The Trojan Sea

by Richard Herman

  The Pentagon is aptly named for its five sides, five concentric rings of offices, five floors, and the five-acre center courtyard that has been called Ground Zero. The inhabitants of the Puzzle Palace, or Fort Fumble, as it is sometimes known, don’t think it’s funny, because it was a commonly accepted fact that in the heyday of the Cold War, the Soviets had fed the center coordinates of the courtyard into at least five ICBMs. This was not attributed to a Russian sense of humor but to the reliability, or lack of it, of their missiles and warheads.

  “Big” is the adjective that best describes the Pentagon, and with over 6.5 million square feet, it’s easy to get lost. If the casual visitor should see a man in uniform talking to a pretty civilian employee, it’s not because he’s trying to score but because he’s lost. Yet everyone will think he’s hitting on her, which even in this day of political correctness is much better than appearing to be asking for directions, a major violation of the male ethic. When the $1.2 billion renovation that was started in 1993 is completed in 2006, the added 200,000 square feet of office space will only make the situation worse.

  But in spite of its size and idiosyncrasies, the occasional scandal about contracting and budgeting, the personal ambitions stalking its offices, and the egos that define the command corridors, the Pentagon is an efficient place, and the taxpayers get good value for their money. For the next two days Stuart worked in an administrative limbo, making it even more efficient, shuffling the never-ending flow of paperwork that flooded the Air Force. “Paperwork” was really a misnomer, since most of the Air Force’s business was conducted on computers. But the devilish machines had not streamlined the military’s penchant for documentation. In fact, they’d only made it worse. Consequently the first file Stuart opened contained over thirty unanswered queries, letters, and one inventory form to be filled out and dutifully forwarded. He went to work on the inventory, the most time-consuming project.

  Late on Wednesday afternoon Peggy Redman, Priestly’s secretary, telephoned. “You can come back. Everything’s fine.”

  “What happened?”

  “Cooler heads prevailed and decided you did the right thing by riding out the hurricane in Cuba. And, can you believe it, your report was forwarded, unchanged, to the committee working on the Quadrennial Defense Review?” She gave a low, very wicked laugh. “No one knows how that happened or how to answer the committee’s questions, least of all Colonel Priestly. It seems you’re suddenly the indispensable man around here. The good colonel has dropped the investigation.”

  Stuart shook his head in amusement. Peggy Redman had saved him because she had what management experts call “institutional loyalty.” An untold number of trees had died providing the paper describing this phenomenon but, in short, it was nothing more than a blend of dedication and common sense. Peggy believed in what her office did and knew what it took to get the job done. It also helped that she liked Mike Stuart and hated Colonel Roger “Ramjet” Priestly with a pure and refined passion.

  “Thanks, Peggy,” he said, vowing to send her a large bouquet of flowers. He was certain she had forwarded the report to the committee by simply misrouting it. He returned to the inventory he was working on because it grated on his nature to leave projects incomplete, no matter how trivial. He worked hard, but it was after 8:00 P.M. by the time he finished. He turned out the light in the admin office and hurried to catch the next Metro. For Stuart, as for so many who worked at the Pentagon, it was easier to take the subway than fight the traffic and parking. But at that late hour there were only three other passengers on the train.

  As the crow flies, it was less than four miles from the Pentagon to Stuart’s basement flat in Capitol Hill, the multiracial residential area immediately east of the Capitol. The journey normally took about thirty minutes, depending on how quickly he transferred lines at the midway point, and it was a short walk from Eastern Market, the station where he got off, to his apartment just past Archibald Walk. During daylight it was a safe enough walk, but after dark he preferred to catch a cab, if one was available.

  Stuart came out of the station and decided to wait a few minutes to see if a cab might drive by. He checked his watch. Come on, he thought.

  Three African-American teenagers, all wearing the latest gear, ambled by and stopped at the entrance to the Metro station. They were full of life and trading good-natured insults as they discussed the merits of certain young females. It was all part of the life in his neighborhood and one of the reasons he liked living there. A fourth teenager joined them, and the insults grew loud as the words flew back and forth. Stuart got a good look at the newcomer when he stepped under a streetlight. He was much older than the three boys and definitely not a teenager.

  Alarm bells went off in Stuart’s head, and he moved away. Again he checked his watch. No taxi tonight, he thought. He decided to walk just as a street-sweeper truck lumbered around the corner. Suddenly the words changed tone, now ugly and menacing. Stuart hurried past, moving toward the approaching sweeper as the four young men started to push and challenge.

  Stuart saw a knife flash, and the latecomer broke away, running directly at him. Stuart froze. The man barreled into Stuart and knocked him into the path of the oncoming sweeper. The screech of brakes deafened Stuart as headlights blinded him. He knew he was dead.

  Something snapped inside, filling him with rage.

  He threw himself to the ground, centering up on the sweeper’s bumper, anything to get away from the big wheels. He flattened his right cheek and stomach against the asphalt as the truck rolled over him. He felt the back of his coat rip as it slammed to a stop.

  Stuart lay under the sweeper, afraid to move. He could feel the weight of the truck on his back and his glasses smashed under his cheek. He saw feet run past and heard shouting. Then the cab door swung open, and he felt the driver getting off. The belly of an incredibly overweight man appeared as the driver knelt down beside the truck. Then his face emerged. “Am I hurt?” Stuart asked.

  “You’re talking,” the driver said. “I’ll get a flashlight and call for help. Don’t move.”

  “Don’t get back into the truck!” Stuart shouted. But his warning was too late, and the truck rocked on him. Stuart moaned. “He got back in.”

  The next few minutes turned into an eternity as the police and then a fire truck arrived. Everyone kept telling Stuart not to move, and finally a paramedic, a slender woman, crawled under the truck. “Well,” she said, “good evening, sir.”

  “Does your husband know we’re meeting like this?” he muttered between clenched teeth.

  “He’s not the jealous kind.” She examined him and took his pulse. “I think you’re okay. We’re going to jack up the truck in a few minutes.”

  He closed his eyes as the emergency crew shoved a hydraulic jack under the chassis and started to pump. Someone grabbed his ankles and gently pulled him free. He looked up into the smiling face of the paramedic. “You are one lucky man,” she announced.

  It was after midnight when Stuart got home. He dropped his ruined uniform coat in a chair and headed for the shower. He stripped off his clothes and examined himself in the mirror. Other than a few minor scrapes and bruises, he was fine. He could feel the onset of stiffness the examining doctor had warned him about. The hot water felt good as it coursed over his body. He got out, toweled himself dry, and padded into the kitchen, ravenously hungry. The flashing light on his answering machine announced that he had two messages.

  The first one was from his ex-wife. “Hi, honey. This is Jenny. Give me a call whenever.” He gave a little snort. The unspoken protocols of their divorce were well established, and she wanted money. If the call was about Eric, their twelve-year-old son, she would have said, “Mike, we have a problem.” But Eric was with Stuart’s parents, touring England. He decided to put Jenny’s call on a back burner until “whenever” felt right.

  The second message was short and to the point. “This is Jane. Call me anytime.”

  For reasons
he didn’t understand, he wanted to talk to her. He dialed her number, and she answered on the third ring. “I know it’s late, but you said to call anytime.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re hard to contact.”

  “A lot of pressing matters around here,” he replied. “How’s the shoulder doing?”

  “Better. Question: What about Temptress?”

  The empty feeling in his stomach was back, and it had nothing to do with the lack of food. The last time he had seen his boat was in a slip in Miami. It was gleaming in the early-morning sun, none the worse for wear after the hurricane and the sojourn to Cuba. “Sell her, I guess.”

  “Good time to sell. Beginning of the season here. How much?”

  “Whatever’s fair.”

  A long pause. Then, softly, “I’d like to buy her. Can you carry the loan?”

  The gentleness in Jane’s voice touched him. “Okay by me,” Stuart replied. “But I need some cash up front.”

  “I’ll talk to a bank,” she said, breaking the connection.

  Stuart smiled to himself as he hung up. That’s Jane, he told himself. A woman of few words.

  2

  RAF Cranthorpe, England

  The boy kept bouncing against his seat belt, not wanting to miss any part of the old English air base. “This is neat, Gramps,” he kept repeating.

  Colonel William “Shanker” Stuart, United States Air Force (retired), smiled at his grandson’s unfeigned enthusiasm. He was glad he had brought Eric to RAF Cranthorpe for the air show and the dedication ceremonies. The old Royal Air Force Base had been restored to its glory days during the Battle of Britain and was being dedicated to those “so few” men who had accomplished so much. “Yeah, it is neat,” Shanker admitted. He inched their rental car into a parking space and got out.

  A large group of men and women carrying signs and placards were gathering in the parking lane in front of them. Shanker estimated their number at over two hundred, and the signs they carried worried him. He watched in silence as they unfurled a large banner. The last thing Shanker wanted to see was a demonstration ruining the ceremonies. Too many volunteers had worked too hard to keep RAF Cranthorpe alive.

  Eric read another one of the signs. “What’s ‘Ban the Bomb’ mean?”

  “It’s a throwback to another time, son, when people were worried about nuclear war.”

  The two Americans watched as three well-dressed men approached the group of protesters. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave,” one of the men told the demonstrators.

  “Who are you, mate?” a scruffily dressed woman shouted.

  “I’m from the CAA, and—”

  The crowd started shouting, “Hell no, we won’t go,” and drowned out the CAA man. The three men gave up and retreated to the safety of their car as the crowd grew larger and the chanting louder.

  “What’s the CAA?” Eric asked.

  “That’s the British government’s Civil Aviation Agency,” Shanker answered. “It’s the same as our FAA, the Federal Aviation Agency.”

  “I thought you didn’t like the FAA.”

  “I don’t dislike them, son. I just think they’re a pain in the ass. Like all bureaucrats.”

  “Dad says he’s just a bureaucrat in the Air Force.”

  “That’s different,” Shanker replied. But not much, he groused to himself. All he ever wanted was for Michael to be like his older brother and fly jet fighters. But Mike’s poor eyesight had precluded that, and as a result he was a nonrated officer with a desk job. His younger son was one of his life’s major disappointments. He put his arm around his grandson’s shoulders. “Come on. They got an F-4 here like the ones I used to fly.”

  “That’s neat, Gramps. Can I sit in it?”

  “We’ll see, son,” Shanker said, feeling much better. There was hope for the family yet. They followed the crowd out to the old parking lots, where three generations of warbirds were on display. Shanker paused when he saw the old F-4 Phantom II, and for a moment the memories came rushing back. It was 1972, and he was a young captain walking out to a bomb-laden Phantom for a mission over North Vietnam. “We were young then,” he said in a low voice.

  “I’m afraid you were born old,” a voice with a clipped English accent said from behind him, bringing Shanker back to the moment.

  Shanker turned around. The speaker was a tall, lanky man his age. A mass of unruly gray hair framed a ruddy face, and close-set, bright blue eyes twinkled above an outrageous RAF-style handlebar mustache. He was wearing an olive-green flight suit with leather gloves protruding from a leg pocket. “Chalky!” Shanker shouted. “You old reprobate! The last I heard, you were flying for the Saudis.”

  “I was until they phased out the Lightning and bought F-15s from you Yanks.”

  “Can’t say I blame them,” Shanker allowed.

  The Englishman shook his head. The old, long-forgotten, good-natured rivalry was back. “Who’s the young gentleman?”

  “Wing Commander Seagrave, may I present my grandson, Eric Stuart. Eric, Wing Commander Robin Seagrave, better known as ‘Chalky’ because of his hair, which turned white the first time he flew in a real jet.”

  Eric extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” The two shook hands, the Englishman impressed with the boy’s good manners.

  “Eric,” Shanker said, “don’t pay any attention to what Chalky says about the Lightning.”

  “What’s the Lightning?” Eric asked.

  Seagrave laughed. “Obviously your grandfather has neglected your education. Come, I’ll show you.” He led the two to another parking lot, where a jet fighter was parked. “Well, lad, what do you see?”

  Eric studied the airplane for a moment and concentrated hard. He glanced at his grandfather, and Shanker nodded his encouragement. “Well,” Eric began, “I see a single-place jet fighter with a big intake in the nose.” He walked around the old jet and screwed up his face. “It’s got funny-looking clipped wings, almost delta-shaped but not quite.” He smiled. “It’s got a big vertical stabilizer sticking up like a B-52.” His eyes opened wide in amazement when he walked around the back. “It’s got two engines! One on top of the other!”

  “Very good,” Seagrave said. “Right on all counts, except it’s a two-place. The pilot and passenger sit side by side. A bit cramped. Specifically it’s a BAC Lightning, model T.55. Lightnings were in service with the RAF from 1960 to 1988.” He explained how Saudi Arabia had also flown the jet until 1986 and then given this particular one to a group of English aviation enthusiasts for preservation. “Unfortunately,” Seagrave explained, “the CAA won’t allow me to fly it. Never said why. Some bureaucratic nonsense. Probably afraid to make a decision.”

  “Then why the flight suit?” Shanker asked.

  “They will allow a high-speed taxi demonstration down the active. I’ll light the reheat but shut it down at a hundred fifty knots and deploy the brake chute. That should delight the crowd.”

  Shanker was jealous. “You lucky dog.”

  Seagrave wouldn’t let it go and had to rub it in. “Wait until you see my passenger.” He pointed to a young woman waiting near the boarding ladder to the cockpit. “On local control with the CAA. Going along to make sure all is correct. Liz,” Seagrave called. “Someone I’d like you to meet.”

  The woman walked over to them. Her flight suit was molded to her figure, and she moved to an inner music that created an image of beauty and grace. Seagrave made the introductions and escorted her back to the boarding ladder. “Lucky dog,” Shanker muttered under his breath.

  “She’s really pretty, Gramps,” Eric said.

  “I’m glad you noticed, son.” They watched in silence as the two climbed into the Lightning, donned their helmets, and started engines.

  Eric studied the jet as it taxied out to the main runway. “Was the Lightning a good fighter, Gramps?”

  Shanker was absolutely honest. “It was a real hot rod in its day and still nothing to sneeze at. I flew against it
in an exercise once and got my eyes watered. But it didn’t carry enough fuel and had a limited range. It never saw combat, which is the real test.”

  “Wing Commander Seagrave is really cool. Is he a good fighter pilot?”

  “He’s one mellow dude in the hot tub and a damn good pilot, but since he never flew combat, we’ll never know for sure about the fighter thing. Just like the Lightning.”

  Seagrave glanced at his passenger. “You okay?”

  Liz took a deep breath. “Fine, thanks. This is most exciting.”

  “Much more thrilling if we could fly.” He pointed at the handle for the brake chute in the upper right-hand corner of the instrument panel. “When I ask for the chute, just a smooth straight pull. But not until I tell you.” She nodded, her eyes bright. She tentatively touched the handle.

  Seagrave keyed the radio. “Cranthorpe Tower. Lightning One is holding at ‘C’ ready for taxi run.”

  “Cleared to enter and hold,” the tower answered. Seagrave acknowledged and taxied into position on the runway. “Lightning One, you are cleared for your high-speed taxi run, surface wind is two-fifty at twelve knots, temperature plus eighteen.”

  Seagrave answered, “Winding up and rolling in twenty seconds.”

  “Roger, Lightning One,” the tower replied. “Runway is clear.”

  Seagrave fed the power into the two Rolls-Royce Avon Mark 302C engines. When the RPMs touched 92 percent, he called “Brakes off” over the intercom and shoved the throttles full forward. “Reheat now.” He lit the afterburners and called their speed, his voice calm and matter-of-fact as their speed quickly built. “Very good. One-twenty, one-thirty—Christ!” A swarm of people surged onto the runway, directly in their path. They were holding a huge banner across the runway proclaiming SAVE OUR CHILDREN—NOT CRANTHORPE! Their intent was obvious: They wanted the Lightning to split the banner while video cameras recorded the image for the evening news. But they’d misjudged the space the Lightning needed to clear on each side and hadn’t given Seagrave enough distance to drag the accelerating fighter to a stop. There was only one option left.