee, he studied the room and a calendar caught his attention.  It was in Russian, a language that he had studied when he had been Naval Intelligence.  He changed his thought process.

      "Thank you for the coffee," Alan said in his best Russian.

      "You speak Russian?"  Isomov was surprised.

      "Yes, I learned it several years ago.  I'm afraid that it's not very good.  Where are we?"

      "In the Black Sea, about a hundred miles from our port in Alupka."

      "The Black Sea?" Alan exclaimed. "I thought I went west."

      "Apparently not."

      "My name is Alan," he held out his hand.

      "I am Isomov," the two men shook hands.

      "What happened to the other man that was in the plane with me?"

      "Your friend is dead, I am sorry."

      "He was no friend," Alan shook his head.  "He was ... he just wasn't a friend."

      "I do think I understand," Isomov paused for a moment then drew a deep breath and looked at Alan.  "Where was your battle?  Your fighter was badly damaged."

      "Over Turkey ..."  Alan was interrupted by the door opening.  He looked up and as Julia entered the room he felt his heart skip a beat.  Her cloths did not hide her figure this time, something that she had done deliberately.  She smiled shyly as she looked at the floor and moved silently to store her clothes that she had worn earlier.  He could not ever recall having been so instantly intrigued by any woman.  Surly, the shock of the crash must be affecting all of his senses, not that it would take much for her to affect a man's senses if and when she wished to.  Perhaps all of this was nothing more that a delusion brought on by the force of the impact with the water.

      "This is my daughter, Julia," Isomov began.

      "Father, that's absurd, he's American.  He won't understand what you’re saying."

      "I'm glad to make your acquaintance," Alan said as he stood up supporting himself with his left hand because his legs were still a little weak.  Julia spun around and gazing open mouthed at the tall and handsome American pilot.  He spoke her language, she was now even more attracted to the American.  "I am sorry that I am a little rusty, and your accent is a little different than the one I have learned." 

      "You are doing well," Isomov said with a smile.  "I can not recall her ever dressing up for any other guest.  I think she likes you and is tiring to show off, I don't think I can recall her ever being left speechless."  Isomov winked, again, at Alan who was not sure what to make of what he meant.  "Are you feeling well enough to walk?"

      "I am a little shaky, but I think I am doing alright."

       "Let's go to the galley and eat.  Getting some food will help in restoring your strength."

      Alan was well aware of the traditions and customs of the Soviets.  Before a woman was allowed to date a man it must first be approved by the family, sort of like some of the traditional southern families he had grown up with.  It was clear that Isomov not only seemed to approve of, but was very much in favor of Julia's interest in him.  He was a little curious as to why there was so little resistance, considering that it was only recently that the relations between the two countries had become favorable.  But, then he decided that he was misreading the signals, this type of thing could never happen in real life and this was surly not a movie.  Besides, he did receive a nasty blow to the head, so he shook his head and wrote off the thoughts.  He did note, however, that Julia was extremely attractive not that her physical beauty would be easy to miss.

      As Isomov lead the way, Alan watched every move that Julia made. It was a pleasant distraction from the cloudiness and the wobbly knees.  Her blouse clung seductively to her perfect breasts and her American made blue jeans were drawn tightly around her narrow waist.  Her auburn hair reflected the passageway lights like a ruby, then she looked back at him.  It was the first time that she had looked him in the eyes.  The wall that he had built around his heart that not even the feelings he had felt for Phyllis could penetrate, started to crumble.  The light blue-grey eyes that gazed back at him, penetrated to his sole as he started to feel as if he was a teenager again.  Julia spoke, but he was so enchanted that the only thing he could register, was the gentleness of her voice.  One of the things that he enjoyed about the Russian language was how beautiful it sounded.  He was trying to face the reality that there was no way that this could happen, love at first sight does not happen in real life.  Surly the grogginess was causing some sort of misinterpretation of what was happening.

      "I'm sorry," Alan blushed a little.  "What did you say?"

      "I was wondering what all that on the tag means," Julia asked.

      "Tag?"

      "This," Julia pointed to Alan's name tag.

      "Oh, that.  This is my name, Alan Lee.  This is my rank, Lieutenant Commander.  And this is my call sign, Dancer."

      "What's a call sign?" Julia asked.

      "It's sort of a nick-name.  It's what the other pilots call me."

      "That seems rather silly."

      "Maybe, but by now its more traditional than anything."

      "What was your friend's name?" Julia asked softly.  "My father could not find anything."

      "As I told your father, he was not my friend.  Just a guy I had to fly with,"  Alan leaned against the door of the galley for support as Julia went to the stove and finished cooking breakfast.  "By the way where is he?  Did you leave him in the plane?"

      "No," Isomov answered from his place at the galley table.  "I hope you don't mind, but I put his body in the cold storage, with the fish."

      Alan smiled and laughed a little as he nearly choked on his coffee.  Julia and Isomov exchanged puzzled gazes.  Maybe the American had not understood what he had said. 

      "Is everything alright?" Isomov asked with a puzzled look.

      "Yes, it's just... that for that particular man... that's a very fitting place for him.  He was CIA."

      Isomov had heard of the CIA, and realized that they were comparable to the KGB.  It was interesting to see the reaction of the American.  It was one that Isomov had often wished he could have displayed when he had to deal with his own government types.

      "The food is ready," Julia began.  "Forgive us that it is not more elaborate, but we are simple fishermen and have very little."  She really wanted Alan to feel comfortable.  He already appreciated the coffee, it is a very expensive luxury.  For the average income family, a can of coffee was nearly a quarter of a month’s wages.  So it was offered on only very special occasions, with most Russians never truly acquiring a taste for it.

      "This will be fine.  No apologies are necessary," Alan sat down at the table with Isomov.  Julia prepared two plates and them sat in front of the men then returned to the kitchen area of the galley.

      "Are you going to join us?" Alan asked Julia.

      "I usually wait to eat."

      "Well, please sit and join us," Alan motioned to the place next to Isomov.  He was well aware of the Russian customs that the woman waited for the quests to eat first, as she busied herself as the hostess ensuring that everyone had everything they needed.  Julia looked at her father who nodded approval, so she filled a plate and sat down next to her father. 

      "What are you going to do with me?" Alan asked without looking up at Isomov.

      "I haven't really thought about that.  It could be quite a long time before you get home, what with the break up of the State," Isomov took a sip of coffee.  "The other option is for us to try to get you back to your ship.  That could be bad for me."

      "Is that why we've stopped so far out?"

      "Yes."

      "Father, with his ability to speak Russian," Julia began, "he might be able to pass off as a common fisherman."

      "My Russian is not nearly good enough for that!"

      "I would have to agree with that, especially with that American accent.  If we try to get you home, we will have to stop several times for fuel.  This is not like one of those fancy ocean going ships, my fuel storage ability is far less and my speed not nearly as fast."

      "What happens if we get inspected by the police?"  Julia asked.  "We have that body in with the fish."

      "We'll have to just not be too direct to Istanbul," Isomov continued, "but, we'll get you home."

      "So you are going to take me back to my ship?"

      "I think it would be best."

      "I am sorry, I don't understand why you are doing this for me."  Alan asked before taking another bit of food.  "As you have already mentioned, this could be dangerous for you folks."

      "I owe my life to a pilot, from the war," Isomov responded, "He gave his life to save us.  I promised myself that I would never forget that and if I ever had the chance, to do the same selfless thing.  I'm a man of honor so now I keep my word."  Isomov stood up and walked over to the stove and filled his coffee cup.  "I'm going to head to port to refuel, you two stay down here and chat.  We have a lot of long hours ahead of us."  As he headed out the door he stopped and turned around and looked at Alan.  "You can pilot a ship, can't you?"

      "Yes, sir," Alan responded. 

      "Good you'll need to if we are to make this work."  Isomov nodded and left the cabin, Alan and Julia looked at each other in the silence.  Alan sipped his coffee in the silence, not really sure what to say.  As the ship's motors came to life, the rocking motion changed slightly. 

      "How come you speak Russian?"  Julia asked.

      "I was in a job where I had contact with Soviets, so I learned to speak and read the language."

      "That is very unusual," Julia looked at the table and stood up then walked into the galley with the plates from the meal.  "Is there someone at home for you?"

      "My family?"

      "Who is at home waiting for you?"

      "If you're asking me if I have a girlfriend, no."

      "You have no one?  You are very handsome that is hard to believe."

      Alan picked up the rest of the dishes off the table and carried them into the galley.  He stood next to Julia, she could feel him close to her and did not need to look at him.  He sat the dishes in the sink then gently put his hands on her shoulders.  Julia placed her hand on top of his then slowly turned to face him.  As she looked into his eyes, he was even more handsome to her than he was last night.  She wanted to kiss him and sensed that he felt the same.  Before she could act on her feelings, a tear formed in the corner of her eye.

      "What is it?'  Alan asked.  "Did I do something wrong?"

      "No," Julia began.  "I can not have feelings for you.  It will only hurt."

      "Do you have someone at home?"

      "No."

      "Because of your family?"

      "No, because you will be gone in a few days and I'll never see you again.  Besides, it seems that Father likes you ... even approves of you."

      "I sort of noticed that.  Why is that?"

      "I really don't know, it seems rather strange."

      "I was telling my self that it was all mostly a misunderstanding.  That I was just not reading the clues correctly."

      Alan thought about everything for a minute.  He thought about how he felt, these were feelings that he had never had before.  He fell out of the sky and had started to fall into love.  This was something that happens in the movies, not in real life and never to him.  He pulled back and shook his head as he went back to the table to get his coffee.  As he sipped the brew, he restated to himself that none of this was possible, that it was merely a side affect from the blow to his head.

      "I haven't left yet..."  Alan was unable to finish his thought as Julia carefully took him into her arms and looked up at him.  He gently lifted her chin and looked into her eyes.  He felt the desire to kiss her, but resisted.  When they drew apart, he knew that whatever else happened he wanted to take these memories of Julia with him.  He looked into those eyes and brushed away the tears on her cheek with his thumbs.

      "I'm going up and talk to your father," Alan said softly.  "I have several things that I must discuss with him.  You don't mind?."

      "No, I think he would enjoy that very much.  We don't get many visitors here and I think that talking with someone would be good for him."

      Alan filled his coffee cup and headed toward the bridge of the trawler.  As he walked down the passageway, he could see that the sun was starting to lighten the sky.  He knew that the  search and rescue missions would be starting soon.  But then, with the CIA involvement that, too, could be hampered.  If the Hawkeye had tracked him out to sea, they still would be hard pressed to find the crash site.  Then if they did happen to locate the crash site, he was not anywhere in the area.  So the possibilities of being found by the sea air rescue teams, SAR, where essentially nil.

      As Alan walked onto the bridge, Isomov turned and raised his coffee mug in a form of a salute.  He nodded back and leaned against the wall and looked out at the sea in front of them.  He was feeling a lot better now, although there was a fog that still put a haze on his feelings.  His strength was returning and now that he could see the ocean, he felt life retuning to his body.  The ocean was always a source of strength for him, even as a child it held a special attraction and power for him that he could never explain.  Undoubtedly, the reason for his interest and studies in marine biology.

      "That pilot in the war must have really done something very remarkable," Alan began without looking away from the window.  "You’re taking some serious chances for me."

      "He did indeed," Isomov began to reminisce.  "Our ship, a merchant vessel, had taken a hit from a German dive bomber the day before.  The bomb had not only damaged one of our engines, but had destroyed all but a couple of our life rafts.  As we were unable to keep up with the rest of the convoy, we became easy pray for their submarines that roamed the frigid and rough North Sea.  It was nearly noon when a U boat surfaced and was preparing to sink us in those freezing waters with her deck gun.  They were just going to sink us, they had already signaled us that they had no room for prisoners and they gave us several minutes to abandon our ship.  Our time was truly up.  That is when an American fighter that had been damaged in battle somewhere else and smoking heavily passed over us.  Before the submarine knew what was happening the pilot came over our radio and shouted "Victory!"  Then we watched as he slammed his fighter into the sub destroying it and saving us.  Our radioman told us that he had signaled our dilemma to one of his ships, that resulted in one of their ... your ships, coming to our rescue."

      Alan stood there in the silence and looked at the mariner that had held that story deep inside for far too long, then again, he probably had not had an audience that would be appreciative.

      "The pilot never got out?"

      "No.  We found out that he had radioed in that he was seriously injured.  By the reports, it was doubtful that he would have made it back to his ship.  His fighter had been damaged so severally that he could not release his bombs or external tank to improve his situation."  There was a silence that fell over the room as Isomov ended his story, one that Alan was unsure how to brake.

      "I never knew that," Julia's voice came from behind them, causing both men to jump a little.

      "I know that," Isomov began.  "For too many years the cold war did not let us say the good things about the Americans.  So that now most of the memories are hidden ... or forgotten."

      "That does bring me to a question, Sir," Alan looked at Isomov.

      "What is that?"

      "I understand your honor to keep your word but, you seem to have an odd acceptance of me.  It seems almost as if you are allowing your daughter and me to get aquatinted.  Why?"

      "First, she is an adult," Isomov sighed heavily.  "Her mother and I decided a long time ago that if and when she wished to have a relationship, we would not stand in her way.  So far she has never shown any interest in men, with the exception of the way she has dressed or you."  Julia looked at the floor of the pilothouse blushing, then Isomov looked deliberately at Alan.  That made him a little nervous.  "I once thought about sending Julia to America, as a refugee.  I feel that she would have a better chance of changing her life for the better in your country.  My image of you Americans is etched on my mind because of the selfless sacrifice of one of your own.  Besides, pilots are men who can not only respect life but can cherish every moment of it."

      Alan looked at Julia and picked his next words very carefully.  "Isomov," Alan began slowly, "I would like to invite your daughter  to return with me to America as my guest.  If she desires to go, I can arrange a stay there.  Do not think that all Americans are good just because of one man's actions, nor are they all bad.  There are plenty of both types existing where ever you might go.  Now, the best thing would be not to ask for an answer at this time.  But, when we get back to my ship.  This will give her a chance to make sure it is the right decision for her."

      "I agree," Isomov responded.  "What do you think, Julia?"

      "Yes!"  She could hardly contain her emotion as she ran over to Isomov and hugged him. Then looked at Alan lovingly and rushed off the bridge.

      "I suppose that we will need to tell her mother when we get to port," Alan said looking at the door Julia had run out.

      "Her mother is dead," Isomov began, "she died many years ago in the winter.  Ever since, Julia has been here at sea with me."

      "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

      "Of course you didn't.  That is why I'm finally relieved to see Julia showing an interest in a man.  This ship and I are all see has ever wanted.  When I saw her dressing up for you, she reminded me of her mother."

      "Will you go with us then?"

      "I'll give you an answer when we get to your ship," Isomov answered coyly.  "Come over here and take over.  Hold to course three-five-five, and when you see the outer lane marker, wake me."

      "Yes, sir," Alan responded as he took control of the ship.  "Why are you so sure that she is interested in me?"

      "I see it in her eyes... and in yours.  Once in everyone's life the right person enters, it is fate nothing else.  When that happens, we must recognize it as the opportunity that it is.  I felt it the first time I met Julia's mother and I feel that it is the same for you two."

      "I don't know about that, but I know that my mind is still a little rattled from the crash.  I can't be sure that anything I feel is real because of the shock."

      "Regardless of what you may feel, I see something there.  As I said before, she has a better chance in America.  I am a man that trusts and follows my instincts, if I don't then I could spend a month out here and go back empty.  You are a decent man and Julia is a good woman, it is better for both of you to be together."  That was a statement that caught Alan completely off guard.

      Once Isomov was sure that everything was under control, he patted Alan on the shoulder, checked the radar and headed for the state room.  He had a feeling that this man was the right one to entrust his daughter with, the American seemed to posses an uncanny knowledge of their cultures and traditions.  He also had an air of self confidence mixed with a slight touch of shyness where it came to his heart.  All of which he considered positive personality traits.

       Phil sat in his chair on the bridge staring out at the first hints of the sun as it slipped out from behind the horizon.  This entire situation had gotten very personal.  Alan was not only a fine pilot and officer, but a good friend.  The flight deck below was busy with the preparation of the large number of aircraft that were going to be sent out to look for the missing crew.  Phil slipped off into a trance for a few moments then brought himself back to the present, and motioned to the signal officer.

      "Right after reveille, I'll make the announcement about Dancer."

      "Aye, Sir."

      The signal officer went over to a panel and played the morning reveille.  After it was over he moved a lever on the side of the speaker box.

      "All hands stand by," the officer began his announcement, "the Captain has an announcement."  Then the officer stood up and nodded to Phil, who moved over to his box and turned it on.

      "This is the Captain," Phil spoke deliberately, "about twenty-three hundred hours last night, the TARPS bird flown by Dancer was shot down.  It appears form information that has been made available, they were set up by our CIA guests.  The aircraft did seem to remain in the air after being hit and was heading north toward the Black Sea when we finally lost radar contact."  Phil let the switch close and looked down at the flight deck.  The faces of the men on the deck were all turned toward the control area.  He wanted to say more, but did not know what to say.

      "Alright everybody," the Air Boss's voice boomed over the PA system, "we have some aircraft to put in the air lets get them ready and find that missing plane!"

      Phil realized that the Air Boss had picked up on the hesitation and carried on.  Phil watched as the crews on the deck moved deliberately to get ready to launch aircraft.  They were moving about the deck with precision and purpose that would be envied by the best of chorographer.  This was the best crew he could have asked for and it was at times such as these that they proved it.  He turned and looked at the men at the controls of his ship.

      "Officer of the deck," Phil said with his composure restored, "turn the Lincoln into the wind, and make revolutions for thirty knots!"

      The orders were shouted out and the conformations shouted back.  The two large nuclear reactors were brought to a level that made the huge ship rumble through the clear Mediterranean waters.  The reactors could power the massive ship for fifteen years without refueling.  There was enough ammunition and weapons for the air wing for two years, and enough provisions for its six-thousand-five-hundred plus crew members to stay out for over a year.  A feat that would have been completely impossible in World War II.

      As the sun started to warm the ship and the rays reflected off of the wake of the mighty warship, the first of many aircraft hurled off the deck and screamed off to search for the missing crew.  The launches continued for some time, finally the deck was clear and the mighty floating city slowed and turned around to return to the stand-by point.

      Phil was on his way to get something to eat when he stopped in PRI-FLY, Primary flight operations, and walked over to the Air Boss.

      "How many aircraft did we put up in the air?" Phil asked.

      "Sixty-three.  That leaves us with an even thirty as back up," the Air Boss answered.  "By the way, sir.  The C-2 is in bound and should be on the deck in thirty minutes."

      "Is there a problem?"

      "No," he paused, "just that Red Sonja is the driver."

      "Oh, great," Phil sighed.  "Have J.W. meet her when she puts down."

      "Aye, Sir," the Air Boss nodded to one of his petty officers who without a word jumped up from his station and headed out to get Jack.  "I don't know if she's heard ... about Dancer."

      "I thought those two broke up some time ago," Phil pondered.

      "Yes, sir they did.  But, they are still good friends and I get the feeling that she hasn't given up on him yet."

      "Maybe I should let her talk to the agent man.  What do you think?"

      "I'd pay to see that battle."

      Phil pondered the idea for a moment then went over to the intercom.

      "Shore patrol, sergeant Anderson, sir!" the voice answered in true Marine manner.

      "This is Captain Morhardt.  May I speak with your commander?"

      "Sir!  One moment please." there was a short pause.

      "Captain Neilson, Sir."

      "We have the C-2 mail plane on its way in.  I would like you to ensure that our guest meets the pilot of that aircraft."

      "Sir?" the Marine officer was puzzled.

      "She and Dancer were ... are very close.  If anyone on this ship has the rights to the first shot at that CIA jerk, it’s her."

      "Understood, sir."

      "And, captain?" Phil's voice got quietly soft.

      "Sir?"

      "If he even tries to strike her back, drop him."

      "Yesss, Sir!"

       Brian flew in the formation with several other Tomcats.  It felt kind of strange going out to look for Alan.  He had been witness to the shear talent that he had displayed and could not picture a SAM or another fighter bagging him.  It just could not happen, that much was sure.  It must have been a mechanical failure or the CIA guy screwed up the whole thing, but not the invincible Dancer.  As the aircraft reached the cost of Turkey, the flight leader called in that the mission was 'feet dry', and the fighters stayed high to fly cover for the bombers and attack aircraft that would be low.

      "I hate this, Spiderman," Brian muttered over the intercom.  "We should be down on the deck.  We can not see a damn thing from up here."

      "Calm down, Bee.  With any luck, some wacked out Iraqi in a MiG will challenge the bombers and we can pour all over him."

      "That's not the point.  I want to be down there helping in the actual search.  Flying forty five thousand feet over the search area is a little wasteful."

      "Those guys down there won't think so if a MiG slips in from the rear."

      Brian didn't want to sit there, but he realized that his RIO was right.  They would stay up there and wait for some type of action.  If everything remained calm, it would then be possible to bring some of the fighters down into the search patterns.  This had the potential of being a long term search.  It could take hours if not days and the crews would hold the vigil until the last possible moment or until the crew was located.  As he settled down, he recalled how he had flown in a search pattern when the shuttle crashed a couple of years ago.  His RIO at that time had flown for years with the shuttle commander and seemed to be driven by something that he did not understand.  In many ways he still did not understand that feeling, but he was feeling the drive that he had seen in Erick.  He guessed that it might be as simple as comradary, maybe going as far for the other pilot as you would want them to go for you, or maybe as something as complicated as every pilot feeling mentally and psychically bonded to one another.  What ever it was, Brian did not really care.  The bottom line was finding the crew.

      It had only been a matter of fifteen minutes or so when one of the bombers reported a crash site.  It called it in as it went directly over the site.  This allowed the Hawkeye to get a computer tracking location on the site, and compare it to the computer track from the night before.  Everyone in the search group held their breath as the Hawkeye processed the data.

      "That would have to be the hostile," the Hawkeye's radar man reported, "The track is too far off Dancer's last known path.  It is also very close to the last contact of the bogie's last known position."

      "Hawkeye one-three," the Air Boss's voice crackled over the radio, "I'm sending a helo in.  Guide him to the crash site, I want to know what the hell Dancer shot down."

      "Aye, aye, Sir."

      As the search patterns started to spread to the north, Brian knew that it was going to be a long day.

       Phyllis lined her C-2 cargo plane up on the deck of the Lincoln as it moved steadily through the Mediterranean Sea.  She concentrated on the process of landing the heavy turbo-prop aircraft on the relatively small, pitching and rolling piece of metal in front of her.  She was one of the few female Navy pilots and had been acknowledged as an outstanding aviator when she was given the opportunity to pilot the shuttle.  Her helmet hid her red hair, and the flight suit made her look far from feminine.  She was a beautiful woman who had chosen to fly for the Navy.  She and Alan had shared a relationship for a couple of years, but both of them had such a great intensity for flying that it destroyed their relationship.  As she lowered the landing gear, she thought about how nice it would be to see him again.  She would never admit it to him again but, she still had a lot of feelings for him.  The last time she had told him how she felt, he broke off their romance and made his presence very scarce for many weeks.

      "Five-oh-five," LSO's voice came over the radio, "Tomcat in the grove, call the ball."

      "Oh-five, I got the ball," Phyllis responded.  She quickly changed her concentration to the job of putting her aircraft down, safely, on the flight deck.

      "Roger, ball," the LSO responded.

      Phyllis had  shoulder-length dark red hair, hazel eyes, and a voice that made men weak in the knees and wives jealous.  She was one of the elite, a Naval pilot who flew C-2 mail planes out to the carriers.  She was a beautiful woman by any standards, one who could have been a model, but who chose to fly instead.  When she was asked what she wanted to do in the Navy, she answered simply that she wanted to fly.  Few people gave her much of a chance of making the grade of the rigor of flight school yet, she proved that she had the skills as well as the abilities.  It was not long before she had earned the respect of her peers.

      A graduate of Georgia State's aviation program, Phyllis graduated at the top of her class.  She flew better than most of her male peers, which seemed to cause a little animosity.  Still, she no longer let that get to her, following a period of adjustment that was now behind her.  In many cases she held her own with her male counter-parts, both in the air and on the ground.

      "Power ... power ..." the LSO's voice was controlled.  "Come left five ... hold!"  Phyllis pulled back on the yoke and the stall horn started to sound just as the end of the flight deck passed beneath her.  As she felt the plane fall toward the deck, she moved the throttles full forward.  There was the bone crunching jolt as the aircraft and the ship met.  Then the drag of the cable as it caught the tail hook and slowed the plane to a stop.  Phyllis pulled the throttles back to idle, then waited for a few seconds for the ground crew to motion her to the staging area.

      As soon as she stopped the plane, shut off the engines and turned off all of the electrics, she unbuckled her self and headed off to see Alan.  She knew that he loved flying at night, so he should be on the ship.  She looked around the flight deck at the fighters staged on the edges, and saw his plane sitting there.  When she got to the cargo door she saw Jack standing there with a somewhat ruffled civilian.  She pulled her flight helmet off and her red hair fell free as she shook her head and ran her hand through it.

      "Hello, J.W.," her soft Georgian voice chirped.  "What do I owe this greeting party to?"

      Jack sighed heavily and looked at the deck.  He knew that there was not going to be any easy way to say this.  He looked up at Phyllis, her hazel eyes starting to show some worry.  He looked over at the agent and took a deep breath.

      "This gentleman is from the CIA," Jack began, "and he has something he needs to tell you."

      The agent looked quickly at Jack then to Phyllis.  She was now beginning to show a little irritation.

      "It seems that a fighter was lost last night in an engagement,"  the agent watched as Phyllis's expression changed to one of dismay.  "We are still unsure of the status of the crew."

      Phyllis looked at Jack the fear of almost knowing the answer in her eyes.

      "J.W.," she began, "it's Dancer?"

      "Yes."

      "Why did he have to tell me?"  Phyllis asked with tears forming in the corner of her eyes.

      "It was a set up," Jack explained.  "Mister agent man here and his buddy set up a TARPS bird.  Dancer just happened to be the driver that drew the flight.  Then his partner was assigned ..."  Jack was cut short as Phyllis connected with a right cross solidly to the agent's chin.  The blow sent the man to the deck, out cold.

      "Bastard!"  Phyllis muttered.  "I'm going to see Morhardt."  She headed toward the island, the crowd that had gathered around parted quickly to let her pass.  The silent evidence of her rage lying on the ground.  Jack stood there smiling a little, he had wanted to do the same thing since the news of Alan being lost.

      "So much for the pleasantries," Jack muttered as he turned to follow Phyllis.

CHAPTER 3

      The silence in the large nearly, vacant ship cafeteria was broken by the occasional sounds of the cooks as they worked preparing food and cleaning up the remainder of the soiled dishes from breakfast.  Sitting almost in the center of the room were two men on opposite sides of the table.  Between them was a chess board with a game that was obviously well under way.  Sitting next to the black man was a glass nearly half full of iced tea.  A cook came out of the back room in his white uniform and apron which was smattered with stains with a pitcher and a pot of coffee.  He stood behind James as he filled the iced tea and poured a fresh cup of coffee for Roy.  He studied the board for several moments as the two men engaged in combat.

      "Looks like you got him on the run now," the cook said to James.

      "Yep.  I don't think anything is going to save him this time."

      The silence returned to the room.  The cook watched for a moment longer then returned to his work beyond the view of the two men. 

It was almost possible to see the gentile roll of the ship as it moved through the blue-green waters of the Mediterranean by watching the liquids in the glasses as they shifted.

      James and Roy had served together for nearly all of the last five years.  They had gotten very used to working as a team ever since they were thrown together prior to Desert Storm.  Now they were once again on the helicopter assault ship Iwo Jima, floating off of the coast of Turkey.  James was a staff sergeant with a bad taste for this part of the world.  He had been a private stationed at the embassy in Beirut when it was bombed.  He lost a lot of friends that day, and never felt that justice had ever truly been handed out.

      James came from Denver, and his five-foot-nine frame carried his one-hundred-eighty pounds well.  He had nearly followed his brother into college, but he elected to go into the Marines.  It was easy to see that he had played safety in high school football, he had the right build.  He played the position so well that he had been courted by several colleges as a potential candidate for a scholarship.  It was part of his personality to thrive of the taste of battle.  He made all state his senior year with sixteen unassisted sacks of opposing quarterbacks and eleven interceptions.  When he started looking at the various college programs, he found that the majority were protecting their investments by limiting the majors that he could select.  He finally decided that he desired to do something that would leave him with a carrier, something he could retire from young enough that he could enjoy his life.  He selected the life of a soldier.

      He spent his first tour as an MP and felt honored to get embassy duty.  Not too many blacks showed the desire for embassy duty.  It was probably more that the majority of black Marines did not desire to put up with the mostly white embassy troops.  He found that in their spare time they played football, it was there that his comrades learned to respect his abilities.  When his platoon played against another, he was always a starter.  James had enjoyed the duty right up to the day of the bombing.  After that he requested to go to a recon platoon where he felt that he might be able to get the opportunity to deal out some of the justice for his fallen friends.

      James had been assigned to the recon team that had deployed in Granada.  He found the taste of combat exciting and longed to have more.  It was not so much the shooting of another man, but the playing of the ultimate game of hide and seek.  The ability to hear your own heart beating and fearing that the enemy might also hear it.  In many ways it was not unlike the rush he felt in an important game in school, anticipating the snap and reaching his goal ... the quarterback.

      His team was then recalled and held in reserve.  In many ways he felt as if he had been placed in a large case that bore a large, red label "IN CASE OF WAR, BREAK GLASS."  That feeling was driven home deeper when the next mission took them into Panama.  There, his team was given the task of securing an airfield so that it was not accessible to the "enemy."  It was a difficult mission because of the fact that there were so many civilians near by and the confusion that was created when the main invasion began.  It was a mess and there were mistakes made by everyone, but it was a learning experience that made Desert Storm the success it was.

      He looked up at the man at the other side of the mess hall table, it was one of his closest friends.  He had grown up hating tobacco chewing, pickup driving, red necks and Roy was all of those things.  But, there was a bond that brought the two men together.  It is the silent bond that unites two soldiers that have been in a fire fight.  It is not explicable, those that are bound by it feel it, but few, if any, can describe it.  It is sort of like ESP, yet is so very different.  It's knowing what the other man is thinking or feeling.  The best description is that the people involved are mentally bonded.

      Roy was actually assigned to a Navy Seal team that had been paired up in a joint forces venture with James' Marine recon team.  Roy hailed from Great Falls, and was only slightly taller than James and was the same weight and build.  His brown hair and blue eyes, and country sander, fit his character.  He had been a wrestler in high school, but his real sport was rodeo.  His first rodeo was when he was twelve, by the time he was eighteen he had taken the junior Grand National title.  Soon afterwards he realized that the physical cost was too high for the financial rewards and sought out another carrier.

      He joined the Navy at the end of the summer following graduation, the few job opportunities were one of the driving factors.  The other was that a desire to put as much distance between himself and an ex-girlfriend as possible.  When he had discovered his girl, Karen, in the arms of another guy in the local bowling alley, it was all of the small town atmosphere and humilities he could handle.  Since then he had not taken a relationship seriously and kept himself absorbed in his job in the Seals, a job that was not at all conducive to long term relationships.

      Now it seemed that the only life, the only reality, which he knew anymore was the military.  When he took leave, he always came back to work early.  The military was so much a part of his being, that being away from it was more of a punishment than a reward.  There was even a joke that Roy left home in the evening when he left the base.  He liked and was good in combat, weather it was a drill or a live battle.

      During the build up in the Middle East for Desert Shield his team was assigned to work jointly with James' platoon.  The Seals would go in ahead of the Marines and neutralize as much of the enemy defenses as possible to make the landings safe for the Marines.  The joint venture worked so well that the Department of Defense decided that an extended program was worth examining.  The last couple of years, there had been months of practice assaults and rehearsals to get all of the bugs out of the system.  Not that there were many to work out, everything had worked so smoothly in Desert Storm that it was difficult to improve upon.  But, the Pentagon needed to see the results of lots of practice assaults to make sure that the prior results were not simply luck.  To date, each drill went more smoothly than the one prior, to the point that now the briefings were wrote memory.

      In the times between the exercises, Roy and James had started playing chess to pass the time.  This was no exception, they had been at this particular game for nearly three hours.  Roy was just picking up a night to make a move, when the battle stations horn sounded.  The two men looked at each other for a moment, then jumped up and ran for the hanger bay.  Chess pieces toppled over and laid in the coffee and iced tea that splashed out of their containers all being jarred by the hastened departure of the two men.

      "This can't be a drill," Roy said as they ran through the passageway.  "We're too close to Lebanon."

      "Maybe they found that fighter crew," James replied.

      "That's a possibility."

      "This isn't another one of your tricks to keep from loosing that game, is it?"

      "Would I do that?"

      "Absolutely!"

      As the pair entered the hanger bay and turned toward their assigned UH-1 "Huey" helicopter, they saw their respective commanders waiting.  The helicopters were already being moved toward the elevators so that they could be moved up to the flight deck.  The soldiers used the time to get their battle gear on and get their weapons ready.  It was only a few minutes later that the four helicopters lifted off the ship and headed for Turkey.

      As the men finished getting their gear ready, one of the officers positioned his microphone and pressed his intercom button.

      "The search teams found the wreckage of the fighter that our 'cat shot down," the officer began.  "We're going in to find out who attacked our fighter.  When we hit the ground, we go to sitrep four.  Marines will set up the perimeter and secure the sight, Seals will go over the fighter and check it out.  Any questions?"  There was silence as the men in the helicopter looked at each other.  There were no questions because they all knew their jobs under this scenario.

      "Sounds like fun," James commented.

      "Sounds like a vacation," Roy countered.

      "Not hardly." the officer began.  "The crash site is only sixteen kilometers north of the Iraqi boarder.  Hostile ground activity in that area has been detected and monitored, which means that there is the possibility of conflict."

      "That's good news," Roy smiled, "I was getting board not shooting at something."  There was a round of chuckles from the rest of the soldiers.

      "I'm glad we can accommodate you, Roy," the officer smiled.  "But, I don't want any shooting unless we are fired on.  If we are fired on, shoot to kill."

      "Right on!" James said.

      Alan held the wheel of the trawler maintaining the course that Isomov had directed.  It had been a couple of hours since Isomov had gone below to get some rest, the sun was high in the clear sky now reflecting off of the waves.  He suddenly felt a presence near him.  He turned his head and saw Julia standing in the door way.  She was still not able to look him directly in the eyes, and was obviously still trying to deal with her feelings.  He smiled a little as Julia approached him and filled his cup with fresh coffee from the pot she was carrying.

      "Thank you," Alan said.

      "You are welcome," Julia responded in rough English.  She liked the look of surprise on Alan's face.  She was not one to play tricks on people and on the occasion that did, she was usually fairly successful.

      "Well," Alan started as he smiled slightly and sipped the coffee, "you speak English."

      "Only a very little.  Not very well I think. I am sorry."

      "Your English is probably no worse than my Russian."

      "No, your Russian is really pretty good.  Look over there," Julia was pointing to a buoy floating in the water nearly straight ahead of the ship.  "That's the outer channel marker,"  Julia was back to speaking Russian.  Alan turned around to look at the marker.

      "Your father wanted to be wakened when we got here.  Will you go get him?"

      As Julia nodded and went off to get Isomov, Alan maintained his course.  He began wondering what his friends back on the ship were doing.  Ridicules thought, he knew that by now they were surely looking for him, but they had no clue where to look.  If the AWAC, the radar encumbered Hawkeye, had followed his demise, they might be looking in the right area of the crash.  But, he had headed north and may have traveled out of the radar picture before he crashed.  In fact, had the Hawkeye stayed in the normal pattern, they would have lost him short of the coast line as he headed north. 

      He was now able to remember and thick about the bazaar occurrences the night before.  It began to seem that the fighter that had engaged him did not seem very intent on doing any real damage to the TARPS bird.  But, to open fire on another aircraft is an open invitation to battle by anyone's rules.  In retrospect, the fact that the other fighter just fired and ran was rather strange.  If he had a cumbersome reconnaissance fighter in that situation, he would have finished it off quickly.  His passenger seemed far too calm and even seemed to be expecting the whole thing.  With the exception of the missiles that were fired, the agent seemed to know what was going to happen.  That brought yet other questions into Alan's mind, who was the other pilot and who fired the rockets?  Was it yet another agent trying to make it look as if there was an act of aggression?  The possibility enraged him, how could one American do that to another?

       The twisted wreckage of the downed fighter was still smoking as it laid in pieces on the rocky hillside of south eastern Turkey.  It was heavily charred and could hardly identifiable as an aircraft.  Remains of what it had been were spread out for nearly a quarter of a mile.  There was the main mass that was most likely the cockpit section of the fighter.  The silence of the scene was broken by the sound of a pair of A-6's that came in low and hard to check the area for ground activity.  The ear-piercing sound as the pair of jets streaked only thirty feet over the crash site, would have sent any ground troops running. 

      The roars of the bombers had barely died, when the distinctive sound of the helicopters could be heard.  They came in fast and descended quickly like hawks upon unsuspecting prey.  When they sat down on the ground, they hardly spent more than a few seconds before lifting back into the air and departing hastily.  The men that the helicopters had deposited on the ground, quickly and silently set out to complete their assignments. 

      The Marines set up the perimeter quickly and prepared to do whatever was necessary to defend their position in the true spirit and speed that is traditional for the corps.  The Seals made their way to the part of the wreckage that appeared to be a burned out shell and quickly set out in an attempt to identify it.  Everyone was working quickly because they knew that at any moment they could come under attack from whoever had sent up the fighter.  Any movement from even the smallest animal caused the group some concern.  Was it an enemy, or just an animal?  Once it was recognized as an animal, why was it moving?  Had it been flushed out by someone approaching the site, or moving about in curiosity?

      It did not take long for Roy to find and recognize some of the debris and motioned to the officer for him to come over.  Roy was holding some laminated cards that were partly melted and charred.  As the officer walked up, Roy handed the cards to the officer.

      "What did you find?" the officer asked.

      "This was one of ours," Roy answered.  "These are the check lists, they're in English."  The officer looked at Roy in disbelief, then looked at the cards.  It was true, they were in English.  He handed the check lists back to Roy and wondered what was going on.  Had they found the wrong crash site?

      One of the other team members began searching the area that looked like it might have been the cockpit.  As he pulled some of the metal aside, there was the burned and lifeless body of the man who had been at the controls of the fighter.

      "Sir!"  The team member called to the officer.  "The pilot is here.  He never ejected."

      "What?" the officer answered.

      "He's right here," the soldier responded.

      "Check him for ID."

      The team member pushed more of the wreckage away to clear his way to the pilot.  Once he had a relatively clear access to the pilot, he reached in and pulled the charred helmet off of the body.  When he had the helmet off he examined it for any name labels or call signs.  He found nothing.  He shook his head and began releasing the harnesses that held the body in the seat so that the pilot could be removed.  When he pushed the head back, he looked at the pilot's face.  The grim expression of death stared back.  The hazel eyes and sandy hair reflected the fear that the pilot must have felt just prior to the impact that claimed his life.  The SEAL member reached over to the eyes and closed the eyelids, then continued removing the body.

      "He couldn't eject sir," Roy spoke as he looked over the check lists.

      "Why not?"

      "This is one of those damn F-18 Hornets," Roy explained.  "When the electrical goes on these things, the pilot can't punch out."

      "You think he lost electric?"

      "I don't know of a pilot that would want to ride a flamer down.  Most of the drivers I know would get out as soon as they could."

      "See if you can locate the black box."

      "Sir!"  Roy turned the check lists back over to the officer, then headed to the area that appeared to be the front of the fighter.

      The officer started walking around the wreckage to see if there was any way of identifying where the fighter had come from.  He glanced at the cards in his hand and shook his head.  This was now really confusing, why would an American fighter engage another?  Especially in an unprovoked attack.  None of this was making any sense.  He turned over a piece of the all black painted body of the plane, there was a number stenciled in white FMA 326417, a number that indicated the fighter was a Marine aircraft.  He pulled a note book out of his pocket and wrote down the number.  As he walked around more, he watched two of his men pull the lifeless body of the pilot out of the cockpit.  The charred and bloodied flight suit was silent testimony to the violent death that the flyer had experienced.

      Roy was examining the right side of the aircraft.  He noticed a number of holes in the area of the electronic circuit boards.  As he took a closer look at the holes he was able to determine that they were the results of the Tomcat's guns.

      "What's that, Roy?" the officer asked.

      "Twenty-millimeter cannon," Roy answered.  "Tomcat gun fire.  It hit the circuit boards, which would have cut the electrics."

      "How long before you get the box out?"

      "Ten, maybe fifteen, minutes."

      "Make it ten, Roy.  I don't like the feelings I'm getting here.  Something is really screwy with this entire thing."

      "I'll get to it, Sir."

      "Sir," the soldier that was searching the body called to the officer.

      "Yes."

      "No ID at all on the driver.  Just a flight schedule- sort of like he was waiting for the other plane.  It's got times, altitude and coordinates on it."  The seal held the singed piece of paper out for the officer to take it.

      The officer pondered the whole situation.  The pieces of this puzzle were getting more confusing with every new piece of information that was gathered.  He motioned to the Marine officer and started walking over to him.

      "Chris," he began, "this is making no sense at all.  That was a Marine F-18, apparently flown by an American."

      "What?"  The Marine officer looked shocked.  "I thought this was the enemy fighter."

      "That was I think we were supposed to believe," he replied as he handed the check lists over to the other officer to look at.  After looking at the cards, the two men looked at each other, then at the wreckage.

      "What the hell is going on?" The Marine officer asked.

      "I have no idea.  But we're going to snag the flight recorder, call in the helos and get the hell out of here before this gets any weirder."

       Isomov yawned as he walked on to the bridge of his ship.  Julia handed him a cup of coffee, smiled slightly, then left for the galley.  He walked over next to Alan and looked at the controls to make sure that they were all set where he wanted them.  Deftly he reached over to the wheel and moved it slightly to the right for several seconds, then returned it to center.

      Alan looked out toward the horizon, in the distance he saw land starting to appear on the edge.  He pointed at the sliver of land.

      "Land, ho," Alan said in classic naval terminology.

      "We should be in port within the hour," Isomov began.  "We should be able to refuel and be pulling out in two."

      Alan nodded and looked at his watch.  It was nearly nine-thirty and he felt a hunger pain in his stomach as a growl echoed through the room.  He looked at Isomov and smiled.

      "Maybe you should have Julia fix you something to eat,"  Isomov said.  "Then, it would be best if you were to stay below while we are in port.  As long as no one sees you, no one can ask any questions."

      "Sure," Alan nodded as he stepped away from the wheel.  "I hope that this doesn't get you in any trouble."

      "As long as we are careful, there shouldn't be any trouble.  The traditional KGB or GRU officer is like a sleeping bear, as long as you don't give him any reason to look your way, they rarely give you a second look."

      Alan waited for a moment to see if Isomov was going to say anything else.  When he was sure that the conversation had ended, he headed to the galley to fill the void in his stomach.  He was looking forward to being with Julia again, even though he was unsure what to say to her or if the feelings that he was feeling were genuine.  The odor of the food being cooked in the galley lured him like a shark being drawn by the sent of blood in the water.  As he entered the room he saw Julia working away over the stove.  He leaned against the door frame and silently crossed his arms.  A smile came across his lips as he thought how she looked like the perfect housewife. 

      Suddenly he stood up right and was panicked.  His heart was pounding like it was about to leap from his chest, his hands were trembling like leaves in a wind and his palms began to sweat.  Alan found that his mind was flooded with thoughts of Julia, yet he could not formulate a single clear thought of substance.  What was really scary was he was not only looking at this girl as a wife but, his wife.  That was really scary for him. 

      The talk of marriage was what had started the fight with Phyllis.  He was not used to what he was feeling, he had always been able to walk away from anyone at anytime.  Alan had never before been flooded with such powerful emotions and he was not sure how to control them.  Phyllis had wanted to settle down and he would have nothing to do with it.  Now, he was considering marriage with this girl whom he had only just met.  What was happening to him?  The panicked look must have still been on his face when Julia turned around.

      "What's wrong?" Julia asked as she cocked her head to the side in curiosity of the expression on Alan's face.

      "I'm sorry," Alan stammered, "there's nothing wrong."  He shook his head and looked at the floor, then went over to the table and sat down.

      "Did I do something wrong?"

      "No, not at all."  Alan looked up and met Julia's eyes.  The feeling that went through him was like electricity, it struck him right to his sole.  "I just got a little scarred."

      "Of what?"

      "You."

      "What?"  Julia looked at him with surprise.  "I thought that American pilots were never scared."

      "Not true.  If any good pilot tells you that he's never been at least a little frightened, he's either lying or he's not really that good.  Fear, when it is properly channeled or directed, is what we have that pushes us to that point beyond our capabilities."

      "I'm not sure that I completely understand."

      "I'm not even sure that I do, I just know that the pilots who never felt fear are all dead.  I guess the best way to describe it is, when you try something new if you don't fall occasionally, you’re not getting any better."  Julia looked at Alan in silence then went back to the stove and served up a large bowl of the red borsch that she had fixed, still not completely sure she understood what he meant but accepted what he was saying.  She returned to the table and sat a plate in front of him.  He looked at her and moved over in the booth so that she could sit next to him.  That brought a smile beaming from her.  He smiled as they began eating, this did feel right.

       Phil walked into the communications center and was met by the officer who ran the department.  The room was filled with all types of radios and monitors, consoles manned by sailors concentrating on their particular assigned set of frequencies.  Some were listening to Soviet transmissions, others to Iraqi and the rest were assigned to the other countries that were nearby.  The Navy sent most all of the sailors in this division to the defense language school in Monterey, California, the school is designed to give students in-depth and concentrated exposure in a selected language.   The students have no choice as to which language they are taught, that is determined by the needs of the military.

      Phil was escorted to one of the panels and handed a hand set by the officer.

      "This is Spearhead-one," Phil spoke to the transceiver.

      "This is Bird-dog," the Marine officer's voice crackled through the earpiece.  "We have an ID on the attacking fighter."

      "Where did it come from?" Phil was ready to jump down some country's throat.  He wanted to teach them a lesson, if you pick on one of his pilots, you better be ready to deal with the rest of the Navy.

      "US Marine corps, Sir."

      Phil's head rocked back and he stood up straight stared at the panel in front of him in complete disbelief his mouth hanging half open.

      "Come again," was all Phil could say.

      "It's one of ours.  No ID on the pilot, but it's American and it's registered as a Marine F-18."

      Phil's blood pressure started to go through the roof.  It took him only a second to figure out who's finger had been on the trigger of this entire fiasco.  The signal officer and the petty officer who had monitored the conversation both were looking at Phil, uncertain of what to expect.  Phil took a deep breath.

      "Turn in the rest of your report to the signal officer," Phil said as he handed the handset to the officer next to him.  "After you finish taking their report, get Admiral Hoffman on the radio."

      "Yes, sir," the officer said as he reacted to the tone of voice and the extreme look of anger that appeared on Phil's face.  After Phil walked out the door the signal officer got to the business of taking the report.

      Phil was moving through the passageways with a full head of steam.  Anyone who was in the path moved clear, not many people had ever seen him in this frame of mind.  Most of them not knowing how lucky they were.  As he stormed down one of the narrow passages he grabbed a handle and pushed the door open.  The Marines in the room jumped to attention.

      "Attention on deck!" one of the Marines hollered.

      "As you were," Phil said looking around the room.  "Where's your Captain?"

      "He's in the back room, sir," the Marine sergeant replied.  "Do you want me to get him?"

      "That's fine I'll get him," Phil said as he closed the door and headed to the rear of the compartment.  It was the security office, and the Marines in it could sense that Phil was ready to blow.  They did not know what was about to happen and none were sure that they wanted to be there as they exchanged looks.  As Phil got to the back of the office, he could see the Marine captain sitting at his desk filling out paper work.

      "Captain," Phil said in a quiet voice that still sent the Marine officer flying to his feet and spinning around.

      "Sir!"

      "I want that bastard of an excuse in my cabin, in irons, in fifteen minutes."

      "Sir?"

      "The aircraft that attacked our fighter last night was an American F-18 flown by a person with no ID.  Sound failure?"

      "You think it was the CIA that attacked Dancer?"

      "Right now, yes.  And I want that SOB to know that I'm through with this game of his.  The ball is in my court, and I've had it up to here with this 'classified mission' crap.  I want his head on a platter."

      "I'll have him there, Sir."

      Phil turned without any further response and headed for his cabin.  The Marine captain had known Phil for many years and had never seen him in this state before.  It was really eerie to see him this upset, and using this type of language.  Something he had never had to experience before, thank God.

      "Sergeant Rand!" the Marine captain called out.

      "Yes, sir?"

      "Grab a set of shackles and come aft."

      "Aye, aye, sir!"

      The Marine captain went over to the door that opened into the holding cells.  The officer walked down the hallway lined with cells until he arrived at the one occupied by the agent.  He shook his head as he looked at the disheveled agent.

      "You know, I've known the skipper for nearly six years," the Marine officer began, "and I can't recall anyone pissing him off as badly as you have."

      "What do you mean?" the agent asked.

      "He's ordered me to bring you to his cabin, in shackles.  I can't recall him ever doing that to anyone before."

      "You’re not seriously going to..."  the agent stopped short as the sergeant appeared with the shackles.

      "Oh yes.  And I might add it will give me some pleasure."  The Marine officer then took his key and placed it in the lock on the door.  As the tumblers turned in the lock, and the clunk of the latch withdrawing, the agent's heart sank into the depths of his soul.

       Phil was going to have it out with this CIA agent and was not about to hold back a thing.  His mind was reeling, to set up a fighter to be attacked by a foreign government was one thing, but shooting at another American!  That was so far beyond his comprehension that he could not even picture it.

      Once he reached his cabin he sat behind his desk and rubbed his nose.  He had to calm down a little or this whole thing could get even uglier than it already was.  An orderly walked in with a tray.

      "Did you want some lunch, sir?" the orderly asked.

      "Not right now, just bring me some coffee."

      "Right away, sir!"

      "Have J.W. and Red Sonja report here."

      "Aye, aye, sir!"  The orderly hurried off to carry out the skipper's orders.

      Phil was sitting in the silence of his office when the phone rang.  He knew that it was going to be the call he wanted to fleet.  He picked up the receiver slowly and brought it to his ear.

      "Morhardt," he spoke deliberately into the phone.

      "What the hell is happening out there, Phil?"  The voice on the other end of the line was firm and direct.

      "Admiral Hoffman?"  Phil asked

      "Yes."

      "Sir, this is a real mess," Phil began, "we have the CIA out here shooting down our aircraft."

      "What?  Who got shot down?"

      "Dancer is missing."

      There was an uneasy pause over the air.  Phil knew that Alan and the Admiral had an unusually close relationship.  He had won his first ace flying over the Persian Gulf while under the command of the Admiral.

      "What happened?"

      "The actual situation is still a little sketchy.  It seems that a proposed TARPS flight was set up to be attacked.  The primary attack was by a Marine F-eighteen.  The secondary attack was multiple SAMS.  At least one of the SAMS hit, or at least damaged, the TARPS bird.  We lost contact as it limped north into the Black Sea area."

      "The Black Sea?"

      "Yes, sir.  I think that the missile hit seriously damaged the electronics.  Maybe he was just heading for water, we just don't know right now."

      "Why do you suspect the CIA?"

      "The driver of the eighteen had no ID at all.  The other agent..."

      Phil was interrupted by a knock on the door. 

      "One moment , sir.  Enter!"  The door opened and the Marine captain escorted the shackled agent into the room.  Phil motioned to a chair on the other side of the desk.

      "What is the meaning of this!"  The agent demanded.

      "You can sit there quietly or you can sit in the brig, the choice is yours.  Captain, please stand by the door.  I'm expecting two air crew."

      "Yes, sir,"  the Marine officer closed the door and stood silently next to the door.

      "I'm sorry admiral, I just had the remaining agent brought to me in shackles."

      "You did what?"

      "I figured that he could do far less damage this way."

      The admiral laughed a little as he pictured the scene.  Then remembered when the shuttle was missing and the NASA people had crossed him.  He had the head of the NASA team that was on board the Nimitz, thrown into the brig.

      "Continue your report, Captain."

      "The agent that remained here on board told me, not in so many words, that the main objective of their mission they had was to create a cause.  Something that the public could get outraged about, to give the politicians a green light for a war."

      "They actually said that?"

      "I believe their exact words were 'We need a war to stimulate the economy', sir."

      "I see.  Is that why you had asked for them to be removed from your ship?"

      "Yes, sir."

      The admiral paused again.  This time he was pondering the picture as a whole.  This had obviously gotten completely out of control.  He had been taking notes from Phil's report and if he did not know him so well, he would have thought some of this was the product of an over active imagination.  But, he was one of the best and most stable officers to command one of the super war ships.  The admiral had even recommended him for command of the Lincoln.  Then it struck him, the relationship between Alan and Phyllis.

      "Has anyone told Red?"

      "Yes, sir.  As a matter of fact, she's on board right now.  She's already dropped the agent."

      "Another right hook?"

      "Yes, sir," Phil smiled as he responded.  Both men chuckled as they thought about it.

      "Well, what do you want to do at this point?"

      "What I want to do is drop this piece of garbage overboard, but I know that's not an option.  Can I keep him in the brig until we make it back to port?  I have already announced the situation to the crew."

      "I have no problem with that.  Just make sure that none of the security people are jeopardized protecting your prisoner."

      "I've already made that directive to the head of that division.  I would like to make this ... man answer for his actions in front of the media upon our return."

      "I'm not completely sure that we can do that.  But, I'll look into it, Phil.  Anything else?"

      "Not right now.  We are concentrating our efforts on finding Dancer and the other agent."

      "Keep me updated on your progress."

      "Yes, sir."

      "And when you dig up that bum of a pilot, tell him to call me."

      "Yes, sir."  Phil hung up the phone as a knock on the door echoed through the room.  The Marine officer opened the door and Phyllis and Jack entered the room.  "Please sit down.  I have some things I want to discuss with you folks."

      Phyllis sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room from the agent, she glared at him her eyes filled with hatred and distrust.  Jack sat in a chair that was somewhat centered in front of the desk.  He leaned back and made himself comfortable.

      "It would seem," Phil began as he looked at the agent, "that at least in part I've won.  You, sir, will be spending the rest of this cruise in the brig as a guest of my Marine security."

      "I'm an agent of the United States government and should be treated as such."

      "How do you recon that?" Phyllis barked with her Atlanta accent.

      "That's a fair question," Jack added, "How do you feel we should treat you?"

      "I should be allowed to be under house arrest, like an officer."

      "Prove to me you’re an officer," Phil challenged.

      "You have spoken with my office."

      "Show me some ID," Jack demanded.

      "You know I can not do that at this time."

      "Than you will be treated as a spy, a spy that to date has cost me at least one aircraft.  You will be held under the accordance of the Geneva Convention rules.  If you have any problems with that, take it up with my missing pilot."

      There was no response from the agent as Phil nodded to the Marine officer.  The officer took the agent by the arm lifted him out of the chair and opened the door. A surprised orderly stood there in the open door with his tray of cups and pitcher of coffee.  The officer motioned the orderly into the room then left with his charge to the brig.  The orderly quickly handed out the cups and poured the coffee.  He sat the tray down on the corner of the desk, sat the pitcher on in than excused himself.

      Phil picked up his cup and leaned back in his chair.  He took a sip of the fresh coffee then looked over at Alan's two friends sitting there sipping their coffee.

      "I wanted you two to know that I am not going to let up until we find him," Phil spoke in a soft and controlled voice. 

      "I know.  Thank you, sir," Jack responded.

      "You think he's all right?" Phyllis asked.

      "He was nearly over water when we lost radar contact," Phil answered, "and given the altitude that he had when he cruised off scope I would have to say that he made feet wet with little problem."

      "That gives me hope."

       The trawler chugged into the port carefully, obeying the no wake zone and in general doing as little as possible that might draw attention.  Several other trawler skippers waved in acknowledgement at Isomov as he piloted his ship toward the fuel docks.  Alan carefully watched out of one of the small portholes, he was careful not to get too close to the window and be seen.  As they started docking at the fuel area, he made himself scarce by getting into a forward compartment with no portholes, but having a vent to the deck.  As he went to the forward compartment and closed the door behind him, the only light coming in was from that small vent.  He laid down on a make shift bed, tried closing his eyes and get some rest.

      He listened to the sounds of the Russian fishing port.  He could hear Isomov talking about the lousy catch he had and how he was going back out to try some other areas.  He could hear a voice, an official sounding voice, speaking but was unable to actually hear what was being said.  There was an exchange between Isomov and the other man.  Alan wished that he could have heard the entire conversation.  He closed his eyes and laid back when the door swung open and Julia came in holding a finger up to her lips.

      "What's wrong?" Alan asked in a whisper.

      "They are asking if we saw your plane crash," Julia whispered back.

      "And?"

      "Father said no.  The military is saying that it is important to get the crew to them.  I don't think father trusts them."

      "But, the cold war is over."

      "Yes, but some of the politicians would use this to get more aid from America.  I must go back up and help get us back out to sea quickly."

      Julia started to leave, then turned back, walked over to Alan and stood there motionless in front of him.  She rocked up on her toes and leaned against him.  Their lips met in a gentile kiss then she quickly returned to the pilothouse.

      For the next fifteen minutes, Alan listened and waited as the refuel process went on.  It seemed like a near eternity before he heard the engines fire and felt the ship back away from the dock.  He waited to feel the ship start to power up out of the no wake zone before he left the small room.  As he entered the passageway he was met by Julia who smiled at him.  If he had never believed in love at first sight, he was beginning to now.  This woman had completely taken him by storm and he sensed that he, in some way, had the same affect on her.  He walked onto the bridge and walked up to the window next to Isomov.

      "What did they say?"

      "There are several reports of an American fighter that was in a dog fight and was last seen headed toward the Black Sea.  Our government wants to be the one to find and return the crew."  Alan was unsure why Isomov was speaking about him in the third person.  He was sure that he had a good reason.  "My government wishes to return the crew because it will certainly give them special considerations in negotiations with the American government."

      "You don't approve?"

      "No.  I don't believe in using men such as you as pawns of governments.  It distresses me that the politicians feel they can make situations to fit their needs."

      Alan did not know how to respond.  Here was a man whom he hardly knew and yet was being sheltered at some considerable possible danger.  He wanted to say something that would allow his new friend know how much he appreciated it.  But, before he could utter a word Isomov continued speaking.

      "There are several countries looking for you.  It is said that Iraq has put quite a bounty on your head, for shooting down a passenger liner in their air space."

      "That is such a lie!"  Alan snapped.  "I shot down a fighter after it fired on me.  Then I was hit by a missile."

      "That sounds more believable.  I saw your plane on fire when it hit the water.  Unless, the Iraqi's have started outfitting their airliners with rockets, their story has little credence.  But, we still need to use caution.  There will be plenty of ships, from several countries, looking for you.  We will have two advantages."

      "What are those?"

      "One, we know where you are.  Two, we are not going to be heading into the area where everyone is looking for you."

      "How long will it take us to get to safe waters?"

      "I think that it would be safe to say that there will be no safe water until we reach your ship.  I would think that this seals the fact that we will not be able to return to our country."

      "You could always turn me over.  You owe me nothing."

      Isomov looked at Alan for a long minute, then smiled a little.

      "That thought crossed my mind.  But, I realized that Julia has never been as happy as she is now.  Besides, there's something about you I like and this is everyone's best chance to have a better life." 

      "It sounds as if you have a rather over glamorous image of America.  The streets are not paved in gold, it is still hard to make ends meet.  Maybe not as bad as in Russia, but it is still rough."

      Silence fell like a lead weight in the pilot house.  Isomov felt as if he had been transported back to the war.  He recalled standing on the bridge of the large heavy cargo transport as it cut through the frigid waters of the north Atlantic.  It was nearly noon as the last sliver of land disappeared behind the horizon.  For some reason Isomov felt that the only things missing from the picture were the damaged ship and a German U-boat.

CHAPTER 4

       Nestled in the woods near Langley, Virginia the main gate entrance to the CIA head quarters is illuminated by bright security lights.  The silence of the very early morning hours was broken by a  black military sedan pulling up to the gate.  A guard left the gate shack, examined the credentials of both the driver and passenger.  He returned the papers to the driver, saluted, his salute was returned by the passenger as the gate opened and the sedan entered the base.  The car wound its way through the area until it arrived in front of the building with the title "HEADQUARTERS" in large letters on the front, over the entrance.

      A soldier rushed to the side of the sedan, opened the door and stood at attention with a proper salute.  Admiral Hoffman stepped out of the vehicle and returned the salute, as he headed for the entrance.  He crossed the lobby and entered an elevator where he pushed the button for the second floor.

      When the Admiral arrived at a door on the second floor marked "director of foreign operations" he opened it and entered.  The man sitting at the desk looked up and stood to greet the admiral.  He looked as if he had just stepped out of GQ, something that irritated the admiral who looked a little disheveled.

      "Admiral Hoffman," the director smiled.  "I'm still at a loss as to why all of the hast in this meeting."  He motioned to a chair as the admiral sat down, he also sat.

      "Either you are as cold and devious as the men you have out on the Lincoln, or you have no knowledge of what your people are up to."

      "I am afraid that I'm not sure what you are talking about."

      "I am talking about two, at least two, of your people who are attempting to manufacture a war at the expense of fine Naval officers!"

      There was a silence that fell over the room.  The director looked at the admiral and sat back in this chair.  He placed his hands together as if he were praying and brought them to his lips.

      "What is your point?"

      "The point is I am missing a seasoned combat pilot and a thirty-seven-million dollar aircraft.  Your people are responsible for that crew being placed in jeopardy.  Right now, the agent remaining  on the ship has been placed in custody in the brig.  Mostly for his own safety, but also in the name of damage control."

      "Damage control?"

      "He can't do any further damage where he is."

      "This is not an admission, but if we did have agents out there helping to start a war, why would that upset you?  You are a carrier military man and are surely aware that without an occasional conflict somewhere, the peace loving politicians would shut down both of our livelihoods."

      "I can not believe what I am hearing!  All of you people are so far out to lunch you could never find your way back."

      "I granted you this meeting because you insisted on it, because of your reputation I got myself here at this hour to accommodate one of the Navy's most respected officers.  Making accusations against my personnel and holding them in custody is going to cut this short."

      "These are not accusations.  First, we have several witnesses to them saying they were attempting to generate a war.  Secondly," the admiral leaned forward and looked the director in the eyes, "where is your pilot and F-eighteen?"

      The director's head noticeably jerked back as the admiral leaned toward him.  He had won that volley and realized that the director had no where to back-peddle.  He took a deep breath and shifted his weight as he got ready to stand.

      "I still have no idea what you are talking about, as I said< I was speaking hypothetically."  By now the director could not look the admiral in the eye, a sign of defeat.

      "Bull shit, I insisted on this meeting to see what your reaction would be and now that I have seen it, I know that my instincts are correct.  My next stop is with the joint chiefs, and I'm sure that they will be asking for your presence."  As the admiral stood in his victory he was larger than ever.  He proved to be a much more formidable combatant than the director had anticipated.  "The advantage I have is that you can not hide this problem under the carpet.  A converted F-fourteen TARPS plane, your F-eighteen and three missing pilots is not something that the appropriations committee might be likely to miss.  Good day, sir."  The admiral left the room and made his way to the car that would take him back north to Washington, D.C.  The director sat there recovering from the barrage for several moments then picked up the phone and dialed a number.  It rang through and was answered.

      "Air base one-twenty-three," a voice announced.

      "This is Langley," the director spoke deliberately.  "Did flight nine return last night?"

      "Negative."

      "Were there any transmissions?"

      "Negative."

      "Thank you.  If you hear from it contact me immediately."

      "Yes, sir."

      The director hung up the phone and sat back in his chair and took a labored breath.  This was going to be a problem, and right now he could not even get in contact with his field agents to recall them.  Suddenly their little plan was crumbling with no way of ensuring success or escape.  Not since the Iran-Contra scandal has there been such the potential for political backlash.

      He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed another number.  He waited for several moments as the switching completed, then finally made its way through.

      "General," he began, "we may have a problem."  He listened for a couple minutes.  "I know that you are in a dangerous situation.  I'm doing all that I can.  But, that fighter managed to escape north, now we have a large scale search and rescue operation in progress."  Again he listened.  "I'm not sure what went wrong, but we have to ensure that no one knows that our agreements were ever made."  He waited as the person on the other end responded.  "I understand.  Good day, sir."  He hung up the phone and rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

      He picked up the steel trash can from behind his desk and placed in the center of his desk.  Then he pulled his keys out of his pocket and selected the one that would unlock the safe against the wall.  Silently he stood up then crossed the room to the safe and unlocked it.  He opened the middle drawer and rifled through the files until he found the one labeled "operation static" and pulled the file out of the drawer.  He returned to the desk and opened the center drawer.  Next to the automatic pistol, was a can of lighter fluid.  He pulled both out of the drawer and sat them next to the trash can.

      Slowly he pulled the pages out of the file and let them fall loosely into the trash can.  When all of the papers were in the can, he placed the file folder on the desk and opened the lighter fluid then emptied the contents on the papers.  When the can was empty, it, too, was dropped into the can.  The director then lit a match and dropped it into the can and watched as the papers burned.  He sighed heavily and sat back down in his chair and picked up his pistol.

      The odor of the burning papers filled the sterile hallway.  Then the wisps of smoke seeped out from under the director's door.  The silence was broken first by the muffled bang of the fatal shot that would claim the director's life.  Several moments later the silence was again broken by the fire alarm.

      The black sedan was making good time in the early morning as it headed north on I-95 toward Washington D.C.  In the back seat the admiral sat quietly looking over his notes he had written down during his talk with Phil.  He reached into his brief case and picked up a pen and made a few more notes.  He was irritated by people who usurped their authority.  He looked out of the side window as his mind wondered back to the shuttle incident.

      The shuttle had an electrical malfunction and crashed into the watery depths of the south Pacific.  When the NASA team arrived, they tried to blame the crew for the problems.  The tension  built until the admiral had the head of the team thrown into the brig.  He had to make a decision between the NASA officials and officers that he knew.  Then a smile crossed his lips as he recalled that the result had been that his daughter had ended up marrying the lost shuttle's commander.  God, was that pilot a pain he thought shaking his head in wonder as how it is that such a good aviator could be so far from the perfect officer. 

      The admiral was brought back to the present by the ringing of the car phone.  He looked at the phone and grimaced, wondering who could be calling at this hour as he looked at his watch.  It was nearly quarter to four in the morning.  He picked up the phone.

      "Hello?"

      "Admiral Hoffman?" A very official voice asked.

      "Yes."

      "This is the CID chief at Langley," the voice continued.  "We understand you just had a meeting with the director of foreign operations here."

      "Yes I did."  The admiral wondered about the particular line of questions.  The CID, Criminal Investigation Division, of the Army only got involved in felony crimes, so their involvement in this case was certainly out of place, not to mention that it was slightly out of their jurisdiction.

      "What was his state when you departed his office, sir?"

      "He was a little put out.  I have him over a barrel with regard to an investigation that I am conducting."

      "I am not sure what investigation you are talking about, sir.  But the director is dead."  There was a detectable note of shock by the long silence from the admiral.  "It appears that he destroyed some papers and then committed suicide."

      "I see."  Although this was as good as a confession, it made the situation slightly more complicated.  "Do you have any idea what the file was on?"

      "The contents of the file were burned beyond any recognition.  But, the file folder was left on the desk.  It was labeled Operation Static." 

      "Static?"

      "Yes, sir.  Do you have any idea what it might mean?"

      "I think so.  Contact your Pentagon chief.  I'll discuss my thoughts with him."

      "Thank you, sir," the agent paused for a moment.  "This is rather odd.  Isn't it?"

      "If I'm correct, it may be stranger than you think."  The admiral pressed the end button on the phone and contemplated the implications of what had just transpired.  With his personnel unreachable and his fighter identified, he must have felt this was the easiest way out.  If this was enough to send him over the edge, there must be a lot more not yet uncovered.  The analogy of the tip of the iceberg came to mind, as he wondered how much was hidden from view.  A chill ran down his spine.

      The admiral raised the phone and dialed a number, then held the phone to his ear.  There was a series of beeps and he answered by punching a code.  Several moments passed by and there was the ringing through.

      "USS Lincoln, communications.  Petty officer MacDonald," the voice sounded very distance and scratchy.

      "This is Admiral Hoffman.  I want to speak with Captain Morhardt."

      "Aye, sir!" the petty officer snapped back.  "Hold one moment, I'll get him on the line, sir."  There was only about a minute and a half of pause.

      "Morhardt," Phil's voice broke the static silence.

      "Phil, I have some orders I want you to follow."

      "Yes, sir," Phil recognized the admiral's voice.  He also detected the urgency of the forthcoming commands.

      The sun was approaching the height of its travels.  It shown bright and hot on the wreckage that was still being guarded by the joint US forces.  The men had scavenged all of the necessary recorders and papers not destroyed in the crash.  Nerves had settled somewhat and most of the movements that were happening out beyond the secured area were not drawing so much attention.  

      James, suddenly noticed that something moving out along one of the ridges, raised his rifle, looked through the powerful scope and focused on the movement.  Expecting to see some sort of desert animal looking for some shade or food.  Instead, he found a helmet, a Russian helmet moving across the ridge.  He gave a soft bird whistle and pointed to the movement.  As he watched through his scope, the soldier on the ridge was soon joined by several more.  When one of the men tried moving behind a large boulder, he could see that the uniform was that of the Iraqi infantry.

      It only took the Marines and Seals a couple of minutes to get tuned into the approach of the other soldiers.  Remaining nearly motionless as the Iraqi patrol moved closer to the crash site, the snipers as well as the riflemen began selecting their targets.  The Marine officer reached for the radio pack on one of the soldier's back and pulled the handset to his ear.

      "Bird-dog one to Spearhead, over," the Marine officer whispered into the handset then waited for an answer.

      "This is Hawkeye one-seven, what's your traffic Bird-dog?"

      "We need a dust-off.  We have hostiles approaching our position.  No fire received yet."

      "Copy all, we'll relay to Spearhead, over."

      The Marine officer knew that it was going to take a little time for the message to get relayed, to get orders to the helicopters, and for the rescuers to arrive.  He also knew that this may not be time that they had.  If the men coming over the ridge were simply a solo patrol, things weren't too bad.  But, if they were an advance group for a larger force, then there were problems. 

      This train of thought was interrupted by the sound of an approaching jet, a sound that started low and distant and grew steadily.  The SEAL team leader turned his head from side to side with his eyes closed, using his hearing as a type of radar to locate the aircraft.  It was coming in from the south, from behind the advancing troops.  Then the sound of the engines caught his attention, the engines were not American they were Soviet.

      "MiG's," the SEAL officer whispered to the Marine officer next to him.  The two men looked at each other for a moment and then the Marine officer nodded in agreement.

      It was only a couple of minutes later that the MiG-21 screamed over the heads of the Americans.  It went past them, then climbed and started to turn to the right in a lazy sweeping turn.  It was only  a few moments later that the ground troops stopped and looked at one of their group then looked at the crash site then headed for cover.  They now knew that the Americans were there.

      "This is not good," the Marine officer whispered as he got ready to call in on the radio.  "This is Bird-dog one to Hawkeye one-seven, over."

      "Hawkeye one-seven," the voice reported back.

      "We are totally defensive.  We have at least one MiG twenty-one over our position, over."

      "Copy all.  Hang in there we'll get you out in a few."

      The two officers again looked at each other, and took a deep breath.  They knew that this was going to get bad before it got any better.  That thought had barely gone through their heads, when one of the Iraqi soldiers fired his AK-47 in their direction.  As soon as the rounds were fired, James pulled the trigger of his rifle.  The Iraqi who had been in the center of his scope fell backwards, the bullet driving deep into the center of his chest.  Suddenly, there was a full-fledged fire fight raging.

      The fire fight lasted only a couple of minutes.  But, in those minutes that last, for what seems like hours, the soldiers exchanged fatal gun fire. The American troops using their weapons like skilled surgeons, as the attacking force was quickly whittled away.  The few remaining Iraqi soldiers retreated over the ridge.  The Americans ceased their assault, looking uneasily to the sky, watching and waiting for the inevitable.  The Soviet built delta winged, single engine, multi purpose fighter-bomber was up there somewhere certainly poised ready for attack.  The low rumble of the engine was an eerie testimony to its presence, the glint of sunlight in the distant sky the only indicator of its location.

      "Is everyone okay?" the Marine officer called out.

      There was a hail of positive replies.  James was looking through his powerful scope and assessing the casualty count for the Iraqis.  He could see at least eleven lifeless bodies lying on the ground.  He looked around the area the Americans had defended and saw that no one had been hit.  It was obvious that the Iraqis did not have visual contact with the Americans.  They had fired into the area hoping hit the Americans by luck not skill.

      Raj maneuvered his MiG-21 so that he could engage the enemy ground troops.  He had seen them when he had flown over the site of the downed American fighter and had reported their presence to the ground support.  Then he heard over the radio that his soldiers had come under fire and were ordered to retreat back over the ridge.  His brown eyes looked over the top of his oxygen mask, his olive skin hidden from site by the Soviet made flight helmet that framed his face.  He reached up to the top of the helmet and lowered the dark blast shield, now his face was completely hidden from view.

      He knew that his Soviet MiG was far superior to the Americans on the ground and he would make sure that the training he had received from the Soviets would not go to waste.  He reached forward to the control panel and armed his bombs.  Then he looked out of the side of the canopy and rolled his plane to the left and headed for the ground.  Raj concentrated on the ground troops, watching the weapon sights on his heads up display. 

      He suddenly had a feeling that he was not alone up there in the air.  He looked to the right and saw an American F-14 Tomcat, its pilot looking at him, a raised hand waving at a now enraged Raj.  Where had he come from?  Suddenly the threat warning panel lit up on his console indicating a weapons lock coming from the rear.  He looked into one of the mirrors mounted on the canopy that allowed the pilot to see behind him.  Sitting in wait a couple hundred yards behind him was a second Tomcat.  His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

      "Good afternoon MiG five-eight," a voice came over his radio in Iraqi.  The voice had an odd accent, but, it was polite.  "This is US Navy Hawkeye one-seven, our fighters are escorting you over our rescue team.  Seeing how they are on Turkish soil, any hostile action could result in a rather nasty situation." 

      The voice was condescending and Raj could feel his blood pressure rising.  Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that getting shot down was not the best thing for his country, or for him.  He reached down switching off his targeting computers which disarmed his bombs, pulled back on the stick, and flew over the crash site and beyond. 

      The Americans on the ground watched as the trio of aircraft swept down on their position, waiting for the aircraft to drop their bombs on them.  It was Roy who first noticed that there was something amiss.  The aircraft leveled off smoothly and much higher than normal for a bombing run.  As the trio passed over them, Roy saw the fighter  trailing the other two begin rocking side to side.  It was waving to them.

      "It's the cavalry, sir!" Roy shouted as he pointed at the fighters.  "Those are a pair of our 'Cats escorting that MiG."

      "Don't let your guard down," the Seal officer ordered.  "We don't know for sure what they have on the other side of that ridge."

      As roar of the jet engines faded, the sound of the approaching helicopters could be heard, those in front thin and fast, vicious -- and effective --  Cobra gun ships.  Behind them were the Hueys that would pick up the team, and behind them, more gun ships.  The first three  Cobras raced overhead in the direction the Iraqis had retreated.

      The team members started moving around getting ready to board their helicopters.  They  heard some AK fire then watched as the Cobras spewed fire from their 20 millimeter Gatling guns, casings falling like water flowing from a spout.  The Hueys hit the ground, quickly loaded their grateful human cargo and in a matter of seconds were lifting off and whisking the Americans back to safety.

      When they got to altitude, Roy looked in the direction of the fire fight underway with the departing Cobras.  What he saw, about a dozen military trucks and a couple armored vehicles, made him swallow hard.  The armored vehicles and a couple of trucks were on fire and there were bodies littering the field.  There had to be a whole company of Iraqi military.  Roy exchanged looks with his officer and both men knew what the other was thinking, it could have been a mighty bad day for the team.  They were lucky.

       Admiral Hoffman sat in the large conference room, reading papers stacked in front of him.  He sipped coffee as he searched the reports, not really sure what he was looking for.  Sitting around the table in the tense silence, were seven other Naval officers also looking for clues in stacks of reports.  There was a knock on the door as it opened.  The admiral looked up, irritated by the intrusion.

      "Lieutenant, I said that I did not ..." the admiral began with a stern tone in his voice.

      "Sir," the lieutenant interrupted.  "I know that you had ordered no interruptions.  But, this is very important.  Captain Morhardt is on the line, there seems to have been a fire fight at the crash site."

      The admiral sat upright and reached for the phone.

      "Phil?"  The admiral asked.  "What the hell is going on out there now?"

      "I'm just getting early reports from my away teams that there was a fire fight at the crash site."

      "Are there any casualties?"

      "I have none reported from our teams.  But, I have reports of heavy numbers on the other side."

      "Get a full report on the wire to me as soon as your team leaders get down."

      "Aye, aye, Sir."

      The admiral hung up the phone and sat back in his chair.  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and could feel a migraine coming on.  He looked up at the lieutenant and motioned him to come over to him.

      "I want you to go to the White House," the admiral began slowly.  "Let the President and the secretary of State know what has happened.  I'm sure we will get a complaint from the Iraqi embassy."

      "Sir!"

      "I'll be meeting with the Joint Chiefs in an hour and a half.  I'll brief them then."

      "Sir!"  The lieutenant turned and headed off to complete his assignment.

      "Well, gentlemen," the admiral began, "I think we have a problem.  I need some answers, or explanations, for my meeting.   And remember, we are looking for anything that mentions or refers to operation static."  He looked at the seven officers who quickly dove back into the stacks of reports.  The admiral paused a moment took a swallow of coffee, then picked up a new report.  He started reading when something caught his attention.  It was a report of several Marine aircraft that were transferred to an Air Force command in Greece.  He picked up another report that he had seen before, it had stated that a shipment from a Marine air base had been diverted and never received.  It was unclear what that shipment was or where it had gone, but the shipment was diverted by the CIA.  In particular, the director of foreign operations.

      "Bingo!" the admiral smiled.  "I found where the fighter came from."  The rest of the officers seemed to get a new inspiration.  "Nolan, I want a list of what former air bases have CIA coverage in the Med area."

      "Sir!" the officer snapped as he jumped up and headed out of the room.

      The admiral thought about the whole thing.  He was still going to beat the CIA director, even if his opponent was dead.  He was going to have that entire group for lunch.  Hopefully there would not be a full fledged war because of what the director and his cronies had begun.

       The small fishing trawler made its way West through the nearly smooth waters of the Black Sea.  The sky was blue with only a few clouds spotting it.  Off in the distance another trawler was making its way in the same direction.  Isomov studied the other ship through his binoculars, it was not one that he knew.  He surmised that it was one from another port, returned to the cockpit, reached for the throttles and pulled them back, then turned the ship to the right.

      "What is it?" Alan asked.

      "I'm not sure who that other ship is," Isomov answered.  "We are going to lay our nets and at least act as if we are fishing."

      "Okay, what can I do?"

      "Stay here inside.  If that is a government ship, they will have long range cameras.  What we do not need is to have you getting photographed, it could end our journey very quickly if my suspicions are correct."

      Alan could not find a single point that was arguable.  He knew that the Soviet Navy had ships everywhere and that, for the most part, their intelligence-gathering ships were nothing more than converted trawlers.  He recalled the trawler that he had boarded when the Soviets had helped in the rescue of the shuttle crew.  It was only slightly larger than Isomov's ship, yet it was heavily laden with sophisticated electronics. 

      It had been a very strange night and the Soviet crew had their nerves frayed to the end by an eerie electronic jamming.  Alan had never been able to explain the occurrences, but was on board when they went through one of the failures.  It was very similar to descriptions of encounters from the Bermuda triangle.  He had been present at the debriefing with the shuttle crew afterwards, but they never publicly revealed what truly had happened.  It was in the closed briefings with the admiral and a couple stuffed shirts from the Department of Defense, that the real story may have come out.

      The shuttle commander was one of Alan's closest friends, yet Jim had never answered his questions about the crash.  In fact, Jim had always changed the subject tactfully avoiding having to say anything.  He found that frustrating, especially from someone who was considered a close friend.  There had been a secret that the shuttle crew had shared, one that they never told anyone.  Even Phyllis, with whom he had been involved, would not talk about what happened.

      A sweet fragrance brought Alan back to the present.  He looked around the cabin and saw that Julia had joined him in the pilot house.  She was wearing blue jeans and a shirt tied seductively, exposing her tanned flat stomach.  He opened his mouth to speak, but not a single sound emerged.  There was an odd feeling that swept over him like a crashing wave, followed by a feeling deep in his chest.  It was like a chill that affected only his heart as it tried to pound its way out of his chest.  This was a feeling that he had never had before and he was confused by it.

      Julia smiled and looked at the floor, a shy school girl in a woman's body.  She raised her eyes, they were twinkling like a city at night, the window to her heart.  Alan thought he could see what words could not say.  Could it be that she really believed he held her world in his hands?  This young woman was quickly becoming the center of his life, he felt as if he had been trapped in a whirlpool, was being sucked into a crazily spinning vortex, filled with emotions foreign to him and he was uncertain what to do with them.  He had always known what to say and was quick with the clever repartee.  But, this was so completely overwhelming that he was at a loss for words, something that all of his associates would pay admission to see.  He smiled to himself.

      Julia glanced at her father, who could only shake his head and smile.  She blushed as she realized that her father could see through her actions to see the woman that was starting to emerge.  She looked around and saw that they were starting to circle slowly.

      "What is happening?" Julia asked.

      "We are going to lay the nets and act like a fishing ship," Isomov answered.  "I'm uneasy about that ship off the port side.  I don't recognize it and I do not wish to hinder our chances."

      "Should I get the nets ready?"

      "Yes.  I want to set it up just as we would if Alan were not here."

       Martin was a seasoned GRU officer he looked across the distance at the trawler.  He raised his binoculars and studied the ship carefully, watching for something that could be out of character.  He knew that Isomov's ship had been in the area near the American fighter's possible crash site.  He had heard of Isomov, he had never heard anything that would mark him as a dissenter, but never anything that could label him a supporter.

      Martin was thin and his five foot ten frame was a little deceptive.  His hair was brown, but had been bleached by the years of sea, sun and wind.  His gray eyes showed the concentration and refused admission to his inner most thoughts.  He was joined on the observation area by the ship's captain, who was also a seasoned veteran of the seas.

      "We have the information you requested, comrade," the captain said as he handed a sheet of paper to Martin.

      Without a word, Martin took the paper from the captain, lowered his binoculars, and then started studying the report.  It was from the agent who had talked to Isomov when he had been in port refueling.  Isomov had reported that the catch was very bad in the southern areas and he had ceased trawling.  He had also denied seeing the American fighter crash.  Martin looked up at the trawler sitting high in the water.  That would mean that she was light, which lent credibility to Isomov's story.  The only odd thing was that Isomov had run at best speed for several hours, uncharacteristic for a fishing trawler, especially one that had a bad catch and was out trying to make up.

      "I want a full background report on this Isomov," Martin said, his voice dry and  commanding.

      "You don't feel he's telling the truth?"

      "I'm not sure, it strikes me as odd that he should travel so fast and on a straight course."

      The captain shrugged his shoulders and turned to go order the report.

      "You do not agree?"  Martin asked.

      "I don't know.  I haven't given it much thought."  The captain paused and looked at the deck.  "It could be that he knows the areas to go to.  Maybe he heard from another fisherman.  There is a large amount of luck and instinct involved with being successful at commercial fishing.  Also, for the most part, they are rather secretive about their better fishing areas."

      "He did not talk to anyone other than the GRU officer at the fuel dock.  He was in a tremendous hurry to clear the dock.  It all seems a little odd to me."

      "I suppose.  Or it could be nothing more than coincidence.  I'll go order that report."

      "Thank you, captain."  Martin raised the binoculars and returned to concentrating on Isomov's ship.

      As he watched, Isomov and Julia were going about the normal net-laying operations.  It took nearly ten minutes to get the nets set, then the ship sat there for another fifteen minutes before starting to reel in the nets.  Martin observed the scanty haul the efforts produced.  Isomov went into the pilothouse and moved the ship south, in the direction of Martin's ship.  This was either a very brave and intelligent move, or a deliberate notice of complete innocence.  As Isomov's ship made its turn to the right to start, again, to lay nets, the captain rejoined Martin and handed him the report that was several pages long on Isomov.  Martin read the report carefully looking for anything that might give him a clue as to what type of man he was dealing with.

      "Did you read this?"  Martin asked the captain. 

      "Not all of it."

      "He was one of the merchant marines during the war."

      "I saw that."

      "It says here that his ship was saved by an American pilot.  You think it's possible that he's repaying some sort of debt?"

      "Possibly.  But, why here and now?  There is no indication of any alliance to the Americans."

      There was a long silence as various possibilities were contemplated.  Martin watched while Isomov and Julia laid their nets and repeated their efforts from the previous attempt.  During the securing of the nets, as Isomov was getting ready to change areas, he maneuvered his ship broadside and close to Martin's ship.

      "How have you faired in these waters?"  Isomov shouted across the distance.

      Martin was a little embarrassed, he had been so enthralled in watching Isomov that he had neglected to lay their nets in imitation of a fishing ship.  He had to recover quickly.

      "We've had little luck, and our recovering equipment is being repaired."  Martin raised his hands and smiled.  "We are sitting here saving fuel.  How are you doing?"

      "It was bad in my usual areas, so I'm trying some new ones.  I think I'll head a little further south .. Maybe west."

      "Good luck!"

      "Good luck!"

      As Isomov powered up and crossed in front of Martin's ship, he moved with deliberate near defiance.  Martin knew that he could not follow Isomov now without tipping his hand.  He had to concede this round.  Perhaps it was as innocent as it appeared, perhaps he was reading more into a coincidence than was really there.  Then again, he could be matched up against a very cunning and shrewd opponent.

       Isomov looked cautiously behind him as they powered away from the other trawler.  It was a major victory and he realized that they had to be much more careful.  He had made several mistakes, mistakes that he could not make again if he was going to pull this off.  The next time the KGB would not make the same errors that gave them away this time.

      Alan walked onto the bridge and looked at Isomov.  He watched as the veteran of the seas commanded the ship deftly, playing a game he hoped would lead to his return to his ship.

      "Will they follow?" Alan asked

      "I do not think that ship will.  But, certainly another will be sent.  We must be much more careful now."

      "Are you sure that it wasn't just another trawler?"

      "Very sure.  They said they had a poor catch, and they were sitting low in the water.  They were running heavy.  Also they had no one trying to repair the supposed broken equipment.  They were definitely a KGB monitoring ship."

      Alan looked at the ship as it sat there idle.  He would never know how close they had come.

CHAPTER 5

       Waves of the Black Sea lapped lazily at the shore of northern Turkey.  The sun had warmed the beach to a comfortable temperature and, having completed its task, was now low in the sky finishing its daily journey.  Gradually, the tranquility of the scene was disturbed by a low rumble.  At first the sound was nearly undetectable, then grew steadily, at one point startling the birds resting on the sand into flight.  The sound grew in intensity until it reached a near deafening level as a pair of A-6 Intruders charged overhead, making their way south, barely thirty feet off the ground.  They were flying slower than if they were on a bombing mission, but also flying with real resolve.  That resolve: to find their missing shipmate.

      Kirk Andrews was an Annapolis graduate, and had never wanted anything but to be in the Navy.  When he had passed the aviation tests he was exhilarated.  As a child, he had always loved going to air shows and watching the Navy pilots perform.  His black hair and hazel eyes made his stocky build a little less obvious.  He was a quiet sort who never hung out with many people, only his bombardier, known as BN's in the military.  With his gravely Minnesota voice, he often spoke of his love of life, otherwise know as flying.

      In many ways the pilots, or "drivers," of these odd looking bombers had to have, as their detractors would claim, a good number of "screws loose."  They loved flying low enough that often they would return with branches stuck or even bent around parts of their aircraft.  There are even reported cases where they had dropped their bombs and had their own aircraft damaged by the shrapnel of their bombs.  Indeed, there was an innate tenacity and a reputation that went with flying the A-6, something that added up to a pit bull.  Kirk was one.

      As he led the flight south he thought about the missing pilot, a man he hardly knew.  Many of his colleagues knew him, the modern-day Navy flying ace.  Alan was an example of the type of man it takes to fight for control over the regions of the clouds, intelligent, controlled and never opting for second place.  In combat there is no second place, just the man who brings his fighter home and the man who goes swimming.  Kirk could not even begin to believe that Alan had been shot down, it was inconceivable for him.  He would do anything, now, to make sure that the missing ace came home.

      "King pin five-oh-one, this is Hawkeye one-seven," the fatigue in the radio operator's voice was evident.

      "This is five-oh-one," Kirk responded.

      "Home base is calling it a wrap for today.  They feel that we can't do more after dark."

      "Roger," Kirk responded, not really wanting to give up yet, but, at the same time knowing that there were two factors to consider -- first that flying around in the dark was most unlikely to be productive.  Second, there was going to be the need for fuel, food, and sleep soon.

      "Snake-eye," Kirk spoke into his microphone.

      "What's on your mind, Postman?"  The pilot of the other bomber, Sam, answered.

      "I guess we're calling it a day."

      "So I hear."

      "Let's take it up to fifteen-thousand and take it in."

      "I'm right beside you."

      The pair of bombers nosed up and increased their power, climbing quickly and noisily.  As they climbed away from the earth, they made a slow and gentle banked turn to the west, toward their ship.  As they left, a feeling that swept over both crews that they were leaving a part of them behind somewhere in that desert.  In the silence, all four men knew they would return in the morning to continue their vigil.  They knew that Alan would do the same for them if it had been one of them down there.

      It was half-way into the turn that something caught the rays of the retreating sun and reflected them skyward.  Sam's BN was gazing out of the right side canopy watching the ground and saw the glint.

      "I've got something!"  He shouted into the intercom.

      "What?" Sam asked.

      "I don't know.  I just caught a flash on the ground."

      "Okay,"  Sam paused as he looked up at Kirk's aircraft.  "Postman," Kirk said as he pushed his microphone button.

      "Yeah?"

      "Cookie just spotted something down below.  Should we check it out?"

      "Absolutely!  Hawkeye one-seven, this is Kingpin five-oh-one."

      "Go ahead five-oh-one."

      "We have a ground contact that we are going in to check out."

      "Copy, when you're over the contact, squawk two-three-six."

      "Roger, two-three-six.  Now let's see what's down there," Kirk muttered to himself as he lowered the nose of his bomber and throttled back.  "Snake, you guys take the lead.  You saw it, I'll follow you in."

      "Roger!"  Sam rolled his aircraft to the right; a moment later, Kirk followed his turn.

      Watching the altimeter needle swing counterclockwise, showing their decent, it seemed to Kirk to take an eternity to get back down to the ground.  He looked ahead and saw Sam's bomber showing the way to the area where they hoped to find their missing colleague, or at least his fighter.  As they reached twenty feet, they cut their throttles slightly.  Whatever it was that was down there they wanted to see it on the first pass.  The sun was retreating quickly and they knew that they most likely would only get this one opportunity.

      It was Donald, Kirk's BN, who saw it first.  Something laying on the ground just to their right.

      "I got!"  Donald yelled.  "At one O'clock."  He was pointing at the debris scattered on the ground.

      Kirk looked in the direction Donald was indicating.  In the failing light he could see something, but what was it.  He pressed his microphone button.

      "Snake, one O'clock," Kirk gently moved his bomber to the right.  "Let's put it between us and identify it."

      "Roger."

      As the two bombers approached the site, Donald set his transponder to the frequency that the Hawkeye had requested and placed his finger on the transmitter button so that the instant they were over the target, he could send the signal.  This, called "squawking," sent a continuous beacon-type signal out that would allow the Hawkeye to get an exact location on the origin, which could then be transferred to a computer-aided plotting device.  This done, the Hawkeye could guide other aircraft to that precise location.

      As the bombers passed over the site, Donald held the button for a second and Kirk looked over the debris as they raced by it.  It was undoubtedly from an aircraft, but which one and what it was, was impossible to tell from their vantage point and speed.

      "Kingpin five-oh-one, this is Hawkeye one-seven.  I have locked in on your signal.  Were you able to ID the target?"

      "Negative," Kirk began, "Not really enough it there to tell what exactly it was.  It's getting dark down here pretty quick, now."

      "Sounds like that's enough for today, come on home."

      "On our way."  Kirk paused for a moment.  "Okay, Snake.  Let's bring it up and I'll take the lead."

      "Roger."

      As the pair of bombers climbed they seemed to go back in time, at least for the moment, ascending into the rays of the retreating sun, rather like walking up to a campfire from the darkness of the forest.  But the beauty was short-lived.  Before the planes were half-way to the Mediterranean coast, they were sealed in the darkness of the night, the only light was that coming from the aircraft, the sliver of a moon, and the stars in the heavens.

      Alan sat on the edge of the railing at the bow of the trawler, the sky to the west was now a red glow into which they now steered.  As the ship's bow cutting through the water it threw a mist upward, making the air thick with the smell of salt.  He had been in aviation for so long and away from this type of seamanship that this part of sailing was like a long lost bitter-sweet memory.  It made him start to think about home and the times he spent sailing on the Chesapeake Bay. 

      At home he had a large, black, slightly psychotic cat, Max, that lived with him in his condominium back in Virginia Beach, Virginia.  He smiled as he thought about his foster daughter, Lucy and the very special relationship that they shared.  She had followed him through his moves in the Navy with her daughter, Alan's granddaughter, and was so very often the strength when he needed someone.  Like when he would loose his confidence about his abilities to deal with something or had his heart broken, she was there for him and when she had needed him he was always available for her.

      How was he going to tell Lucy about Julia?  Then he got very solemn, what was she going through right now?  Did she know that he was missing, or worse did she think he was dead.  That would be devastating for the young lady.  Now, more than ever, he had to find someway of letting her know that he was alive and well.  But, there wasn't exactly a Seven-Eleven around the corner with a pay phone.

      "You seem troubled, my friend," Isomov's voice somewhat startled him.

      "Yeah, a little."

      "What is it?"

      "I was thinking about home."

      Isomov looked at Alan and realized that it wasn't a "what" he was thinking about, but a "who."  He looked over his shoulder at the pilot house where Julia was at the controls of the ship.  He looked back at Alan.

      "I thought you had no one at home."  His voice was strong and disapproving.

      Alan gave him a puzzled look, then realized what Isomov must be thinking.  He turned and faced the Soviet.

      "It's not what you are thinking.  I have a foster daughter and I am worried that she might think I am dead."

      Isomov's look of concern left his leathery face.  It was clear he did not want to see Julia get hurt and, for some reason that he did not fully understand, he did like the handsome American.  He was certain that when they finally arrived at the American ship, Alan would take his daughter with him, if it was at all possible.  Isomov thought about how it must feel to be so far away from your family and not to know what was happening with their lives.

      "Are you going to take Julia with you?" Isomov asked.

      Surprised by Isomov's directness, Alan thought carefully before answering.  Taking Julia with him was something to which he had been giving some consideration, much to his own surprise.  He was, in fact, starting to get comfortable with the thought.  But, he had no way of knowing how Julia felt about the possibilities or weather Isomov would approve.  Then, what would be the logistical problems involved in getting her into the States?  That alone would be no small matter. Finally, what if all these emotions faded as the reality began to set in?  He looked down at the deck, shifted his weight uneasily, and crossed his arms.  He drew a deep and purposeful breath, then looked Isomov in the eyes.

      "I think I would like that," Alan began slowly.  "The decision would be her's and yours.  If she wants to be with me, I will take good care of her."

      "I really believe that.  She never showed a lot of interest in men, had no chance to, really.  She has had nothing other than this ship and me in her life for the last several years."

      "You were telling me that earlier."

      "Yes, I want you to understand that it was an honest statement."  Isomov reached out and placed a hand on Alan's shoulder and looked him in the eye.  "You can give her a life there in America that she has no chance of ever experiencing here in Russia.  That I would like for her."

      How was it, Alan wondered, that he had come to feel so comfortable with Julia.  He could not recall ever feeling so safe with an emotional decision, this is where he could feel his lack of confidence.  There was no question that he had fallen in love completely and totally, that he had no further control over his feelings in this matter.  What was happening here?  He felt as though he had no control, a feeling that he was not at all comfortable with or accustomed to.  He was a combat pilot and affairs of the heart were not part of his realm of expertise.

      "Is there a problem?" Isomov asked.

      "I was just trying to figure out what is happening to me."

      "There's no rational explanation for what occurs in one's heart when love strikes.  You fall as a victim in a whirlpool and just ride out the storm.  Sometimes it comes on slowly and we have time to prepare for it.  Other times it hits us suddenly, with no warning and we must just simply accept it for what it is."

      There was a great deal of wisdom in Isomov's words for Alan.  He started to reflect upon the Soviet's observations, when Isomov turned to head towards the pilothouse, but not before patting him on the shoulder.  The downed pilot turned and looked to the west and thought about Maggie.  She had been his only long-term relationship, one that had lasted for nearly fifteen years.

      He had fallen in love with Maggie while he was assigned to London.  They met at one of the pubs near Alan's flat and a month later she was living with him, sharing a beautiful and tender love.  When she died in a plane crash he was devastated.  It was a relationship he held onto through the years to come, a memory everyone else he dated was measured against.  A memory that had a hold on him that he could not explain, in fact he was never able to let go of the memory of her.  He had held her in his heart and that never allowed anyone else in, always afraid that if he did allow someone else in that he would loose them also.

      It suddenly struck him that his memory of Maggie was beginning to fade.  He found Julia tenderly entering the spot that only Maggie had occupied for so many years.  It scared him, Maggie had been a silent strength for him when times were tough for him.  He turned to her for strength at times when not even Lucy could have been of help.  Now, for the first time in fifteen years, he found a force that was strong enough to replace Maggie's memory.

      Slowly, the reality of his situation began to settle in.  He was missing in action, MIA, and was certainly the cause of an extensive search and rescue mission.  He now knew that his main concern had to be to return to his ship, at the very least he must attempt to notify his fleet that he was indeed alive and well.  Alan knew that he had to put his feelings on the back burner and deal with the task at hand.  He had no sooner made that decision and turned to go up to talk with Isomov, when he literally ran into Julia.  She looked at him with those blue-grey eyes and he lost himself, again.  There was no way for him to fight his feelings or even try to suppress them.  He could also sense that she was having much the same feelings, and confusion about those feelings.  There was so much to do, so much to say, but as was the norm for him in his emotional dealings the problem was finding the starting point.

      "The nights are so very beautiful out here," Julia's tender voice broke through the silence, "don't you agree?"

      "Yes, it is."

      "Is it very different in other oceans?"

      "No, not really," Alan answered.  They were silent for a moment, then he said abruptly, "I have to get back to my ship.  They are certainly looking for me.  At the very least I need to signal them and let them know I am alright."

      "Are you unhappy about being here?"

      "Not about being here, no.  Especially not being with you, that's the best part.  Just in the way I got here.  I have friends and family who will be very worried about me."

      "I understand."  Julia turned to face the breeze and closed her eyes, the wind drawing her hair like thin wisps of auburn smoke.  "I would miss you if I did not have you here."  She turned her head slightly and looked at Alan.  He walked up behind her and put his arms around her and looked at the horizon as the last rays of light slipped behind the water.

       Each could feel the each other's love growing, but neither knew exactly what to do about it.  Julia slowly brought her hands up and placed them on Alan's arms that encompassed her.  She drew a deep breath and smiled.

      The sun warmed the desert floor of the southern Mojave Desert where a lone lizard sat a top a large rock.  Sitting motionless, it surveyed the surroundings like a victorious conqueror.  Its tail twitched as the lizard became aware of something entering into its realm, then the lizard bolted for cover.  An instant later the low distant rumble of the twin General Electric engines propelling the pair of Tomcats, began to grow until it rocked the area.  The pair of fighters raced over the desert floor only twenty feet off the ground.

      The helmeted pilot looked up and to the left.  Almost the same instant the fighter headed in that direction, it’s pray another single aircraft flying much higher and a little slower.  The pilot looked down and checked his radar, there were no other aircraft in the area.

      "I got a single at eleven O'clock," the pilot of the first fighter radioed to the second.  "Let's go get him, Grumpy."

      "Tally ho!"  The second pilot responded.

      The pair of fighters closed quickly on the other aircraft.  Suddenly the lone fighter rolled right, went into a dive and accelerated.  The two Tomcats crews were surprised by the sudden maneuver and reacted slowly before giving chase.  Then the threat warning panel on the second fighter lit up.  A moment later the same thing happened to the first fighter.  The pilots looked at the panel in complete disbelief.

      "What the... Check our six!"  The pilot of the first fighter shouted to his RIO.

      When the RIO turned around and looked out the rear of the canopy, there was another F-14 holding station a couple hundred yards behind.  He rolled his eyes and sat back in his seat expelling a deep breath.  Before he could report to his pilot, a voice came over the radio.

      "Never, never, assume that a slow bogie is a solo," the voice chastised.  "It's a classic bait trick that keeps your attention focused on the bait and forgetting to check your rear.  Remember, also, that many modern fighters have multiple lockup and engagement abilities.  The wingman is supposed to watch the six of the engaging fighter.  Mission over, Rainmaker has the lead."  The instructor's fighter banked hard, heading back to the airbase.  The two student crews followed a moment later.

      This was NAS Miramar, otherwise know as Top Gun, the naval aviation school that has been implemented so that our fighter pilots can learn the art of aerial dog fighting.  It is here that they work at  maintaining the highest level of readiness and a superior level of combat skills than any other in the world.  Only the best pilots get to attend, all it takes an attitude that there is no second places in graduation.  But, even the best have weak points that need attention and that was what was happening here today.  Making a mistake here is only embarrassing to your peer group, making the same mistake somewhere else could be deadly.

      "Where the hell did he come from?"  The pilot of the second fighter asked his RIO.

      "I have no idea.  I've heard he's about the best in the air."

      "I guess if you're going to lose, its better to lose to the Rainmaker," the pilot observed, shaking his head.  Almost the instant the words were said the young aviator knew that he was going to regret having said them.

      "The reason I beat you so easily," Jim's voice crackled sternly through the headsets, "is because you have already accepted the idea that you are second rate.  That attitude has no place in a modern day fighter.  In combat there is no second place, only one guy goes home for supper."  The remainder of the flight was void of the normal chit-chat between the flight crews, the students lost in thought about the day's lesson.

      As the fighters taxied down the tarmac at the school's hanger area, one of the chiefs walked out to the instructors' staging area and waited for Jim's F-14 and the other instructor's A-4 to be guided to a stop, then trotted over to Jim's fighter and quickly climbed up the ladder to the cockpit.

      "Good afternoon, chief," Jim said with a half grin.  "That pair of hot shots got a lesson in humility."  Jim pointed over his shoulder at the pair of student F-14's.  The chief looked over at the pair of student crews as they climbed out of their aircraft and walked somewhat dejected for the debriefing.  The chief turned back to face the instructor pilot.

      "I have Admiral Hoffman on the phone, Commander.  He says it’s real important."

      "Now what the hell did I do?"  Jim half muttered to himself as he hastened his exit from the fighter.  "How long has he been waiting?"

      "About ten minutes."

      "Damn."

      "Are you and the wife having a spat, Rain," Erick laughed as he started down the ladder after Jim.

      "Not that I'm aware of, Jinx."

      The two men ran into the hanger office where Jim shed his parachute and helmet into a chair that was next to the desk, sat on the corner of the desk, then took a deep breath as he pressed the button with the blinking light.

      "Commander Donaldson," Jim said in his most military voice.

      "Jim!"  The admiral acknowledged.  "You have any idea how long I've been on hold?"

      "Yes, sir.  But me being here as an instructor was your idea, remember?  Besides, I was on a hop."

      "I have not forgotten how you got there."  The admiral took a deep breath, "I've got some bad news.  Dancer is MIA."

      Jim first shot to his feet, his mouth hung partly open, then his knees nearly gave out as he turned around and supported himself on the desk with his free hand.  This was simply not possible was the only thought that raced through his mind.  Alan was as good a pilot as he was and he never accepted second place in anything.  He looked at his RIO and could not believe what he had heard.  The puzzled look on Erick's face was due to the look of sheer horror on his.

      "Come again, sir?"

      "I'm afraid you heard me right.  Evidently there are some very questionable circumstances involved.  I would like you to come out here to help me muddle through the garbage as part of my staff."

      "Yes, sir.  We'll leave within the hour."

      "Good," the admiral paused for a moment.  "Rain?"

      "Sir?"

      "He got two more bogies before he went down."

      Jim smiled a little and stood tall.

      "We'll that's par for him.  But, it only means that I've got three to tie it up."

      "I'll see you tonight."

      "Yes, sir."  Jim hung up the phone and sat back down on the edge of the desk as he looked at Erick and the chief.  He shook his head and drew a deep breath while the other two men stood there silently waiting for the explanation.

      "Dancer got shot down," Jim announced.

      His words filled the room and then there was silence.   No one present could picture the possibility of such a scenario.  Alan and Jim were considered examples for everyone else, the invincible flyers.  Erick stood frozen, looking at him as if he was expecting a punch line of a bad joke.

      "Not Dancer," the chief finally broke the silence.  "This is either a bad joke or a mistake."

      "Yeah," Erick added, "drop the other shoe."

      "As far as I know," Jim began, "there is no other shoe right now, Jinx.  The old man wants us to go to D.C. and help with some of the problems going on out there."  He paused for a moment.  "All I know is he bagged two more before he went down.  It was either one hell of a fight or something went very wrong."

      "No idea of what happened?" Erick asked.

      "None.  He just said that there were questionable circumstances."

      "And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

      "Not a clue.  But, we will know more when we get there.  You better go pack some bags.  We leave in an hour."

      "I'll have your 'cat ready for you, sir," the chief said then hurried out the door.  Jim watched for a minute then picked up the phone and dialed out.

      "Hello?"  Her voice at the other end made Jim smile.

      "Hello, honey," Jim answered.

      "What are you doing calling at this time of day?  Shouldn't you be teaching or something?"

      "Or something," Jim answered back.  "I just heard from your dad.  Dancer is missing and he wants me to fly out to D.C. to help on his staff for a while."

      "How soon are you leaving?"

      "In an hour.  How about getting a flight and meeting me out there?  The last time we spent time with your folks was after our honeymoon."

      "I suppose you want me to bring you a change of clothes and some clean kaki uniforms for your flight?"

      "If you don't mind.  That way I can let Jinx dash home and I can file the flight plan."

      "I'll be there in thirty minutes.  You better give me your credit card, I don't want to use mine for my trip."

      "What is the difference?"

      "None, really.  I just want to see if you'd give in."  They both laughed.

      "I'll see you in a few.  I love you," Jim said affectionately.

      "I love you, too."

      As Jim hung up the phone he saw Erick who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, shake his head in wonder.

      "What?" Jim asked.

      "I never thought I'd live to see the day," Erick said.  "Ever since you got married to Cheryl, you've been a different guy.  Now don't get me wrong, I like it!  It's not as scary climbing into the back seat with you anymore.  You've started flying like a human being."

      "Get out of here and get your bags," Jim said as he shook his head and waved his hand at his friend.  "We've got to be in the air in less than an hour."

      "Right.  I'll be back in about a half an hour."

      Jim moved to the other side of the desk and sat in the chair.  He opened one of the deep drawers, pulled out several of typical military forms, and then started filling them out.  Tackling the paperwork for the cross-country flight he and Erick were about to make, was no small or simple task.  The flight plan would have to be made with several considerations, including crossing civilian flight paths, winds, and whether or not could arrange for a mid-air refuel.  He looked up at the wall where the huge map of the United States and pondering the best route.  After a couple of minutes, he made his decision and returned to filling out the papers.

      Jim Donaldson was a veteran combat pilot that was completely unfazed by little things.  Thirteen years of flying F-14's for the Navy had seasoned him to a cool-headed and calculating sort, in many cases.  Many of his superiors thought he had flown a little more aggressively than was necessary in the past.  But, with his successful combat record and high scores at the schools and competitions, no one was that critical of his flying.  There was one exception, his father-in-law, Admiral Hoffman.  There was little doubt, however, that he was one of the best pilots to ever wear a Navy uniform, so transferring him to the school as an instructor was a positive move for everyone.  He was the type meant for the military- the way he walked, talked, dressed, even his look, fit the text book definition of a Naval pilot.  His tall, lean frame, green eyes, reddish brown hair, the fit of his flight suit were perfect.  Some of the other officers sometimes accused him of being the "poster boy" for the uniform manual.  The only thing that one might not expect was the slight, southern drawl that he would discount if it were mentioned.

      When you talked to him and looked into his eyes, you might detect there was something deep inside trying to make it to the surface, a ghost of a secret that he held inside nearly visible, at least as long as he did not change the subject and smile.  If you were observant, you might see that whatever it was he was burying deep was painful.  So much of these had changed for the better when he and Cheryl had gotten married.

      Jim had a good, solid education in aviation.  He had an uncle who had encouraged him and gotten him into flying when he was just fourteen.  He had his license soon after his sixteenth birthday, had been in the air since.  He studied at North Carolina State University as an aviation major with a minor in engineering.  He studied languages in graduate school at the College of William and Mary.  He did "the usual," got  his degree, gone into the Navy, then served his first four years active.  He then went into the reserves so he could go back to school and finish his master’s degree.  When he completed his master’s degree, he went back to active duty.  Flying was in his blood and he could not stay away form it for very long.  He often joked that he was hooked on the rush from flying high speed jet fighters.

      "Your bird will be ready and on the NC-8 in about fifteen minutes, sir," the chief reported as he returned to the office.

      "Thanks, chief," Jim said without looking up.  Jim knew that once the NC-8, a self propelled power supply used to provide electrical start-up power to the aircraft, was hooked to the fighter it could be started anytime.

      "Sir?"  The chief looked at Jim with a questioning expression.  "You're not going to do any barnstorming this trip, are you?"

      Jim looked up and smiled at the chief as he shook his head.

      "I recall a certain pilot who landed at Beesville once," the chief continued, "right after he took a trip in the Grand Canyon."

      "God, that was a neat ride," Jim said reminiscing.  "But, it was definitely one of those rides that you only try once."  Both chuckled as Jim returned to filling out the forms and the chief went back out to finish preparing the fighter for its journey.  Jim reached into one of the leg pockets of his flight suit and pulled out his flight planning computer.  Far from a true computer, they are a thin flat disk that has been used by pilots for decades to help in the calculating the effects of winds, how much fuel would be needed and even the affect of weight on the aircraft.  Jim spun the dial on the disk and jotted down the results on the flight plan paperwork.  He was so intent on what he was doing, that he did not hear the door open or the sounds of the woman who approach the desk.

      "Good afternoon, Commander Donaldson," the soft voice caught his attention, he looked up into the eyes of his wife.

      "Hello, Sweetheart," he answered, as he laid down the pen and computer, then stood up and walked around the desk.  When he got to her he placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a light kiss on the lips.

      "I gave the chief your bag already."

      "Thank you, Babe," Jim looked at her and knew that she was concerned about Alan.

      "Any word on Dancer?"

      "Not yet.  In fact everything I do know your dad told me in a single sentence."

      "That doesn't sound very promising."

      "No it isn't."

      "Has anyone told Phyllis and Lucy?"

      "I don't know.  That's another reason I'd like to have you come out.  It would be easier for you to tell Lucy than some one she doesn't know.  And of course you know how tactful I can be."

      "Good point.  I'll get on the first possible flight and get mother to meet me at the airport."

      "She'll like seeing you and the ride in from the airport will give you two time for girl talk.  I've got to finish filling out the flight plan..."  Jim let the sentence hang.

      "Have a safe flight, I'll probably see you tomorrow night."  She gave him a hug and a tender kiss, which he did not hesitate to return.

      "I'll see you tomorrow.  Love you."

      "I know.  Me, too."  Cheryl turned and left the office to make her own travel plans.  She recalled the way their romance came to be.  It was a two years ago when her father had pulled some strings and she got to take her master's project into space on the shuttle.  It turned into a disaster when the shuttle crashed into the ocean

      Cheryl had known Jim for many years, almost as long as Jim had been assigned to a command under Cheryl's father.  They had first met when Jim and her father were stationed at San Diego on the Kitty Hawk during an on-board air power display.  She never said much to him, primarily because he had been married when she first met him.  When that changed she was still unsure she never knew what to say to him.  Another reason for her silence was that he managed to be on her father's bad side most of the time.  Her father wanted him to be the shuttle commander when she went up because he believed he was the best  and felt more comfortable having him care for his daughter.

      In a moment of sheer terror, Cheryl had looked at the handsome shuttle commander whom she had known for years, then told him that she loved him.  She smiled a little as she recalled the total look of shock on Jim's face.  In retrospect, it all seemed like a dream.  In fact, it was more dream than reality.  If she not been a part of the crew that experienced the adventure, she never would have believed that such things were truly possible in real life.  But, they were and she did end up with him, which made the dream actually a dream come true.

      Jim watched as his wife climbed into her mustang convertible and drove off.  He was so very content now, after trying and failing in love so many times before.  It was in a moment in of danger when he was doing what he did best, snatching certain defeat from the jaws of death, when he lost his heart.   That's when Cheryl blurted out that she loved him.  The relationship had been good on several different levels and it had settled Jim down, no small accomplishment.  He had been known for flying too low, as well as far too aggressively.  All that had changed when he got married to Cheryl which pleased the admiral. 

      To make certain that Jim was going to be playing by the rules, the admiral had transferred him to a training command where his talents would be best used in teaching.  This allowed him to keep flying, the admiral to keep an eye on him, the admiral's daughter to have her husband home at night and the students who passed through the classes to have the opportunity to learn from one of the best pilots in the Navy.

      Jim returned to the desk, completed the paperwork then handed them to the chief.  The chief looked over the paperwork nodded when he was satisfied that it was complete, then dashed of to turn it in and file the flight plan.  He walked over to the door that opened into the hanger.  Standing against the door frame he surveyed all that was going on, then over at his own fighter.  He looked back over to his right at the students that were in the mists of a briefing from another instructor, as he watched he was overwhelmed by a thought.  His thoughts took him back in time, back to the medieval days of knights in their shinning amour.  The pilots that he watched as they headed for their fighters, were not unlike those knights of yore.  As the pilots donned their gloves and parachutes, it was like watching the nights pulling on their gauntlets and amour.  As their predecessors, the last thing these combatants would do, is pull on their helmets.  Then the modern nights would mount their silvery shinny modern steeds and go off to engage in battle.

      The major difference would be the speed and violence of the battles.  In the medieval days, a battle might cover an area about the size of a modern stadium.  In the fighters, these modern nights might have a battle that could cover an area of hundreds of square miles.  Unlike the knights of old, their modern counterparts need not even see the opponent to destroy his fighter and to do so at speeds up to, and in excess of, twice the speed of sound.

      As he began his journey out to his aircraft, Jim's thoughts returned to concern for his lost friend.  He had flown with Alan over Lebanon in the mid eighties and was well aware of his skill level.  He had watched as he took on a pair of MiGs single handed one afternoon.  Jim was flying a TARPS that day and Alan had been assigned as his cover.

      The TARPS bird was so sluggish that Jim could be of no use to his wingman.  Alan had been able to defeat one of the MiGs and bring it down, then send the other enemy fighter home heavily damaged.  Had he not returned to maintain a cover for the TARPS bird, he could have scored a second "kill" that day, but, he would not leave his partner without cover alone in the sky.

      Jim reached the fighter climbed up and placed his helmet on the dash, lowered himself back to the ground, then began the preflight process.  It was not important that he had done this only hours ago, just before his morning hop, what was important was doing it before every flight.  It was not only for his own safety, but for the safety of Erick as well.  He would check all of the control surfaces, the hydraulic lines, tires, the body panels, everything.

      A few minute later Erick showed up stowed his bags in the storage compartment and climbed into the back seat of the fighter.  He turned on the battery power and started his preflight checks.

      Erick Johnson had been a RIO for many years almost all of the time he had been teamed with Jim and relied on instinct.  He was a six foot tall, thin, light skinned afro-American.  As the "back seat" in the F-14 fighters he had no physical control over the aircraft; his job was to track other aircraft, maintain the communication for the plane, and target the contacts with the weapon systems.  He had a master's degree in electrical engineering from MIT, and was never known to be anything short of proficient.

      As Jim finished his walk around checks, the chief was there waiting for the start-up process with the flight plan in his hand.  He had never really figured out the chief.  In the two years that he had been working with him, the chief would seem to simply materialize out of thin air whenever he was needed with everything that he was going to ask for.

      "Here's your flight plans and orders, sir.  All the mid-air refuels are confirmed and Jinx has the coordinates," the chief said as he handed the papers to Jim.  "I'll get the ground crew over here to get you going.  Any problems to take care of before launch?"

      "Nope.  The bird looks real good, chief."  Jim climbed up into the front seat of the fighter, the chief standing by to make certain all of the harnesses were in place.  Once Jim and Erick were strapped in the chief climbed down the ladder and stowed it away.

      After Jim pulled on his helmet and fastened his chin strap, he reached forward to the panels, then turned on the battery power to his set of panels and controls.  Several lights and gauges came to life, then he looked at the chief holding a thumb up, a sign that everything was ready for the start-up of the engines.  As he watched the ground crew getting everything set for the engine starts, he went through more of his pre start checks.  It was time to add the external power, he signaled that he was ready by forming a sideways "time out" sign.  When the power from the NC-8 was added to the aircraft, the gyros could be heard winding up and several more gauges jumped to life.

      One by one the switches were turned on, the lights and gauges reacting as power added to them.  Jim switched on the radio / intercom circuits so that he could communicate with Erick.  After all of the circuits were on, he looked over at the chief and held up a single finger.

      "Turning number one," Jim informed Erick.

      "Okay," Erick responded.

      The plane captain standing near the chief pointed at the left engine with his left hand and held up a finger and right hand near his right ear which he moved back and forth.  This was the sign to the pilot to start the number one engine.  Once the engine was operating and the generators were producing their power, Jim gave the signal to disconnect the NC-8 and the engine starting routine was repeated for engine two.

      After both engines were functioning properly and the rest of the pre-flight checks were complete, the plane captain guided the fighter out on to the taxiway.  As the fighter got even with plane captain, who had stopped at the edge of the taxiway still on the tarmac, he came to attention and saluted the fighter.  Jim and Erick returned the salute as they turned onto the taxiway.

      It was exactly an hour from the time that Jim had hung up the phone with the admiral, when he turned his fighter on to the runway and aimed it down the center.  Jim shoved the throttles forward and the thrust pushed him back into his seat.  The thunderous roar announced that the fighter was departing.  After traveling down the runway for a distance, gaining speed the entire time, the nose rotated up, then, almost like a startled cat, the aircraft leapt into the air.  As the landing gear folded up into storage, the fighter turned to the right and soon vanished from site on its way east.

CHAPTER 6

      Michael Gomez sat in front of the large wall of electrical monitoring equipment with  a number of screens, maybe a hundred dials and switches and what seemed like a thousand colored lights.  If it were not for the rumble of the twin turbo-prop engines and Michael's flight helmet, it would be easy to forget that so much complex equipment was shoved into an aircraft.  This E-2 Hawkeye, the long range, high flying, surveillance and communications center, was used in daily fleet operations.  Its radars could follow another aircraft, then the on board computers could plot a track so accurately that it could guide a second aircraft along the same flight path, within only a few feet.

      Michael graduated from Cupertino High School, in California and entered the Navy a few weeks later.  His coal black hair and dark eyes were typical of his Hispanic ancestry.  He was thin five foot nine and did not seem to be the right size for his flight suit.  When he tried on the next size smaller it was too small, so he went with the larger loosely fitting size.  The way he looked in his flight suit had resulted in his permanent call sign, "Baggie."

      He had spent nearly eleven months in training to become truly proficient in the complex electronics, now he was using many of those skills trying to locate the missing aircraft as well as making some sense of the events.  Like a veteran detective reexamining all of the evidence in a case he was rerunning all of the computer tracks he had made the night before, for about the tenth time, Michael slowed the run down so he could carefully watch as the battle between the TARPS bird and its attacker unfolded.  He saw that the attacking fighter had come from the west and waited at a low level for several minutes before the TARPS arrived in the area.  The attacking fighter was never given much notice because its transponder was showing a "friendly" code.  Then as it neared the ambush site, either the transponder was turned off or quite working as the signal ended.  One odd thing he did note as he carefully observed the events, the attacking fighter was using a friendly code, but was not sending the typical identification signal that let air traffic controllers know what type of aircraft it was.

      Michael stopped the track and backed it up.  This time he was not concentrating on the TARPS, he was following the attacker.  He studied the flight path that the attacker had taken into the area.  The fighter seemed to come in on a nearly a straight line, entering from almost the center of the Aegean Sea.  Because Michael had already heard that the fighter that had attacked the TARPS was a Marine F-18, he pulled out a map of Greece and studied it carefully.  As he looked at the map, he located an air base that was indicated as closed.  It was directly in line with the fighter's flight path, it was also marked as the restricted military airspace.  The notes at the bottom said that the base had been built during World War II as a heavy bomber base and was now closed except only as a last resort emergency landing.  All this was very curious.

      "Commander Clarke," Michael spoke over the intercom.

      "Yes," the voice answered back.

      "You have a minute, sir?  I think I found something."

      "Sure.  I'll be right there."  A minute later the stocky officer pushed the curtain aside and came back to Michael's station.

      Jim Clarke was not only a flight officer, but also had spent several tours in a Naval Intelligence command.  A man who kept very much to himself, he let few people into his life or his past.  His dry sense of humor often confounded others, who were never certain if he was serious or joking around.  He was well educated with a master’s degree in business and was now serving his last few years on active duty waiting for retirement in just a couple more years.

      "What have you found, Baggie?"

      "I've back-calculated the flight path of the bad guy, sir.  It seems that he may have come from this former air base.  It's marked as an inactive field and to be used only in emergency."

      "So?"

      "It's also a restricted military airspace."

      "What?"

      "Right here, sir," Michael was still pointing to the map.

      Jim looked at the map and found that Michael had, as always, done his research well.  Jim plugged his helmet's headset into the intercom panel then sat down in a seat next to Michael, grinning smugly.

      "Hook me up with the Lincoln."

      "Sir!"  Michael quickly began making connections to enable Jim to talk with the ship.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jim pick up the map and study it much closer.

      "Spearhead, this is Hawkeye one-one," Michael spoke into the radio and waited.

      "One-one, this is Spearhead," a voice answered back.  "What's your traffic?"

      "This is Topper," Jim spoke.  "Let me talk to the intell duty officer."

      "Yes, sir," the voice answered back.  During the pause as they waited for the intelligence officer, Jim looked over Michael's notes and studied the map.   Then took careful notice of the computer track information.

      "Hawkeye one-one, do you require scrambled transmission?"

      "Affirmative," Jim answered, "use button four."  As Jim watched, Michael pressed the button that would make the transmission between the aircraft and the ship nearly impossible to monitor.

      "What's up, Topper?"  The intelligence officer on the ship answered.

      "What do you know about air base one-twenty-three?"

      "Never heard of it.  Where is it?"

      "In Greece."

      "I'll have to do some research on that one.  I'll look it up."

      "We should be back down on the deck about oh one-hundred.  We'll look over whatever you can find then."

      "Roger, out" the transmission ended.

      Jim leaned back in the chair, looked at the map and up at the computer track with a slight frown.  The situation was confusing at the very best and every time a new piece of information emerged or added, the overall picture became even more confusing.  He reached over to the panel and pressed several buttons that made the track start to replay.  As the battle started to unfold, Michael slowed the play back so that the battle could be carefully studied.

      Jim watched the slow motion replay of the dog fight.  It was clear to him that who ever attacked the TARPS plane was not a seasoned combat pilot.  Engaging a TARPS should be an easy victory for any skilled fighter pilot that had any salt.  The F-18 was faster, more maneuverable and had the clear advantage of position.  It was also clear that the F-18 had gained its advantage without being detected.  Yet, the F-14 was able to quickly turn the tables, gain the superior position and defeat the F-18.  The mistakes the F-18 pilot had made were not only blatant, but also those of a very inexperienced pilot.  As the battle ended and the two combatants headed from the area in different directions, Jim sighed heavily.

      "Pause," Jim ordered.  Michael quickly responded and stopped the play back.

      "Not a very good fight," Michael observed.

      "To say the least.  There is no way the TARPS should have won that.  When did the rockets come in?"

      "Right away, sir.  Let me run that part," Michael pressed the button that released the pause and Jim watched as the playback continued.

      As Jim watched sort of like a distant voyeur, two very distinct missile tracks could be seen following the lone fighter.  One of the images was larger than the other which was usually an indication of two missiles that were very close together.  The F-14 worked its way north in an attempt to out run the closing missiles, then one of the tracks vanished.  Jim assumed that it was a result of the rocket exploding, probably having been tricked by chaff.

      The large track suddenly became smaller, then closed in very close to the fighter and disappeared.  The fighter seemed to wonder around for several minutes, then headed due north.  It was nearly thirty miles from the coast when the fighter was no longer in radar range the image left the scope.

      "Why do you think he headed north, sir?"

      "I'm not real sure.  Buy the way he fished around after that close call with the rockets, it is possible that his ship was damaged.  What altitude was he at, at the last point of contact?"

      "The computer was showing him at ten thousand feet."

      "With that much, he surely made feet wet without a problem.  Were there any transmissions from the F-14?"

      "No, sir.  I tried to raise him with no contact, and there was no indication of any out-going transmissions."

      "Any evidence of an eject?"

      "No, sir."

      As Jim pondered the information, his mind was racing like a computer processing everything, including the intangibles.  He knew Alan well enough to know that he would have made contact with the Hawkeye after the hit, if humanly possible.  Usually the F-14 pilots did not have to worry about knowing where they were or the direction they were heading on.  That was the responsibility of the RIO sitting in the back seat.  The RIOs gave directions, handled most of the communication and handled the targeting of the weapon systems, the pilots did not much more than aim their fighter and pull the trigger.  There were only two possibilities that came to Jim's mind.  Either the fighter was damaged badly by the hit and couldn't function, or some how his avionics and radios had been turned off.  Only the first was likely, but then the RIO was an agent and may not have known what to do.

      "May I try something, sir?"  Michael asked.

      "Certainly."

      Michael took out the disk that had the tracks of the A-6's which had located the debris.  As Jim watched, Michael loaded the tracks into memory and instructed the computer to overlay the to flight paths.  As the two sets of tracks came on the screen the computer made the automatic adjustments so that they were in relation to ground objects.  It only took a couple of minutes for the computer to show that the debris that the Intruders had found was nearly directly under Alan's flight path.

      "I'd say that there's a good possibility that whatever Snake and Postman found, could be part of the TARPS."

      "I'd have to agree with you on that."

      "So, when do they send the Teams in to check it out, sir?"  Michael asked.

      "I understand the Turks are going to send in a ground force to check it out."

      "Why not send in the Teams?"

      "Probably will, in the morning.  But, that's a long ride in the helos, and they're worried about making sure that the Turks are able to show they're helping."

      "Politics?"

      "Pretty much.  But, there's also the fact that the Iraqis are saying Dancer came into their airspace and shot down one of there aircraft in an unprovoked attack."

      "That's a bunch of bull!"

      "That it is.  But, the press doesn't want, or care about, the truth, they just want to sell their papers."

      "So they're willing to smear the reputation of one of our pilots for a buck?"

      "That's pretty much it in a nut shell.  Let's see if we can move more to the northeast and see what’s out there in the direction Dancer was last heading."  A minute later the aircraft could be felt banking as it made its turn toward a new patrol area.  Michael set up his radar to pick up not just aircraft but surface ships, then he set up all of his recorders to copy of anything that might happen.  "By the way Baggie, you're doing one hell of a job."

      "Thank you, sir."

      The black Mercedes sped along the dimly lit streets and past a large mural of Saddam Hussein.  Soon the car was past the city and entering the mountains to the northeast of Baghdad.  The headlights cutting into the darkness ahead of the car. As the roads became curvier, the driver slowed a little.  Suddenly the lights reflected off of another car that sat idle in the darkness.

      As the car slowed, the driver pulled off to one side of the road.  Three men in military uniforms exited the car and stood in front of the Mercedes.  Suddenly the lights of the other car came on, obscuring the man that approached them. 

      "There seems to be a problem," the single man began as he continued toward the trio.  "The American Navy has offered some unexpected resistance to the plans."

      "I thought the CIA was in control of the situation," one of the other men responded.

      "Evidently, the fighter that was supposed to be shot down, shot down the other fighter and escaped to the north."

      "They have to do something!  We have our lives at stake in this!"

      "It's not in the hands of the CIA at this time, it seems that our contact might be dead.  Our plan to get the Americans to come in and help us remove Hussein, might be over."

      "The Kurds might think that we deceived them.  This could cause problems."

      "I considered that.  They are supposed to meet us here soon.  We will have to explain the situation to them and hope that we can still work this out together."

      The Middle East is such a confusing way of life to the westerners.  This cobol of officers were truly the exception to the rule, they had approached the CIA and offered a plan to get America back into Iraq to finish what had begun in Desert Storm.  The normal way of life in this part of the world is "I against my brother, my brother and I against our cousin, all of us against the outsiders."  This left America and the rest of the western countries, as the outsiders.

      The normal cycle for the middle-east is that there are the mountain people, currently know as the Kurds, the city people and those in the middle.  Those in the middle are destined to always be in the middle of the other two groups.  The other groups rise and fall from power controlling the city in bloody wars. 

      These officers were so applaud by the atrocities of the current leader that they had sided with the Kurds to aid them in a battle with Hussein’s troops.  They agreed to side with the Kurds in exchange for life in the city after the overthrow.  But, the key was to get the Americans to enter the fray and now, that seemed to have fallen apart.  Now they had their necks out on the block and they needed the help of the Kurds.

      From out of thin air several of the rebels suddenly materialized startling the officers.  As the unexpected changes in the plans were relayed and explained, the air of mistrust and anger was obvious.  As some of the options were offered, then men argued about the consequences.

      Martin's ship moved steadily toward the area where the F-14 had gone to its watery grave.  He had no idea how close he was as his ship made its zigzagging pattern heading south east.  He was still a little put-off by the incident with the trawler earlier that day.  He was sure the trawler was up to something and, had it been under the old State, he would have boarded the trawler simply because he wanted to.  But, now they had "civil rights," that they had to learn to contend with and Martin had to have good reason to board a ship.  On the other hand, what were the odds that a lone fishing ship would find the Americans and not give them over to the military?  Why would the Americans not want to get to their embassy?  He had to assume that the trawler was accustomed to the GRU's former reputation.

      He walked over to the radar console and looked at the screens.  There was only the usual shipping traffic, several surface contacts moving slowly in their efforts in their efforts to catch fish.  The majority of the ships were sitting idle; nothing unusual for the typical fishing traffic in that area.

      Martin then switched his attention to the screen that was monitoring the air traffic.  To the north was the normal airline traffic, but there was a contact that had come in from the west and was very high.  He watched as the line swung around and the contact moved in a wide arc.  He pointed to the screen as he looked at the radar operator.

      "What is this?"  Martin asked the operator.

      "I'm not sure, sir.  It moved in a little while ago and seems to be maintaining a wide circle."

      "Is it entering our airspace?"

      "No, sir.  It seems to be maintaining a pattern that keeps it in Turkish and international airspace."

      "American?"

      "It would be my guess.  Probably one of the American Navy's long range reconnaissance planes."

      "Probably.  They are likely trying to see the area where their fighter went down and what surface activity we have in the area."

      "What do you think really happened?"

      "We know that one of their fighters was involved in a dog fight.  It then headed north and may have ditched up here."

      "You think their crew was defecting?"

      "No, I don't believe that story for a second.  I'm not sure why they would have come this way.  Maybe he was in some sort of trouble."

      "What about the Iraqi claims that it entered their air space and shot down a passenger plane?"

      "That to, I discount.  The American pilots are too well trained to make that sort of blunder."

      "That still doesn't explain the exodus to the north."

      "Most likely just trying to find water.  Most of their pilots would rather bail out over water than land."

      "Perhaps they believe they can walk on water."

      Martin smiled at the comment watching in silence as the blip on the radar continued moving in its wide arc.  When he was sure that there was nothing more to worry about, he patted the radar man on the shoulder and headed out to get some air.  When he got out into the night air, he drew a deep breath.  The salty air was heavy, and filled his lungs.

      Martin liked this assignment.  He had spent several years working in an office in Rostov-Na-Donu.  He hated the time he had worked there, where being junior in the office he had ended up being relegated to nothing more than a glorified errand boy.  He had to bite his tongue and rode out those bad times.  Finally, his work was recognized by his supervisors and was asked if he wanted to work as a GRU officer on a ship in the Black Sea.  Loving the sea for as long as he could remember, he jumped at the opportunity and had proven that he was deserving of the command.

      As Martin leaned on the railing, he looked down the side of the ship into the water, watching the wake as the ship plowed through the clear water.  A thought flooded over him.  What if the crew never made it out of the fighter and they were now somewhere under the water?  The thought sent a shiver down his spine.  He hoped that they were all right, where ever they were.

      Julia rose quietly from here bed and looked across the cabin.  In the dim light she could see Alan sleeping in the other bunk.  She silently slipped on her shoes and headed out of the cabin making her way to the bridge.  When she walked onto the bridge she saw Isomov steering the trawler toward their next refuel port.  Isomov sensed that someone was standing behind him and straightened up.

      "What are you doing up?"  Isomov asked without turning around.

      "Should we try to reach the Americans by radio?  So that his family won't worry?"

      Isomov took a deep breath as he looked at his daughter.

      "I was thinking about that.  There is a chance that the wrong people might hear the transmission.  That could be bad."

      "I think we should try, father."

      Isomov looked at his daughter and wanted to say no, but the look in her eyes showed that she was thinking of Alan and not her own heart.  He looked at the floor and sighed knowing that this was a lost battle.  But, at the same time a feeling of pride swept over him as he realized that the selfless values she was exhibiting were those he had hoped she had been learning from him over the years.

      "They will likely come and take him away, then you might not get the chance to go with him."

      "I know.  But he can come back for me, if that is what he wants."

      "It very well may come down not to what he wants, but what his government will allow."

      The look that she gave Isomov disturbed him.  He realized that further discussion about the ramifications and possibilities was only hurting his daughter.  There was no reason to attempt to deal with reality, she had fallen in love with the American and he sensed the same thing from him.  Isomov had sensed that neither Alan nor Julia had fully realized the other's feelings or emotions.  What she was offering was a selfless act that showed her deep feelings for him.  She wanted him to be safe even if it cost her the love of her life, or even trouble with the government.

      "All right!"  Isomov said as he threw his arms in the air.  "Hold the wheel while I get on the radio."

      Isomov turned the wheel over to Julia, who smiled a teary victorious smile as he headed to the radio which was near the radar.  As he was setting the radio, her father glanced at the radar and saw a single aircraft registering on the screen.  He paused for several moments as he watched the aircraft make its wide circles south of them.

      "What is it, father?"

      "There's an airplane circling about eighty kilometers south.  It might be one of the Americans looking for him."  Isomov raised the microphone to speak, then realized that he did not speak English.  He looked up at Julia with a perplexed expression on his face, then set the microphone down and walked back over to the wheel.

      "I don't speak English," Isomov said as he took back the wheel.  "You better talk to the Americans."

      Julia went over to the radio panel, looked down at the screen and took a moment to watch the blip move.  She picked up the microphone as she looked at her father.

      "What frequency should I be using?"

      "It is already set to the proper one the one that is reserved for aviation emergencies."

      As Julia raised the microphone to her lips to speak, a lump began to form in her throat.  She pressed the button as she closed her eyes a tear falling from the corner of her eye.

      "This is the Lady Victoria, calling American aircraft."  The cabin seemed to go dead quiet as they waited for a reply.  "This is the Lady Victoria, calling American aircraft," she repeated into the microphone.  The static coming from the speaker ended as the carrier signal silenced it.

      "This is Hawkeye one-one, what can we do for you Lady Victoria?"  Michael spoke clearly and slowly so that she would understand him.

      "We have Officer Lee."

      There was a long pause before there was any response.  During the pause, Isomov began to fear that perhaps it had been the KGB that had intercepted the transmission.  Then a different voice came over the speaker.

      "This is Commander Clarke.  I understand that you have contact with Lieutenant Commander Lee?"

      "Yes.  He is here with us."

      "How is he?"

      "He is fine."

      "Can I speak with him?"

      "I will go get him," Julia looked at Isomov as she put the microphone down on the counter.  She ran down to the cabin and when she got to Alan's side, she looked at him for a moment, then gently touched his cheek, feeling the stubble of his beard that was starting to grow.  His eyes opened and he smiled as he recognized her.

      "Hello," Alan said in a soft voice.

      "You need to come to the bridge right away.  There is someone you must talk to."

      Alan could see the tears in Julia's eyes.  He got up quickly and ran up to the bridge, certain the Soviet military had boarded the ship and that Julia and Isomov were in danger.  When he got to the bridge, he looked around in confusion.  The only person there was Isomov he turned around when he heard something behind him, it was Julia.  He had just raised his hand to ask what was going on when the static from the speaker was again interrupted by silence.

      "Lady Victoria, this is Hawkeye one-one," Jim's voice startled Alan, "are you still there?"

      Alan looked at the radio his mouth slightly open then at Isomov, who nodded to him and pointed at the microphone.  He walked slowly over to the radio then picked up the microphone, looked at Isomov then turned to look at Julia as she stood in the door.  He could see the tears in her eyes as she looked at the floor.  He raised the microphone and pressed the button.

      "Topper, this is Dancer."

      "Are you all right?"

      "Yeah, I lost my RIO, but I'm fine."

      "Give me a three second signal for reference.  Then we'll send a helo out for you."

      Alan glanced at Julia as he held the microphone open for three seconds.  He was not certain who had gone out on a limb, but he was afraid of what might happen to his newly acquired friends.  After the button was released, he waited for the reply.

      "We have you tracked.  Helo is on its way.  Welcome home, Dancer."

      "Thank you, sir," Alan looked over at Julia who now had tears streaming down her face.  "I'll be standing by, Lady Victoria, out."  He replaced the microphone in its cradle then made his way over to Julia and pulled her close.

      "Why?" He asked softly.

      "I did not want your family to worry.  Besides, you do not belong to me."  Julia pulled away and ran down the passageway.  Alan watched her as she disappeared, then turned to Isomov.

      "I don't understand.  I thought it was safer for all of us to wait until we made it to my fleet."

      "That is very true.  But, she insisted that we make contact now.  She loves you very much, she is making the supreme sacrifice for you."

      Alan looked at Isomov and understood his meaning.  Julia was so worried about him that she was actually placing herself in harms way for him.  It was such an obvious act of love that he had to think about it for a moment.  Then as he searched his heart for Maggie, he found that there was truly none of her left there, only Julia remained.  He looked up at Isomov.

      "Excuse me, please.  I have to find Julia," Alan said to Isomov who nodded at him, as he left to find Julia as he began to recognize the feelings that he had not noticed before.

      Alan hurried through the ship and finally found Julia at the fantail of the trawler, in tears.  He gathered her into his arms.  The pair watched as the wake of the ship faded off into the distance.

      "Thank you," Alan said softly as he kissed her gently on the back of her head.  "I really appreciate what you have done."

      She turned toward him then buried her face in his chest, tears streaming down her cheeks.  The tears ripped at his heart, in so many relationships he could not feel any remorse when things started to unravel.  Normally he could have walked away without looking back and could have cared less, but this lady was different.  Each tear was as if a nail was being driven deep into his heart, the thought of leaving her behind was devastating. 

      "You have not lost me yet."

      "Are they coming for you?"

      "That is the plan, yes."

      "How will I find you again?"

      "You will.  You have become very special to me and I am not going to give up that easily."

      "Will you come back?"

      "I don't know how or when yet, but I'll get you back with me someday."

      Alan held her face in his hands, wiped away the tears with his thumbs, then lifted her chin and pressed his lips against her's in a passionate kiss.  Slowly her arms made their way around his neck as she pulled herself tightly against his chest as the kiss lingered.  Time stopped as the love for each other grew larger than life.  When they finally parted, he was left speechless as he gazed at her and smiled.

      "That was very nice," Julia said softly.

      "Very," he sighed.  "I have to go back to my ship, but my heart will remain here with you.  I'm going to work on a way to arrange it so that you can come to America."

      "I would like that very much."

      "Let's go back up to the bridge.  I need to be up there and I want to spend all the time I can with you until they come to get me."

      They slowly made their way back to the bridge, holding hands all the way, love flooding over them as they walked through the passageway and walked onto the bridge.  Alan did not know how he was going to do it, but now he had made up his mind to come back for her.  He did know that this was the woman he was meant to spend the rest of his life with, something deep inside him confirmed that.  As he looked into those blue-gray eyes, he found himself lost in her and could see the love that was deep inside, love she had not yet learned how to express.  It was not her way to express feelings, she had never had this kind of feelings before and that made her a little uneasy.

      When the pair arrived on the bridge, Isomov turned to see the couple and smiled, thinking that the two looked good together and how much they reminded him of his late wife and himself.  He knew the decision Julia had made was a hard one.  He was proud of her, thinking the way she had about someone other than herself.  It was the way he had always hoped that she would be, she was so much like her mother.

      "When do you think your rescuers will be here?"  Isomov asked.

      "I'm not sure.  It will take the helicopter at least a couple of hours to get here.  Even that depends on where my ship is."

      "How will I get in touch with you?"  Julia asked.

      "I'll give you my address, that way we can write until I can get back here to get you."

      "Will you really come back?"

      "I want to, yes."  Alan pulled out a pen to write both his military and home addresses.  When he was finished he handed the paper to Julia, who clutched it lovingly.

      "I'm supposed to be taking leave," Alan began, "that's a vacation from the military, soon.  I'll see if I can't get clearance to come here and be with you."

      "How long will it be?"  Julia asked.

      "About two weeks."

      "When?"

      Alan smiled and as he looked up at the ceiling, then he hugged Julia, meeting her eyes.

      "You are acting a little anxious.  Almost as if you are starting to miss me before I leave?"

      "A little, yes,"  Julia responded, looking at the floor as she blushed.  "So when are you going on vacation."

      "I'm not sure.  In a month or so."

      A short pause settled over the group.  Isomov research over to the controls of the trawler and pulled the throttles back, slowing the ship next he threw the switch that would start the generator.  He turned and looked at Alan as he leaned against the wall.

      "I suppose the best thing is to sit still in one place, then turn on all the outer lights, like we did for you," Isomov said.

      "Yeah," Alan responded sadly.

      "You are going to miss her?  Yes?"  Isomov asked Alan.

      "Yes, very much," Alan answered.

      "What about the other man from your plane?"  Julia asked.

      "I almost forgot all about him," Alan smiled.  "I guess we better pull him out of the freezer."

      "I'll get something to wrap him in," Isomov began.  "I doubt you want him bleeding all over the rescue ship."

      "I am really more worried about the odor."

      Alan and Isomov smiled understanding the irony of the situation and were glad that there was something else to keep him busy.  Julia recalled what the body of the other American had looked like and a shiver ran down her back.  She did not want to think or do anything right now but spend these next few and precious hours with him.

      Alan left the bridge heading for the cold storage area where the body of the agent lay.  By the time he arrived there and climbed down to the body, Isomov got to the hatch cover and looked down to watch his handling of the body.  He took a moment to say a short prayer for his fallen countryman, then he laid the body out flat and checked all of the pockets for any identification.

      "I checked for his papers before I put him in here there," Isomov said.  Alan and Isomov exchanged looks.  "Here is a large blanket.  After you wrap him, I'll drop a line and we'll lift him up."

      Alan nodded.  He could see the almost completely missing face in the dim light filtering down from the deck lights and was grateful he had not known or liked the man.  It made it easier to handle a body of a stranger than that of a friend because when a friend dies a little bit of you dies as well.  He finished wrapping the body in the blanket, then circled a rope around the body in several places before climbing out of the storage area.

      Alan walked over to where Isomov was and the two of them pulled together to lift the body of the agent out of the storage locker and onto the deck.  When they had the wrapped body laid out in front of them, a strange and uneasy silence fell over them, perhaps out of respect for the dead man, or perhaps because of the forthcoming departure.  Whatever it was neither man gave it much thought, the Russian mariner placed his large, callused hand on the pilot's broad shoulder, then without a word, he made his way back to the bridge.

      When Isomov reached the bridge, there were a couple of moments before the deck lights lit up the deck area.  A minute later, the flood lights aimed off the side of the ship, came on and illuminated the surface of the ocean.  It was a beautiful sight, the darkness absorbing the light just out of reach.  There was the slight pitch and roll of the ship as it sat nearly motionless in the slight waves of the sea.  It was like a dream, the motion, the sounds and the sights all added to the illusion.  The only thing that made it clear that it was real, was the aroma of Julia's perfume, that she wore for only the second time in her life, as she cuddled on his arm as the two looked out at the fish that were swimming up toward the lights.

      Isomov stood on the weather deck for a moment watching the two of them.  A tear formed in his watchful eye as he realized the pain that she would soon be feeling.  Alan was going to have to leave and she would be left here with only her father.  The pain that would wrench her heart would be almost as great as what he felt when his wife died.  The thing that would make her loss so great would be that they would not only be separated by distance, but by political barriers as well.  He knew that she was like her mother.  This meant that because she loved him so much that she would remain faithful to the American.  He turned and went into the ship to leave the youngsters alone.

      Time raced by as Alan and Julia talked, getting to know each other so that they would never loose each other.  They would keep the other with them in their heart, even though they would be so far apart.  As they conversed, she started talking in English and he would respond in Russian.  They talked, laughed and enjoyed the time that they had together.  The conversation went on and it was not long before they were locked in another loving embrace.

      Isomov had given them privacy by taking station near the radar.  As he watched, there soon appeared at the outer limits of the screen a low flying aircraft heading their way.  He continued watching as the distance reduced at a steady pace, when it reached fifteen kilometers he went out to let them know that it was getting near.  When he walked out on the weather deck, he looked down to see them engaged in a passionate kiss.  He paused for a moment, suddenly the sound of the approaching helicopter was detectable.  Alan pulled away from Julia and looked in the direction of the aircraft.  He looked toward the bridge and saw Isomov standing there looking at the couple.  He was a little embarrassed about being caught in the act of showing his affection for her.  But, then on the other hand he did not regret it.

      Soon the red and green marker lights of the helicopter were visible in the night sky.  It came to just a few hundred yards off the port side, left side, of the trawler, then turned on its landing lights as it hovered motionless ten feet above the water.

      Isomov could hear someone on the radio and called out to Alan, who raced across the deck and up to the bridge.  He pulled the microphone from its cradle and held it near his mouth.

      "This is Dancer," Alan panted into the microphone.

      "Well, it is sure nice to hear your voice, mister," Phil's voice came through the speaker.

      "Captain!"  Alan explained.  "This is sure an unexpected surprise."

      "Surprise!  Do you have any idea how much trouble you have caused me lately?"

      "Some, I guess."

      "We'll have lots of time to discuss what has been happening on the ride back.  Let's get you on board."

      "Yes, sir."  Alan hung up the microphone and looked at Isomov.  "It's my captain.  It is time for me to go now.  Thank you for everything.  And sir ... " Alan looked at Julia who was standing on the deck below watching as the helicopter moved in slowly.  "I'll be back for her, sir.  That is with your permission."

      "That, you certainly have.  You are most welcome for everything."  Isomov held out his hand to Alan.  "I'll see you when you return."

      Alan shook Isomov's hand then turned and walked out to the deck area.  The helicopter moved closer and rose to forty feet as it came to a halt directly over the deck of the ship.  The wind that the spinning rotors created, felt like a storm as it batted Julia around.  A cable and orange collar was lowered from the large sliding door on the right side of the helicopter.  He quickly wrapped the collar around the agent's body then motioned to the crewman who was operating the winch.  The cable raised the lifeless body of the agent up to the door where it was pulled in.  The cable and collar were then lowered for him.  When the cable got to the deck, he looked at her, then reached out and touched her cheek then he picked up the collar and wrapped it around him.  He leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek, then motioned to the winch operator.  A moment later the cable lifted him off the deck.

      "I'll be back for you!"  Alan yelled over the wind of the rotors to Julia.

      "I'll be waiting."

      "Julia, I love you!"

      "I love you!"  Julia stood in the middle of the deck bracing against the strong wind waving to Alan.

      When Alan was in the door of the SH-3 helicopter, it turned, raised its tail and headed back to its ship.  He looked around the inside of the helicopter.  There was a pair of welcome and familiar faces, Jack and Phil.  Pushed forward next to the radar station, was the blanket wrapped body of the agent.  He took a deep breath as he pulled on a helmet that Jack handed him, then pushed the talk button and began his report to Phil.

      Julia watched as the helicopter headed off to the south.  The tears began to flow freely down her cheeks and she ran over to her father.  Isomov looked into the direction of the departing helicopter and listened to the sound of the machine fade as he comforted his daughter.  He wished that he had some words of wisdom that would ease her pain, but he could find none.  Then she looked up at him and tried to smile.

      "He loves me," she said.

      "I could tell."

      "I love him."

      "That much is obvious," Isomov generated a smile.

      "He's going to come back for me."

      "I'm sure he will, as soon as he can."

      "Let's get some rest.  We'll do some fishing in the morning then head for home."

      "I wish we could keep going.  That's not possible is it, father?"

      "Not in this type of ship, no.  Even if we did follow after him, finding his fleet would be next to impossible.  Be patient, dear, he'll come back for you.  I believe in him and his word."

      The two walked into the ship.  Soon all of the outside lights went off, and the lights inside the bridge dimmed.  Darkness seemed to engulf the trawler as the silence of the night retuned.

CHAPTER 7

      The single F-14 raced across the afternoon skies heading east over mid west America.  There were several groups of cloud formations floating over the Nebraska farm lands.  To the north a perfectly formed anvil shaped thunderstorm dropped rain on the lands below.  An occasional spark of lightning headed earthward.  Jim looked at his watch then started to calculate the remaining fuel time.  In silence he struggled with the calculations, pride keeping him from asking Erick for help.  It was when the calculations started getting confusing that Erick's voice came through the intercom.

      "Time to refuel, five minutes," Erick spoke with control that bordered on boredom.

      "I knew that," Jim half muttered.

      "Sure you did, I have the tanker on the scope.  Come right to zero-nine-three and slow to two-hundred-eighty knots for intercept."

      Jim followed the directions of his friend without question or hesitation.  They had become a superior team over the years, a team that had yet to meet their equal in the air.  Weather it had been luck or skill was of little consequence, just the final outcomes.  He quickly glanced down at the radar scope to see the blip that was the tanker.  It was at a slight angle to them and slightly higher.  The most important thing was that they were on time, something unusual for the Air Force Jim thought to himself.

      "Setting up for mid-air refueling," Jim announced to Erick as he reached forward and activated a number of switches.

      "Okay," Erick responded.  Then he set up to call into the tanker.  "Air Force tanker, this is Navy Tomcat one-zero-four.  Over."

      "Tomcat oh-four, this is tanker six," this voice responded.  "We have you on scope.  We are letting out the line."

      "That's a copy," Erick confirmed.  "Hold your course and speed, we are on our way in."

      "We are holding heading and speed."

      Jim could see the tanker in front of him and matched the altitude of the tanker.  The wings of the fighter finished swinging forward, the speed brakes came up, and then from behind its protective panel to the right of the cockpit lifted the angled tube that is the refueling device rose.  It looked like a long claw rising out, aimed toward the front of the fighter.  A series of green lights lit up on the panel that indicated that all of the systems were ready for the refueling process.

      As the fighter banked lazily to the right it looked like a deformed bird of pray stalking a larger bird. Jim lined up on the "basket," that looked like an extra-large badminton birdie that was on the end of hose that would carry the jet fuel.  Jim closed the distance, using the throttles to adjust the speed, slowly.  Finally, the nozzle hit the center of the basket and there was a metal scraping sound that let Jim know that he was hooked up.  Jim pushed forward a little and put some slack in the line.  Then the electrical seal was activated, it was now time to transfer the fuel.

      "We have a lock," Erick said over the radio to the tanker crew.

      "We concur.  Starting to pump."

      For the next few moments, fuel flowed from the tanker to the fighter at a mind boggling rate.  In time that would be the envy of any NASCAR pit crew, several hundred gallons of jet fuel were transferred without a drop being lost.  Jim watched as the fuel gauges got to their maximum full position.

      "Jinx, I'm showing we are full," Jim said to Erick.

      "Yep, my gauges show the same.  Tanker six, we are full."

      "Copy your full.  Pumps off."

      "Seal off.  Thanks for the pit stop.  We're going to break right."

      "Roger.  We'll break left.  Have a nice day."

      As the two aircraft banked in opposite directions, the fighter angled down and retracted the nozzle.  The wings swept back as the fighter accelerated to near the speed of sound.  As the fighter settled back on the course that would take it to Potxent, Maryland, Jim started to slip back in to time when he met the pilot that would be not only a close friend but the man that all pilots would gauge themselves.

      It was a warm late spring afternoon and Jim was waiting on the flight deck for his new wing man, a fresh ensign that was a mustang.  Mustangs were officers that had started their carrier as enlisted, took advantage of the ship-board college training, and eventually got their commission.  Most of the mustangs started in the hole, where the candidates that had completed their degree and had the rank of ensign when they entered the two-year program.  The candidates that had their degree, usually got to fleet as lieutenant JG (junior grade).  Mustangs do not get their commission to the rank of ensign until they have graduated flight school.

      Jim was already in a bad mood and did not like the idea of waiting for a rooky, he had been on edge since they had heard that the embassy in Beirut had been bombed by a terrorist.  Jim wanted to get in and shoot something, anything, and prove to those responsible that America should not be taken lightly.  He knew his rooky when he was an enlisted man on the Kitty Hawk, so he was going to cut him a little slack.

      Alan and his RIO, Jack, came out of the island and made their way over to Jim.  He almost felt a little pity for the Mustang officer, learning the ropes at fleet was hard enough, but on his first cruise to go straight into a combat situation, was going to make it all the more complicated.

      "Sorry I am late, sir," Alan began.  "The CAG was giving me a little pep talk."

      "Alright," Jim began, "let's get the preflight done and get into the air."

      The Nimitz had been dispatched to the area as soon as the bombing had been confirmed.  The ship had been on patrol with her escort ships for nearly six months when the reports came in.  They made their way to the Mediterranean from their patrol in the north Atlantic in only days.  The crew wanted to make a statement to the world and knew that it was going to be their pilots and crews that would make that statement.

      As soon as the two crews had finished their preflight, they climbed into their fighters and went through the engine start-up procedures.  Several minutes later the pair of F-14's taxied to their launch positions, where the ground crews made the final preparations to the fighters before their launches.  Amid the thundering roar of the engines, the crews sat calmly at the controls.  Moments later, Jim's fighter was hurled down the deck by the catapult, dropped several feet after it cleared the flight deck, and then banked right as it climbed away.  Alan's fighter repeated the routine a couple of seconds later.

      The pair of fighters flew together almost as if they were one, the distance between the fighters was so close it was almost as if they were performing in an air show.  The purpose of the tight formation was to confuse enemy radar into thinking that the pair was only a single aircraft.  Soon they came up on a group of A-6 Intruders from the Constitution.  The Tomcats were supposed to fly escort for the bombers.  Any one that had to have an escort, wanted to have VF-84 fighters as their escort, the pilots in the squadron are considered the best that there was. 

      Jim would rather have had a seasoned pilot flying his wing, this was not the time or place to teaching a rooky pilot the finer points of the Tomcat or teaching combat maneuvers.  In silence, the group of aircraft went into Lebanese airspace.  As they approached the target area the fighters went low into the valley and the bombers went along the top of the ridges on their bombing run.  

      It did not take long for the bait to be taken.  The Soviet built SU-22 came up behind the bombers and started to lock on.  Jim rolled out of the valley and was completely upside down when he launched his sidewinder missile at the SU-22.  Moments later the missile struck its target and the SU started a fiery descent toward the earth.  As the Americans watched the death throngs of the mortally wounded aircraft, its pilot ejected to safety.  Alan was still admiring the work of his senior when he saw a MiG-17 heading toward the other Tomcat.  He banked his fighter toward the MiG out of instinct without any thought.

      "J.W.," Alan addressed his RIO, "I've got a MiG trying to slip in on Rain's six."

      "Got him," Jack responded.  "Jinx, check your six!  There's a 17 climbing up your tail pipes."

      "We got him," Erick responded. 

      "Rain," Alan spoke with control, the adrenalin flowing freely in his veins.  "Come left, help me engage."

      Jim heard the control in Alan's voice, a voice that did not sound like a rooky.  He banked left as the threat warning pierced the air.  Jim looked out the left side and saw Alan slip in behind the MiG. 

      Alan fell back a little so that he could get a good angle for a missile shot.  His breathing was a little faster than he wanted, pulse speeded up and his palms began to sweat.  He was excited, this was the taste of combat.

      "Dancer," Jack's voice came through the intercom, "let's get this guy quick.  I got more bandits sneaking in low at the four O'clock."

      "Right.  Rain, break right on three.  One .. two ... three, break!"

      Jim's fighter broke right as Alan got a full lock on the MiG.  It was the first that the MiG pilot knew that Alan was there and his panic was obvious by his lack of movement.  The F-14  fired its missile and rolled right.  Moments later the missile struck its victim, the MiG  would soon hit the ground and be completely destroyed.  He started to refocus on the incoming fighters.  He closed up with his wingman as they went head on at the remaining MiGs.

      "I'm showing three," Jim's voice came over the radio.  "I'll take the guy on the left you concentrate on the one on the right."

      "Yes, sir!"  Alan was enjoying this.  As they closed on the MiGs, Alan set up to head on lock on the middle fighter that was approaching.

      "J.W.," Alan spoke with control.  "Let's take out the middle guy before this gets too nutty."

      "Okay," Jack set up the tracking computer for the type of quick fire and break that was necessary for the head on shooting scenario.  A moment later the system was ready and the missile armed.

      "You're live on the stick," Jack announced.

      Alan angled his fighter just slightly left.  He got a lock on the middle aircraft and fired.  This would force the hand of the MiGs, the center pilot would have to move to avoid the missile and if the other two did not, they might become the unintentional victim of the missile.  The fighters started to break, two almost colliding in mid air.

      "What the hell are you doing?"  Jim shouted over the radio.

      "Setting up the rules for this game," Alan responded.

      As pair of Tomcats went after their respective enemy fighters, the missile struck its intended victim.  Alan glanced to the left and saw Jim beginning to engage his MiG.  He turned forward and concentrated on his pray.  It was simple, almost to the point of being boring.  The MiG gave him no real difficulty and was soon going down in flames from the 20 millimeter cannon fire.  He then turned his fighter toward the battle between Jim and the remaining MiG.

      "J.W.," Alan was calm now, "where is Rain?"

      "Three-O’clock and high.  Actually, they seem to be vertical."

      "Where is the MiG?"

      "Right behind him."

      "Shit.  Check the scope, any other contacts?"

      "We're clear.  Just Rain, the MiG, and the A-6's."

      Alan pulled the nose of his fighter up and shoved the throttles foreword waited for a second then engaged the afterburners.  The fighter screamed skyward on a path to intercept the MiG and come to the rescue of his senior.  It has been said that the modern fighter was nothing more than a rocket that was human controlled.  The speed at which his Tomcat cut through the air was testimony to that statement.

      In the distance Alan could see the MiG, it was no competition for the Tomcat which was pulling away quickly.  He switched off the afterburners and adjusted his angle so get a clean shot at the MiG.  Then he saw Jim's fighter literally pivot and head earthward, head on at the MiG.  He pulled the throttles back as he watched in near total disbelief.

      "I don't believe what I just saw," Alan half muttered in the intercom.

      "What did he do?" Jack asked.

      "I've heard about A.B. turns, in theory, but I didn't think anyone was crazy enough to try it."

      As they watched Jim fired a missile and sent the final MiG to defeat.  The A.B. turn, afterburner turn, was a theory that a pivot turn could be facilitated by switching one of the afterburners off for an instant.  The problem is that if the afterburner does not relight, or is left off too long, the result is an unrecoverable flat spin.  No one had been known to actually try it, and most commanders discounted the effectiveness of the maneuver.  Most maintenance sections had fixed the afterburner controls so that they could not be activated independently.

      The end result was that Alan scored three kills and Jim two.  When they returned to the ship no one ever called him a rooky again, he had earned the respect of everyone on board.  He soon became one of Jim's closest friends and knew more about the way Jim thought and flew than anyone else.

       "Rain," Erick's voice in the headset brought Jim back to the present, "You are awfully quiet up there.  Everything alright?"

      "Yeah.  Just remembering that first time we took Dancer into Lebanon."

      "He did real well that day."

      "That is a fact!  The rest of the time I asked to have him on our wing."

      "I always thought we had a babysitting assignment."

      "Hell, no!  After the way he reacted that day, I did not want to anyone else there."

      "I'll never forgive you for that A.B. turn that day."

      "I'll only do that in an emergency."

      "Good!  We'll be on the ground in a little over an hour, who's buying supper?"

      "I would think my father-in-law."

      There was a pause and Erick started chuckling over the intercom.

      "What's tickling you now?"

      "I was just recalling that day you met Red Sonja."

      "Oh, give me a break!"

      "A break?  Like a nose maybe?"  Erick laughed heartily as Jim just shook his head in frustration.

      Erick recalled the day when a young and somewhat reckless lieutenant barreled over the mail plane pilot.  Then apologized as he helped the pilot back up.  He then said "Excuse me sir."  The problem was he was a she, in a matter of frustration and honor, she connected with a right cross that resulted in a broken nose.  Jim and Phyllis eventually became very close friends and were on the same shuttle flight together. 

      When she and Alan had started dating, Jim thought that it might be the relationship that both of them would settle into.  It had surprised a lot of their friends when they broke up, but the reasons for the break-up were still not common knowledge to their friends.

      Erick was still laughing when the radio chirped.

      "Navy Tomcat one-zero-four," a voice came through the head set.

      "This is one-zero-four," Erick responded.

      "One-zero-four , this is Pittsburg radio.  We have priority traffic.  Stand by."

      "Roger, zero-four standing by," Erick waited for a moment.  "I wonder what they want now."

      "I hope that it’s not bad news," Jim sighed.

      "One-zero-four, this is Hoffman," the admiral's voice broke through the pause.

      "What is happening, sir?" Jim asked.

      "We have recovered Dancer.  He is fine."

      "That's good news.  Do you still need us out there?"

      "I think so.  There are a lot of strange things that I would like you to look at."

      "We are on schedule, so well be there in a little while."

      "I'll send my driver for you.  Out here."

      "Roger, out."

      Phyllis' shoulder length red hair bounced slightly as she made her way through the passageway.  Her Atlanta temper and upbringing were common knowledge, as well as the fact that she was one of the most desirable women in the Navy.  Every man on the ship was envious of Alan, having such a beautiful woman in his life.  The break up was something that Phyllis was sure was not a permanent thing, she was sure that he would come to his senses and take her back.

      She grasped the handle on one of the doors and opened it and entered the room.  As she entered PRI-FLY all of the heads in the room turned.  Most everyone was used to seeing her in a flight suit that did nothing to accent her figure.  She was in kaki, and the shirt and slacks let everyone know that she was a woman.  As she walked over to the Air Boss she became a distraction to the men working in the center.

      "You wanted to see me, Boss?"  She asked her southern drawl lingering in the air.

      "Yeah," the air boss turned around and looked in the eyes.  "Dancer is on his way in.  The SH-3 picked him up about thirty-minutes ago."

      "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

      "We got a signal and we sent a helo out to check it out.  I didn't want to build up your hopes until I knew that he was all right."

      "He is okay?"

      "That is what I have been told."

      "Where is Phil?  I want to talk to him."

      "He is in the helo that we picked him up with."

      Not sure what to do next, Phyllis turned and left PRI-FLY, making  her way up to the flight deck to await the arrival of the helo.  Soon she noticed that there was a growing gathering of pilots and ground crews.  It was not long after that the deck was illuminated by the flood lights and in the distance the marker lights of the approaching helicopter could be seen like red and green pearls in the darkness of the Mediterranean night.  The sound of the twin turbine engines and the rotor blades beating the air increased as it grew closer.  The landing lights of the SH-3 came on, as the voice of the air boss boomed over the PA system.

      "Stand clear spot three.  Helo one-four landing."

      As the helicopter matched the speed of the ship it seemed to hover over the deck.  The wind caused by the rotors thrashing the air, whipped everyone’s' clothes tightly against their bodies.  The SH-3 lowered slowly at first until it was only four or five feet  off the deck, then it came down quickly and settled.  The ground crew ran up and received the bird.  As the rotors started to slow down, the side door opened and Alan stood in the door.  It was good to see his ship and his friends.  Suddenly a roar came from the crowd and he hopped out of the door then walked toward the mob.  It was a scene that made him feel at home.  It was a celebration not only of his return, but of his seventh kill. 

      The remaining agent walked out of the island escorted by the Marine security police.  As he walked up to Alan the crowd silenced.  The agent looked at him then looked past him at the helicopter, then back at him.

      "Where is he, Commander?" the agent asked.

      Alan crossed his arms and looked the agent in the eyes.  The pair of black eyes and black and blue color on the bridge of the nose, caught his attention.  He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts, while stifling a grin of obvious pleasure in the agent's broken nose.

      "In the helo," Alan began.  "You know, he said some things before he died that puzzle me."

      "He's dead?"

      "Yeah.  A rocket blew his head in half, as well as knocking the shit out of my plane.  Now, I want just one reason I shouldn't knock you right off this planet.  Mind you, I'm not going to ask for a good reason, just one reason."

      "I'm protected by the federal government.  In fact I'm supposed to be treated the same as the rest of you."

      "So was he," Alan motioned at the sheet wrapped body of the other agent.  "It didn't do him much good.  Then again, it looks like you have run into Red already.  Maybe we should let her have another poke at you."

      There was an uneasy silence that fell over the agent.  He knew that the pilot in front of him could toss him overboard and no one would see a thing.  Then he saw Phyllis walking up to them and swallowed hard.

      "Hey Dancer," Phyllis said patting Alan on the back.

      "Hey," Alan pointed at the agent's nose.  "Is that a piece of your work?"

      "Yeah.  I wanted to give him another one, too.  Just it would have been a waste of a good punch."

      "I thought I recognized your work."

      "How do I know that you did everything possible for a successful mission?"

      "Where the hell do you get off with a question like that?"  Phyllis erupted.  "In your successful mission, that fighter would be spread all over the desert.  You don't realize who you’re trying to fool with."

      "That was an important goal.  I mean ..."

      "You had agreements with the Iraqis,"  Alan began.  "We'll here is a flash for you, your friends are not holding up their end of the agreements.  Your partner slipped and said that he was certain that they were not going to shoot.  They did, and it resulted in his death.  I'll make damn sure this entire mess results in the end of your carrier.  I don't like the idea of getting shot down for anyone, getting shot down for the likes of you is completely unpalatable."

      "What gives you the right to play God?" Phyllis growled.  "Not only are you out here trying to kill people, you're trying to kill other Americans.  In my book, you are the lowest form of life that exists."

      There was a resounding agreement from the group of pilots that had surrounded the trio.  The agent quickly realized that he had no support in his corner, his only allay lying cold and lifeless on a gurney on the flight deck.  He wanted to retreat to some safe haven, but even on a ship as large as a modern nuclear aircraft carrier there would be no safe place to hide.  Slowly he backed up to make his retreat back to the holding cell, undoubtedly the safest place on the entire ship for him.

      "Make sure that he is kept clear of the communications center," Phil said quietly to the Marine officer who nodded acknowledgement and followed the agent.  "Commander Lee, I want you to file a report in the morning.  Right now, I want you to get to sick bay and get checked out."

      "Yes, sir," Alan turned and headed off.

      "You might want to go with him, Red," Phil said softly.

      "Sure," she turned and trotted off to catch up with Alan.

      Alan was starting to come down off the high.  Being rescued had been a rush and giving his report to Phil had taken up the majority of the flight back.  Now, he was unwinding as he made his way to sick bay.  He looked over at Phyllis who smiled back at him.  His heart ached for Julia, but he knew it was not something that he could tell Phyllis.  He still cared for her, not in the way that she wanted, but it was his respect for her feelings that kept him from saying anything about Julia.

      "Are you okay?" Phyllis asked.

      "Yeah.  It was just a long couple of days."

      "You are not telling me something, what is it?"

      "Nothing.  I just need some rest."

      Phyllis knew that the answer was a way of saying he did not want to talk right now.  The best thing to do was to just let the subject drop for now and let him bring it up when he was ready.  When the pair reached the sick bay, the medics and the doctor looked up at Alan.

      "Glad to have you home, sir," one of the medics said.

      "Not as glad as I am to be back," Alan grinned.

      "Well commander, if you'll have a seat on the table we'll get started," the doctor said.

      Alan unzipped his flight suit to the waist and pulled his arms out.  Then he pulled off the yellow flight jersey of his squadron.  He ran his hands over his short reddish brown hair and then over his red stubble that was his now a several day old beard.  His nose that bore the evidence of having been broken several times in fights.  His lean, six-foot-two frame showed evidence that he seldom found sunshine.    There was the scar over his breast bone where he had taken a twelve gauge round at point-blank range, a part of his short three year police career in the Army before deciding that there was not enough money in law enforcement.  Had he not been wearing a cavilar vest, it would have resulted in his death.  If you asked him about it, he would smile and say that for about a week after the shooting he wished he had not been wearing it.  The resulting six broken ribs, still brought him slight discomfort from time to time.

      There was the scar that ran down his right inside biceps, a result of a knife-wielding drug dealer who thought he was going to escape by scaring the cop.  His mistake was choosing Alan and when the knife cut into his arm, it made him extremely angry, not the least bit frightened.  The dealer suffered several contusions and a broken jaw.  Many people who knew Alan well, knew that he was not to be taken lightly.  He was one of the true sons of the confederacy and took that part of his background seriously.  He often pointed out that it was not coincidental that he shared his great grandfather's name.

      The doctor walked up to Alan and noticed a large bruise on his right side.  He lifted Alan's arm and took a closer look.

      "Did you eject?"

      "No, sir.  I ditched."

      "Why?"

      "I had no communication with my back seat and didn't want to take the chance that he might not be ready for an eject."

      "How was the landing?"

      "I do not actually remember a lot of it.  I can remember bringing the nose up, feeling the tail start to drag, the body hitting and then I was thrown forward."

      "How did you get out?"

      "A fisherman, I think.  I don't know for sure."

      "A fisherman?"  The doctor was now behind Alan running his fingers gently down the vertebrae in the spinal column. 

      "Yes, sir.  I came to on his ship."

      "Red," the doctor looked over at Phyllis, "Would you mind waiting for him in the officer's mess."

      "No problem.  I'll see you in a bit Dancer."

      "Yeah, as soon as the doc lets me out of here."

      After Phyllis had left the room Alan relaxed a little and the doctor continued the examination.

      "How did the ribs hold out?"

      "Good.  I don't feel any pain."

      "You are going to end up being a national hero you keep up this way.  When I retire form active service and go into private medicine I want you to be my patient."

      "You really like me that much?"

      "It is not a matter of liking you, with the way you are I would not need another client," the doctor smiled as Alan grimaced at the joke.  "Every doctor needs a hero as a regular."

      "If it doesn't kill me first."

      "If.  Now strip down.  I want to take a series of  X-rays of that back of yours"

      "Is there a problem?"

      "^That is why I want to take the X-rays."

      Alan spent the next hour under the careful eyes of the doctor, who checked every inch of his anatomy before giving him a clean bill of health.  It was necessary that the pilots be one hundred percent in order to operate their aircraft.  Even a slight head cold could result in a fatal mistake.  Navy pilots have to think in inches when launching and landing, they do not have the luxury of a long, flat, stationary runways.  It was the same thing that measures the difference between Navy pilots against all others.  It is why the most arrogant pilots in the world, are those who wear the wings of gold.

      Alan was not able to get the thoughts of Julia out of his mind.  Every thought seemed to be centered on that woman whom he barely knew.  It was such an over powering feeling that the doctor could see that he was not fully there.

      "What else happened out there?"  The doctor asked

      "Sir?"

      "What is on your mind?"

      "Nothing in particular."

      The doctor stepped back crossed his arms and sighed heavily.

      "Mister," the doctor began, "I am not going to sign off that you can fly, unless I know that there is nothing wrong."

      "It's a woman."

      "Red?" the doctor smiled.

      "No, the daughter of the fisherman that rescued me."

      "I see."

      "I think I am really in love with her."

      "Didn't we have this talk a year ago when you came back to fleet?  About Red?"

      "Yes.  But, it's different this time."

      "I've heard this before, too."

      "I know.  Only this time I was thinking about her as a wife."

      The doctor looked up from his files and gazed at Alan.

      "Come again."

      "I think that I want to marry her."

      "You, getting married?  That is the best example of an oxymoron that I can think of."

      "Yeah, me," Alan smiled a little.

      The doctor turned and walked over to his desk, sat down in the chair behind and leaned back as he rubbed the end of his pen across his bottom lip.  He reached forward sat upright and added some notes in Alan's file, then he looked up at him.

      "I am going to put you back on flight status, but you have to get some rest tonight.  I want to see you after your next flight."

      "Yes, sir."  Alan had been dressing while the doctor had been writing notes.  When he walked out of sick bay he made his way back to his cabin.  He had to get out of his flight suit and relax with his friends that were waiting for him at the officers’ mess.  When he got to his cabin grabbed a set of kakis out of his locker, then headed for the shower.  The steamy water felt good and after a shave he felt more like himself, he wished Julia could see him like this.

      He went up to the officer's mess to where Jack, Phyllis and several other pilots were waiting to welcome him home.  It was more than a gathering of Naval officers, it was a celebration of the safe return of a comrade.  The friendships between all of the flyers were strong and masked a lot of the fears that each held inside, this bond gave each the additional strength and confidence that they needed form time to time.  However, even their friendship was not enough to mask his feelings for Julia.  After the party wound down and every one was heading for their quarters for sleep, Phyllis walked up to Alan.

      "I am glad you're alright."

      "Thanks.  That means a lot."

      "There is something you are not telling me.  What is it?"

      "Not now."

      "I've got to leave tomorrow.  When?"

      "What time are you launching?"

      "In the afternoon."

      "I have a morning hop.  We'll talk after that.  Okay?"

      "Sure," Phyllis could sense that there was something different.  She was not sure what had happened out there, she also knew that pushing the issue was useless.  Alan would talk when he was ready and a moment before.  "Good night."

      "Good night."

      Alan made his way down the passageway deep in thought about everything that had happened in the last couple days.  As he turned to go down another passageway where his cabin was, Jack waited, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.

      "All right buddy," Jack began, "come clean.  What's up.  You acted like Phyllis was just another one of the guys.  Sort of the way Rain is around her.  Difference is, that they're friends and you two were a lot more than friends."

      "I ..." Alan looked up at Jack and knew that there was no use in avoiding the subject with him.  "Come in to my cabin, I'll explain."

      The two went into Alan's room and closed the door.  He sat on his bunk and unveiled the whole thing, including his feelings for Julia, to Jack who was sitting on the edge of the small desk that was in the cubicle.  They were too good of friends and it was hard to believe it when he mentioned the word marriage.  Listened to him complain when Phyllis had mentioned settling down, now here he was talking about marring some gal that he just met.

      "Man," Jack began, "get a grip on reality.  There is a woman up there who would do almost anything for you."

      "There's a woman out there who made sure that I got rescued.  That goes beyond almost.  They could end up in a ton of trouble for what they did for me."

      "I don't know.  There doesn't seem like there's anything to count on, besides some moment of weakness in your heart, or mind, or maybe both."

      "I promised her I'd go back for her."

      "You did what?"

      "I told her I'd go back for her and I intend to do just that.  I have a leave due and I would like to go get her.  If you do not mind, I could use your help, if not I will do it alone."

      "Have you completely blown a gasket?  Listen to what in the hell you are saying, Dancer.  This is really out there," Jack said in disbelief as he shook his head.  "Get some sleep, maybe in the morning things will be back to normal."

      "I think things are pretty clear right now."

      "Okay.  I'll see you in the morning.  This is a lot more than I can think about right now, let me give this some thought and we'll talk about it in the morning."  Jack left the room and headed for his own room.

      Alan lay out on his bunk and closed his eyes.  Soon he was in a deep sleep and dreaming about Julia.  Several times he turned over and reached out for the woman who was only there in his mind.  Each time, the lack of her presence bothered him deeply.  The result was that he was now more certain than before that he was in love with the Soviet girl.

CHAPTER 8

       The sun slowly rose out of the east and its warmth could be felt by the ground crews as they worked on the pair of Tomcats that were going to be going out on the morning launch.  The fighters looked odd sitting there in the morning light, their wings swung all the way back and the crewmen crawling over them like numerous symbolic creatures on their hosts.  As Alan and Jack walked out of the island and out on to the flight deck, there was no indication of the previous events.  When they arrived at their fighter the crew chief saluted and smiled a big grin.

      "Good morning, sir!"

      "Morning," Alan replied then looked up at the side of his fighter.  There were now seven silhouettes of airplanes painted on the side under the pilot's seat.  Alan smiled and patted the chief on the shoulder.

      There were only a handful of modern aviators that had the opportunity to see actual aerial combat, even fewer were aces with five kills.  Alan was on his way to being a double ace with ten.  A feat that would definitely be something of a mile stone in the twentieth century.  He started pre-flighting his fighter when one of the petty officers walked up to him with a new helmet that had no markings on it.

      "Commander," the petty officer began, "I couldn't find your helmet in the ready room or over your locker.  I figured it got lost when you went down, so I ordered a new on for you and got you this one to fly with today."

      "Thank you," Alan took the helmet from the petty officer and handed it to the chief who was on the ladder.  The chief placed the helmet on the front canopy.

      Soon Alan was climbing into the seat, as he pulled down the helmet he looked at the all white clean helmet.  His helmet must still be on Isomov's ship he thought to himself.  He smiled a little and pulled the helmet on, he reached down and powered on the intercom system as she fastened the chinstrap. 

      "Chief," Alan spoke into the intercom and looked at the chief who was plugged into the system.

      "Yes, sir?"

      "How much fuel have we got on board?"

      "Full load, about two and a half hours worth."

      "Any tankers scheduled?"

      "Let me see," the chief pulled a clip board up and ran his finger down the column.  "Yes sir, tanker one-seven scheduled for a launch in two hours."

      "Can you move him up about thirty minutes?"

      "What are up to, Dancer?" Jack asked.

      "Nothing in particular," he answered, then returned his attention to the chief.  "How about it chief?"

      "I'll see to it, sir," the chief said shaking his head.  He knew that Alan was going to be flying his own sortie and was likely to be breaking some type of rules, again.

      Alan motioned to the pilot that was going to be flying his wing and gave him a wink and a thumb up.  Jack shook his head and went back to the pre-start check lists.  Whatever he had in mind was something that he had to get out of his system and his RIO was just along for the ride.

      "Okay gentlemen," the chief's voice came over the intercom.  "You are ready for engine start-up.  I'll take care of your request, Dancer.  Have a nice flight, sir."

      "No problem, chief," Alan replied. 

      "It's going to be one of those days, isn't it?"  Jack asked.

      "Relax, J.W., you're going to give yourself an ulcer at an early age."

      "If you don't get me killed first!"

      "Who, me?  I'm one of the safest pilots in the Navy."

      "Do you really believe half of the shit you shovel, or are you just trying to see what reaction you get?"

      Alan laughed and then began the engine start ups without answering Jack's question.  It was only a short time later that the pair of Tomcats were in the air climbing and heading east.  Jack looked at the compass then looked at the flight plan.

      "I know this is going to come as a complete surprise to you," Jack began with a tone of frustrated sarcasm, "but we're not on the right heading."

      "Oh really?" Alan mocked him.

      "What the hell are you doing, Dancer?"

      "Flying a jet.  What are you doing?"

      "Sitting here waiting for a supreme egomaniac to get me grounded, permanently!"  Jack knew that pursuing the conversation any further was futile.  Alan was on his own sheet of music, and trying to figure it out was a moot point.  He knew that he would know the point of the situation when they were standing in front of the CAG getting chewed out for whatever it was.  He set up the radar and kept a good plot of where they were as they closed on the port of Istanbul, he sort of figured where they were heading.

      "J.W., Slide won't tell me where we're going," Clint complained to Jack.  "And we're not even close to the flight plan."

      "Yeah, mister personality over here is playing the same game.  We'll just let the macho guys do their thing and keep a good look out on the radar."

      It took only twenty minutes for the fighters to cross over Istanbul.  They were flying at nearly the speed of sound and at that speed it took them only a short time to get well over the Black Sea.  Jack was now certain what Alan was up to.

      "My, my, Dancer," Jack was in a completely sarcastic mood.  "We're over the Black sea.  I am surprised, should I give you a vector to our assigned patrol area?"

      "I have to let her know that I am okay."

      "You have really been affected by this one, haven't you?"

      "I tried to tell you that last night, you didn't want to listen to me then."

      "I am all ears now, what do I have to do to convince you that this is not a good idea?"

      "Look, just find her ship, I'll do a fly by and we'll bug out.  Okay?"

      "Like I have a choice, okay.  Boy is the CAG going to have our ass for this stunt.  This is worse than Rain flying in the Grand Canyon.  I can't believe you are doing this... "  Jack let the rest of his train of thought end.  At this point all common sense had been thrown out the window and had been replaced with other emotions.  He had the coordinates where they had picked Alan up the night before and programmed them into the on board navigational computer.  In a matter of only a few minutes the computer was showing the plots on one of the screens in front of Jack.

      "Come left to zero-one-zero," Jack said.  "I need to have my head examined.  You know we'll be in Soviet airspace in a little while?"

      "Yep."

      "You are certifiable!"

      "Yep."

      "And of course you know I wouldn't let you down, didn't you?"

      "Yep."

      "One of these days I'm going to surprise you and say no."

      "Sure you will."

      "Jester, I know what's up now.  Take a heading of zero-one-zero and get Slide on the deck.  We don't need to advertise this maneuver to the entire world."

      "That heading will take us into..." Clint's voice trailed off.

      "He knows."

      It was another long forty minutes that the pair of fighters flew along, barely a dozen feet off the waves.  There was little conversation as they raced along, the need for talk at this point did not exist.  Just finding the trawler then getting out of there was all that mattered.  Jack found a ship moving slowly ahead about forty miles.  He checked the area, there were no other surface contacts and this one was only a short distance from where they had picked up Alan last night.

      "Contact at zero-one-six, thirty five miles out.  I think it's your girl's ship," Jack reported.  He was able to relax a little they were still over the part of the Sea that was Turkish.  As long as they remained in Turkish air space and not Soviet the trouble that they could get into was considerably less.

      "Coming right," Alan said.

      "Dancer," Jack continued as he carefully looked at the radar scope. 

      "Yeah?"

      "We have a squall line moving in from the south west."

      "Is it heavy weather?"

      "Can't tell for sure, but it is a heavy radar contact and it’s moving in fast, so let's just get this over with and bug out."

      "Okay, J.W."

      Alan slowed the fighter down and climbed to sixty feet then turned toward the trawler.  He knew that the possibility of a squall line, a long row of thundershowers, moving in changed the fuel equation as well as the safety factor, drastically.  He had calculated the fuel and time, there was only a small window of time between making it to the refueling aircraft and the time he would run out of fuel.  The squall line could generate enough wind and rough air that it could seriously affect his fighter's fuel consumption rate.  He was wishing he could stop, say hello and thank you.  He activated the speed brakes and the fighter slowed to just about stall speed, two-hundred-twenty knots.

      Lucile was just getting home from her work with her daughter, Amanda, she pulled up in her old silver car.  She did not notice the blue military sedan that was parked at the end of the building at first.  Her reddish-brown hair was cut short, but still was curled.  Her green eyes had a slight touch of red to them from the long hours of hard work.  She lifted Amanda out of the back seat of the car after unfastening the seat belt.  As her thin frame straightened up she noticed a Naval officer step out of the sedan and start walking over to her, she looked at the officer in his working white uniform.  In a way he looked slightly like her step-father, Alan.

      "Miss Stokes?"  The officer asked surprised of the family resemblance between Alan and her.  He knew that she was adopted, but she looked as though she could have been his biological father, something that both liked hearing.

      "Yes," she responded afraid of what he might say to her.

      "Your father was shot down, but was recovered and is reported in good condition," the officer reported.

      Lucy nearly dropped Amanda as her knees buckled her heart nearly stopping.  Tears started to form in her eyes as the reality of what the officer had said started to take full hold.

      "What's wrong with grandpa?" Amanda asked.

      "Nothing.  He's fine," the officer said as he knelt down looking into the little girl's eyes.  "Your grandpa is a real good pilot and it'll take a lot more than what happened to keep him away from you two."  He looked up a Lucy and winked.

      "Is he really alright?" she asked.

      "Yes, the admiral wanted you to know that he had gone down, and that he was alright."

      "Thanks," she said as she dried the tears.

      "I'm supposed to take you back to D.C. with me, both of you,"  He said as he motioned to Amanda, who was a three and a half foot tall carbon copy of her mother.

      "Why?"

      "He is bringing Commander Donaldson and his wife out here.  I guess they want to make sure that you're not alone right now.  It also makes it easier for your father to get a hold of you."

      "Okay.  It'll take a little while to get everything together.  You can wait inside," Lucy offered.

      Inside the apartment the officer was a little surprised to see how neat the dwelling was, especially for a single parent.  As the officer looked around the room, he noticed a bookcase with a number of pictures proudly displayed.  He walked over and found a series of pictures of Alan going all the back to his high school days.

      "That's my grandpa," a little voice chirped proudly.

      "I see that."

      "Do you know him?"

      "I met him once.  I liked him."

      "We take care of his cat, Max, when he's gone."

      "He's a lucky cat."

      "He's black and purrs a lot."

      The officer laughed a little as he stood up and looked over the photos.  Soon Lucy walked out to find him looking at the photos.

      "Dad gave me a lot of those.  A lot of them were before I was adopted, but I feel like I've known him my whole life.  I love him like I did my own father."

      "He's you step-father, isn't he?"

      "Yes."

      "You have his nose and eyes.  You could be his real daughter."

      "Thanks," Lucy smiled, "I feel like he is my father."

      "He doesn't look comfortable in most of these pictures."

      "He hates having his picture taken," Lucy smiled.  "Once in a while I catch him unnoticed, those are the fun ones."

      "Is this his first command picture?"

      "Let's see ... No actually this is Dad and Jim after his first shoot down."

      "He looks pretty happy."

      "Yeah." 

      "This is almost like a memorial to him."

      "When he came into my life, I really needed a man that was able to take on the world and be a parent."

      "So he just took over?"

      "Pretty much.  He nearly punched my ex-husband in the face when he came by making threats, then he told him not to come back."

      "Sounds like he really cares about you, that's great," he paused and looked at his watch.  "We better get going, it's a five hour drive to Springfield."

      "Listen, before we head up, can we stop by dad's house so I can feed his cat?"

      "Sure." 

      They left the apartment to go off to the city.  Lucy was glad that her father's friends thought enough of her to help her through this.  She was relieved that Alan was all right, she would have really been lost had something happened to him.  She was now looking forward to hearing his voice, which would let her know for certain that he was well.

      Julia and Isomov were sitting on the deck relaxing, their nets in the water.  Julia held Alan's helmet in her hands, she had not intended to keep it and found when she had gone below to go to sleep after he had been plucked off the ship last night.  She missed him, and looking at the helmet seemed to bring him closer.  The low thunder-like rumble in the distance caught their attention and they looked at each other.  They looked in the direction of the fighters, and could see the smoke trails from the engines.  At the front of the smoke trails was the pair of Tomcats, their black nose cones and the sun glistening off of the canopies.  The noise not only increased in intensity as the fighters closed, but the well known alternating high-low almost ghostly whistle of the twin General Electric turbine engines pierced the air.

      Julia knew that it was Alan, jumped to feet and held up his helmet.  As the fighters got closer, she saw the one in front start to rock side to side.  She understood that it was a way of saying hello to those below.  She waved her hand back and forth over her head returning the greeting, a large smile beamed from her.  The noise of the engines as the fighters passed over head was so loud that both Julia and Isomov ducked, grimacing in response to the sound.  The aircraft continued a short distance then made a sweeping turn to make another pass.  Again she waved as he rocked his fighter from side-to-side.  The fighters headed off to the south on their way home, she knew that he had come back to let her know that he was alright.

      Then a thought swept over her, perhaps this was not a hello but a final good-bye.  She looked at the helmet in her hand and felt the tears forming in her eyes.  She looked at her father who gave an understanding sigh and looked after the departing jets.

      "Do you think that was farewell?" Julia asked.

      "I don't know.  He took a big chance coming out this far to fly by.  You mean a lot to him."

      "I fear that I'll never see him again," she began to weep.  Her father walked over and held her in his arms.  He looked south and hoped that he would soon see Alan, and that it would be to keep his word to his daughter.  He really did like him, he was not completely sure why he did.  He just did.

      Soon the silence retuned to the lone ship, their ears still aching from the thunderous roar of the passing aircraft.  Isomov inhaled deeply, the smell of the approaching storm filled his nostrils.  He released Julia and faced the west to look at the approaching weather system.

      "There is a storm coming," he said calmly.

      "So we pull the nets in now?"

      "Yes.  Then we head for home."

      They quickly got to the task of hauling in the nets that were only practically filled with fish.  Had they left them in the usual three hours, it would have likely been an excellent haul.  As soon as the fish were deposited in the hold and the nets secured, Isomov hurried to the pilothouse to start the engines.  When Julia joined him on the bridge, he motioned to the chart table.

      "Mark this area on the charts," he instructed.  "It seems to be a good spot."

      Julia nodded and looked at the LORAN radar read out.  The LORAN uses the satellites to give receiving unit a nearly exact location on the earth by latitude and longitude.  Not many of the younger ship owners could afford the expensive equipment.  Isomov had been at this long enough that he knew that it was a devise that he could not be successful without.

       It was not long before the first drops of rain splattered against the windshield.  The winds began to pickup and turn the tops of the slight waves into mist.  As the storm increased, the wind whipped the seas into less than typical conditions that tossed the trawler.  Isomov handled the ship with calm expertise, he had seen much worse in the north Atlantic during the war.  He recalled the high rough seas that he had encountered in the winter trying to get the convoys of food and supplies to the besieged Russia.

      The major difference was that in the war, the crew was hardly known to Isomov.  Here, the crew was his family, a factor that made him worry a little as the bow began dipping down.  The storm seemed to get a little rougher and the occasional burst of lightning lit up the sky.  Soon the storm was in full force, the sky was dark and the rain came down in sheets.  The wipers swung back and forth as fast as the motors would move them, still the vision was obscured by the heavy down pour.  The lightning bursts were reminiscent of the flashes from the battles for control of the north Atlantic.  Julia saw the concentration on her father's face and realized that he was far from the ship mentally.

      "This is a bad storm," Julia commented.

      "Not too bad," Isomov responded with a forced grin trying to forget where he had been.

      "What was it like in the war?"

      "A lot of it was like this, much colder of course.  I was often afraid to get to know the hands, I just sort of kept to myself and wrote your mother often."

      "Why didn't you want to know the crew?"

      "Many of the crewmen were either killed or died from exposure to the freezing waters.  Some were even lost overboard and never seen, again.  If I had taken the time to get to know them, each loss would have been more personal.  It was hard enough to loose the few that I did know."

      "Why did you never tell me about the American pilot before?"

      "It was not pertinent.  Possibly, I had no reason to recall that day until the American was here on board."

      The conversation was interrupted by a large wave that brought the nose high out of the water.  As the ship moved forward, the nose headed downward rapidly and when it stopped the ship had buried its nose in the water.  The trawler shuddered as it stopped suddenly as the nose met the water, several loose items flew forward and crashed to the floor.  The jolt brought a creak from the frame of the trawler as it was twisted by the powerful forces of nature that were playing against it.  The nose slowly came back up from under the surface, water streaming off the deck. 

      Isomov carefully surveyed the deck of the ship for any obvious damages.  The only thing that he could see was a couple of crates that had broken free and were washing around the deck.  Content that the crates would not cause any sever damage to anything else, he turned to see what had fallen to the floor.  As he glanced around, he saw that Julia had already begun to pickup the loose items and store them away.  When Julia looked up at Isomov the fear in her eyes was obvious.  She had ridden out a good number of storms in the trawler, but this storm moved in much faster and had turned this normally docile inland sea into a raging north Atlantic clone.  She had never been on the open oceans, so this was an unusual occurrence for her.  There was a quiet strength that she could draw from her father that settled her fears.

      "This storm will ease up soon," he said as the ship continued its wild bucking.

      "I really don't like this."

      "I'm not overly fond of these either.  It will smooth out soon, it is usually worse at the front of the storm then eases up.  Why don't you go below and make sure that everything is okay below."  Isomov was a little surprised that this storm was as rough as it was.  He could not recall seas this rough, or swells this high, since he had left the north Atlantic.

      As the lightning bolts illuminated the dark sky, Julia made her way below to check for any damages.  The ship bucked and rolled causing her to stagger down the hallway.  She was bounced off the sides of the hallway and had to support herself so that she would not be thrown forward or back.  As she passed the galley, she could see that a lot of the utensils were on the floor.  Then she heard the sound of running water.

      Julia entered the forward berthing compartment and could see water pouring in from a broken window.  Quickly she ran to the window grabbing a large towel on the way.  She stuffed the towel in the opening, then secured it so that the water flow could be controlled.  After she had completed the task she dashed to a bank of switches and turned on two of them.  The bilge pumps came to life and were soon pumping the water out of the ship and spilling it back into the sea.

      By the time Julia returned to the bridge the storm had let up considerably, sort of like her life.  It had been in a great deal of turmoil, now it was settling down into a more normal pattern.  A thought flooded her mind, Alan was gone.  It was pleasant while it lasted, the happiest days of her life.  She learned that love, as well as life, was based on sacrifices.  Her sacrifice was letting him go home to his life, friends, and family.  She saw his flight helmet lying on the floor in the corner where it had fallen.  She picked it up and held it tight to her chest, then gently kissed it hopping that some how he would feel the kiss.  She knew now that he was likely gone from her life forever, but she would always have the memory of that kiss on the starlit deck.  She knew what love felt like, not only the happiness, the giddiness, but also the hurt that most times comes with it.

      Alan led the pair of fighters up trying to get higher than the rough air currents that the storm system had created.  The fighter was getting lighter because the fuel was getting low, it made the Tomcat handle a little less the way he would have liked.  He had not said a word for the last forty minutes, he had been concentrating on the situation at hand.

      "This was not one of my brighter ideas, was it?" Alan finally broke the silence.

      "Nope," Jack responded.

      "You're a boost for my ego."

      "Well, which do you want?  The truth or an uninjured ego?"

      "Can't I have both, buddy?"

      "When we make the tanker, I'll let you know."

      "Slide," Alan addressed his wingman, "how is your fuel?"

      "We are hanging in there.  I would feel better if it sitting above the quarter mark."

      "You are doing a little better than we are.  A little longer on this heading and we should be able to meet up with the tanker."  Alan was making sure that the less experienced pilot flying his wing had confidence.  "J.W.?"

      "Yeah?"

      "If we make the tanker can you find smooth enough air for the refuel?"

      "Hell if I know.  I have to worry about that when we get there."

      "Great.  I really don't want to go swimming again."

      The fighters finally made it up to an altitude to where the air was smooth.  The down side was that they had used considerably more fuel fighting the rough air and getting to that altitude than Alan had anticipated. 

      "Dancer, I have the tanker!" Jack called out over the intercom. 

      "Where is he?"

      "Come left five degrees, its sixty miles out.  You did it again, by the skin of your teeth."

      "Coordinate the refuels.  Then we'll head home."

      "Roger."

      Jack got on the radio and made sure that the aircraft with the lowest fuel level fueled first.  After Alan had refueled and was standing by for Jeff to complete his refueling, he started to think about Julia.  He thought about last night, it seemed so long ago now, the way she had felt in his arms, the way his heart flew when their lips met.

      "Dancer!"  Jack yelled over the intercom.

      "Huh?"  Alan snapped to the present.

      "Where have you been son?  You have got a wingman sitting up here topped off and ready to go."

      "I was thinking ..." Alan did not want to continue.

      "You have got to let her go, man.  You are worlds apart."

      "I love her, J.W."  Alan responded as he rolled the fighter to the left and headed down the back side of the squall line for clear air.

      "I have heard all this before, Dancer.  Red, Red, Red.  Remember when all you could talk about was that gal?  You made me nuts!  Now you are going to put me through another."

      "Now ... Jack.  I know that this may sound a little redundant, but she is really different.  When we kissed, I swear I saw fireworks!"

      Jack was at a real loss for words.  For all the years that he and Alan had known each other this was only the second time he had ever called him by his first name.  He licked his lips and knew just how serious this was for him.  The last time he had called Jack by his proper name was when Maggie had died.

      Maggie was a light red haired, green eyed, five-foot-seven Auzie.  She had been born in Sydney, Australia and had moved to London with her parents when she was five.  Alan met her when he was on temporary duty in London for the Army.  They had fallen in love and when he transferred to the Navy, even though it meant that they would be apart for extended periods of time, she supported his decision.  She moved to Jacksonville without telling him so that they could spend his first liberty from flight school together.  She traveled back and forth from England, it was on one of those flights that a terrorist bomb blew her airliner out of the air and spread it all over the Irish countryside.

      When Alan received news of the disaster, he looked up at Jack and with tears in his eyes, called him by his first name.  It was the first and only time that Jack had heard him say his true name, before that he had always called him by his call sign.  He took two weeks leave after Maggie's death and when he came back, he never took another relationship seriously.  In some strange way he was staying faithful to that love, a love that reached through time, distance and, in a way, across the boundary between the living and the dead.

      "All right," Jack said softly, "what can I do?"

      "What was the name of that GRU officer that I met when the shuttle went down?"

      "Oh, hell," Jack looked to heaven as if the answer was written there, racking his brain for the answer.  "Albert... No Alex!"

      "Raise the embassy, and see if we can have a meeting with him."

      "Which embassy?"

      "How should I know?  Probably a Russian one."

      "I knew that.  In what city?"

      "In Greece, I don't care."

      Jack raised an eyebrow to the curt answer from his friend and began switching radio frequencies to find an embassy that was on the air.  The thoughts of the long lecture that they would receive when they returned to the ship, was now way in the back of his mind.  The fighters started to bounce a little as they got down to the rough air that was behind the storm system.  It was not nearly as bad as the other side, in fact it was only slightly noticeable in comparison.

      The L-1011 airliner lumbered through the night at speeds that would make a fighter pilot bored.  Cheryl was sitting in the middle of the first class section.  She was accustomed to riding as a passenger in aircraft, in the large simulated leather seats that were soft to the touch.  She was, after all, a Navy "brat," whose father had made admiral, accustomed to the traveling often.  She sat reading her master's thesis, again, and making notes in a large three ring binder. 

      Cheryl was working on her doctorate degree and was expecting to complete it with just one more semester.  She was basing most of her current research on the work she had done for her masters.  It dealt with space biology, which was why her father had done some major string-pulling that put her, as well as her experiment, on the shuttle.  The thesis was based on gene transference in a weightless atmosphere resulting in irregular mutations.  Some of the insects on previous shuttle flights had some odd mutations.  She had narrowed down the genes that were mutating, the only other variable was the weightless atmosphere.  Unfortunately, the experiment had been interrupted by an unforeseen activity, the shuttle going into an uncontrolled reentry and ending up on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

      Cheryl had long, light brown hair, blue eyes and a slender build.  She was as beautiful as she was intelligent, and was completely faithful to her husband.  She had been in love with Jim since she first met him, when he was fresh out of flight school and newly assigned to her father's squadron.  She had not told anyone how she felt for years, she watched when he got married and the way the resulting divorce affected Jim.  She had always thought that Jim's ex-wife was never good enough for "her" man and for many years she sat waiting quietly on the sidelines.  Now they were married and Jim was never happier, nor was Cheryl. 

      With all the moving around that goes with being a military family, she had a lot of different colleges in her transcripts.  She had started at Tidewater Junior College in Norfolk, Virginia, then finished junior college at Tacoma City College in Washington.  Cheryl then continued studying at the University of California, San Diego, and after another move, she finally finished her bachelor's at the University of Hawaii.  She remained there until she had completed her master’s degree.  She was again attending the University of California in San Diego, not far from where she and Jim lived. 

      Cheryl looked up from her reading to rest her eyes for a moment.  She would soon complete her schooling, and she was beginning to wonder what she would do afterward.  Jim had made a joke that she might think about putting in an application at McDonalds; they'll hire anyone, he had said.  The thought of his ribbing brought a smile to her face.  Her thoughts were interrupted by the pilot's voice.

      "Ladies and gentleman this is the captain speaking," the voice spoke softly through the cabin, "we're on final to Dulles.  We should be on the ground in about ten minutes, this will put at the gate roughly twenty minutes early." 

      There was a tone followed by the head steward's voice coming over the intercom.

      "At this time please make sure that all of your tray tables and seat backs are in their full and upright position.  The flight attendants will come by and pick up anything that needs to be stored.  The current time is ten thirty in the evening Eastern Time, the temperature in seventy eight and the humidity is eighty percent.  On behalf of the entire crew I'd like to thank you for flying American Airlines."

      Cheryl returned all of her study materials into her case and placed it under the seat in front of her.  She looked out the window and could only see a few lights of the homes that are in the area of the remote airport.  It was, for the most part, a well designed and well planed airfield.  It had been placed in the country, twenty miles from the nearest town.  That resulted in very few noise complaints, limited traffic problems, and one of the few American airports where the Concord could land. 

      The large aircraft landed then made its way to the staging area.  At Dulles aircraft park a good distance from the terminal and shuttle busses, which rise to the level of the airliner's doors, are used to carry the passengers to and from the terminal.  Some travelers consider this an annoyance, others a novelty.  As the shuttle that she was on pulled up to the terminal, she was glad that this trip was over and was looking forward to seeing her family.

      Cheryl exited the gate and made her way toward the large lobby area, looking eagerly for her parents.  With a cry of delight, she threw her arms around her fashionable, slightly graying mother.

      "Hello Mom!"

      "Hello Sweetheart.  How was your trip?"

      "Long.  I hate those layovers in the middle of nowhere."  Cheryl looked at the younger man who followed them as they headed for the baggage claim area.  "Who's this?"

      "Oh!  I'm sorry this is Sergeant Shannahan.  He's assigned to us as a driver and security."

      "I'm Cheryl Donaldson," she said as she held out her hand to the tall Marine.  He only nodded as he shook her hand, his eyes darting around the terminal.  He was taking his job of guarding the admiral's family seriously.

      "Mom, why do we have a recon marine body guard?"  Cheryl asked after noticing the marine's unit specialty badge on his uniform.

      "I'm not sure and you know I can't get an answer from your father.  I think he has upset someone and is worried some sort of reprisal."

      It was not long before the bags were loaded into the sedan and they were pulling away from the terminal, heading through the suburban Virginia countryside.  As Cheryl and her mother chatted, the ride went quickly.  It seemed like it was only a shot time before they were getting onto the beltway, literally a circular freeway that encompasses Washington, D.C., the heart of America's government.  Tales were told of motorists who became disoriented and dove around the circle several times before finding their way off of the "silly circle."

      Soon the car left the beltway and was heading south on highway Ninety Five toward Richmond.  They took the first exit, entering the northern Virginia community of Springfield.  Not long after that the sedan pulled up in front of the two story house on a cul-de-sac.  The front door opened, the admiral and Jim walked out to greet the pair of women.  As Cheryl climbed out of the car, Jim was there to hold her and gently kiss her.

      "Hi, sweetie," she said.

      "Hello."

      "How are things going?"

      "Better.  Dancer has been rescued and seems all right.  But, there are still a few loose ends to tie up."

      "Sounds like fun."

      "It's not too bad for us, but with what your dad has up his sleeve, I'm glad I'm on his side."

      "I don't think I want to know."

      "I think that's a safe bet.

      When the group entered the house, the men headed down stairs to the den then off to the admiral's office.  The two entered the wood paneled room and closed the door behind them.  The admiral opened a drawer in the antique oak desk and produced a map of the north east sector of the Mediterranean.  As he spread it out on the desk, Jim walked around to the same side of the desk as the admiral. 

      The Grecian peninsula was the point of the men's concentration.  The admiral placed his finger on the place where the computer had indicated the fighter that attacked Alan could have come from.  Jim looked at the map and was trying to picture the area.

      "You've flown over this area a good number of times, ever recall this base?"

      "No, sir.  Not that I'm one to follow all the rules, but I don't think Jinx would let me get into restricted airspace.  Especially over a foreign country.  Do we have any imagery on the area?"

      "It seems that the CIA has signed out everything on that area and has neglected to return it."

      "I'm beginning to think that you're right about the only course of action left for us on this."

      "I have requested another set of photos from a FIRSTPAC unit at NAS Alameda."

      Jim nodded acknowledgment to the admiral’s statement and returned his attention to the map.  The FIRSTPAC units at NAS, Naval Air Station, Alameda, California were reserve intelligence commands that was well known in the Navy for the quality of their work as well as having imagery, photos, in their archives of just about everything.  Jim picked up a set of papers that were the descriptive on the area that they were looking at.  The name of the base was simply air base one-twenty-three.

      The air base was built by the army corps of engineers during World War II.  It was originally designed for the long range B-17's to fly against Berlin and had remained as an active base until the mid-fifties.  After that it was called a sensitive area then labeled restricted air space in nineteen-sixty-nine.  There was never any mention of aircraft being assigned there or even that it was truly active as an airfield.  Jim read the history on the base, then looked up at the admiral.

      "This makes no sense at all," Jim began.  "There's nothing in here that would give credence to even requesting that as restricted airspace."

      "I know.  When I asked a few questions, I was told I didn't want to know."

      Jim looked at the admiral with surprise.

      "Obviously, who ever you were talking to doesn't know you very well."

      "Some youngster who told me that the Navy was antiqued."

      "Opps!"

      The admiral smiled at Jim's response.  The two had been through so much together, that it was hard to remember a time that he could not count on Jim.  He had never met a pilot that was so natural a flyer as Jim, or one so adept at finding trouble to get into.  Jim had the potential of being a full fledged American hero.

      There was a knock on the door.  Jim and the admiral retuned the papers to the drawers of the desk.  Once everything was back in its place he looked at the door.

      "Enter!" the admiral spoke in his customary commanding voice.  The door opened and Cheryl entered.

      "I wish you'd loose that commander of the ship tone at home, dad," Cheryl commented as she walked over to Jim and put her right arm around him.  "Mom's got dinner on the table.  Let's go up."

      "All right," the admiral said with a smile.  Then the group went up stairs to the kitchen to eat the late meal that had been held up waiting for Cheryl's arrival.

CHAPTER 9

      The moderate seas barely affected the massive Lincoln as she steamed through the Mediterranean.  The massive warship ripped through the sea headlong into the wind at full speed.  This was to aid the aircraft in landing on the moving steel city.  The sun had started to break through as the clouds broke up over the area.  In the distance over the Aegean Sea, the massive squall line that had made Alan's life so difficult a short time ago could still be seen dark and menacing.  The people that were high in the island of the ship could even make out an occasional flash of lightning.

      Phyllis stood on Vultures Row on the side of the huge, gray steel island.  The observation deck had been dubbed vultures row because of the people who stood out there waiting for something to happen, who were not too unlike vultures.  In the distance she could make out the approaching Tomcats, their marker and landing lights glowing bright against the dark clouds in the distance.  Soon the sunlight made the ghost gray paint glow and the fighters stand out clearly.

      As the fighters approached the wingman's wings swung forward and the aircraft slowed rapidly.  Phyllis watched as the landing gear and flaps extended.  She smiled as the thought of how the approaching multi-million dollar fighter resembled a mallard duck about to land on a pond.  A moment later, Alan's fighter did the same and banked around to slide into the approach slope.  A minute later his fighter came to a loud, bone crunching stop.  Phyllis felt a presence next to here, she turned to see Phil standing there looking down at the fighter as it taxied to the staging area.

      "That kid is going to give me more gray hair and an ulcer," Phil began.

      "What did he do this time?"

      "He went way north of the patrol area, almost into Soviet air space."

      "What was he doing up there?"

      "Saying hello to the trawler that saved him, I think.  But, it was a gamble that got real risky when that storm system went into high gear."

      "How's that?"

      "According to the tanker, those aircraft took on nearly a full load of fuel.  Another fifteen minutes and we would have been sending out the helo's after him, again." 

      She could detect the tone of disapproval for Alan's stunt in Phil's voice.  As they watched, the Tomcat taxied to the parking area near the island.  After several minutes the crew then climbed out of the cockpit and climbed down the side of the fighter.  They were met by a chief who said something to him.  Just as the two pair exchanged looks, Jeff's fighter made its landing and sort of broke the tension of the moment.  Phyllis quickly figured the chief had delivered a message from the captain.  A moment later, the skipper quietly left the observation area heading for his office and the meeting with his bothersome pilot.

      Alan walked up to the captain's office door looked at the floor took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock on the door.  Before he could knock on the door, Jack came up beside him and caught his attention.  When he looked over he saw that he had Jeff and Clint in tow.

      "I thought he only wanted to see me."

      "Hey," Clint piped in, "don't give up the faith, brother.  We fly together, we get grounded together."

      "You guys don't have to ..."

      "We know partner," Jack interrupted.  "Let's get this over with.  You know how much I enjoy these informal sessions with the skipper."

      Alan knocked firmly on the door and waited for the response.

      "Enter!" the voice commanded firmly from behind the door.

      The group of men entered the room and stood at attention shoulder to shoulder.  Phil was a little shocked, he had only expected Alan.  The other three were more than he anticipated.

      "I only asked for you to report, Mister Lee," Phil said sternly.

      "I know this, sir," Alan responded quickly with respect.

      "Then why are they here?"

      "You'll have to ask them, sir."

      "J.W., why are you here?  I didn't send for you."

      "Dancer is my driver, where he goes I go, sir!"

      "Commander Raines, don't you tire of catching flack just because you sit in the same aircraft as this maniac?"

      "You have to take the good with the bad, sir."

      Phil sat down in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose grimacing as he asked the next question.  Almost knowing what he would hear before he even asked the question.

      "Slide," Phil asked slowly, "why are you and Jester here?"

      "I never leave my wingman, sir!"

      "This is not a fight, not yet anyway."  Phil realized that pursuing this topic was a lost cause, so he went into his lecture.  "What I want to know is what the hell you thought you were doing flying that far north."

      "Saying thank you, sir," Alan responded.

      "I suppose you men know how close to empty you were when you made the tanker?"  It was a question that Phil really did not expect an answer to.  He rocked back in his chair and crossed his arms.  "Lee, you’re doing the same damn things that got you and the Rainmaker grounded in the past.  I will not tolerate that type of unnecessary or unreasonable chances.  If one of those fighters had run out of fuel, you would not have been able to just hope out and push it to the corner gas station.  I've already lost one fighter this week, I don't wish to loose another.  Do I make myself very clear?"

      "Yes, sir," the four men answered in unison.

      "You gentlemen don't own those fighters, they belong to the United States Navy.  For some reason that I am not at all sure I fully understand, someone has given you permission to operate them.  Treat them with some regard to the cost the tax payers got billed for."

      "Aye, aye, sir," Alan and Jeff responded in unison.

      "That is all.  You're dismissed," Phil said as he looked down at his desk.  He was glad to see that level of comradery in his flight crews, if they stuck together like this on the ground then in the air they would be even closer.  There was a down side to the equation, it made disciplinary actions harder to carry out.

      As Alan walked into the ready room with his three friends closely on his tail several other crew members smiled acknowledging him.  He led the group to a corner of the room, then looked around to make sure that there was no one else in earshot.

      "You guys didn't have to go that far out on the limb for me," Alan began.

      "All for one, and the rest of that feltergarb," Clint responded.

      "Thanks, guys," Alan said.  Then he looked at his watch.  "I guess I'd better hit the shower and go see Phyllis."  He patted Jeff on the shoulder then left the room and headed off to the showers.

      Phyllis was still standing on Vultures Row when Alan joined her showered and in his kaki uniform.  He knew that this was going to be rough on her, but it was necessary to be honest.  He knew that she was still in love with him and was still hopeful of getting back together with him.  Had Julia not come into his life it would not be out of the realm of possibilities, but Julia had crashed into his life.  He walked over next to her and stood beside her and looked out at the sea.

      "How was your hop?" She started the conversation.

      "Okay.  Got in a little trouble for stretching it out, but nothing I couldn't get out of."

      "What happened out there? You are quite different since you have come back."

      Alan wrinkled his nose and took a deep breath.

      "I fell in love."

      "Really?" Phyllis smiled shyly.

      "Yeah.  She is very different and makes me feel like no one else ever did.  Including Maggie."

      Phyllis knew that this was significant, however she felt that it might not concern her.  She felt a little awkward as she looked at Alan's face for some clue to the mystery.  She had always felt that she had been competing with Maggie even though she had been dead for many years.

      "So she can compete with Maggie?"

      "As you know, Maggie has always been here in my heart.  For some strange reason, that I still can't explain, I have tried to remain faithful to her for the last twelve years.  For the first time since she died, someone else has taken her place in my heart."

      There was a calm, yet uneasy silence from Phyllis.  She was not sure if she should be happy for Alan because he had finally found someone he felt comfortable with, angry because it was not her, or just feel cheated.  She looked at him a tear forming in the corner of her eye.

      "Who is she?"  Phyllis asked softly, not completely sure she wanted to hear the answer.

      "Julia.  Her name is Julia and she's the daughter of the fisherman that rescued me.  She is really quite beautiful and she seems  to loves me."

      "You think I don't?"

      "I know how you feel.  But, the feelings just are not reciprocal.  I care for you, yes.  I just don't love you in the way that you need.  What we had was great, but you need someone who can love you the way I love her."

      "Why do you think that you couldn't?  What's wrong with me?"

      "There's nothing wrong with you.  I just don't love you in the right way."

      Alan did not want to hurt Phyllis, but the feelings that she needed were just not there in him.  It suddenly struck Phyllis that this girl, that she did not know, had stolen his heart.  His heart belonged to Julia in a way that she never could have, the feelings of jealousy started to rise in her.  She still loved him and hearing him talk about the Soviet rival really angered her.  She felt the tears start to squeeze out from the corner of her eyes as she turned to look at him.

      "I have to leave in a little while," she began with her voice cracking.  "Can we talk about this more later?"

      "Sure.  I don't know what there is to talk about." He looked in Phyllis' eyes and saw the hurt, something he never wanted to cause her.  "Look, I'll always be here for you as a friend."

      "I know.  It's just going to be real hard to be only a friend to someone whom I fell for so deeply."

      Alan looked at her realizing that there was nothing that he could say that would be honest and still not hurt Phyllis.  He felt somewhat guilty, but he knew that this was probably the best course for both of them.  He wanted to comfort her, however the showing of affection, called public display of affection (PDA), was strictly forbidden between military personnel.  So he simply patted her on the shoulder.

      Phyllis wanted to fight for Alan, but she could not compete with a woman who was nowhere around.  She had tried to compete with Maggie, that had been a lost cause.  She knew that he was a faithful sort and when he gave his heart, he gave it completely without limitations.  She had never been jealous before and never really had any competition for a man she had been involved with.  In fact most wives and girlfriends of her fellow officers were often suspicious and jealous of her because of her uncommon beauty.

      "Can she give you everything I can?" She asked

      "I don't know," Alan responded as he looked out at the ocean.   "But, I'm willing to find out."

      "I can't believe that she can love you as much..."

      "I don't want to argue this point.  I have to try this, it feels so right."

      "I will have a hard time letting go.  I'm not sure I ever really felt that we had broken up, almost like we just were giving the relationship some time and distance."

      "I like you, a lot.  I just never felt that we had a permanent type relationship."

      Phyllis stood up and regained her composure, drying her eyes.  She looked at Alan who returned her gaze as she drew a deep breath.

      "Commander," She began in a formal tone which made Alan feel even worse.  She only did this when she was real angry.  "I must get to my aircraft.  I have a schedule to get back on.  I am glad that you are okay.  Good day."  Phyllis then walked past Alan as she made her way to her plane.

      Alan stood on the observation deck looking out at the ocean, several hundred yards off to the side of the ship, were two of the escort ships.  The pair of Virginia class guided missile cruisers crashed through the wake of the Lincoln.  The warships appeared so small and frail compared to the massive aircraft carrier.  He looked behind the carrier sort of watching the wake.  Nearly a half mile behind the massive carrier, was one of the last remaining active true battleships, the Missouri. 

      Alan recalled the time off the coast Lebanon, when he and Jim had been flying missions against the Syrian air forces.  The full broad side volleys, when all three sets of three sixteen inch guns where fired simultaneously, at night would light up the skies.  The back blasts were so intense, that the decks had to be clear of all personnel.  The resulting winds from the blasts could have easily whisked a human overboard.  The force was so intense that the ship would literally move a couple of hundred yards sideways in the water.

      Alan came back to the present when he saw Phyllis walk out on the flight deck.  She walked proudly to her aircraft making very sure that she did not look up at Vulture’s Row.  When she arrived at the rear door, she stopped for a moment and turned to look at the island.  She looked at him for only a moment, pulled her helmet on and stepped into her aircraft.  It was only a matter of minutes before her C-2 roared off the deck, then he finally turned and left Vultures Row.  He just started walking, he did not really have a destination in mind.  He just needed to think things through as he wondered aimlessly through the massive ship.  Eventually he found himself on the jet test deck, the area on the fantail where the jet engines were tested after they were repaired.  He leaned on one of the large posts that the engines were chained to before they are started and starred out at the wake that vanished off in the distance.

      Jack walked out of his room leafing through a note book, carefully looking for some of the notes he had made several years ago.  He stopped turning pages as he slowed down his pace and studied the notes on a particular page.  A grin came over his face as whatever he was looking for was obviously on that page.  He marked the page with his finger and headed down the passageway at a quick pace.  He made his way to the communications room and entered the dimly lit room that is stuffed full of radios and monitoring equipment.  He made his way over to the officer that ran the department.

      "Hey, J.W.," the officer acknowledged Jack's presence.  "What brings you to this corner of the world?"

      "I need to use one of your radios," Jack answered.

      "Who are you calling?"

      "No one you know.  Can I use a radio?"

      The officer looked at Jack for a minute, with a look that showed that he was not sure what to say in response.  Finally, the officer turned around and looked around the room.  He saw an empty console over in one corner, so he pointed at it.

      "Yeah," the officer began slowly, "use that set up over there."

      "Thanks," Jack smiled slyly and headed off to the panel.

      Jack sat in front of the panel and opened his notebook reading the scribbles.  Jack made some adjustments on the dials in front of him, quietly began making his calls.  For nearly an hour he spoke in uncommonly soft tones, which would go completely silent whenever anyone would come close enough that they might hear.  Finally, Jack closed his book, stood up, and then spun all of the dials so that no one could tell what frequency he had been on or whom he might have been talking to.  As he headed toward the door, he stopped at the communications officer.

      "Thanks for the radio," Jack said.

      "You two are up to no good again, aren't you?"

      Jack just smiled, raised his eyebrows and went out the door.  Once he was in the passageway, he trotted away looking for Alan.

       The sounds of the ship moving through the sea and the view of the wake, took Alan back to last night when he was in the arms of Julia.  He found that for the first time since Maggie's death, that he was completely taken in by a woman.  His mind wondered as he wondered what she was doing right now, if she was thinking of him, if she was truly in love with him.  He was suddenly aware of someone standing next to him, when he turned to look it was Phil and he stood up.

      "Hello, skipper," Alan addressed Phil.

      "Hello.  You seem to be deep in thought.  What's on your mind?"

      "It's a woman, sir."

      "Red?"

      "No, sir.  The daughter of the fisherman that pulled me out of my fighter.  I think I've fallen in love."

      "Oh, God!"  Phil shook his head.  "This is got to be a joke."

      "Not at all."

      "You were with them for two days, how could you .."

      "I can't explain it, she just crashed into my life and now I can't get her out of my mind."

      "This is not like you," Phil thought about the possible ramifications for a moment.  "I'm not sure I can permit it."

      "Then I'll give up my commission."

      Phil looked at Alan realizing the gravity of the statement that he had just made.  These feelings that were being expressed were so strong and out of character that he was willing to give up all of the things he had worked for to be with this woman.  Phil found the idea of loosing a top ranked pilot distasteful, so he decided to resort to logic.

      "What about Red?"

      "She's a great friend, but not the woman I want to settle down with."

      "How do you know this gal is?"

      "I just feel it in here," Alan said as he tapped on his breastbone.

      Phil realized that this course of action was not turning out successfully and had to think of something else.  As he stood there looking at his flight officer, and friend, he wanted to make the right decision not only for him, but his career.

      "What about flying?  Are you really willing to give that up?"

      "If I have to."

      "You're such a good pilot, I'd hate to loose you.  Besides you really enjoy combat, don't you."

      "Yeah," Alan said in a reminiscing tone.  "Skipper, the guys that sit down here and watch what we do don't realize that it’s all just a day at the office.  Guys like Rain and me aren't up there for the medals, we're good at what we do and we like it.  It's that simple."

      "Seventeen years in the Navy tells me nothing is ever that easy.  Then there are the times you got grounded for your low level flying shows."

      "You're referring, I take it, to Iran?"

      "I am.  What the devil provoked you to fly over downtown Tehran?"

      "That was a stunt that Rain and I both agreed on.  Those chumps wouldn't come up and play with us any more.  So we did that low level fly by over downtown Tehran to bait them."

      "But to take five fighters over the center of a hostile city, that was a little risky."

      "Maybe, but Rain wanted that fifth kill.  I wasn't about to leave his tail hanging out there to get shot off."

      "Staying on the ground was the best thing those guys did.  They didn't have anyone that would have posed any challenge to you two."

      "Like the Air Force's William Tell?"

      "That's another example.  Coming in that low for an engagement was unnecessary."

      "Whatever it takes to win, sir."

      "I've had a question about that dog fight during Desert Shield."

      "Oh, God!  Now that was a fight.  Rain, Jaws and I were flying a standard patrol mission.  Five MiGs came out to challenge us, not really anything that was unusual at that time.  They locked radar on us we lock up on them, you know the standard old non-shooting game.  Then one of the MiGs let go with a missile that nearly took Jaws out and the fight was on.  Jaws scored a kill, I scored a kill, and Rain assisted Jaws with a second.  Then they sent up six more planes, at that time there were MiGs everywhere.  All I could think about was a midair collision with another aircraft, then Jack came over the intercom and said that there was only eight more, what was the problem?  It was at that point that we got into the groove and started to cope.  We didn't score any more kills, but we sent all eight remaining MiGs back heavily damaged."

      "I heard that you really saved Jaws that day."

      "Yeah.  One of the MiGs got in behind him and he couldn't shake him.  I slipped in on the MiG, just before he fired his missiles I went to guns and blew off a couple of his rockets from his aircraft and pumped the SOB full of twenty millimeter rounds.  I'm sure that scared the be-Jesus out of the guy before he bugged out."

      "Amazing."

      "Lucky.  It was great to watch them run from us for the rest of the operation.  It was impossible to get a good fight out of them after that, they were usually too busy running for home as soon as we got into radar range."

      "Lucky?  You three got the flying cross for that engagement and still managed to drive Hoffman nuts.  All those low level chase and go's."

      "Hell, if they run and you don't chase them, they don't know that you're serious about things.  If they don't take you serious, they don't send up enough guys at once to make life interesting."

      "You really love it in the air, don't you?"

      "Yeah, I do."

      “And you are ready to give all that up for some girl?”

      “If I have to, yes.  I hate not flying it seems like a punishment, like with my shore duty tour.”

      "It's a shame about your arm.  I never really did hear all the details on that either.  I got transferred out just before it happened."

      "Not much to tell, sir.  I was pre-flighting my plane and shook the Sidewinder in the port side 'A' station.  I stopped and looked at it, there was something wrong.  You know the kind of feeling in your gut that something is about to happen?"

      "Yeah."

      "Well, I reached over and grabbed the Sparrow missile in the 'B' position and was just about to yell at the ordinance man who was loading a Phoenix on the belly.  The bomb shackles broke and the missile fell on my elbow.  That gave the ordy enough time to get clear before it hit the deck."

      "Ow!"

      "That's not quite what I said."

      "I bet."

      “I refused to seek medical attention until after the cruise was over.  It had resulted in serious damage to my right elbow and because I waited so long to report the injury, I got grounded for the first three weeks of the next cruise.  Then after I failed the medical I was transferred.  It did not even matter that had my arm not been there to deflect that sidewinder, the ordy would have been seriously hurt or maybe killed.”

      "How long were you on shore duty?" Phil asked.

      "Two and a half long years, which was frankly three years too long.  Was I ever glad when the doctor gave me a clean bill on my arm."

      "Was that before or after the shuttle disaster?"

      "Sort of after.  I flew out to help on the scene and when I returned to Norfolk I had a new physical and passed then."

      Jack came rushing out on the jet deck and was showing some sort of excitement.  Phil looked up at him as he came to a sudden stop looking back and forth between Phil and Alan.  Phil sensed that there was something that was going on and that the pair was surely up to something borderline, again.

      "Okay you two," Phil began, "what the hell are you up to now?"

      "Nothing, sir," Jack answered as he looked at the deck avoiding the eyes of Phil.

      "Dancer?"  Phil glared at Alan.

      Alan shook his head with a "who, me?" look on his face and shrugged his shoulders.  Phil was just about to go off on the pair when the attention whistle piped over the intercom speakers of the ship.  All three of the men had their hearts stop for a moment as they waited for the next sounds.

      "This is not a drill," the voice of the ship's executive officer announced.  "Captain to the bridge!  Launch the alert five aircraft!"  Then the battle stations alarm sounded.  Phil headed for the bridge on a dead run, Alan and Jack sprinted for the squadron ready room.

      The alert five fighters were a pair of fully armed and fully fueled fighters that were positioned on the catapults, with the crew sitting in them and the engines running.  Then, if needed, they could be in the air responding to a situation within moments.  When Alan burst into the ready room, the CAG was standing at the podium.  The pair of panting men made their way to two empty seats as the alarm still echoing in the ship.

      "What's happening?"  Alan asked.

      "Bee and Gabby got jumped by several MiGs and right now are completely defensive.  The alert five should be there any time now."

      "Who's the alert five?"

      "Garfield with Odie and Hammer with Joker."

      "I want to go in there."

      "You just came off a hop, Dancer.  You should be resting."

      "You have a better combat pilot?"

      The CAG looked around the room and just as Alan could have predicted, found no one else in the room with any real combat experience.  He knew that sending him in was the best choice, even though he had only been back from his first flight a short time.

      "Take Slide and get in the air fast," the CAG began.  "But, you're coming back in as soon as the games are over!"

      "Aye, aye, sir!"  Alan dashed out of the room with Jack right behind.  Before they got far down the passageway they ran into Jeff and Clint.

      "What's going on, Dancer?"

      "Get suited up.  We're going up to fight."

      "Killer!"  The four men headed off to their rooms as the alarm finally fell silent.

      Alan liked the feeling when got this pumped up, as he quickly pulled on his flight suit.  His mind was clear and the adrenaline flowed heavily through his veins.  By the time he made it up to the flight deck, Jack was already in the cockpit going through the checklists.  He heard the door to the island open, turned to see Jeff and Clint rush out and head for their fighter.  He climbed up into the cockpit and got ready for the fight.  It seemed like only seconds, but it was almost a minute, before his fighter raced off the deck.  Moments later Jeff's fighter followed.  When they got turned in the direction of the fight, he settled in and started psyching himself up for battle.

      "Bee," Alan called over the radio calmly, "what's your situation?"

      "Man this is scary!  They're all over," the panicked voice responded.

      "First thing is to calm down.  How many are there?"

      "Ten maybe more."

      "Garfield, do you confirm that count?"

      "Yeah, and we've got a couple more on the way up."

      "We're supersonic.  We'll be there in less than two minutes.  Just keep them busy until I get there."

      "Keep them busy?  The only way we have to keep them busy is to let them shoot us full of holes!"

      "I wish Rain were here,"  Jack commented over the intercom.

      "Me too."  Alan answered.  "If they're right, it's only a two to one fight.  That shouldn't be a problem."

      "What do you want to do?"

      "We're going in low, try to stay under the radar.  Then show them who the best pilots are."

      For the next two minutes the pair of Tomcats raced across the ocean at speeds that for most people are incomprehensible.  A pair of rooster tails was whipped up behind each fighter from the vortices of the air striking the ocean.  Then the vapor trails from the mass of fighters could be seen several thousand feet above.  The pair of fighters then slowed down to combat speed and nosed up to join the affray.

      Alan picked out a MiG that was swinging in behind one of the F-14's.  He turned on his weapons lock and heads up displays.

      "J.W.," Alan said calmly, "are we cleared to shoot?"

      "Nope, not yet."

      "Shit!"  Alan looked over at Jeff as he pushed his radio button.  "We can't shoot at them so let's have some fun."

      "You're idea of fun is what other people get stuck in rubber rooms for, Dancer," Jeff responded.

      "Maybe, but people only screw with me once."

      "Now that much is true," Jack added.  "What's the plan?"

      "Hell if I know.  I'm making this up as I go."

      "Wonderful!"

      Alan aimed his fighter at the MiG and shoved the throttles full open.  The fighter cut effortlessly through the air racing toward the unsuspecting fighter.  A moment later the Tomcat screamed past the MiG at full speed missing it by only a couple feet.  An instant later the startled MiG pilot found himself in the air wake, called jet wash, from the Tomcat.  Before he could comprehend what had just happened, Jeff's fighter did the same thing.  He found himself suddenly without any control of his fighter as one of his engines shut down, known as a flame out.  He pointed his fighter toward the ground so that he could restart his engine and get out of there.  This was certainly more than he had expected.

      "I think he's going home, Dancer," Jack commented.

      "Good," Alan said coolly.  "Slide, get ready for a left stabilator turn."

      "Okay!  By the way, what do you call that maneuver you just pulled on that MiG?"

      "Setting the rules."

      A moment later the pair of fighters turned so hard to the left that the fighters were literally on their sides.  This enabled the pilots to use the large stabilators to turn the aircraft.  It put a lot of stress on the frame and subjected the crews to a high "G" level.  When the fighters had completed their U turn, they found that one of the MiGs was coming head on at Alan.  He smiled a little at the MiG.

      "Okay buddy," Alan muttered into the intercom, "let's dance."  He snapped his head to the side to work a kink out and centered on the distant foe.

      "Man," Jack came over the intercom, "these guys are crazier than you are.  Don't play chicken with him."

      "He paid for the show, so I have to give him his money's worth."

      "Aw, hell.  I hate it when you do this."

      The two fighters headed toward each other nose to nose.  Alan was calm and did not even show any flinch, the MiG pilot bounced a little showing that he was unsure what the American was going to do.  The MiG broke up to the left, the Tomcat changed course to maintain the collision course.  The MiG pilot went down, again the Tomcat changed to keep the game going.

      "What the hell are you doing!"  Jack yelled into the intercom.

      "Showing this guy who's boss," Alan said dryly.  A moment later he pulled back on the stick and the MiG passed under his engines just as he lit off his afterburners.  The concussion was so great that the canopy of the MiG was literally blown into pieces.  The MiG slowed drastically and turned to head home to nurse its wounds.

      Alan then turned his attention to yet another fighter, which almost the same instant turned and started running for home.  As he looked around, he saw that all of the MiGs were leaving.

      "Two more, without firing a single round," Alan bragged.

      "You are completely certifiable!"  Jeff said over the radio.

      "Just remember, God watches over children and fools," Jack commented.

      "Slide," Brian began, "I don't care what you call it, it worked."

      "If you can't shoot at them, then you just have to chase them out of the sky," Alan commented.  "Now figure it this way, the next time these guys are told to mess with Navy pilots, they'll give it a lot of thought before they get into the air.  Chances are, they'll want to just stay sitting on the ground.  Now, let's head home."

      As the fighters headed home, Alan felt the high from the adrenaline slipping away.  The six fighters flew in typical Navy formation, in an open V and only a couple of feet apart.  It was not just pride, or even vanity that they all flew this way.  It was the pilots pushing every part of every operation to the limits to become better.  As they arrived at the ship they went into the landing procedures, the group flew past the carrier and one by one, at roughly five seconds intervals, they banked left.  Then by the time the first fighter hit the deck, they were spaced out in thirty five second intervals.  One by one the fighters came to a bone crunching, screaming stop on the deck.  Finally the last of the combatants were setting on the deck, safe and victorious.

      Phil stood on the bridge watching the return of the fighters.  He looked out in the distance and holding position several hundred yards was one of the helicopters.  It was out there as a plane guard, should one of the fighters have an emergency and the crew has to eject or ditch, they were there to rescue them.  Then the sound of the twin jet engines of the fighters that were preparing to launch vibrated nearly the entire ship.  Twenty four hours a day there are fighters in the air guarding the fleet.  Then the two fighters screamed off the deck and into the air heading for their patrol area and the helicopter returned to the flight deck until the next cycle.

      Phil turned around and looked at the CAG and the Air Boss.  He had already heard about the fight and how Alan had turned a no win into a complete victory.  He knew that his pilots had also taken chances that were far above the norm.

      "What do you think we should do?"  Phil asked.

      "Put those maneuvers in the text books," the CAG responded.

      "Come on, CAG," Phil crossed his arms, "we can't condone that."

      "Why not?  If all our pilots were that bold, those frootloops will think twice before they come up to screw with us."

      "I have to agree with that," the Air Boss added.

      Phil sighed and looked out the window.

      "Okay, I'll leave it alone.  But, one of you two tell that loose gun that he's this close to giving me a full blown ulcer."

      "Yes, sir," the pair answered in unison, then turned and left the bridge.  Phil sat in his chair and motioned to his executive officer.

      "Sir?" the XO asked.

      "Mike, I want Dancer on leave before he gets someone killed."      

        "I'll see to it right away, sir!"

      Phil sat there in his captain’s chair watching the operation of his ship.  He had never been a flight officer and relied on the senior flight officers for decisions concerning discipline of the flight crews.  They were a strange breed that had a creed as well as a set of rules that were truly difficult to understand.  They were good men, the best in the world, but some were also some of the most bazaar individuals he had ever met.  Alan was both of those extremes in one, yet he had to look at his success rate.  He looked at the sun which was now low in the late afternoon sky. 

      Soon the sun would slip in behind the horizon, signaling the end of another day.  But, today the stress was much lower, he wasn't missing any crew members and first thing in the morning the agent would be put on a cargo plane.  So life had the possibility of returning to close to normal.

CHAPTER 10

       Jim and the Admiral walked down the hallways of the pentagon heading for their meeting with the CIA chief.  When they got to the office where the meeting was to be held, Jim opened the door and held it for the admiral then the two men entered the room.  They were greeted in the outer office by a secretary that asked to see their identification.  After she checked them against the appointment roster, she picked up the phone and pushed a button.

      "Admiral Hoffman and Commander Donaldson are here,"  she announced, then listened to the response.  "Yes, sir.  You gentlemen may go right in," she said as she handed their identification cards back.

      "Thank you," admiral Hoffman responded then headed for the door to the inner office with Jim following.

      When the pair of Naval officers entered the room they were acknowledged by one of the three men in the room and motioned to their chairs.

      "Good afternoon gentlemen," the man behind the desk said.  "I'm agent Woolford, and these are agents McVey and Rogers."

      "This is one of my staff, Commander Donaldson," the admiral motioned toward Jim.

      "Not the same Donaldson that commanded the Atlantis?" agent McVey asked.

      "The same," Jim responded.

      "Nice job, sir," McVey smiled.

      "Thank you."

      "I don't think we're here to discuss the commander's skills," the admiral began, "I want to know why a CIA pilot attacked one of our pilots."

      "I've heard some of the reports on this situation," Woolford responded as he leaned back in his chair crossing his legs and playing with a pen.  "I don't think there's any reason to accuse the CIA of being involved."

      "I've been known as a reactionary, over bearing SOB," the admiral leaned forward placing his arms on his knees.  "I don't tolerate people to lying to me.  And I will do what ever it takes to maintain complete control of a situation.  Jim, present your report, please."

      "Sir!"  Jim opened his briefcase and pulled out a file and opened it.  "At twenty-three-oh-five hours on Tuesday, TARPS converted F-fourteen number one-one-nine that was assigned to VF- forty-one from the Lincoln was attacked by an unidentified aircraft.  The aircraft was defeated by cannon fire.  The F-fourteen was then engaged by three surfaces to air missiles.  Two of the missiles were defeated by chaff, the third detonated close to the fighter damaging communication and avionic systems.  At about zero-zero-fifteen hours Wednesday morning, the TARPS F-fourteen ditched in the Black Sea and the crew rescued by a private Soviet fisherman."

      "I have no idea how you can find anything linking us in that," Woolford said.

      "At zero-nine-fifteen hours a Marine recon team augmented by a Navy seal team secured the crash sight of the alleged enemy fighter.  It was identified as a Marine F-eighteen number M-one-six-one-seven-one-one-three.  The fighter was originally assigned to the Marine fighter squadron VMF-one-thirty-eight, and was transferred to CIA field operations in August, nineteen-ninety-two.  The fighter was delivered to air base one-twenty-three."

      "At eleven-twenty-two hours on Wednesday," Jim continued as the faces of the agents started to so some concern, "the agent that had remained aboard the Lincoln confessed during questioning by the ship's commanding officer, that they were there to, quote, generate a war so that what had been started in the operation Desert Storm could be completed, unquote.  The agent then further admitted that the attack on the TARPS fighter was a planed and staged, set up agreed upon by the director of foreign operations and a cobol of officers close to Saddam Hussain."

      There was an uncomfortable silence that fell over the room as Jim looked up from the report and waited for the admiral to prompt him to continue.  The admiral knew that he had control of the situation at this point, but was not going to let up on them now.  He indicated to Jim that he was going to take the floor for a while.

      "Your director of foreign operations and I had a meeting early yesterday morning," the admiral began looking Woolford directly in the eyes.  "He burned a file then committed suicide.  Then there is the odd history of air base one-twenty-three.  Now, are you going to try to tell me that you don't know anything about the base?"

      "I don't think that would be a successful ploy," McVey commented softly.

      "Commander," the admiral prompted.

      "Air base one-twenty-three, constructed in nineteen-forty-three by the Army corps of engineers for long range allied bomber operations against Berlin.  The base remained active until May of nineteen-fifty-six.  The base was designated as restricted air space in nineteen-sixty-nine without being reopened, officially.  Photo reconnaissance obtained from a FIRSTPAC unit, showed a couple U-twos, several F-eighteens, two tankers, and several helicopters."

      "Well," Woolford sighed heavily.  "It seems that you guys have done a great deal of homework on this."

      "Oh, yes," the admiral responded.  "And I'm not even close to being done with you on this.  I can't abide setting up Americans for such a purpose."

      "I don't have any knowledge of any such operation or any information of the air base.  It sounds like you may have had a couple of rouge agents that were on their own mission."

      "With signed orders from your office?"  Admiral Hoffman asked.

      "You know," Jim began, "I had a bunch of office cronies try to blame the shuttle crash on me, on pilot error.  It was all just a smoke screen to hide their own short cuts in the construction standards on the shuttle.  If we hadn't survived, the truth would never have come out and every crew since then would have been in grave danger.  Now, I'm sitting here listening to you shoveling the same type of bull."

      "I don't think I like the accusations you’re making commander," Woolford said.  "There is no reason for us not to disclose information to you.  Especially if there are any questions as to the activity of people from this department.  With regards to the alleged orders from this office, how they might have obtained orders from here is still a little confusing, but I'm sure that our senior administrators should have been told of any special operations.  It is possible that the orders came through this office, in a preliminary form.  We would never authorize such actions against our own troops.  As far as the air base you're asking about, it has no connection with this office."

      "I'm glad to hear that," the admiral responded as he obtrusively looked at his watch.  "Because in about five minutes that base will be secured by our joint Seal and Recon teams."

      The look on the faces of the agents was that of complete and total shock.  Jim could hardly contain himself from laughing out loud as the three men looked at the phone on the back counter.  The admiral leaned back in his chair and motioned for Jim to secure his file in his brief case.

      "Seeing how you have no connection to the base," the admiral stated in an arrogant tone, "you won't have any need, or capability, to call them for the next few minutes.  That is unless you've been lying, again."

      There was no response from the agents, just nervous looks that went from the back phone to the Naval officers and back to each other.  It was a major victory for the admiral and he knew that all he and Jim had to do was sit there.  Without saying a word they became more invincible with each passing tick of the clock.  For the agents the seconds sped by with the Naval officers watching like birds of prey waiting to descend on them.

      The helicopters approached the cost of Greece in the darkness of the warm early night.  The routine was the same as it had been in Desert Storm this time.  The Seals were going in first and they would breach the perimeter to make sure that when the Marine helicopters arrive, that they could land on the field unchallenged.  The Seal team leader looked at his men and keyed the microphone.

      "This is going to be a touchy situation," he began, "this might be an American base.  If it is, it will be lightly guarded by a CIA force.  We will have the upper hand and, Roy, shot to wound only and fire only if fired upon.  Roy?"

      "I hear you," Roy muttered.  "What you're saying is don't play for real because if these are CIA agents they'll cry if we hurt them."

      "Pretty much.  We'll hit ground about a mile from the base and move in on foot.  Make all of your adjustments now."

      The group of soldiers began securing all of their devices that might either work loose and fall or make noise.  As Roy looked out the window the ocean below ended and the land rose up toward the helicopters.  The helicopters stayed low hugging the land staying in the valleys so that they would be undetected on their approach.  The helicopters slowed and hovered thirty feet over the valley floor.  The side doors of the Huey helicopters slid open and ropes dropped to the ground suspended to the inside of the Hueys.

      The Seals took no time to repel down the ropes and setting up a secured area on the ground.  Once all of the Team had made their way down, the ropes were released and they fell to the ground.  The Seals quickly and silently picked up the ropes and coiled them up and secured them to some of the equipment packs.  They looked at the Team leader who pointed to Roy and then at his own nose.  That was a sign that Roy was the point, or nose, man and was to lead the way.  He then pointed to several of the other members and assigned them to carry the equipment packs.  After making all of the assignments, he pulled a map out of his pocket and turned on his red lensed flashlight.  The Team members gathered around as their leader pointed to a mark on the map and pointed to the ground.  This is where they were now.  Then he placed a compass on the map and pointed to the air base, then looked at the compass to get the bearing that would take them to the base.  He then pointed in the direction they were to head.  Everyone in the team nodded then got ready to move out.  Roy looked at the Team leader then pointed over his shoulder, this was a signal that he was ready to move out and start checking the path to the base.  The team leader nodded as Roy moved out, several minutes later the rest of the Team followed.

      Roy would move on ahead of the Team looking for any warning devices, booby-trap, or patrols.  If it was something simple, Roy would disable and mark it.  If it was not, he would hold up, wait for the rest of the Team and let the leader decide how to handle the problem. 

      It was about twenty minutes later that Roy stopped at the edge of the woods.  About thirty yards in front of him was a sprawling active air field.  He knelt down next to a tree and pulled out his binoculars, then he looked through them checking out what they were about to take on.  Part of his duties in the case was to located any patrols or hazards to the rest of the Team prior to beginning the assault on the base.  As he scanned the perimeter fence there was no indication of any special detection devices.  He saw no evidence of any patrols.  In fact the uncut grass and weeds between the service road and the fence told Roy that the occupants of the base did not take security against a ground assault as a possibility.  There was the sound of a jet coming in to land, Roy adjusted to see what type of aircraft was coming in.  All he could see was the lights of the approaching plane.  When it landed it rolled to a near stop, Roy recognized the silhouette and lowered his binoculars.

      Roy heard the rest of the team moving in behind him and turned to signal the leader over.  When the officer was beside Roy, he pointed to the fence and grass, then handed his binoculars to the leader and pointed to the taxiing jet.  The leader quickly recognized it as an F-18 fighter, he knew that this was supposed to be a closed base and this gave him a bad feeling.  Then he pointed at two of the members who knew that they were to make their way to the fence and cut it so that the Team could enter the base.  They quickly made their way to the fence and cut an opening in the fence.  Soon the entire Team was inside and were getting their silent orders from the leader.

      The Team moved so quickly and quietly that the pilot of the F-18 and the ground crewman that was helping him out of the fighter never heard them coming.  It was not until they were starring down the barrels of the assault rifles that they knew that there was someone on their base.  Silently the two men were escorted away from the hanger, then they were bound and gagged.

      The agents in the tower were just noticing several helicopters  on the radar scopes that were heading in their direction.  Before they could react, the door burst open and three members rushed in and took over the tower. 

      "What the..."

      The Seal team members just held up a finger to his lips as he switched off the safety on his rifle.  The agents decided to take the suggestion as one of the members tied up the agents and gagged them.  When the agents were all incapacitated, one of the Team member went over to the control panel and put on a head set and switched the radio frequencies.

      "This is Gopher," he said into the headset, "target is ready for your arrival."

      "Copy," a voice responded, "inbound.  Out."

      "Out." The Team member then took off the headset and replaced it with the squad radio headset.  The other members did the same, in a few minutes there would be a lot of people here and communication would be necessary to make sure that the mission would be successful.  Then the Seal took the butt of his weapon and began smashing the radio and radar equipment.  When they had made sure that the tower was no longer functional, all but one of the members left the tower to go help secure the main building.

      Roy and the rest of the Team were now ready to handle the main building.  Kneeling on the ground next to Roy was a man who was temporarily disabling the phones in the building.  When they had completely secured the base, they would reconnect the phones so that they could use them.  By now all of the Seals had their headset on and were ready for the arrival of the Marines.  They waited out side the building, a few of them had made it to the roof and tied the ropes to the roof and were ready to enter the second floor through the windows.  Now they would wait for the Marine helicopters to land that would draw the men in the building out, into the waiting ambush.

      The sound of the approaching Marine helicopters increased as they moved in without any lights.  Then the trio of transports turned on their lights as they settled to the ground to deposit their human cargo.  Almost instantly, the door of the main complex opened and several men rushed out M-16s in hand.

      "Halt!" the Seals yelled.  "Down!  Down!"

       The startled agents froze as the Seals pulled the weapons from them and shoved them face first into the ground.  Several Seals held open the building door kneeling down on either side of it aiming their weapons down the hallway.  At that instant the SEALs that were on the roof, smashed through the window to flush out any one on the second floor.

      A number of the newly arrived Marines rushed past the Seals into the building, the Seals raised their weapons.  It was only a matter of a few minutes and the remaining agents from the building joined their coworkers on the ground.  The Seal Team leader spoke into his radio.

      "Base secure," he began, "Bring all of the other PWs over to the main building."

      In a couple of minutes the men from the control tower, the pilot and the ground crewman joined their friends.  All of the captives were handcuffed and their feet bound.  The two officers stood over their prisoners.  The Marine officer motioned to a soldier who had a radio pack who made his way over to the officer.  The officer took the handset as he looked at the soldier.

      "Are we on line?"  He asked the soldier.

      "Yes, sir."

      "Spearhead, this is Bird-dog two," the officer spoke into the mouth piece.

      "This Spearhead one," Phil's voice came over the radio.  "What's your status?"

      "We have secured the target.  No casualties, no shots fired."

      "Good, good.  Continue with the plan."

      "Aye, sir.  Bird-dog two, out,"  The officer handed the handset back to the soldier and turned his attention back to the men that were lying on the ground.

      "Who's in charge of this base?"  The Marine officer asked.

      "I am," one of the men answered.

      The officers nodded to James who quickly pulled out his knife and cut the bindings on the man's legs.  Then he carefully lifted the man to his feet, then pushed him in the direction that the officers had gone.

      "What's going on?" The agent asked.  His answer was only James pushing him along.  "Who are you guys?"  Still no answer.  Finally they stopped well out of ear shot of the rest of the agents.

      "Where are your flight operations records?"  The Seal officer asked.

      "I don't know what you're talking about," the agent responded.

      "Look," the Marine officer began, "this is a closed and abandoned military air field.  You are in possession of American weapons and aircraft.  If I shot the lot of you right now as terrorist or spies, I would be within the both European law and the Geneva Convention.  I see that the best thing for you is to cooperate."

      The agent looked at the ground pondering what had just been said.  Roy jogged up to the group with a couple items in his hand.

      "Sir," Roy began, "sorry to interrupt, but only two of them had any identification."   He said as he handed the cards to the officers.  "Hey bud."  He said to James.

      "Hey."

      "No passports?"

      "No, sir."

      "Any of them saying anything?"

      "No, sir."

      The officers looked at the two identification cards.  One was a Connecticut driver’s license the other was a Texas identification card.  The Marine officer sighed.

      "So we have only two Americans in this group," the Marine officer said to the agent.

      "Get a grip," the agent responded, "We're all Americans."

      "Prove it."

      "We can't carry around ID all the time."

      "Roy, anything on the pilot?"

      "Not a thing, sir."

      "Take the pilot to a corner of the hanger, I'll be there in a minute."

      "Sir!"  Roy turned and headed off to carry out his orders.

      "What are you going to do to him?" the agent asked.

      "I don't know yet," the Seal officer sighed.  "No military ID, and operating a U S military aircraft.  I believe that that is an execution  offense.  You can finish with this guy I'll deal with the pilot."

      "Okay,"  the Marine officer said as he watched the Seal officer turn and head off in the direction of the hanger.  "Now you have put us in a position where we have to show some muscle.  You idiots never learn that you don't screw with us.  We will knock you on your butts."

      "We have the right to a phone call."

      "Man, you've been watching too much TV.  On a military base you don't have any rights, unless you can prove you're Americans, you're trespassing.  That's a serious offense.  Want to come clean?"

      The agent fell silent again.  How could the military pull this off so well?  How did they get on the base without being detected?  It was obvious that he was dealing with a well coordinated surgical operation.

      "All of the flight records are in the computer in the hanger," he finally said in a defeated tone.

      "That's more like it," the officer said as he looked at James.  "Go check it out."

      "Sir!"  James snapped as he headed for the hanger office.

      As James made it to the hanger, the pilot that had been flying the F-18 was just being escorted in by Roy.  James got to the office that said "OPERATIONS" on the door, then tried the door handle.  It was locked, so James set the microphone of his headset so that he could be heard.

      "Door's locked, sir," he said.  "I'm shooting it open."

      "Copy," the Marine officer answered back.

      A moment later James fired two rounds into the lock of the door, then pushed the door open.  The sounds of the shots made the agents jump, the one with the Marine officer looked over at the hanger then back at the officer.

      "What was that?" he said with obvious concern in his voice.

      "The door was locked."  There was a look of relief on the agent's face.

      James entered the room and made his way over to the computer then powered it up.  He quickly got into the program, but was stopped when it asked for a password.

      "I need the password," James announced over the squad radio.

      "What's the password?"  The Marine officer asked the agent.

      "Go west," the agent responded.

      "Go west," the Marine officer relayed the information.

      James quickly entered the password and the program opened.  He scanned the options and looked at the flight schedule for Tuesday.  The schedule showed that an F-18 was sent out on a mission over Turkey and it never returned.  He selected an option that allowed him to view the information on the aircraft.  The computer asked him to wait, then it displayed the information on the fighter.  James pulled out a note pad and started making some notes on a page that already had some notes on it.  Then he got to the registration number, M-1617113.  Jim sat back and looked at the number on the screen then at the notes in his book.

      "Sir," James started.

      "Yes?" his officer responded.

      "We have a match.  The Hornet that attacked Dancer came from here."

      "I see," the Marine officer sighed.  "Did you copy that, Steve?"

      "I did," the Naval officer with the pilot answered.

      "The computer verified that the fighter that attacked our TARPS bird came from here," the Marine officer said to the agent.  "Now, we have proof of terrorist activity, not to mention the fact that if you are American agents, then you've violated your oath.  You attacked, openly attacked, another American aircraft.  You want to tell me who gave the order?"

      "I have nothing to say," the agent responded.

      The Naval officer looked at the pilot that was still in a flight suit, then at Roy.  He turned and looked at the Marine F-18 that was parked in the hanger a few feet away.  He walked over and climbed up to the cockpit looking around it to see if there was anything that might be useful in questioning the pilot.  Stuck in the left hand corner of the instrument panel was a photo of the pilot and a woman.  The officer pulled it free and looked at the back.  "Matt, I'll always love you, Mary," was written on the back in a feminine hand writing.  He shoved the photo into his breast pocket, then climbed down and walked over to the pilot.

      "I think we've got a bit of a problem," he began.  "You don't have a military ID and you were found at the controls of a Marine fighter.  That constitutes theft of government property at the least and espionage at the worst.  You want to shed some light on what is going on here?"

      "Nope," the pilot answered back.

      "Do you have a name?"

      "Not that I want to tell you."

      "Matt, you're not being very cooperative," the Naval officer commented.  The surprised agent looked at him obviously not expecting that the officer would know his name.  "It must be a bitch for you guys here.  I mean you lost your director when he committed suicide, you killed one of your own when that rocket blew open the back half of the Tomcat.  Oh, not to mention that your fellow pilot did such a piss poor job attacking a reconnaissance plane, that he got shot down and died."

      There was a moment of silence as the officer let the gravity of the situation really sink in.  Then leaned over and got nearly nose to nose with the pilot.

      "Matt, if I had you shot as a traitor right now, I would be completely within my authority."  He pulled the picture out of his pocket.  "You want to see Mary again?  I want some answers and I want them right now."

      "Davis is dead?"

      "Was that the pilot in the F-eighteen?"

      "Yeah."

      "Yes, he's dead.  We pulled the body out of the wreckage of his fighter Wednesday morning.  Who sent the mission up?"

      "I don't know.  Really.  The pilots here just fly the missions."

      "Did he know that he was going to be shooting at a Navy plane?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Let me beat the day lights out of this guy, sir," Roy's anger was rising.

      "No, not yet."

      "Not yet?" the Matt asked.

      "I may want to take the first shot," the Naval officer said as he walked away from the pilot and stopped a few feet away.  "I don't like this game you folks are playing.  It stinks!"  His mind was racing as a flash came to him.  "This is an Air America operation, isn't it?"

      "We all were pilots for Air America, yes," Matt answered back softly.

      As the Team leader was walking out to rejoin the Marine officer and the agent he stopped in the office to check in with James.  He walked over and saw that James was well into the program making notes on a number of very strange "missions."

      "How's it going?"  The Naval officer asked.

      "This is scary.  They've been involved in a bunch of real strange missions," James began.  "Like this one several months ago, it appears that they shot down a Syrian MiG, making it look like the Israelis had been the culprits." 

      "Keep digging, I want to know just how hard I'm going to land on these frootloops."

      "Yes, sir."

      When the Seal officer got back over to the Marine officer, he had built up a full head of steam.  He looked at the Marine officer.

      "Get anything out of this guy?"

      "Not anything that is of any consequence.  How'd it go with the pilot?"

      "Matt became very cooperative,"  He looked at the agent who looked surprised that they had the name of his pilot.  "About the time Roy was pulling his shoulders out of the socket, he decided that being treated as a spy wasn't all that cool."

      "You had better not have hurt that man!"

      "It would have been a far cry better than you did to our crew from the Lincoln!  Or that Syrian pilot two months ago!  Don't talk to me about fair."  The Seal officer paused for a moment then looked at the Marine officer.  "We have stumbled into an Air America operation."

      The agent felt his knees beginning to grow weak, the CIA's not so secret airlines that supplied the friendlies during the Vietnam conflict, was now under fire... literally.  These soldiers had uncovered enough information that he was really unsure if there was a clean way out.  He sensed that the whole thing was completely out of control as he looked up to the starry skies.  He wished that they had some warning that the base was going to be raided. 

      "I'll kill the SOB!" James' voice roared over the radio. 

      The two officers looked toward the hanger and saw James heading toward them with a full head of steam.  The Marine officer intercepted him and held a hand out to stop him.

      "What's happening?" the Marine officer asked.

      "That is the base commander, agent Hamilton," James said pointing at the agent.  "I just found that he knew about the bombing of the Marine barracks in Beirut before it happened.  And they did nothing to tell anyone!"

      The agent looked at the pair of Marines and shrugged his shoulders.  It was never personal, the decisions and missions that his group made never touched anyone they knew.

      "It didn't affect you directly, did it?"  The agent said with a flippant tone.

      The comment sent James right through the roof as he pushed past the officer ran up to the agent and hit him hard enough to send him flying backward several feet.  Then he jumped on top of the agent with his hands around his throat.

      "You bastard!" James yelled, "I was in that building!  I lost most of my unit.  I'm going make you pay for every one of those lives!"

      The two officers pulled James off the stunned agent who looked up at the young Marine with a look of panic.  The blood that flowed from the cut on the left corner of his mouth, filled his mouth with a salty taste as well as running down his cheek.  He realized that this was not a staged act that was designed to intimidate him, but the honest reaction of a man that he had been affected.  It all was starting to get personal, he realized that his actions were taking on human results for the first time.

      "I'm sorry," the agent stammered.

      "Sorry!" James roared.  "I'll make you feel sorry!"

      "Stand down, Marine!" the Marine officer barked.

      James relaxed a little as he turned his attention from the agent and back to his officer.  He took a deep breath and looked at the ground.

      "I'm sorry sir," James began softly.  "I saw that and I sort of lost it."

      "That's okay, James, I understand where you're coming from.  Now go back and finish getting your notes."

      "Sir!"  James turned and headed back to the operations office to finish his assignment.

      "Well, agent Hamilton, is it?"  The Marine officer asked.

      "Yes?"

      "I'd say that you just had some come upins here, today.  Now I'll make you a deal.  You start to cooperate and I'll keep James away from you.  You keep up with this attitude, I’ll take the hand cuffs off you and let him tear you apart."

      The agent looked up at the officer as he sat up and contemplated the offer.  The idea of rolling over was not a pleasant one, but the thought of being left to the hands of James was more than unpleasant.

      "Okay.  I'll cooperate," the agent said.

      "Somehow that decision doesn't surprise me.  Now, let’s get you over to your coworkers over there and you can let them know that they'll be cooperating.  Then we'll go to your office."

      "Okay."

      The officers lifted the agent to his feet and the group walked over to where the group of agents was still laying on the ground.  The other agents looked up and saw the bloodied face of their base commander.

      "We will be cooperating fully with these men," Hamilton stated.  "It was brought to my attention that we have crossed the line."

      The officers then escorted Hamilton into the building, the Marine officer stopped and looked at one of the Seals that stood guard at the door.

      "Rehook the telephones, it's time to make our call."

      "Sir!"

      Hamilton led the way down the hallway to his office and motioned to the door.  One of the Marine escorts opened the door and the men entered the room.

      "Are you going to remove the handcuffs?"  Hamilton asked.

      "Nope," the Naval officer answered.

      "Why not?  I've agreed to your terms."

      "I still don't trust you completely," the Naval officer responded as he picked up the phone.  The set was still dead, as he looked at the Marine officer and shook his head.  "Not yet."  He replaced the receiver and waited for a few moments.

      "Phones hot, sir," a voice came over the squad radio.

      "Which phone goes to the office?" the Marine officer asked.

      "The white one," Hamilton answered.  "Just pick it up a dial one."

      The SEAL officer did as he was directed.

CHAPTER 11

      The phone on the back counter rang several quick rings.  The three agents looked at each other than at Hoffman.  Hoffman looked at Jim and smiled, then looked back at Woolford.  He then got an innocent unknowing look on his face as he looked at Woolford and motioned to the phone.

      "Please, answer it," Hoffman said to Woolford, "don't worry about interrupting our little talk."

      The CIA chief reached back to the phone and picked it up almost afraid to hear what might be happening at the other end..

      "Woolford," he announced.

      "Good day, sir.  May I speak with Admiral Hoffman?"  The unfamiliar voice asked.  The look of surprise on the face of Woolford told Hoffman that his brain storm was successful.

      "It’s..... It's for you, Admiral,"  Woolford said as he handed the receiver to the admiral.

      "Oh, really?"  The admiral said in fake surprise as he rose and walked over to take the receiver from Woolford.  "Hello?"

      "Admiral?" The Naval offer asked.

      "Yes."

      "We have secured the base and we have uncovered some interesting information."

      "Really?"

      "Yes, sir.  We should have it to your office early tomorrow."

      "Any casualties?"

      "No, sir.  Only a couple ruffled feathers and a split lip."

      "Good work.  I'll look forward to your report," the admiral rested the phone back on its cradle then returned to his chair.  The uneasy silence filled the room and Hoffman knew that he was in complete control of the situation.  He did not like having to play the hard core game, he was really an easy going sort.  However, when he felt he was backed into a corner, he had the fortitude and intelligence to play the game better and harder than most opponents either anticipated or were ready for.

      "I suppose you thought that you could continue this game as long as you wished," the admiral began.  "Fortunately, the men of the fifth fleet are ready to fight all enemies of our country.  Both foreign and domestic; and in this case, you.  I take it you realize that you just got caught in a bold faced lie, correct?"

      There was no answer from the three agents.

      "Air base one-twenty-three is now in the control of the US military.  I'm sure that by the time I get all of the information that they are pulling from the computers on the base, one if not all of you, will be looking at lengthy prison terms."

      "This is the end of your career, admiral," Woolford snarled.

      "Bringing the truth into the public eye will never end a career.  I heard such threats from NASA when the shuttle crashed, you don't scare me.  I have served for over twenty-five years of active duty, as far as an end to my career, I don't have anything to fear from you."

      There was another long silence, then the admiral stood up and looked at Woolford and cleared his throat.

      "Under the authority granted me as a senior fleet officer of the United States Navy, I invoke the Uniform Code of Military Justice and place you under detention."

      Woolford started laughing and looked at the admiral.

      "You come into my office and pull this type of joke?"

      "This is no joke.  Commander, it is time,"  the admiral said calmly looking at Jim.

      Jim rose and went to the door and opened it.  In walked five armed Marine military police. 

      "These men are here to take you to the detention area until we have received all of the reports from the Teams.  At that time the appropriate charges will be filed.  You do have the right to have attorney present when you are questioned, until you are fully advised of your rights, I would advise you not to say anything."

      "If you men will place your hands on top of your heads, we can make this fairly painless," the Marine sergeant said.

      "What is the charge?" McVey asked.

      "High treason and breach of faith of your office," Jim responded.

      The agents slowly raised their hands slowly locking their fingers together and placing them on the backs of their heads.  It was not just that they were out numbered seven to three, but the fact that Marines were the pit bulls of the military.  They had been given their orders by the admiral and they would follow those orders to the letter or die trying.  There was the small fact that two of the Marines were not only carrying the typical 45 caliber Colt pistol, but had M-16 rifles.  The admiral had really stacked the deck in his favor, he had not left any part of the game to chance.  He had every possible angle completely covered, not leaving anything to chance or giving the agents any opportunity to play any trump.  In fact he had done such a good job of covering all the bases that there was nothing that the agents could do but allow the Marines to continue.

      The marines approached the agents and turned them around.  The marines removed the agents' weapons, then placed them under their belts in back.  The Marines patted the agents down pulling out the identification badges and handing them to Jim.  Once the Marines were sure that there were no other weapons on the agents, they produced handcuffs and put them on the agents.  When all three of the agents were handcuffed, the admiral rose from his seat.

      "Is this the point where you read us our rights?"  Woolford asked in a sarcastic tone.

      "No,"  the admiral responded.  "I'm not ready to ask any more questions at this time, so it's not necessary."  The admiral looked at the Marine sergeant.  "Make sure that these men are kept separate.  I don't want them to have any contact with each other, or any visitors until formal charges are filed."

      "You can't do that!"  McVey exclaimed.

      "He can,"  Woolford said in a controlled voice, "he's had us detained under the UCMJ.  So that changes the rules, he can hold us for seventy-two hours without filing charges, than another forty-eight before allowing us contact with an attorney.  Then he can even assign the attorney that we have."

      "Very good, mister Woolford," the admiral said.  "And I don't have to advise you of your rights until I'm ready to talk to you."  The admiral nodded to the Marine sergeant and watched as the agents were escorted out of the office, then followed after them.  He stopped at the desk of the now confused receptionist.

      "I would suggest that you contact the main office," the admiral spoke in a soft tone to her.  "If they have any questions, they can contact my office.  Then take the rest of the day off."

      The receptionist looked at the admiral in silent confusion and nodded.  As the door closed behind the departing admiral, the young lady looked around the now vacant office and picked up the phone.  She dialed a number and waited for an answer at the other end.  When there was someone at the other end she began to describe what she knew of the events that had just happened.  When she repeated the admiral's instructions, she paused listening to the person at the other end, then hung up the phone.  She rose from her chair and shut down the office locking the door when she left.

      Jim walked beside the admiral in silence down the hallways of the Pentagon.  When they arrived at the admiral's office, Jim opened the door and held it for Hoffman.  They walked through the outer office and into the inner office, where the admiral walked over to his desk and sat in the chair behind the desk.  He let out a sigh and looked at him.

      "It's after a confrontation like this," the admiral began, "that makes me wonder how guys like you and Dancer deal with it in the air."

      "Actually," Jim responded, "the rush is what makes it all worth while.  It's the high that makes us go looking for the fights."

      "After all these years, I'm still not real good at these one on one things.  When we faced battles at sea, I had no problems."

      "I guess you've seen a lot of changes over the years."

      "That I have," the admiral rocked back in his chair and placed his feet up on the desk.  "With twenty-five, well, twenty-seven years active duty, nineteen years in the reserves and seven years inactive while I took time off for college.  There has been a lot that has changed and a lot that has stayed the same."

      "Stayed the same, like what?"

      "Fleet operations have stayed pretty much the same.  Hell, the most effective weapon we have in fleet is the Missouri class battle ships, with those sixteen inch guns."

      "I never really gave that much thought."

      "There's still no defense for that system.  We can jam the electronics of missiles, use rockets against airborne threats.  Yet, to date, there is nothing that can stop those rounds."

      "I've seen those things flying through the air.  Those aren't rounds, those are VW bugs."  Both men laughed a little at the comparison.

      "It's still fairly early," the admiral began, "why don't you take the rest of the day off and spend time with Cheryl?"

      "Not a bad idea.  I'll have her come in on the metro and meet her at Air and Space."

      "Give her a call and we'll see you two for dinner later."

      "How about the Fish Market in Old Town?"

      "Okay.  Say eight?"

      "See you there."

      Jim turned and left the inner office.  He picked up the phone on the desk of the receptionist in the outer office and dialed the admiral's home.  When Cheryl answered the phone Jim outlined the plan to his wife, then hung up the phone and headed for the subway.  The complex subway system in the Washington D.C. area, called the metro, moves a large number of people in and out of the capitol city to both Maryland and Virginia.  One of the many stations in the center of the capitol area, was very close to the Smithsonian Institutes museums.  One of which is simply called Air and Space.  It is sometimes referred to as the Mecca of aviation, as it is dedicated completely to flight. 

      Jim arrived at the Smithsonian station, still in his working white uniform and walked out onto the platform.  He looked around to see if Cheryl had arrived yet, he did not see her and looked at his watch.  His watch was typical of most aviators, a large dial with numerous arms, most of which no one knew how to read or operate.  But if anyone were to ask, he would make a believable attempt to describe all of the functions it had.  After looking at the watch, he looked at the schedule on the pillar and figured that she would arrive on the next train.

      It was only a few minutes before the sounds of the approaching train could be heard.  Then the silver train pulled to a stop at the platform and the doors opened to allow the passenger to depart.  Among the passengers was Cheryl, she stepped out on to the platform looking around.  When she saw Jim, she smiled and made her way over to him and gave him a hug.

      "Hello, Sweetheart," Jim said as he gave her a light kiss.

      "Hello.  How'd it go in the meeting?"

      "Let's just to say that I'm real glad that your dad is on the same side I am."

      "Another minor victory?"

      "Another complete victory."

      The couple walked out of the subway station and onto the mall, the tree lined grassy area that runs from the capitol building to the Lincoln monument.  They walked the short distance to the large white rectangular building.  Climbing the stairway to the doors on the mall side of the building, they approached the glass entry way.  One of the security guards saw them approaching the door and opened for the uniformed Naval officer.  As the couple entered the guard nodded to Jim who returned the nod.

      When they entered the building, there was a display of Moon rocks, the various space capsules and several aircraft suspended from the ceiling.  During the next few hours, the couple viewed such things as the Wright brothers' Kitty Hawk, the Spirit of Saint Louis, the X-1 that Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier with for the first time.  There was also the Apollo-Soyuz mock up, the lunar lander, and even the mock up of Space Lab. 

      At the far end of the second level there is a room that has been designed to simulate the deck of carrier.  As Jim and Cheryl entered the display, there was an A-4 Skyhawk, a remarkable attack aircraft that was being phased out in the fleet by the F-18 Hornet.  The remarkable thing about the semi-delta wing aircraft was that it could carry more than its own weight in ordinance.  When they walked onto the simulated control area of the display, the films showed flight operations on a carrier.  Jim noticed that the fighters that were being shown in the film were from VF-41 and his former squadron VF-84.  He smiled and pointed at the display.

      "These are from the Nimitz," he said to Cheryl.

      As they watched the flight operations play Jim heard someone ask how easy it looked and Jim smiled a little.  He had never thought about it, but to some people the pilots must make it look like it is much easier than it really is.  The part that gets lost in the translation is the beating that the crews take during the landings.  Some people don't realize the dangers that loom over each and every landing attempt a carrier pilot makes.

      When the couple left the Navy display, they headed off to see some of the other sites.  When they left Air and Space, they walked along the mall.  They walked past the Hall of Records, home of such national treasures as the original Constitution and Bill of Rights.  They walked through the museum of American history, in which Jim quickly found the auto racing display.  There are several attractions such as a portion of the original bricks that made up the Indianapolis motor speedway, known as the brick yard.  The most known display is the car in which the "King" of NASCAR racing, Richard Petty, won his 200th Grand National race.

      After leaving there, they walked past the Washington monument, the tall splinter that sits atop a small hill on the mall.  They walked along the reflection pool that ended at the base of the Lincoln monument.  Before climbing the steps to the monument, Jim turned to the right and walked over to the Vietnam War memorial.  He walked along the wall of names that lists all those that gave their lives in that conflict.  The names are so numerous that it is mind boggling, yet Jim walked to a spot and stopped.  It was the first time he had really stopped the history lesson that he had been rattling off since they entered Air and Space.  The unusual silence worried Cheryl, then she watched as Jim slowly removed his hat and approached the wall.  He reached out and touched a single name as tears formed in his eyes.  Cheryl looked at the title for the names in that particular group of fallen soldiers, it was labeled VF-124.  She looked at the name, Commander Lyle Foote, USN.

      "Who was he?"  Cheryl asked softly.

      "My mom's brother," Jim answered shaking the tears away.  "He tried to be a father for me for a lot of years.  He got me into flying when I was fourteen, then a couple of years later I remember he left one day and never came back.  Then, one morning as I was getting ready to go to school, an officer came to the door and talked quietly to mom for a couple minutes.  Mom closed the door, came to the table then sat down and cried."

      "He meant a lot to you?"

      "Yeah.  I went into the Navy to settle two scores, dad missing from flight nineteen and Uncle Lyle.  He did it right though, he went down in a real heavy duty gun fight.  In fact, the squadron was renamed for his battle as the Gunfighters.  By all the accounts of the battle, his F-four Phantom took all kinds of hits.  Yet, he stayed in there and ended up with two more kills before his fighter was destroyed.  He and his RIO never had a chance to eject."

      Jim fell silent, took a step back from the wall, replaced his hat, came to attention and saluted his uncle, postumatley.  He turned and walked off with his wife to catch the metro to Old Town Alexandria and dinner with his in-laws.  After getting clear of the wall, Jim went back into his verbal histology of the area with a little less zeal. 

      He eventually went into his own ancestry.  He told of how his family settled in the northern Virginia area.  It was his mother that had moved to Fort Lauderdale, first to attend college and later to be near her one and only love, Jim's father.  She made sure that Jim was well aware of his historical past, including the ancestor for whom Fort Foote on the Potomac River was named.  That Jim's great grand father served with General Robert E. Lee as a member of the confederate Navy.  One of the mementos on the mantel at his mother's house was the CSN, Confederate States Navy, revolver that his ancestor wore.

      As they rode the metro to the Alexandria station, Jim was pointing out various landmarks to Cheryl.  When the train stopped at the platform, Jim and Cheryl exited the train making their way to the taxi stand.  It was a short ride of about two miles to the restaurant.  The Fish Market was established when Alexandria was a young township in the 1500's.  It was still more than a landmark, it was one of the better eating places in the metro area.  When they walked in, Jim gave the name of the party and was quickly escorted to their table on the second floor where the admiral and his wife were waiting for them.

      The tower operators watched their screens, like the conductors of an orchestra, moving aircraft around so that they would all reach their destinations safely.  It was the heart of a busy Air Force base in Greece.  This base was a relay point for a number of flights going across the Mediterranean, as well as a number of reconnaissance flights that originated and ended at the base.  The operators had been notified of the incoming Navy fighter and had been tracking it for some time.

      In the darkness of the night, with the moon peeking out from the thin high clouds.  The lights on the runways and taxiways were clear for a long distance.  The activity on the base was heavy with aircraft of all types and configurations moving around, landing or taking off.

      "Navy one-one-six, this is Athens tower,"  the operator said.

      "Athens, this is one-six," Jack responded.

      "Come right to heading three-five-seven, reduce airspeed to one-nine-zero knots and start a normal approach decent.  You are currently fourth in the pattern, sixty-four miles out."

      "Copy," Jack answered.  "Okay, Dancer.  This is easy just follow the directions of the tower and we'll be on the ground soon."

      "You did get a hold of him?"

      "Yeah.  I'm still not sure that it's the best thing I have ever let you talk me into, but what's done is done."

      "Thanks."

      Alan moved the controls of the fighter, it responded to his touch instantly as he changed the heading and speed of the fighter.  In the darkness he felt at home in the air, he was one of the few pilots in the Navy that really liked night operations.  As he moved the fighter toward the base, he watched the instruments start to register that he was on track to the base.  He looked up and in the distance he could see the red flashing lights on another aircraft.

      "I've got something at the twelve-O'clock," Alan began, "maybe ten miles out."

      "That should be the one we're following in."

      "Okay.  I'll pace on him for the time being."

      There was something that was eating at Jack, he sat in the silence for a moment longer then decided to say what he had been feeling.

      "Dancer," Jack began.

      "Yeah?"

      "There's something that's been bugging me about all this."

      "What's that?"

      "Are you sure what you're feeling is real, or is it just the Florence Nightingale syndrome?"

      "You've got be joking."

      "Not at all!  Let's look at this logically, okay?"

      "Okay, make your case."

      "You hardly know this girl."

      "So? Who says that you have to know someone for life to fall in love?"

      "It's not that, it's just that how do you know that she's not a loony tune?"

      "Knowing someone for years gives you that answer every time?  How many times have you heard the family member of somebody that flipped out and killed a room full of people, say "He was always a nice guy who was always there for his friends?""

      "Okay, I'll give you that round.  What about your clearance?  She's Russian and that could cost you that."

      "That was true a couple of years ago, but with the current change in the political structure of the Soviet States, I don't find that a considerable threat."

      "What about my gut instinct?  I think that this is a bad move, Alan."

      That was a solid point and Jack didn't call him by his first name very often.  Alan had to think about that, and he did for a minute.

      "You haven't met her yet,"  Alan said.  "So how can you make any judgment at all about her?  Now, if you'd met her and had something to base your objections on, then I'd have to give your objections credence."

      Jack sat there in defeat.  He hated it when Alan won the battle so completely against him and shook his head.

      "Okay, you win," Jack said finally.  "At least buy me a beer to put out these flames, will you?"

      "Sure.  How we doing on the approach?"

      "Ground should be checking in anytime."

      In the next few moments of relative silence, the fighter moved closer to the air base.  On the ground, many of the men that would normally be in other areas, started to filter out to the visitor parking area in front of one of the hangers.  Not very many of them had had the opportunity to see many Tomcats and wanted to see one.  Some knew of the reputation of the crew that was heading their way, one of the senior tech-sergeants was at the William Tell school when Alan and Jack did battle with, and embarrassed, the Air Force's top pilots.

      Soon the distinctive sounds of the approaching Tomcat could be heard.  The marker and landing lights could be made out clearly as the fighter made its way toward the runway.  The fighter made a soft landing, then moved smoothly to the hanger area.  One of the ground crewmen raised a pair of flashlights, not unlike a touchdown sign, to indicate to the pilot that he was the guide.  Then he started motioning the fighter to the spot where he wanted it to be parked.  When the fighter was in the proper spot, he moved the light in his right hand across his throat and the engines started to shut down while the canopy rose.  The tech sergeant walked over to the fighter and pulled down the ladder and climbed up to help the crew out of the cockpit.

      "Welcome to Athens, sir," the tech-sergeant said to Alan.

      "Thank you, sergeant," Alan responded.

      "It’s been a long time since we last met."

      Alan looked at the sergeant with a puzzled look.

      "Where was that?"

      "William Tell, sir,"  the sergeant said with a smile.  "That was a fine bit of flying.  Even if you did cheat."

      "That's a matter of opinion," Alan began.  "As I've always said there's no rules in war, except to win."

      "That's the thing I like about you sir.  By the way Commander, congratulations on your latest kills, sir."

      "Thanks.  News travels fast, even here I guess."

      The crowd that had gathered stood in silence watching the crew climb out of the fighter.  Not many of the crewmen had ever seen a true fighter ace, especially one that had seen so much action against modern MiGs.  As Alan tried to retrieve his bags from the storage area of one of the fuel pods, one of the ground crew took the bags.

      "I've got these, sir," the crewman said as he led the officers toward the sedan that would take them to the visiting officer's quarters.  As Alan and Jack walked toward the crowd, someone yelled "attention," then "present arms."  The entire group saluted the pair of Naval officers, who returned the salute.

      "Well, Dancer," Jack said, "I'd say you've made an impression."

      "What'd I do?"

      "You're a real live hero, there's not a whole bunch of you guys around."

      "Come on."

      "You think they'd treat you like this if all you had ever done was win a mock battle with one of their pilots?  I think not."

      The pair got into the waiting sedan that drove them to the quarters that they would be staying in during their “vacation.”  When they got to the barracks, there were several Air Force officers standing at the front door.  This group did not have the same welcoming appearance.  As Alan pulled his bags out of the trunk, he looked at the group at the door then back to Jack.

      "This doesn't look good," Alan said to Jack.

      "Do me a favor, just keep your mouth shut this time.  Okay?"

      "No problem, I think I can do that."

      "It would be a first."

      As the pair approached the waiting group of Air Force officers, one of them stepped in front of them.  Alan stopped and looked the other man in the eyes.  The Air Force officer looked down at the name tag on his chest.

      "So," the Air Force officer began, "this is what a Navy pilot looks like."

      Alan wanted to make a  comment, but kept his promise to Jack and just gave the antagonist a sarcastic look.

      "I've wanted to clean your clock for years."

      "Why is that?" Alan said looking past the man.

      "You snuck in on my wingman, you cheated.  Or don't squids have a memory?"

      "I remember," Alan began.  " I also remember that we burned a half a load of fuel waiting for you guys to remember where the starter button was."

      "Dancer!" Jack yelled.

      "I'm sorry J.W., I can't let this wing nut talk like that.  I'm not going to stand here and listen to this garbage."

      "Just remember the guy that's still in a coma, you didn't keep that promise either."

      The Air Force officers looked at each other than at Jack.

      "What guy?"  One of the Air Force officers asked.

      "Some Marine that pissed him off by calling him a squid.  The next thing I knew the Marine was laying there with a busted neck.  He's not just an ace in the air, but nasty on the ground.  It’s all that Southern never being able to forget the civil war stuff."

      The group backed away from Alan, who had yet to move.  Then a voice came from behind.

      "You men need help?"

      The Air Force officers looked past the Naval officers, then shook their heads and gave more room to Alan and Jack.  Alan turned around to see a single man standing next to a military sedan.  The man walked up to him.

      "I'm General Adams," the man introduced himself holding out his hand out to Alan, "the base commander."

      Alan saluted the general, then shook his hand.

      "It's truly a pleasure to have you here.  We don't often have the chance to have the presence of a modern ace."

      "Thank you, sir."

      "I hadn't heard about the Marine, when did that happen?"

      "It was a bluff, sir," Jack responded.  "It seemed to be working."

      "Effective.  Will you gentlemen join me for breakfast at the club?"

      "Our pleasure," Alan said.

      "Good.  I'll see you at eight."

      "Aye, sir."

      Alan and Jack watched as the general got in his sedan then left.  The pair then turned to enter the building and one of the pilots that were standing there looked at them.

      "You really as good as your record shows?"

      "There's some luck, but yeah, I'm that good."

      "What's it like?"

      "You don't know?"

      "I've never faced a real enemy.  Just a lot of mock battles."

      "With that attitude, you'll never win a real fight.  Every air battle, mock or real, needs the same mental frame.  Win."

      "It's that simple?"

      "It's never that simple," the other Air Force pilot grumbled.

      "How many wins you have?" Alan asked.

      "Doesn't matter.  I fly by the rules, you don't know they exist."

      "Look, when I'm in a fight I take every advantage I can get.  Then I work the situation, force the other guy to make a mistake."

      "What mistake did we make that day?"

      "You took too long on the ground.  I got board and wanted to get the whole thing over with.  Look, we're here to take a vacation, let's just let it go and continue with our lives.  Okay?"

      The group stood there considering what Alan had just said and then one of them pushed open the door to the barracks.  He walked past them and into the building with Jack following behind him.

      “Where in the hell did that come from, Dancer?”

      “What?”

      “You didn’t even try to argue with those guys, you just verbally slammed the door on them and walked away.  I never thought I’d live to see this.”

      “I’m tired, okay?”

      What ever you say.”

      They walked up to the reception deck to check in and got assigned their rooms.  Then the clerk behind the desk handed him a message envelope with his key.  The men made their way to their rooms, when he had closed the door and was alone he opened the envelope.  There was a knock on the door and he opened it and let Jack in.

      "What is it?" Jack asked.

      "It's a response to your radio conversation."

      "Well?"

      "We have a ten-O'clock meeting at the American embassy."

      "I hope you know what you're doing."

CHAPTER 12

      Alan had not been able to sleep well, the anxiety of the events of the coming day had his stomach in knots.  When the phone finally rang with the wake up call at six-thirty, he was already wide awake and was reading the morning newspaper.  He laid the paper down then headed for the shower stopping at the closet to pull out some street cloths.  When he emerged from the bathroom he had his blue jeans on and was drying his hair with a towel.  He walked over to the night stand were the phone was and dialed Jack's room.

      "What?" Jack's groggy voice came through the receiver.

      "We have a breakfast date.  Remember?" Alan said.

      "What time is it?"

      "Five to seven."

      "I suppose you've already been in the shower."

      "Sure.  I'll meet you in the lobby at seven-thirty."

      "Okay," Jack yawned as he hung up the phone.

      Alan started back into the bathroom to finish dressing, but stopped short and looked again at the phone for a long minute.  He walked back over to the phone and sat on the edge of the bed, then picked up the receiver, pulled out a note that was included in the message envelope and dialed a number.  The phone rang at the other end several times before it was answered.

      "Hello?" the admiral's voice answered.

      "Hello, sir," Alan began, "I got your message.  Is Lucy still there?"

      "She is, and she is anxious to hear from you.  Hold on a second."  There was a short pause then Lucy's voice came over the phone.

      "Dad?"

      "Hi, babe.  I hope they didn't worry you too much."

      "No, actually everyone has been assuring me that you are as good as ever.  Are you really alright?"

      "Of course!  They'd have to throw a hell of a lot more at me all at the same time to get me."

      "When are you coming home?"

      "Soon.  I'm on leave right now in Greece.  J.W. and I have a little business to take care of then I'll be home for a week or so."

      "What type of business?"

      "That's something that I want to discuss with you in person, not over the phone."

      "You're not getting married, are you?" Lucy asked with a chuckle knowing that marriage was the last thing on Alan's mind.

      "Not now."

      "What do you mean by that?"

      "As I said it's something that I want to discuss with you in person.  Suffice it to say that she is the most incredible woman I've ever known."

      "Who is she?"

      "She's a lady I met after I was shot down.  Her father saved my life."

      "This is all rather sudden, isn't it?"

      "Possibly.  But she makes me feel real good, it was stronger than what I had with Maggie."

      "I don't know, dad ... What about Phyllis?"

      "She's not too keen on the whole thing.  I guess she's a little jealous, but I just don't love her."

      "When do I get to meet her?"

      "Well, if everything works out, I might be able to bring her back with me.  Let's change the subject.  How's Amanda?"

      "She good.  She sleeping right now, but we'll be going home later today and I'm sure she'll wake up the minute we get home.  That should be enough to keep her up all night and not let me sleep."

      "You and Cheryl do some shopping while you're up there?"

      "Yeah.  I even found some things for you and of course, Amanda had to get something for her grandpa," Lucy chuckled.

      "And what did she get me this time?"

      "A Disney movie for her to watch with you," they both laughed.

      "I've got to finish dressing, I'll see you before my leave ends.  Tell Amanda that grandpa is coming home so that he can watch his movie."

      "Okay.  I love you, dad."

      "I love, you too, honey."

      Alan replaced the receiver in the cradle then finished dressing.  He pulled on his cowboy boots, picked up his keys, picked up his olive drab flight jacket and headed out the door.  There were a couple of Air Force officers that were in the hallway talking as he cruised toward them.  The two men looked up then fell silent, the aura of the arrogance and self assuredness of the Navy flyer was more than a little obvious.  They nodded to him as he passed between them,  he nodded back in acknowledgment.  By the time he reached the elevator he could hear the other two men whispering low as they looked at him.  He smiled as he thought to himself how odd it was to be considered as a hero, it was a title that he never really gave much thought about.  Around his fellow Navy pilots, it was considered just another label that carried little additional responsibility.  When he was on a Navy base, the only difference was weather you were a surface fleet or aviation person.  He was one of the few men that others looked to as some sort of superman.

      When he arrived in the lobby, there was another group of officers that looked at him as he stepped out of the elevator.  A hush fell over the room, it made Alan feel a little awkward.  He could feel the preliminaries for the battle building as the adrenaline started to flow.  Typical odds, the Navy pilot was heavily outnumbered, yet he was approaching the situation with no doubts.  Then one of the officers stepped forward.

      "Is it true that you have seven confirmed kills?"  The officer asked.

      "Yeah.  Also five assists and about ten intimidations," Alan responded.

      "Intimidations?"  Another officer asked.

      "Yeah," Alan turned to look at the second man.  "There's times that we can't shoot at the SOB's, so the rules change to just simply scarring them out of the air."

      "How do you do that?"

      "By not playing by any rules," a voice responded from behind Alan.  "By using any possible advantage that the bogie gives you and not giving up anything.  Right?"

      "Pretty much," Alan looked at the Air Force pilot who was standing there in his flight suit. 

      "We've never officially met," the pilot said as he extended his hand to Alan.  "I'm Major Justin Lauri.  Call sign Pokerface."

      "Major," Alan responded as he shook the hand of his counterpart.

      "You got me as soon as my wheels cleared the ground.  Some of the best flying I've ever seen."

      Alan smiled as he realized that this was the pilot that he had defeated in mock battle many years ago.

      "I was relived when we heard that you had been recovered," Justin continued.  "I volunteered to go help with the search.  But, it was turned down."

      "Thanks.  I guess it caused a little bit of a stir all over the place."

      "Yeah.  There's a few pilots that don't like what you did to me, but I learned a lot by loosing that fight."

      "Like what?"

      "Like know where the bad guys are before trying to launch!"

      Both men laughed in front of the somewhat amazed group.  Then Justin looked around at the group.

      "You know, this guy is just a man.  He's one hell of a pilot, probably the best combat pilot anyone in this room will ever meet, but he's just a man.  I get the feeling that you guys are making him nuts with the whispers and stairs.  So cool out."

      Alan looked at Justin and patted him on the shoulder in appreciation.

      "Thanks," Alan said.  "It was beginning to feel like some sort of a leaper."

      "I figured as much.  When I saw your fighter on the tarmac, I had to meet the legend."

      Alan smiled and looked at the floor.

      "Legend?" Alan asked.

      "Yeah, a legend.  Ever since that defeat that you gave me, I've studied everything that you've ever done.  I haven't lost an engagement since."

      "Really?"

      "Yep!  Now the only thing I have left is a rematch with you."

      "You really want that?"

      "I think I do.  There's not really any other challenges left for guys like you and me."

      "What about the Rainmaker?  I'd have to say that he's the absolute best."

      "Are you trying to back away from a challenge?"

      "No.  I just think that if you want to go up against the best, there he is."

      "Are you stirring up more trouble?" Jack said as he walked up behind the pair.

      "Not this time," Alan answered.

      "What've you got planned for the day?" Justin asked.

      "Sightseeing through Europe," Alan answered.

      "Well, have a good leave.  I'll be looking for you when you get back.  Mostly at my six."  Justin smiled and turned and headed for his room.

      "I'm hungry," Alan said to Jack, "let's eat."

      "You're always hungry."

      The pair left the barracks heading for the officer's club for their morning breakfast meeting with the general.  As they walked across the base, both men were more and more aware of the gazes.  It was still only slightly discomforting for Alan, but it was starting to get on Jack's nerves.  When they finally made it to the club, conversations ended and they became the center of attention.

      "How do you take all this attention?" Jack whispered to Alan.

      "I've always been a bit of a clown, so it's not too bad," Alan responded.

      "I'm the quiet guy remember?  And I don't mind letting you take the lime light.  It's just getting caught in your light is starting to get to me."

      "We're a team, so you'd better get used to it."  Alan said as he scanned the room.  "There's the general."  He led the way through the tables to where the general was sitting.  As the two men got near the table the general stood to greet his guests.

      "Good morning, gentlemen," General Adams said as he motioned to the empty chairs at the table.  "I hope you slept well."

      "I tossed and turned, but I think I got enough," Alan said.

      "Like a log," Jack commented.

      General Adams motioned to the waiter to come to the table.

      "Let's order, then we'll talk," General Adams said.

      The three men took a minute to look over the menus and gave their orders to the waiter.  The buss boy filled the coffee cups then both men left the three officers alone.  General Adams sat back in his chair as he lifted his coffee cup to his lips and drew a sip, then looked at Alan.

      "My drive in took past the hanger where your fighter is, it's one hell of a tourist attraction.  It’s a damn shame that I can’t charge admission, I’d make a mint!  I'm still a little puzzled as to why you two are here."

      "We're on leave," Alan responded.

      The general looked at Alan with a sarcastic look.  He took another long drink of coffee, then returned the cup to its saucer and leaned forward on to the table.

      "I was wondering if you would grant me a request," Adams began.

      "What's that?"

      "I'd like to have you do a rematch with major Lauri, more for the honor of the Air Force, but also to show that you're not the only fighter pilot out here."

      "I can't say yes to that, sir.  That has to be cleared by the admiral.  Besides when I talked to Pokerface this morning ..."

      "You talked to him this morning?"

      "Yes, sir.  As I pointed out to him then, he wants to fight the best.  Well, the best I know of is the Rainmaker I'm sure that he's a better challenge for your pilot."

      "Then it comes down to pride, it wasn't Rainmaker that tagged him ten feet off the ground."

      "True.  But, he's one of the guys I learned from.  Besides I'm still not at my peak from my bad ride."

      "Is that true?" Adams asked as he looked at Jack.

      "That's going to be hard to answer," Jack answered giving Alan an odd look.  "The fact that in yesterday's dog fight he didn't even want to lock up on a target,  would make me question him a little.  But, only a little.  After all he did chase three MiGs out of the air."

      "Really?"  Adams asked as he picked up his coffee and leaned back in his chair again.  "I haven't heard about this one yet."

      "Oh it was beautiful," Jack began, "Dancer went in and cleared the MiG by maybe three feet at supersonic.  Jet washed the daylights out of the MiG and a fractured canopy."

      The general sat there looking at the pair of Naval officers, or were they escapees from some asylum somewhere?  It is entirely one thing to take on an enemy pilot and engage him in normal combat tactics, but chasing him out of the air!  That was not the typical mental status that he would want in his command.  Sitting there was a crew that had done far more in their career than some would have done in three.  He smiled a little as he thought of all the aspirin that their commander must go through in a week.

      "You two must be a full time migraine for your skipper," Adams commented.

      "Whoa!" Jack exclaimed.  "Don't put me in the same category with this loony toon.  I just ride in the back seat."

      Alan smiled and looked at the table then at Jack as he winked.  He took his elbows off the table and sat back in the chair crossing his legs.  He held his coffee cup in both hands and looked into the cup as if it was a window into another dimension.

      "That might be true," Alan started slowly, "but, the bottom line is results.  We, and I'm including most of the drivers I know, have to push ourselves right to the edge.  It's the difference between Navy pilots and any other pilots anywhere in the world."

      "You think Navy pilots are truly that much better?"

      "Your pilots think in feet, we think in inches.  Your pilots think in minutes, we think in seconds.  That makes all of the difference.  Like when we were in Iran.  Several of us did a low and slow pass over Tehran, to taunt their fighters into coming up.  Your guys fly stealth aircraft at sixty-thousand feet to avoid a conflict.  We land on a little piece of metal that’s floating around in the ocean, your pilots land on large stationary airstrips."

      The general sat there drinking his coffee while he thought about what Alan had just said.  He was distracted by the waiter bringing the food and placing it in front of them.  He replaced his cup again on the saucer, then began eating his meal.  Alan and Jack followed suit as they began eating their food.  In the silence the general was formulating some thought, but was not letting the others know what it was.  When the meal was over, Alan looked at his watch and noticed that it was getting time to head off.  He looked over at Jack as he lifted his napkin from his lap dabbing at the corners of his mouth.

      "Sir," Alan began professionally, "I'm afraid that we have another appointment, off base.  With your permission, we need to leave."

      "Surely," Adams said to the pair as he watched them rise to leave.  "Be sure to set up a dinner with me before you leave."

      "Yes, sir," Alan responded.

      The two Naval officers strode out of the dinning hall and made their way back to the barracks.  They returned to their rooms long enough to get their leave papers and their permits for foreign travel. Then they headed for the lobby to call for a taxi that would take them to their appointment.  After calling for the cab, they waited patiently at the front door until it arrived.  They climbed in and gave the driver the destination, then it pulled away from the building.

      It was a short time when they passed the main gate and were now on the Grecian economy.  It was a city that was founded several thousand of years ago.  As a port it was launching point of the Greek armies that tried to concur the known world.  It was, by mythological lore, the original port of Odious in the Odyssey.  His mind began to wonder back to the times he used to listen to his father explain the documentaries of World War II.

      Alan was now traveling the same streets that he watched the soldiers in the movies march along.  It struck him how similar, how unchanged, the scenes were more than forty years later.  The narrow streets, the two, three, and four story white washed buildings that lined the streets.  The trashy appearance of the alleyways and the garbage that was on the narrow sidewalks.

      The cab sped along the streets for a while, then the road widened and the multi family buildings gave way to the single family homes.  The cab slowed a little then made a right turn at one of the intersections and resumed its original speed.  Soon the twelve foot tall iron and brick fences appeared on the left, each with the flag of a different country.  They had arrived on embassy row.

      When the cab got to the American embassy, it pulled up to the gate and stopped.  Alan and Jack climbed out of the cab and paid the fair.  Alan looked at his watch again as he walked up to the guard shack.

      "We're running about five minutes ahead of schedule," Alan commented to Jack.

      "That's good," Jack replied as they were met at the gate by a Marine corporal.

      "May I help you?"  The Marine asked.

      "Commanders Lee and Raines," Alan answered, "we have an appointment."

      The Marine held out his hand as Alan and Jack pulled out their identification and gave over to the Marine.  The guard looked at the identification, then at the two men in front of him.

      "One minute, sirs," the Marine said as he saluted the officers and waited for their salutes, then returned to the gate shack.  When he came back out, he had a clipboard with a number of sheets of paper on it.  He compared the names on the identification with the lists in front of him.  When he was sure that the men were on the list he handed them back to the officers.

      "Go straight ahead, through the main entrance and the second door on the left, sirs," the Marine directed before motioning to open the gate, then again saluting the two.

      Alan and Jack returned the salute then proceeded through the gates making their way toward the main building.  The pair walked across the yard to the main building.  As the men approached the door, a Marine swung open the door for the two to enter the building.  They walked down the hallway to the door on the left and walked in for their meeting.

      Sitting in the office was the ambassador and one of assistants.  When the pair of Naval officers entered the room, the two civilians looked up and rose.  The older man was six feet tall, thin, with a slight hint of gray in the side burns of his otherwise dark hair.  The twinkle in his light blue eyes showed that he enjoyed the work and reflected his enthusiasm.  There was no doubt that he was well educated and had a great deal of experience.

      "Good morning gentlemen," he began, extending his hand to the visitors.  "I'm Richard Knipe, ambassador.  This is my assistant Darryl."

      "Good morning," Alan said as he shook Richard's hand.

      "Your communiqué was less than informative," Richard began, "what is it that we can do for you?"

      "Has the Soviet representative arrived yet?"

      "No, he called and said that he was delayed.  He'll be here in an hour."

      Alan bit his lower lip as he thought about the best way to begin this part of the conversation.  How was he going to say this without making this sound like he was being completely impulsive?  As he looked at Richard, he realized that there was not going to be any easy way so began the story.

      Jim walked down the stairway to the lower level of his father-in-law's house.  He walked into the office and joined the admiral at his desk, sitting in a chair across the desk from the admiral.  The admiral laid the papers he was reading on the desk, then leaned back in the chair and grinned a little.

      "I guess that this could be considered a successful day," the admiral began.

      "I'm always glad that you and I are on the same side.  I haven't seen you loose a fight yet, sir."

      "Oh, I've lost a few.  You're one of my losses."

      "Sir?"

      "I never wanted you in some else's squadron, your the type of pilot that every commander wants to have at his disposal.  It is the same qualities that make you that type of flyer that also makes you unbeatable, but I sure as hell didn't want you as a son in law.  You have made Cheryl very happy and she has seems to have cooled you down considerably."  Jim nodded a little not really sure how to reply to the admiral's comments.  "Which brings me to another question,  what really happened when the shuttle crashed?"

      Jim looked at the admiral and took a deep breath as he sat back in the chair as he exhaled.  The memories of all the things that happened on that mission, flooded back.  As he looked at the admiral, not just his senior but his father-in-law, he had to recall which of the portions of the story were still classified and those that he could openly discuss.

      "It was an encounter that led to many changes in my life.  I met my father," Jim said solemnly.

      "What?" Hoffman nearly chocked on his drink.  "He disappeared as part of flight nineteen."

      "Yeah.  Seeing him was a major turning point in my life," Jim sat back looking into space reminiscing.  "There are no ghosts up there to fly against, just our own short comings and insecurities."

      "I'm not sure I'm following you.  Are you trying to tell me that you actually saw your father?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "It must have been a hallucination.  As I said, he was lost at sea years ago in the Bermuda Triangle."

      "True.  It was a shock for both of us."

      "You're serious."

      "Yeah, I am. He was rescued by ... mermaids and ..."

      "Whoa!"  Hoffman waved his hand like he was waving down a cab, what he was hearing was incomprehensible.  "Now I know you got a nasty bump on the head."

      "No," Jim smiled as he looked the admiral in the eyes.  "They were nothing like the beautiful creatures described in the folk lore.  My first impression was that of complete repulsion.  I was reminded of the old movie classic "Creature from the Black Lagoon."  Their faces defied description.  At first, I could only see the hideousness of the greenish scaled beings.  Large, strong, semi-webbed hands and a massive dolphin-like tail that was also covered in scales.  There were gills on either side of the thick neck, then it struck me that they not only were able to breath like fish, but the creature could breath air as well.  I was also struck with a sense that the beings had both dignity and superior intelligence.  Hell, I even thought to myself that Darwin would've had a ball with those creatures."

      "But, how does that relate to your dad?"

      "He was there, living with them.  Actually, he met Cheryl first.  She figured out the connection and let him know who I was.  I guess he never knew that mom was pregnant so I was a big surprise for him."

      The admiral looked at Jim in silence as he thought about what he had just heard.  This was more than he had ever expected, but then it did explain why none of the facts were ever officially been released.  Anyone that made such claims in public would be locked up in an asylum and the key thrown away.  He looked at Jim and reflected for a moment about the former Naval aviator that he had known so many years ago.  An officer that, unlike his son Jim, he barely knew.  He was able to pull a mental image of the past acquaintance out of memory and recalled what he looked like.

      "What did he look like?" Hoffman asked, figuring in his mind what the years would have done to the man.  "I knew him, not real well, but I had met him several times."

      "He looked a lot like me, mid thirties, reddish-brown hair, green eyes, just an older style flight suit.  It was actually like looking in a mirror."

      "What about the years?  I mean hadn't he aged?"

      "Apparently, one of the side affects of living in Atlantis, was a slower metabolism.  So aging has a lesser effect on the body."

      "Atlantis?"

      "Yep, that is the name of their city."

      "Really?"  Hoffman looked at Jim with some skepticism.  "I'm not sure I'm buying all this."

      "Really.  We also met Captain Nemo, and I rode in the infamous Nautilus."

      "Now I know you're pulling my leg."

      "Not at all.  That was the ship that brought us to the surface and he was a riot."

      "I know that there was a confederate Naval officer with the name Nemo, but he was lost at sea.  The stories of his ship were rhomers and never validated."

      "I'm telling you sir, it really exists.  It is phenomenal."

      The admiral looked at Jim for several moments thinking about what had just been said.  He wasn't sure if it was true, or just illusions from the blows to the head.

      "I'm not completely sure that I buy all of this, but on the other hand I have to consider the results.  I had tried everything in my power to keep you form taking all those unnecessary chances, I'd have taken help from any corner in settling you down.  Before that crash, you were one of the hardest pilots I had to try to control."

      The two men sat there and chuckled at the thought of Jim's escapades prior to the crash.  He had the reputation of pushing it to the absolute limit, and on occasion , beyond.  He had earned the respect and admiration of his fellow aviators.  The admiral had spent many years attempting to settle him down and to quite taking all the chances he was.  Then, his daughter, Cheryl, fell in love with him and he found himself with a near psychotic son-in-law.  But, he did settle down and start flying more sanely.  Maybe the end had justified the means.

      Alan had just finished his story for Richard and silence fell over the room.  While everyone sat there looking at him contemplating the situation as a whole.  It was clear that the feelings that had been expressed were genuine, there was, however, a concern that maybe the feelings were amplified by the trauma of the situation.  The phone on the desk rang breaking the silence.

      "Yes," Richard listened as Alan watched in silence.  "Thank you.  Send him right up."  He hung up the phone.  "Your Russian liaison has arrived.  I have one concern, Mister Lee."

      "That is?"  Alan asked.

      "Are you sure that these feelings have not been somewhat affected by the fact that you were rescued by her?"

      "I sort of ran that by him earlier," Jack chimed in, "I didn't really get anywhere."

      "I see," Richard said smirking uncomfortably. 

      The door opened, in walked a five-foot-seven slim man with green eyes and sandy wind blown hair that were showing the wear of years of tracking the American Navy.  He smiled as he looked at Alan, then quickly made his way over to him to greet his acquaintance.

      "It is good to see you again, my friend," Alex said to Alan.  "It has been a long time."

      "It's been too long," Alan replied in Russian much to the surprise of Richard.  The two shook hands, then embraced lightly as was the Soviet custom.

      "You speak Russian?" Richard said with the surprise still in his voice.

      "Yep," Alan answered back.  "I found it helpful during my tour with Naval Intelligence."

      "I think I'm beginning to follow you, now," Richard said.  "I'm not sure I agree with what's happening, but I think I'm understanding."

      "What is going on?" Alex asked.

      "I fell in love this week," Alan began to explain.  "Fell hard and deep enough that I've actually wanted to ... well ... "

      "He wants to marry her," Jack said sarcastically.

      "Oh?"

      "Yeah," Alan said.

      "So why do you need me?"

      "She's from Alupka," Alan replied softly.

      Alex took a step back his mouth open slightly as he quickly made the connection between the missing pilot and his friend.  Most of the intelligence field agents were still trying to find some leads as to what had happened to the American crew and here in the same room was the man that they had been searching for.

      "So," Alex spoke softly, " you are the pilot that crashed in the Black Sea?"

      "I am."

      "Both of you survived?  I'm glad."

      "I wasn't with him," Jack responded.

      "Who ...?"

      "A CIA  agent," Alan answered the question before in could be asked.

      "Will someone enlighten me?" Richard asked.

      "Alan was flying the fighter that was shot down this week," Jack responded.  "He ended up going swimming in the Black Sea."

      "It was the collimation of a real bad plan manufactured by the CIA," Alan began.  "They wanted to start a war with Iraq by having one our fighters, it just happened to be me, shot down.  That was supposed to give the American public opinion the push to finish what was started during Desert Storm.  I flew into a set up, but managed to turn the tables on the bad guy and bring him down.  Then they got me with a missile."

      Richard looked at the pilot with a different look.  He had never met a pilot that had been shot down or ditched before.  He had been caught off guard by the lingual abilities and his lack of flag waving.  Maybe what he was feeling was truly genuine and he was not being overly spontaneous.

      "What do you need me to do," Alex asked.

      "I want to travel to Alupka."

      Richard looked at Alex knowing that this normally took a long time to arrange.  Alex thought about the odd request for several moments, trying to think about how he could cut through the red tape.  This would not be an easy chore.

      "How did you two meet?" Darryl asked Alex as he motioned to Alan.

      "It was when the shuttle crashed," Alex answered back, "My trawler was monitoring the task force that was performing the rescue mission.  Alan came over to my ship to look over some of the unusual tracking we had encountered."

      "And you have kept in touch since?" Richard asked.

      "No, in fact I was very surprised when I was told that they were on the radio."

      "So you'll help me, Alex?" Alan asked.

      "I'll have to make several calls to see what I can do.  Just in case you should begin the necessary paperwork on this side," Alex said to Richard.  "As soon as I have an answer I'll contact this office."

      "Okay," Richard replied.  "Mister Lee, I'll need your identification and shot record."

      Alan handed the requested documents to the ambassador and the race was on.  There would be stacks of paperwork to be filled out, a great deal of which would be redundant and submitted.  As he began the task of filling out all of the paperwork, he thought to himself who in the world would actually read all of it.  There must surly be an office somewhere that stores all of the unnecessary, but required, paperwork.  Then again, maybe they just shred it after they pick out the two or three pieces of information that they might truly need.

CHAPTER 13

      Brian throttled his Tomcat along close to the ground attempting to shake the fighter that had snuck in behind him.  He started to bank right then hard left, the fighter behind him was still back there following his every move almost as if the moves were anticipated.  Brian shook his head as the frustration level rose to a point where he knew that mistakes were not far away.  He was trying everything he knew and even a few things that he had learned from watching Alan only a few days ago.

      "Who is this guy?" Kevin asked.

      "I don't know.  But I've had enough of this shit," Brian said.  "I'm going to hit the brakes and get this guy off my back."

      "Be careful.  This guy is real good, not to mention real close."

      A moment later the F-14 nearly stopped in mid-air as the wings swung forward and the speed brakes activated.  The "G" forces pulled the two men forward against their harnesses as they waited to see the other fighter race by.  Brian looked around in a slight panic knowing that the other fighter should have gone past them by now.

      "Where is he?" Brian nearly shouted into the intercom.

      "He just vanished," Kevin answered as he searched the air behind the fighter.  He turned around to look out the right side when he saw the other fighter bearing down on them.

      "He's at the three-O'clock!" Kevin shouted.

      Brian looked over his right shoulder and saw the fighter.  He shoved the stick to the right and headed at the other aircraft.  He took a deep breath and pushed the throttles full forward.  The wings of the fighter folded back as the crew was pushed back into the metal framed seats.

      "Spiderman," Brian began still concentrating on the other fighter, "I'm going to chase this guy out of here."

      "Be cool, Bee.  He's still an instructor."

      Brian tried to remember how Alan had chased the Syrian fighters out of the sky.  As he closed the distance between himself and the other fighter, he began to worry.  The other fighter was not flinching, this guy was very good Brian thought to himself.  Finally, Brian moved the stick bringing the nose of his fighter up.  As the other aircraft passed under Brian's aircraft, he lost sight of it again.

      "Track this guy carefully," Brian ordered Kevin.

      "Not a problem.  He's coming around and getting in behind us..... Again."

      Suddenly the threat panel indicated that there was radar starting to lock on the fighter.  An instant later the tone went solid, indicating that there was a lock.  The engagement was over.

      "Bee," Jim's voice came over the headset.  Just the sound of his voice made Brian grimace in pain.  "You have to be more patient, wait for the other guy to force the situation.  That means that he's lost his nerve.  This hop is over, Rainmaker has the lead."

      Jim's fighter banked left heading for the airfield at Miramar.  Brian waited a couple of seconds, then followed Jim.  He shook his head the way this battle had developed, he should have known that it was Jim.  As he thought about it further, the more he figured that the only pilot that had a chance against Jim was likely Alan.

      "Rain," Brian called over the radio.

      "Yes?"

      "Have you ever gone up against Dancer?"

      "No, not yet."

      "That's an engagement I'd pay to watch."

      "It will defiantly be a challenge."

      Jim thought about the possibility of a mock battle against his friend.  It would be the only battle that would likely take longer than a minute to gain the upper hand.  But then, with Alan getting the upper hand was one thing, keeping it was another.  Jim had seen him turn several engagements from defeat to a victory, then play it off as just another day at the office.

      After landing at the base and caretaking the mission in the classroom, he made his way over to his office.  Sitting in his chair he found Cheryl beaming with a secret.

      "What are you doing here this time of day?"  Jim asked as he looked at his watch.

      "I just came from my doctor's appointment."

      "And?"

      "I'm pregnant."

      When Jim was finally able to move again, he went over to Cheryl and held her.  This was something that made him happier than he could have ever imagined.  He wanted to share this with both of his parents, which would not be an easy task. 

      Phil made his way lazily up to the con.  The stress that had been there for the last week, was now gone and his ship was nearly back to normal.  At least as normal as any Naval ship could be.  As he sat in his chair gazing out at the darkness of late evening, someone handed him a fresh cup of coffee.  The sounds of the fighters preparing to hurl off the deck were nearly deafening and the thunderous vibration shook the massive ship.  As he sipped the coffee, the F-14s raced off into the night sky.

      "It's sure comforting having those CIA guys out of here," The CAG said standing to Phil's right.

      ""Definitely," Phil responded.  "I feel as if my ship belongs to me, again."

      "Dancer and J.W. will be back in a couple of weeks."

      "I knew that it was awfully quiet around here.  Having that pair off the ship will give my ulcer a chance to calm down"  The two men laughed.  "And, I knew it was too good to last."

      "Are you going to try to transfer them?"

      "Hell no!  They may send my ulcer into high gear, but I wouldn't want to loose the edge they give this air wing."

      The signal officer approached the pair with several sheets of paper in his hand.  As he held out the papers for Phil to take, he recalled the scene earlier that day.  He watched as Phil became more approachable when the remaining agent was escorted onto the cargo plane, still in handcuffs and shackles.  Phil stood on Vultures Row, looking stern and professional as the CIA agent and his Marine escorts left the ship.  As soon as the aircraft had reached the end of the flight deck, Phil raised his arms in victory.  Almost like a football player celebrating the winning touchdown.

      "What's that?"  Phil asked as he pointed at the papers in the officer's hand and bringing the signal officer back to the present.

      "Our new orders, sir,"  the officer answered as Phil took the papers from his hand.

      Phil took the papers and read them carefully.  He smiled and sighed in relief, then returned the papers to the signal officer.

      "Post the orders," he instructed the officer, then he turned toward the officer of the deck.  "Officer of the deck!"

      "Aye, sir!" the officer standing across the con responded clearly.

      "We've been ordered home.  Best speed to Norfolk!"

      "Aye, aye, sir!"  The officer grinned in response to the orders, then began barking orders to the men steering the ship.

      "Signal the rest of the task force," Phil instructed the signal officer, "and all of our aircraft.  Inform them of our new orders."

      "Aye, aye, sir," the signal officer responded, then turned smartly and headed back to the communications center.

      "It has been a long cruise," the CAG said softly.

      "Long, hard and far more costly than it should have ever been," Phil nodded his head.

      It took several minutes to make all of the preparations to turn the massive ship and her escort ships toward the Gibraltar Straights and home.  In the absolute blackness at sea, the course change was not visually detectable, but Phil could feel the ship begin to turn right.  As the turn completed, Phil looked at the large traditional brass stand compass.  It indicated that they were steering nearly a perfect 270 course, due west, for home.

      Phil strolled back out to Vultures Row, looked across the darkness to the escort ships outlined by their lights, the warm night air filled his lungs.  Now he was able to he relax.  In the distance he saw the lights of two of the fighters keeping their vigil over the task force.  As he watched, the fighters closed, then streaked past the left side of the ship.

      The entire crew had been at this for nearly eleven months and the tension was now quite noticeable.  Soon they all would be home and on shore leave.  It was all down hill from here, until the next time there was a need for the Navy to flex America's muscles.

      Admiral Hoffman walked purposefully down the hallways of the Pentagon.  As he passed groups of men heading in the opposite direction who acknowledged him, he would nod to them and grumble a "morning."  He arrived at his office and entered his outer office, nodded to his secretary, who was on the phone and paused as she raised her hand to stop him from entering the inner office.  She placed the call on hold.

      "The Secretary of Defense and the Vice President are waiting for you, sir," she said.

      "Oh?"  Hoffman responded in surprise.  "What do they want?"

      "They didn't say.  They just asked if you were in, I said no, but I was expecting you any minute.  Then they said that they would wait."

      "How long have they been in there?"

      "Five minutes or so."

      "Hold all calls," Hoffman instructed as he entered the inner office.

      Seated in front of his desk was the Vice President, standing next to the window was the Secretary of Defense.  Both men turned to look at Hoffman as he entered.  The Vice President rose and held out his hand.

      "Admiral, it is certainly an honor to meet you," the Vice President said.

      "Thank you, sir." Hoffman began, "it's good to see you again, William," he addressed the Secretary of Defense.

      "It has been a long time," the Secretary replied.

      "You two served together?"  The Vice President quarried.

      "Many years ago, during Korea," the Secretary responded.             "To what do I owe this visit?"

      "You are up for another star.  I'm sure you know that?"  The secretary asked.

      "Yes."

      "Well, the CNO wants you to join his staff as well as giving you that star."

      "That would mean another two-year extension.  That I would have to think about for a few days.  I was actually looking forward to retirement with the occasional golf game."

      The offer was a substantial one.  To be considered for the CNO, Chief of Naval Operations, staff was an honor for any officer.  It was the type of duty that brought a great deal of respect and responsibility.  Then something struck Hoffman.

      "Why me?"

      "Probably your tenacity.  He likes that," the Secretary answered.

      "I remember a time he didn't find it all that attractive.  What is changing his mind?"

      "He needs someone that can handle the press as well as the bureaucrats.  You don't have anything to loose and everyone knows you can't be intimidated........  By anyone."

      "I don't know... I was really looking forward to spending time with my wife.  She's been patient for a lot of years, now it's her turn to have me."

      "We could make it a consultant position," the Vice President added.  "That could allow us the ability to use your expertise, and still give you your retirement."

      "Now that has possibilities," Hoffman said as he sat in his chair and leaned back.  "When would this go into affect?"

      "As soon as you say yes," the Secretary answered.

      Hoffman sat in silence for a moment under the gazes from the other two men, then rose and walked over to the window opposite to where the Secretary was standing, folded his arms across his chest and starred out the window at the Potomac River.  He nodded his head.

      "Yes, I'll do it.  But, it is as a consultant.  As long as I get my second star."

      "Done!"

      The Secretary walked over to Hoffman and shook his hand, then stepped back so that the Vice President could do the same.  After the silent exchange, the two men left Hoffman alone in his office to begin his new duties.  His secretary wandered in from the outer office with the admiral's morning coffee and danish.

      "What happened?"  She asked.

      ""They offered me a position on the CNO staff."

      "And?"

      "I insisted on retiring."

      "Oh," she said with a tone of disappointment.

      "So they offered me a consultant position with my second star."

      "And?"

      Hoffman smiled and winked at her.

      "Great!  When do you leave?"

      "I'm not leaving you behind.  I'll need a full time person here, Joanna.  I'd like you to stay on as my secretary.  After all, you already know all of the things it would take a year to teach another secretary."

      "Yes, sir.  I'd be more than happy to take on that responsibility."

      "Good.  We'll move offices effective Monday."

      "Yes, sir."

      "Make the arrangements for the office things to get moved, and then take the rest of the day off.  Just make sure that you are present when the movers are here and supervise the set up at the other end."

      "Yes, sir.  Do you have any preference as to how things are set up?"

      "No.  Actually, it will be your office, so set it up the way you want to."

      "Okay.  Thank you, sir."

       As the admiral watched the young woman leave the office, he noticed an envelope on the desk.  As he picked it up, he thought about how well she performed her job.  He opened the envelope with a miniature sword letter opener and withdrew the contents.

      The handwritten note was on letterhead titled Office of the Chief of Naval Operations.  It was a welcome aboard letter letting him know what his duties were going to be as a consultant to his office.  Hoffman smiled and shook his head.  The CNO had anticipated Hoffman's intentions and knew that he would accept the offer.  God, he hated being predictable.

      The Lady Victoria sat low in the water as Isomov steered it into the harbor.  Her holds were filled to near capacity with fish and the ship chugged slowly through the night waters of the port of Alupka.  The storm had obviously stirred the fish to the surface resulting in a superb catch.

      Sitting quietly next to the radio was Julia holding Alan's helmet starring at it with tears in her eyes.  She had not let it out of her sight for more than a few minutes since Alan had flown over the ship.  As she looked up at her father, he could sense that her heart was breaking.

      "You better stow that until we go back out," Isomov said softly.  "It can only bring questions that we don't need."

      "Yes, father," Julia answered softly as she rose to go find a hiding spot for the beloved memento.  "He's not going to be able to come back, is he?"

      "I don't know.  I'm sure he will do all he can."

      "Is this how it felt when mother died?"

      "Worse.  I have no chance of ever seeing her again."

      As Julia disappeared beyond view.  Isomov turned the ship around one of the sea walls.  He could see a large gathering of police vehicles at the dock.  Pulling up from behind the other sea wall was a Soviet Navy gun boat.  He knew that they were all there for them.

      "Julia!" he shouted.

      Julia heard the urgency in his voice and rushed back to the bridge.  She looked about and saw the danger.

      "When we are questioned," he began, "we will tell them it was my decision and that you disapproved strongly.  I will take full responsibility."

      "But, father ..."

      "It is my wish!"  Isomov piloted the ship to the dock without another word.

      When the ship pulled to a stop at the dock, several armed soldiers grabbed the side of the ship to steady it.  Isomov walked defiantly onto the weather deck and looked at the gathering of men on the dock.  He recognized Martin from the earlier encounter.

      "What is it?" Isomov shouted to the dock.

      "I wish to come aboard," Martin responded.

      "Why?"

      "I wish to ask you some questions about the Americans."

      "What Americans?"

      "The ones you pulled from the water and took to their rescue point."

      Isomov did not wish to continue shouting back and forth.  He leaned on the railing and sighed.

      "Do I have a choice?"

      "No.  Not really."

      "May my crew secure my lines while you're aboard?"

      "Your daughter may do so."

      Isomov stood up and nodded to Martin, then looked at Julia.  He motioned to the dock and Julia knew that was her cue to tie the lines off.  She passed Martin as he climbed the ladder to the weather deck.

      "Your ship is sitting very low," Martin began.  "Must have had some good luck out there."

      "Quite."

      "You should have turned the Americans over to us when you first ported."

      "Why?"

      "So we could get them back to their fleet."

      "In how many months?  Besides, I wish no harm to them."

      "I read your history.  You were saved by an American pilot in the war."

      "A lot of men were saved that day.  That man didn't give a damn about flags or politics, just saving the crew of a disabled ship."

      "Like you did.  That was honorable.  But still, it was the state’s responsibility to handle them after that."

      Isomov did not agree with what he was hearing, but then Martin did not seem intent on the argument.  Something was out of place here.  Normally, the soldiers would have already boarded the ship and arrested him.  Then he noticed that the only soldiers with weapons were the ones next to the ship.  The police officers were standing around chatting and the gun boat had continued on.

      "What's going on?"  Isomov asked.

      Julia was so worried about her father that she had temporarily forgotten her broken heart.  Her concentration was so broken that she was having a hard time tying off the ship.  Then one of the men approached from the police cars.

      "May I help you?"  The words were in Russian, but the accent was terrible.  She did, however, recognize the voice.  She looked up to see Alan standing there.

      She jumped up into his arms.

      "I was sure that I'd never see you again," the tears streaming down her cheeks.

      "It wasn't easy.  But, I did promise."  Alan motioned to the car, Jack climbed out and walked over to the pair.  "This is J.W., Jack, he flies with me.  This is Julia."

      "Dancer is right, you are beautiful.  He's been talking about you non-stop since he got back."

      Julia turned a bright red.  Alan let go of her long enough to tie off the rope then asked, in Russian, one of the soldiers to tie off the stern line.  Which he quickly did.  Isomov looked at Alan when he heard the voice, he smiled as he figured out what was happening.

      "The American has petitioned for a marriage visa for your daughter.  He said that if you disapproved, it could be canceled."

      "No.  I want her happy.  Thank you."  A single tear found its way out of the corner of Isomov's eye.

      Martin smiled as he walked down the ladder.  As he jumped over the railing to the dock to head to his car.  He stopped and turned back to Isomov.

      "Captain!"  Martin called out.

      "Yes?"

      "Next time captain, restrict your catch to fish."

      "Alright."

      The next morning Alex, Martin and Isomov stood at the airport as Julia climbed the stairs with Alan and Jack.  They watched as her luggage was put into the cargo hold.  When she got to the top of the stairs, she turned and waved.  Isomov waved back to his only child with lightness in his heart, knowing that a new and better life was waiting for her.

      It seemed an eternity while the crew finished getting the airliner ready for take off.  Jack was reading a book, Alan was writing in a notebook and Julia gazed out at her father.  She slowly turned to Alan.

      "He can come to see us?"

      "Yes.  I've asked Alex to see about getting him a chance to come permanently.  If he wants."

      Julia smiled and cuddled on Alan's shoulder.

      "I love you," he said softly , the words felt strange as they rolled off his tongue.

      "I love you," she responded, her smile widening.

      Finally, the door shut, the stairs backed away and the jet moved toward the runway.  As it lifted its nose and climbed into the air.  Julia placed her hand on the window.

      "Dasvidonya Russka."

      Good-bye to Russia.

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