by Robert Gandt
The trouble with Ormsby, Tyrwhitt finally concluded, was that he was a prude. But so were most of the Americans he had encountered in the espionage business. Tyrwhitt was sure that Ormsby had never gotten drunk or laid in a shithole like Baghdad. Ormsby had probably never been in a whorehouse, at least in the Middle East. The pink-cheeked twit knew nothing about real life.
Now they were in the end game. Though Ormsby hadn’t said as much, they both understood that Tyrwhitt’s return trip to Baghdad was probably his last. The danger level had ratcheted off the scale. It would soon be time to effect the egress plan.
The Toyota turned on to Al-Faisal avenue. It was barely ten o’clock, three hours before his flight departed. He had time for a few beers at the hotel. He might even try seeing Claire again. Once more for old times’ sake.
<>
Maxwell tried to focus on the briefing, but the image kept reappearing in his mind: Claire and the guy with his hand on her knee.
Again Maxwell pushed the picture from his thoughts. A Navy captain from the NAVCENT intelligence unit was talking about fleet defense and target critical nodes. He had a voice as monotonous as a twenty-eight-volt motor.
“. . . if the launch vehicles — the Fulcrums — were to penetrate the battle group’s two-hundred-mile defense perimeter, not even our shipboard Phalanx batteries would be guaranteed to stop an incoming Krait. . .”
The two of them at the bar, the guy’s hand on her knee. . . It looked natural. . . She was used to it.
He should have known better. After five years she had a life that did not include him. It was better this way. He had enough problems without becoming involved with a female reporter.
“The Latifiyah propellant facility —” the captain was aiming a pointer at the chart on the screen — “is identified by this fortified bunker with these ventilation stacks.” He indicated a series of concrete funnels protruding from what looked like a low, one-story building.
The captain droned on through the high value target list, identifying critical nodes for each, topographic details, then discussed the current state of Iraq’s air defense system. When he finished, he looked at his boss. “Anything else, admiral?”
Before he could respond, Whitney Babcock rose from his chair. “I have a few comments.”
The admiral looked dubious, but he had no choice. “Gentlemen, I think you all know Mr. Babcock, the Undersecretary.”
Instead of his Navy khakis, Babcock was wearing a bush jacket with the belt tied behind. He looked like a white hunter. “Fellows, I just want to tell that I’ve just spoken with the President about this situation. He wants you to know he is behind you one hundred percent.”
Several pilots exchanged bemused glances. Someone guffawed.
Babcock ignored this and continued. “I think you all know me to be a straight shooter, right? Well, trust me when I tell you this, this President is determined to get tough with the Iraqis. Once and for all, he’s going to put a finish to the Iraqi threat. You can take my word for it, gentlemen, your commander-in-chief is one hell of a warrior.”
At this, a titter rippled through the room.
The admiral looked pained. Standing behind Babcock, he glowered at the group and shook his head vigorously. CAG Boyce peered around at his pilots and let them read his lips: Shut the fuck up.
Silence fell over the group.
Babcock came to the end of his pep talk. “So, from one fighting man to another, let me tell you I have the utmost confidence in you.” He paused for effect, then pulled off his glasses and said in a booming voice, “Good hunting, chaps.”
Several seconds passed. Someone tried clapping, but it quickly sputtered out. An anonymous voice said, “Chaps?”
<>
It was afternoon, nearly two o’clock, when the bus returned them to the Holiday Inn. A cloud formation was scudding in from the Saudi peninsula, carrying with it cooler temperatures and a hint of approaching rain. The briefing had taken them through the lunch hour, so most of the pilots headed directly for the poolside bar to order food. At four-thirty, the bus would return them to the helo pad, and they would be on their way back to the Reagan.
Maxwell went to his room to pack. The message light was blinking and a written note had been slipped under the door.
Where have you been, Sam? It’s noon, and I will not leave this room until you call! Please, please call. Better yet, come by. In case you forgot, it’s room 238.
Love and kisses, C.
P. S. It’s still my birthday.
As he stuffed his clothes and dop kit back into the duffel bag, he debated with himself. Call her and tell what you think. Ask her what that scene in the bar was all about.
No, drop it.
He went to the phone and picked it up. Then he changed his mind. Drop it.
After several minutes he picked up the phone again, punched room service and ordered a club sandwich. He finished packing, then watched CNN until the waiter delivered the sandwich.
He was leaving the room when the phone rang. He paused, listening to it ring. He closed the door and walked on down the hallway.
At the checkout desk, he scanned the lobby. He saw a half-dozen of his fellow pilots from the Reagan and several Bahraini businessmen sipping coffee at tables. He paid his bill, which included the beers yesterday afternoon and all the unanswered phone calls to the Gulf Hotel and came to nine dinars — nearly thirty dollars.
She wasn’t anywhere in sight. That was probably good. He didn’t want a scene, and, anyway, he knew he was not in control of his feelings. Still fixed in his mind was that hand on her knee. Who the hell was that guy? Someone familiar enough to fondle her in public.
Why the hell did it matter? he asked himself. It didn’t. Let it die.
He was nearly to the coffee shop when he heard her voice. “Sam?”
He froze.
“Sam, I’ve been looking for you.” She was wearing the same outfit, a sleeveless, knee-length silk dress, he had seen her in last night. When the guy had his hand on her knee.
He thought she looked stunning.
The other pilots saw her at the same time. DeLancey was walking from the elevator. He stopped in mid-stride and stared. So did Craze Manson. And CAG Boyce.
She ran to him and gave him a warm hug. Maxwell felt awkward, angry, foolish.
“Why didn’t you call?” she said. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” She looked at his face. “Are you angry, Sam?”
He didn’t answer. He felt everyone in the lobby watching him. He wanted to say, damn it, he had tried to call her. She hadn’t answered because she was out with that dissipated-looking asshole who had his hands all over her.
Instead, he said, “I was tied up this morning.”
“Why didn’t you stop when you saw me in the bar last night? I was waiting for you, Sam.”
He was aware of DeLancey and the whole crowd watching them. “Let’s talk outside,” he said.
She followed him to the sidewalk. The afternoon heat still lay over Bahrain like a blanket. The bus was already waiting on the semicircular drive to transport the pilots back to the helo pad. Most of the pilots were clustered around the door of the bus.
She stopped and looked at him. “I know why you’re upset. Please listen to me. What you saw last night isn’t what you think.”
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“I didn’t expect that Chris would be here. I haven’t seen him in months. We’ve been separated for over a year. The divorce papers are in New York waiting for signature.”
Maxwell felt foolish. “Your. . . husband? The guy who writes the anti-American stuff from Baghdad.”
She nodded. “Chris Tyrwhitt.”
“Saddam’s mouthpiece. Are you feeding him information, or vice versa?”
She looked like she had been slapped. “Neither. I was having a drink with him while I waited for you to show up.”
The pilots were coming through the revolving door, carrying their bags. Maxwell saw C
AG Boyce standing by the bus, watching them.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Claire’s voice was breaking.
“Why are you here?” he demanded. “To pry another story out of me?”
“I’m here because I wanted to see you. I don’t understand you. Why are you so cold?”
Maxwell didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He wanted to take her in his arms, but he couldn’t. He was paralyzed. He remembered DeLancey’s accusation about her being a security risk. Now he didn’t know.
Claire’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Damn you, Sam Maxwell!” She said it loudly enough that all the aviators boarding the bus stopped and gawked at them. “You idiot! I love you. Don’t you know that?”
Maxwell stared at her, totally confused.
“I’ve always loved you.” She whirled away from him. She disappeared from his view around the corner of the hotel.
The bus driver beeped the horn. Maxwell turned and saw that the other pilots were all aboard, watching him through the windows.
CAG Boyce appeared in the door of the bus. “Get in the bus, Brick. We need to talk.”
<>
He took the seat next to Boyce in the last row.
As the bus rumbled out of the parking lot, Boyce said, “You may be a hell of a pilot, Maxwell, but you got a lot to learn about women.”
“Sir?”
“That girl back there on the sidewalk. You stood there like a lump of cow crap and let her run away.”
“We, ah, were having a disagreement, CAG.”
“I know all about your disagreement with Claire Phillips.”
Maxwell looked at Boyce in surprise. “Excuse me? You know —”
“She called my room last night, and I went down to meet her in the lobby. She kept me up well past midnight while she told me all about herself. And you.”
Maxwell had to shake his head in wonder. There was no end to the ways Claire surprised him. Nor Boyce.
Boyce went on. “She was worried that I — or the Navy — would think she was a security threat, being close to you. And the truth is, I thought she might be. But I realize now that the woman understands more about Middle East problems than you or I and probably our intel staff.”
“Did she tell you about last night in the bar?”
“Yeah. While she was talking to her ex-husband, you stormed off like a kid who got stood up on his first date.” Boyce shook his head in disgust. “That was pretty damn dumb.”
Maxwell nodded, remembering the rage he had felt. Okay, that was dumb. He hadn’t given her a chance.
Boyce gnawed on his cigar for a while, watching the bleached scenery of Manama roll past. The bus arrived at the embassy gate. The Marine sentry saluted, and the bus continued to the pad where the CH-53 Sea Stallion waited.
Boyce waited until the other pilots had exited the bus. “Assuming it’s not too late — and it might be, after your sterling display of ineptitude — you might consider getting on your knee and begging forgiveness. For some reason that defies my understanding, that girl is in love with you.”
Chapter Eighteen
The XO
USS Ronald Reagan
1445, Sunday, 25 May
Killer Delancey made love, Spam Parker reflected, like he flew fighters. Fast, furious, without preliminaries. He was pumping away in quick, relentless strokes, like a man in a hell of a hurry.
They were in DeLancey’s stateroom, in his down-quilted bunk. It was two-thirty in the afternoon. Most of the squadron officers were either flying or working in their respective offices.
Of course, this was DeLancey’s office. Here the commanding officer conducted squadron business, and here he met with his subordinate officers. And here this afternoon, while the Reagan cruised the Persian Gulf, he was making love to Lieutenant Spam Parker.
She had recognized the look in his eye when they were down in the ready room after the all-officers meeting. She and DeLancey were going over her monthly materiel division report. Like the other pilots on the day’s flight schedule, she was wearing her green-gray flight suit, but not the standard baggy suit that looked like a potato sack. Spam’s flight suit had been tailored, taken in at the waist and tightened around the legs so that it accented her longish, narrow-waisted figure. The front zipper was far enough down so that when she leaned over to retrieve a document from her file case, DeLancey got a glimpse of cleavage.
His eyes fastened on her like heat-seeking sensors. She glanced down, as if she’d just noticed the gaping flight suit. She tugged the zipper up a couple of inches. She gave him a knowing smile.
It was enough. DeLancey glanced around, cleared his throat and said, “Uh, I need to go over that report once more before we submit it to the air wing. How about dropping it by my office at, say —” he glanced at his watch — “fourteen-hundred?”
Her eyes met his. The meaning was unmistakable. “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”
It had been so easy.
DeLancey’s breathing was becoming faster, more urgent. She began to moan softly. Not too loudly, just enough to give him encouragement. He liked that, she had learned. It was good for his ego.
She felt him tense, and she arched her back, emitting a low, throaty groan. DeLancey finished in a flurry of pounding and pumping.
It was over too soon, she felt like telling him. The guy made love like a jackrabbit. But she knew he wouldn’t like that. She would let him think he was terrific.
They lay together in the bunk, perspiration dripping from them onto the sheet. “Did you really want to see my materiel report?” she asked.
“What materiel report?”
She giggled. He was actually a pretty cool guy when he wasn’t being the World’s Greatest Fighter Pilot.
They dressed in silence. As she laced her boots, she said, “I flew with Craze Manson this morning.”
“Yeah? How’d that go?”
“Very good. He said I was an excellent wingman.” It wasn’t exactly what he said, but it was close enough.
DeLancey just nodded.
“So don’t you think it’s time I moved up to section lead?”
DeLancey shook his head. “I ran it by CAG, and he said not yet.”
“CAG? Why do you have to have his permission? Isn’t this your squadron?”
“It’s his air wing. And he’s taken a special interest in the. . . women pilots.”
“Aliens, you mean.”
“You know what I mean. You and B.J. are the only two women in his air wing. You’re high-profile, and CAG wants to be careful.”
She noted the way DeLancey was watching her. He had a worried look on his face, like a man who had just seen an armed intruder.
Good, she thought. He was beginning to get the picture.
<>
Maxwell peered around the corner of the passageway. The officers’ berthing area was deserted. It was mid-morning, with flight operations in progress, and all the inhabitants of the staterooms were in their respective offices or ready rooms.
All but one.
He glanced at his watch. He’d been there fifteen minutes now. No one had left or entered the area since he’d been standing there.
After five more minutes, he heard the lock turn in a stateroom door. The door cracked open. The head of Hozer Miller popped out and glanced quickly in each direction. Seeing nothing, Miller ducked back inside his room. “All clear,” he said in a low voice.
The pudgy shape of Yeoman Third Class Diane Grotsky emerged from the room. Her chambray shirt flapped loosely over her blue dungarees. Grotsky’s disheveled hair looked like a bird’s nest.
Stopping in the passageway, she peered to the left, then the right — and then a look of absolute terror flooded her round face. She was gazing directly into the face of her squadron executive officer.
Maxwell nodded to the terrified woman but said nothing. He swept past her to the closing stateroom door.
Clunk! The door wouldn’t shut. Maxwell’s right foot was inserted in
the threshold.
Inside the room, Hozer Miller was seized by a sudden desperation. Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! He kept trying to slam the door.
“Open up, Hozer,” said Maxwell. “It’s come-to-Jesus time.”
Hozer stopped trying. Maxwell heard a long sigh of resignation. The door slowly opened.
Hozer Miller stood in the doorway, barefoot and shirtless. He was wearing his boxer shorts. Miller looked at Maxwell and his shoulders slumped. Life as he knew it was over.
Maxwell glanced back in time to see the back end of Yeoman Grotsky, moving at an unusually brisk pace, disappearing around the corner of the passageway.
He walked past Miller and entered the room. He glanced around at the strewn clothes and rumpled bedding. The place looked like a grenade had gone off. Hozer was your basic slob, Maxwell observed.
“I should have known you’d find a way to get me,” said Hozer bitterly.
Maxwell looked at him. “Why do you think I’d try to get you?”
“Because of the ration of shit I’ve been giving you. You know I’m one of Killer’s guys. And Killer wants you gone.”
Maxwell nodded. At least they could agree on something. “I suppose you know the consequences of fraternizing with an enlisted woman.”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“It’s a court-martial offense, Hozer. This is the New Navy, and there’s no tolerance. You stand to lose your commission, your wings, everything.”
The life oozed out of Hozer Miller. He slumped into the desk chair. “This is all I ever wanted to be since I was a kid — a fighter pilot on a carrier. Now. . .” Hozer had to fight back the tears. “Now I’ve blown it.”
Maxwell was seeing a different Hozer Miller. Gone was the old smirk, the mock-respectful manner, the barely concealed insolence. Hozer looked like a beaten animal.
“How long’s it been going on?” Maxwell asked.
“Since Dubai. It’s not her fault. She’s just a kid. She thinks I’m some kind of white knight because I’m an officer.”
