by Robert Gandt
Thunk! She kicked the door closed and pressed her body into him. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” she said in a throaty voice. “I don’t care. I want you. I’ve wanted you since that day I first saw you. . .”
<>
Brick and Claire sat in the sand at the water’s edge.
Over a distant loudspeaker they heard a muezzin wailing the morning call to prayer. The eastern sky was glowing orange, gold, pink. Overhead, Venus was a brilliant dot, offset by the sliver of a crescent moon. The symbol of Islam.
In the harbor, an ancient dhow was getting underway, drawing a V-shaped wake through the glassy water. Barely visible in the distance was the gray shape of the USS Ronald Reagan. Maxwell knew that the crew of the warship — those who were not ashore in Dubai — would be getting about the business of the day.
She broke the silence. “You miss it when you’re not there, don’t you?”
Maxwell nodded. She was reading his mind again.
It was like the time five years before, when they first met. They had talked until the sun came up. With Claire it was easy, he remembered. It was natural.
They talked about the good times, her passage through the labyrinthine world of international reporting. He told her more about his time at NASA. They hung on each other’s stories, filling in the gaps of the past five years. By silent agreement they steered around the bad parts. There would be time for that later.
Claire was different in one way, he noticed. She possessed an inner confidence that she lacked before. During the journey from cub reporter to becoming one of the top broadcast journalists in the business, she had acquired self-assurance. But she was not particularly happy, Maxwell guessed. He didn’t know why; it was just a look in her eyes. Perhaps, he thought, she would tell him.
Claire leaned forward and scooped a handful of sand across her bare feet. Maxwell watched her, noticing the smooth curve of her legs from her ankles, past her knees to her thighs, up to the hem of her dress.
Looking at her bare legs, he remembered something. It was a vision that had remained in his memory for the past five years like a secret treasure.
“Do you still have the scarf?” he asked.
She looked surprised. She shook her head and said, “No. Not after we broke up.”
He remembered now. They were at her apartment in Georgetown. It was her birthday, and he was taking her to dinner. He surprised her with a gift.
He still saw the excitement in her eyes when she unwrapped the package. The scarf was silk, with gold brocade and a floral pattern. She held it up to the light. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she said, “Oh, Sam, that is. . . absolutely. . . the loveliest gift I have ever received.”
She kissed him. Then, impulsively, she declared that she would wear it that very evening. But first she wanted to run upstairs and change.
Maxwell waited for her to come back. He waited for what seemed a long time, but was in fact only five minutes. Finally, she appeared at the top of the stairs.
Maxwell had to catch his breath.
“Well,” she said. “Do you like it?”
Claire was wearing the new silk scarf around her neck. And nothing else.
“I like it,” he said as he ascended the stairs.
They never made it to dinner.
“You’re staring, Sam.”
Her voice returned him to the present. “Sorry. You caught me.”
She brushed the sand off her feet and tugged the dress over her knees.
“Do you still think I’m pretty?”
Maxwell looked at her face. She was peering at him the way she used to back in the old days, with that quizzical, teasing expression. He remembered how much he had loved that look. He hadn’t expected ever to see it again.
He was feeling an unmistakable stirring inside him. It was good to be next to her, sitting with her like this. He wondered if she felt the same way.
“Yes,” he said. “I think you’re prettier than ever.”
Claire moved closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder. “I like that,” she said.
They fell silent again.
The red-orange ball burst above the rim of the sea. At the same time, a breeze rippled from the water, wisping Claire’s closely cropped auburn hair. The morning air was turning warm and balmy, a prelude to the day’s desert heat.
Claire said, “So you’re not going to tell me what happened?”
That was the other thing about her he remembered. The relentless curiosity. “Happened? When?”
“Don’t tease. You were in the No Fly Zone the day of the MiG shootdown.”
“You already know. One MiG-29 down. The other bugged out. End of story.”
Claire eyed him skeptically. “So Sam Maxwell, astronaut-turned-fighter pilot, didn’t shoot down the MiG?”
“Did you stay up all night with me because you wanted to be with me, or because you needed a story?”
“Both.” She squeezed his hand. “But I’ll settle for just being with you.”
He looked in her eyes for any trace of insincerity. Claire was a good reporter — and a hell of an interrogator. Maybe she was just pumping him for a story. But he was sure they had more between them than just a news a story. He could feel an electricity.
“Let’s make a deal. I’ll ask the command intelligence officer what I can and cannot say. Then I’ll get official clearance from the Public Affairs Officer to talk to you.”
She nodded excitedly. “Terrific. What’s my half of the deal?”
“It might be expensive.”
“Anything you want.”
He liked that answer. He gave her a grin, and she grinned back.
“Dinner first,” she said.
“No more interrogation?”
“No more interrogation.” Then she reconsidered. “Well, maybe a little. No more than necessary.”
He gave it a second, pretending to deliberate. “Sounds like a deal.”
They stood up and brushed the sand off.
“Well, since you’ve kept me up all night, why don’t you take me to breakfast? I’d kiss you for a coffee and a croissant.”
“Another deal.”
They kissed, then held it several seconds longer than necessary. Claire stepped back and peered at him. “Whew,” she said. “You haven’t forgotten anything, have you?”
<>
DeLancey needed a break.
Actually, he decided, what he needed was a transfusion. Never in his career had he encountered a female with such prodigious sexual energy. She had used him like a stud animal. Then she wanted more. More to drink, more attention, more sex. She was insatiable.
He needed to get the hell away.
Getting her out of his room was difficult enough. She was ready for a matinee session, and he just didn’t have it in him. Anyway, he was sober enough to start worrying. What if his wife called? These phones didn’t have caller ID. Who might stop by his room? That was all he needed, CAG or some flag staff puke or, worse, some journalist to catch him shacked up with one of his female officers.
So he suddenly remembered he had a ten o’clock meeting with CAG. He ushered Spam and her black miniskirt out into the hall.
“Will I see you tonight?” she wanted to know.
“Sure. I’ll give you a call this afternoon.”
“You know my room? 842?”
“Yeah. Let’s meet in the admin. About four or so, okay?”
He closed the door and leaned against it.
His skull ached from all the Scotch. They’d gone through a fifth and a half. It was crazy, he thought. Dangerous, reckless, irresponsible. Suicidal even.
Why did he do it?
Simple. Because it was the most mind-blowing erotic encounter he’d ever had. Parker represented his wildest sex fantasies bundled into one steaming, pulsating package.
It occurred to him that he was probably the latest in a series of career-advancing studs she had used like this. What if she talked?
He didn’t want to
think about it. He needed a beer. That was the best way to clear your head after an all-nighter. Get some air, slam down a beer or two, you’d be ready again.
DeLancey dressed, went to the elevator and rode it to the lobby. He hadn’t bothered to shave. He was wearing wrinkled chinos and a polo shirt. It didn’t matter. It was early, and no one would be in the bar yet.
Passing the coffee shop, he caught the scent of strong Arabian java. That was what he needed — coffee and a Danish to get his heart started.
Then he stopped. Sitting inside the shop was Maxwell, talking to some babe.
Curious, DeLancey stepped inside. He recognized her — that Phillips woman who interviewed him on the ship after the MiG kill. She was wearing some kind of sexy sun dress that showed off a nice cleavage. She was engrossed in conversation with his least favorite squadron officer, Maxwell.
Okay, time for some command presence. He put on the Hollywood smile and moved in.
<>
Maxwell said, “Claire, you remember my commanding officer, John DeLancey?”
“Just call me Killer.” DeLancey shook her hand, holding it longer than necessary.
Claire regarded him with interest. “Of course I remember you, Killer. You were a good subject.”
DeLancey slid his bar stool in closer, inserting himself between Claire and Brick. “Anytime I can help you, just let me know. If you’d like, I’ll arrange another shipboard news conference.” He took an appreciative glance at her crossed legs. “As long as Saddam keeps sending me MiGs, I’ll keep shooting them down.”
“It shouldn’t be too difficult if they’re all like the last one.”
DeLancey looked at her quizzically. “The last one? The Iraqi pilot entered the No Fly Zone with hostile intent.”
“Not what I hear. I understand he was a student fighter pilot on his first operational mission.”
The smile stayed frozen on DeLancey’s face. “What are you talking about?”
“Hakim Al-Fariz. He was probably lost and strayed over the boundary when you shot him down.”
“How would you know that?”
“I’m a journalist. It’s my business to know such things .”
“Look, Miss Phillips —
“Just call me Claire.” She smiled and recrossed her legs.
“I don’t know who’s been telling you that crap.” He looked pointedly at Maxwell. “But I can guess.”
Maxwell caught the accusation. “Claire has sources all over the place.”
DeLancey looked at each of them. “What the hell is this? Sixty Minutes or something?” He glowered at Maxwell. “It looks to me like you’ve been passing classified information to the media.”
“Not at all,” Claire said. “Commander Maxwell hasn’t told me anything.” She reached over and squeezed Maxwell’s hand. “Despite my best efforts.”
DeLancey stood up. The Hollywood smile was gone. “I wish I could say it was nice seeing you again, Miss Phillips. By the way, the offer for another interview is canceled. Commander Maxwell, you and I will talk later.”
They watched DeLancey march out into the lobby and disappear.
“So that’s the real Killer DeLancey,” said Claire.
“The one and only.”
“He’s rather handsome actually. Shorter than he seemed when I interviewed him. Probably has a Napoleon complex. A shame that he’s such a pompous ass.”
Maxwell had to grin at that. “Didn’t take you long to figure out Killer DeLancey.”
“And he’s your commanding officer. Too bad.” She looked at him. “I hope you realize that the man hates your guts.”
“I sometimes get that impression.”
“Are you going to tell me why?”
There it was again, the same old question. It occurred to Maxwell that it would be a relief to share the truth with someone. Someone he cared about.
But he wouldn’t. It was still too volatile. “No,” he said finally.
<>
DeLancey raged as he rode the elevator back to the sixth floor. The snotty bitch! The kind that would cut your throat while she’s giving you that phony smile.
In his room, he went directly to the phone. He rang up Bouncer Oswald, a navy commander who ran the intelligence staff for the Joint Task Force.
“Claire Phillips?” said Oswald. “She’s married to a guy named Tyrwhitt. We call him ‘Baghdad Ben,’ because he writes bullshit about how we’re killing all the poor malnourished children of Iraq. Every time we hit one of their SAM sites, he says we’re bombing some school or orphanage. And she’s the one who somehow picked up the story about the pissing contest between the Air Force and the Navy over the MiG shoot last month?”
“Besides her husband, where does she get her material?”
“She’s a woman, isn’t she? I hear she’s not bad-looking.”
DeLancey smiled into the telephone. “What would you say if one of our air wing officers turned out to be sleeping with her?”
Oswald didn’t answer right away. “You trying to tell me something, Killer?”
“Maybe.”
“I’d say we got ourselves an informer.”
Chapter Eleven
Recall
Al-Basra, Iraq
1515, Saturday, 17 May
Dusk was settling over the delta.
From the cockpit of his F-16 Viper, Captain Catfish Bass could see only a continuous blanket of cloud. Beneath the cloud deck lay the wide marshy valley of the Tigris River. To the east stretched the border of Iran. To the west, Iraq and the disputed No Fly Zone.
For two hours the four U.S. Air Force F-16s and their escort, a Marine EA-6B Prowler, had been on station. Twice now they had plugged into a KC-10 refueling tanker.
They were skimming the eastern rim of the No Fly Zone, near Basra, on a routine patrol. Ironclaw, the Grumman EA-6B, was busy probing and cataloguing the emissions coming from Iran. Nothing had come up except an occasional hit from Iran’s IADS - Integrated Air Defense System.
Situation normal. Nothing from the known sites in Iraq.
That was smart of them, thought Bass. Each of the F-16s was carrying a HARM missile — a radar-seeking weapon — which they were authorized to fire if they received a warning that an air defense site had locked them up.
Bass and his flight leader, Major Scrapes Williams, had just left the tanker. The second pair of Vipers was taking their place, plugging into the refueling boom. That was the preferred way to conduct the NFZ patrols — two on, two off. If someone got into a fight, he had a fresh pair of F-16s ready to cover him.
Bass peered down at the cloud layer directly beneath. He hoped Scrapes had a good handle on their position. Somewhere in the vicinity of Basra was an SA-3 ring. SA-3s were an old variety of Russian-built surface-to-air missiles. Primitive, but still lethal if you gave them an easy shot.
He didn’t like flying low and slow over a cloud deck. Especially one that overlay enemy SAM sites. Bass knew the F-16’s RWR would pick up an inbound SAM, and he was fairly sure the EA-6B, with its array of electronic warfare equipment, could jam the enemy’s control radar. Still, it was better when you could see the damned things coming at you.
Bass glanced at his nav display — then looked again. Shit! A shot of adrenaline surged through him.
“Scrapes,” he radioed, “check our position. I show us five south of Basra.”
“Negative. We’re now twenty — uh-oh. Standby.”
Bass was getting a bad feeling. He saw Williams’s Viper begin a hard left turn.
“Coming back to the south,” called Williams. “I — uh, plugged the wrong waypoint in the inertial.”
Bass stayed with him, flying a combat spread formation. Fucking beautiful, he thought. Scrapes was taking them right over the goddamn SA-3 ring. That wouldn’t be so bad if they were hauling ass at five-hundred-plus knots. But they were poking along at a leisurely two-sixty to conserve fuel. And the Ironclaw was probably not watching that close because. . .
Eeeooowweeowww!
His RWR. It was warbling.
“Burner Three Hot!” came the warning from the Ironclaw.
An SA-3 was in the air.
Bass heard the warble change in his headset. Two SA-3s!
Scrapes heard it too. Bass saw the lead F-16 roll out of the turn, begin to crank the other way, then reverse. Scrapes was confused.
Then Bass saw it — the SA-3 — popping out of the cloud deck. It looked like a telephone pole trailing a long plume of fire.
The missile was drawing a bead on Scrapes Williams.
“Hard left, Jugs Lead!” the Electronic Warfare Officer in the Ironclaw called, using their flight call sign. “Hard left now!”
Williams got the message. It was definitely time to get out of Dodge. The afterburner of William’s jet ignited. The F-16 honked into a maximum-G turn. Bass stayed with him, selecting his own afterburner and opening the chaff dispenser.
Then he saw that Williams had forgotten to put out his own chaff — confetti-like metal foil that obscured targets on radar. “Chaff, Scrapes!” he yelled on the radio.
A second later, a cloud of chaff appeared in the wake of Williams’s hard-turning Viper.
It was working. The SA-3 stopped flying a pursuit curve, and veered onto a path perpendicular to Williams’s fighter. The missile wobbled, then tilted over in a ballistic arc.
Bass took a deep breath. Jesus, that was close. . .
Another warning: Eeeeoowww!
The second missile erupted from the clouds like a fiery comet. It was flying a perfect pursuit curve. But this SA-3 was not aimed at the lead F-16.
It was locked onto Catfish Bass.
Bass dropped the nose of his jet and pulled harder. Eight-and-a-half Gs. Nine.
Even in full afterburner, the F-16 was losing airspeed in the hard turn. Turn! Turn inside the missile!
He pulled until the jet shuddered. It wasn’t enough. The SA-3 had an energy advantage. Bass tried to tighten the turn. The missile was nearly within detonation range.
BLAM! The concussion came from behind.
Bass could feel pieces departing his jet. The SA-3 warhead had detonated close to the tail, he guessed.
Bass saw the fire warning light come on. The F-16 skidded, then went into a sickening roll. The control stick went dead.
