"Those guys died doing something they loved to do," Wendy said.
"If you hadn't asked them to come get you, they would've come in anyway. They accepted the risks because they wanted to fight, wanted to make a difference, wanted to be part of this operation as much as you did. It's a shitty job and a shitty way to die--you said so yourself. You know about it as much or better than anyone. But I know you, Patrick: the second you step onto that ramp, you'll want to be back up there. Wait until you see the stuff Masters brought with him--you won't be able to wait to shoot a few of those things off."
Sure enough, his eyes began to glisten with anticipation as she mentioned Jon Masters and his new missiles. He started to sit up in bed, but Wendy placed a hand against his chest and pushed him back down.
"If you get up, if you go out there, you do it with no regrets," Wendy said. "You can't have it both ways. The things you will say and do once you go out there will set other lives, other futures in motion, do you understand, Patrick? It will cut some of those futures off, and it will affect them all--some good, some bad. If you say yes to the next mission, you put other lives in jeopardy again. Can you live with that?"
"I want revenge, Wendy," Patrick said, sitting up in bed, his eyes blazing into hers. "I want to make the Iranians pay for what they did to the Valley Mistress, what they did to that KC-10 crew. Is that okay with you?"
"What you'll get is more killing, Patrick," Wendy said. "It won't stop until someone calls for peace instead of war. You're a war maker, not a peacemaker, Patrick. Is that okay with you?"
"You're damned right it's okay with me!"
"Then stop giving me that thousand-yard stare," Wendy said angrily. "Stop crying in your sleep mourning other warriors who only want what you yourself want! If you're going to go out there and kill, do it well and get it over with and come home and be a husband and father. Don't feel guilty because you're doing something you believe in. Do it and let's go home--together."
In reply he drew her to him and hugged her as if he would never let go.
DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMERATES THAT SAME DAY
The pallbearers were all in uniform, and they carried the wooden coffin with military precision down the street about a mile to the military cemetery.
The coffin was open, the body of the UAE commando in full dress uniform, draped with the flag of both the UAE and of the emirate of Dubai, and piled high with flowers atop the flags. Along the way, mourners stopped and bowed their heads. Some touched their fingers to their lips and held them up to the passing coffin;
a few even touched the coffin itself, or the shoulder of one of the bearers.
The procession was led by Riza Behrouzi, acting as representative of the Emir himself, but custom dictated that she walk behind the air forces commander, the highest-ranking military man in the procession, and be with the commando's wife and family. The commando's wife walked straight, her head uplifted, her chin strong, as did her three children; again, per custom, the commando's mother cried openly and loudly, announcing the heroic death of her son to every stranger she encountered on her way to the grave site.
Behrouzi didn't notice at first, but soon she realized that the air forces commander was whispering excitedly to one of his aides.
Riza looked up and, to her astonishment, saw two rows of U.S. Marines on the side of the road leading into the cemetery--and there, standing in the center of the road in front of the cemetery gates, was Hal Briggs himself, dressed in his Air Force class-A uniform, wearing his Rangers beret. He and his Marines wore side arms in ceremonial white web belts--it was highly illegal for foreigners to carry weapons in the emirate of Dubai, even U.S. soldiers--and the Marines also carried ceremonial swords at carry-arms. Riza immediately realized that the eight Marines present were the ones that had been rescued from the Iranian prison in Chah Bahar!
The procession stopped several yards from Briggs, unsure whether or not to continue, not knowing if these armed Americans might be a threat. The air forces commander looked as if he were going to explode with indignation and anger for interrupting their procession in this manner, but before he could do or say anything, Briggs commanded, "Detail, render arms"--the Marines lowered their swords, spinning the hilts so they gleamed in the sunlight--"hu!"
and the Marines raised their sword hilts to their chins, the blades angled above them toward the casket. Briggs saluted the coffin, held it for a long moment, lowered it, then ordered, "Detail, ready"--they lowered their swords again, spinning them as they extended them again--"hu!" and they placed them again pointing up in front of their shoulders at carry-arms position. On a final command from Briggs, the detail sheathed their swords and returned to attention.
The air forces commander from Dubai could stand this interruption no longer, and he stormed over to Briggs, stood just a few inches in front of his face, and began to scream epithets at him in Arabic and English. Briggs just stood there at attention, eyes caged, face completely impassive. "I order you, whoever you are, to stand aside and let us pass!" the air forces commander spat in English, "and then I will see to it that you are removed from this country in disgrace!"
"Yes, sir," Briggs said. He saluted and moved to step aside...
... but Riza Behrouzi caught his arm. "You and your men will accompany us to the grave site, Major Briggs," she said. "It is so ordered."
"Briggs? This is Major Harold Briggs, the one who led the expedition into Iran, the one who got our men killed?" the colonel said in Arabic. "This incompetent ass dares bring his men to this holy place?"
"It is a great honor to have them here, Colonel," Behrouzi said.
She motioned to the Marines on the side of the road. "These are the men that were rescued by our soldier's heroism. They have come to pay their respects to their comrade."
"They have done so, then," the colonel said. "Now get them out of my sight immediately!"
"Sir, I have one last request..." Briggs said.
"You will remain silent!"
"I will hear it, Colonel," Behrouzi said. "It is an order." The dead commando's mother had a look of sheer horror on her face at the sight of a woman, even such a high-ranking woman as Behrouzi, raising her voice to a military officer. "What is your request, Major?"
"Thank you, ma'am," Briggs said. By way of reply, he raised his voice and said, "Detail, take positions of honor, hu." And at that, the Marines stepped forward to the casket directly beside each pallbearer, close enough to touch the casket but not so close as to block their way.
"What is this... no, no, I forbid it!" the air forces commander retorted.
But at that same moment, one of the UAE pallbearers looked into the eyes of the Marine next to him, nodded, and allowed the Marine to take his position. The Marine put the casket of the dead commando on his shoulders; the UAE pallbearer touched his fingers to his lips, touched the Dubai flag, and stepped away, taking a position beside the American at attention.
"This is strictly forbidden! This is not permitted! This is an insult!" But one by one, the Marines were allowed to take the pallbearers' places, until the casket was completely borne by armed U.S. Marines.
"It appears as if your men have decided that their dead should be carried to his final resting place on the shoulders of American Marines," Behrouzi said in Arabic. "It is not your position or mine to argue." The dead commando's mother was still wailing away, more from fear, protest, and confusion now than sorrow, but a stern glance from Behrouzi and a defeated look from the colonel silenced her outrage. "Major Briggs, take your place at the head of the procession as commander of the detail of honor."
Briggs saluted again, then stepped over in front of Behrouzi and the dead man's family, in a position to the left and one pace behind the air forces commander. Before he did so, he turned to the dead commando's family, bowed his head, and rendered a salute.
"On behalf of my men and their families, madam, thank you for your sacrifice. God bless you and your country," Briggs said in a low voice, then once again salute
d and bowed his head. His words, understood or not, were accepted by the widow, and his salute was returned proudly by the dead man's eldest son.
The procession continued, to the astonishment of the onlookers, into the cemetery, where no non-Muslim had ever before set foot, and the ceremony continued in peace.
"That was a very beautiful thing you did today, Leopard," Behrouzi said that evening. She had invited him to dinner at her quarters at Mina Jebel Ali Air Base in Dubai. "Thank you. It was a thing no Dubai soldier will soon forget."
"I tried to get permission to attend the funeral, but no one would return my calls," Briggs said. "I finally decided just to do it, just show up. I'm sorry if it embarrassed the colonel."
"He is one of those hard-liners who believe in nothing but religious and ethnic purity," Behrouzi said. "They are not just in places like Iran or Saudi Arabia. He may squawk to the Emir all he wants--the soldiers support what you did, and the Emir loves all his troops." She gave him a satisfied smile, and added, "Again, you see, when you know something is right and you take the initiative, you can succeed."
"I don't feel as if we're succeeding at all, Riza," Briggs said.
"The Iranians still have Colonel White, and now they've declared martial law and are trying to seal off the Persian Gulf. Most of America hardly knows what's going on out here. They know oil prices are skyrocketing and Iran has been shooting off a few missiles at shadows, but no one in my country realizes how close we are to a global crisis. Hell, half of America couldn't find Dubai, the United Arab Emirates, the Gulf of Oman, or the Strait of Hormuz on a map, even though half their oil passes through those places every day!"
"You are beginning to sound like a tired, bitter old soldier, like the ones that sit out in the marketplace every day smoking their hookah pipes, fingering their worry beads, making up stories about fantasy exploits in battle, and complaining about everything and everybody, especially know-nothing civilians," Behrouzi said with a heart-churning laugh. "We chose this life, Hal Briggs. Being a soldier means being a servant to the state, a servant of the people. Our training and experiences give us knowledge of the world that is foreign to our own people, and it can be frustrating. Do not give in to your frustrations. You have learned to fight well--you must learn how to live--and love-well, too."
Briggs smiled and nodded at Riza. He looked at the untouched beer on the table. Where Riza had found any alcoholic beverage, much less his favorite beer, here in the heart of Muslim Arabia, he had no idea. "I've got to be going..."
"The briefing is not until twenty hundred," Behrouzi said. "We have time."
"I should see to my troops."
"You have trained them, counseled them, and fed them today--let them enjoy a little rest, too," Behrouzi said. "We start all over again tomorrow night. Tonight belongs to the living, to us--at least for the next forty-five minutes." She rose, took his hands, and helped him to his feet. "For the next forty-five minutes, I am yours to do as you wish, Leopard," Behrouzi said. She untied a pale yellow silk scarf from around her neck, letting it fall beside her breasts, and she followed his gaze as his eyes explored her body. "I am your prisoner."
Behrouzi turned her back to Hal Briggs, then removed her blouse, keeping the silk scarf across her neck. She then felt Briggs's strong hands on her shoulders, massaging her shoulders, then her arms, then her breasts from behind. He slipped her brassiere off her shoulders, lightly touching her naked breasts, barely touching the skin. The almost imperceptible touch of a finger against her erect nipples was so exquisite that it made her gasp. Still from behind, he removed her boots, then her slacks and underwear, and he gently touched her skin, softly exploring every inch of her body.
The room was cold, but his fingers felt as if they were on fire.
He did not squeeze her, just continued touching her here and there. It was like some sort of exotic torture technique--she longed, then ached, then begged to be grasped. But he didn't stop. His fingers gently touched her buttocks, then her neck, then imperceptibly her nipples. She reached behind her, grasping for him and finding him erect and quite hard. "Stop this torture, Leopard," she breathed. She reached up and looped her hands behind his neck, stretching her lean body up and pressing her buttocks into his groin. "Take me, Leopard, now, please."
Briggs ran his fingers up along her sides, gently around her breasts, then down her arms to her hands. Goose pimples leapt across her brown skin, and she gasped in excitement. Kissing her neck, he clasped her hands in his, brought them down her back near his groin again... then, the scarf was pulled away from her shoulders and, before she knew it, her hands were secured behind her back with the scarf. "Yes," she breathed. "I am yours now, Leopard..."
"Turn," he ordered.
She slowly turned to face him, her face aching from her longing, her lips parted from her labored breathing. Riza Behrouzi was thin, but her arm and shoulder muscles were thick and heavily defined; her breasts were small, round, firm globes over a smoothly muscled chest; her stomach was flat; her buttocks were round and thin; and her legs were strong and powerfully muscled.
She had an athlete's body, but it obviously had not been shaped in a gym or spa with weights or fancy machines--it had been chiseled out in the harsh highlands and deserts of the Middle East, exercised by carrying guns and cameras, and hardened by numerous confrontations with soldiers and interrogators and informants of many nationalities. Like his, her body was a weapon--but, at least not for the next few precious minutes, it was not going to be used to kill or to spy.
Slowly and deliberately, he began to remove his clothes before her. It was almost like a striptease, revealing one tantalizing feature of his hard, chiseled body after another in slow, agonizing bits. Her chest was rising and falling heavily, as if she had just run up six flights of stairs, well before he finally unfastened his belt, eased his trousers off, and revealed himself to her. Her eyes told him that she was at once both intimidated by him and eager to sample him.
"That was delicious, Leopard," Behrouzi said breathlessly. "It is my turn to please you now."
They made love quickly, wildly, explosively. Both knew what was out there waiting for them; both knew how much time they didn't have, what was expected of them, what other governments and officials demanded of them. For now, right now, all they demanded of the rest of the world was each other, if only for a few brief, passionate minutes. His scars, and hers, were visible to each of them, but it didn't matter.
Like a nighttime commando raid, it was over quickly; but, like combat, they were both filled with an intoxicating mixture of tingling excitement, adrenaline, and weariness when it was done.
They stayed tightly intertwined until their internal timers told them their time together was running out. He helped her to her feet, then embraced her once again as if this would be the last time. After she dressed, they were both on the phone again immediately, talking to their respective command centers, ordering all the charts, intelligence data, support personnel, and soldiers they might need.
Neither of them would ever forget the moment they had shared together... but now it was time to join the fight once again.
IN THE ARABIAN SEA, EAST OF THE GULF OF OMAN, 300 MILES SOUTHEAST OF CHAH BAHAR NAVAL BASE, IRAN 26 APRIL 1997, 0251 HOURS LOCAL TIME
"Aardvark-121 flight, Wallbanger, vector heading two-eight-five, take angels thirty, your bogey is bearing three-one-zero, three-zero-zero bull's-eye."
"121 flight copies," Lieutenant Scott "Crow" Crowley, lead pilot of the two-ship F-14B Tomcat flight, responded. Perfect timing, he thought--he had just about taken on a full tank of gas, and his wingman, Lieutenant j.g. Eric "Shine" Matte had just tanked a few minutes earlier. "Lizard-520, disconnect." Crowley hit the AP,/NWS/Disc button on his control stick and watched as the large cloth-covered basket-shaped refueling drogue popped off his refueling probe on the right side of his cockpit. The KA-6D tanker of VA-95 Green Lizards quickly reeled in the drogue and cleared the flight of two F-14B Tomcat fighters from VF-114 Aardv
arks, from the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln, to the bottom of the refueling block. Once level 2,000 feet below the tanker, the F-14s executed a tight left turn and headed northwest on their new vector.
"21 flight, check," Crowley radioed as soon as he finished his post-air refueling checklist. He knew that Matte would be finishing his checklist as well, and then hurrying to catch up and stay in formation, which for them was loose fingertip formation.
"Two," was Matte's quick reply. That meant everything was OK--fuel feeding OK, full tanks or as nearly full as possible, instruments OK, systems OK, oxygen OK, GIB (Guy in Back, the radar intercept officer) OK. Crowley looked at his fuel and deducted about half an hour's worth of his wingman and a bit more "for the wife and kids" and guessed he had about two hours' worth of "play time" out here before they had to head back to the Lincoln, which was about 300 miles behind them right now.
Each F-14B Tomcat was similarly equipped for this medium-range Force CAP night patrol: two 1,110-liter external fuel tanks on the pylons under the engine air inlets; two radar-guided AIM-120A AMRAAMs (Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles) and two AIM-9M Sidewinder short-range heat-seeking missiles, on the wing glove pylons; and four huge AIM-54C Phoenix long-range radar-guided missiles on the fuselage stations. With the Lincoln battle group so far out in the Arabian Sea, the primary threat to be countered by the F-14 air patrols was from Iranian long-range fighter-bombers and long-range patrol aircraft, so these Tomcats carried two extra Phoenix missiles per fighter--the Phoenix missile had a range of over ninety miles, well within radar detection range but far enough out of the range of most of the Russian-made air-launched anti-ship cruise missiles that Iran had in its inventory.
Dale Brown - Shadows Of Steel Page 30
