Code of Honor полностью

The wooden sign behind the abnormally clean desk in Captain Craig Slaughter’s cramped office said YOU CAN’T HAVE SLAUGHTER WITHOUT LAUGHTER, which pretty much summed up the Carrier Air Wing commander’s terrifying personality.

Slaughter was Navy, but as the CAG commander — the acronym for the previous title of Carrier Air Group had stuck — Slaughter was responsible for everything that flew or made things fly on CVN 76, the Nimitz-class aircraft carrier Ronald Reagan. It was like he enjoyed doling out ass-chewings. He was sure as hell good at it, which Majors Schmidt and Black were learning firsthand as they braced to attention in the shipboard office.

Captain Slaughter was old-school Navy. His gray crew cut, barrel chest, and the ever-present stub of a cigar like an exclamation point in his mouth reminded Skeet Black of a crusty senior chief more than an officer. He recognized good men, though, and, a pilot himself, talented aviators. Unfortunately for Oh Schmidt, the CAG was also extremely perceptive to the situation.

“We are in the business of fighting wars,” Slaughter said, red-faced, laying on the theatrics like the professional that he was. “Not policing your pecker so it stays in your pants. If said pecker interferes with said war-fighting, then we got a problem. You read me, Major?”

“Loud and clear, sir,” Schmidt said.

“Why you?” Slaughter said, his eyes narrow slits. “Are you such an easy mark that Chinese girl-spies come up to you in bars to get information?”

Already braced to attention, Schmidt’s shoulder blades nearly overlapped at the accusation. “No, sir!”

“Did either of you happen to let slip what kind of bird you fly?”

“No, sir, Captain,” Schmidt said. “She… They know I am a pilot. That is all.”

“A fighter pilot?”

“That is possible, sir.”

“I realize that with spy satellites being what they are,” Slaughter said, “our enemies know when one of our birds has a rusty rivet, but sometimes we just might have a plan in place to thwart that eye in the sky… Do I need to spell out for you that very often, the type of aircraft we do or do not have aboard is… I don’t know”—he spoke through clenched teeth, slamming the flat of his hand on the desk—“A SENSITIVE MATTER?!!”

“I understand, sir.” Schmidt stared at the far wall.

The CAG turned his light-of-a-thousand-suns gaze on Major Black. “How about you, Skeet? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Captain,” Black said. “We were drinking, letting our guard down more than we should have, conversing with members of the opposite sex, whom we now believe to be Chinese intelligence operatives. We broke contact immediately once we developed this suspicion. No critical information was revealed, but in hindsight, we should have been more careful about the information we did convey. I will use more diligence in the future, sir.” He ended with a phrase common to the debrief after every Blue Angels flight, displaying, he hoped, the fact that he knew there were many Naval aviators with just as much skill as he had, who’d worked every bit as hard, but somehow, through fate and fortune, he’d ended up where he was. “I’m just glad to be here.”

Captain Slaughter let it soak in for a moment before turning back to Schmidt.

“NCIS is going to ask you this, but I want to know myself. Did either of you give up any information about our upcoming mission?”

“All due respect, Captain,” Schmidt said. “But we haven’t yet been made aware of the specifics of our upcoming mission.”

“Sounds like a sound decision on the part of both the Navy and the Marine Corps,” Slaughter said, looking at Skeet. “Generalities, then?”

“No, sir. The young ladies know we fly, but that is all.”

“Well, gentlemen,” Slaughter said. “You will, no doubt, be ecstatic to know that you will shortly be leaving my gentle care aboard the Reagan for the meat of your assignment.”

“May I ask where, Captain?”

“Orders will be forthcoming,” Slaughter said. “But, as you can both surmise, the type of aircraft you fly are more suited to the Gator Navy than big-deck carriers.”

That made sense, Skeet thought. Amphibious landing craft and the sailors that ran them worked with Marine Expeditionary Units to project U.S. power around the world. The ships were smaller, with no catapults, but capable of launching all manner of rotary wing aircraft as well as STOVL-capable fighters like the Marine Corps Harrier and the F-35B. Skeet knew one thing: The CAG was extra-tense, even for him, so the assignment must be something big.

Captain Slaughter peered across his nose as if deciding what to do — though both pilots were well aware that any decision had been made before they ever entered his office. They were Marines, and accustomed to the theatrics of discipline.

“You’ve got balls,” he said, “I’ll give you that. We have some work to do in the coming days and Lightning pilots ain’t exactly growing on trees. We need you, but we don’t need you that bad. You read me?”

“Yes, Captain,” the men said in unison.