Suddenly the crash wagon slammed to a halt, and Madeline O’Keith Turner climbed out the back. Gordon and her cameraman ran toward her in time to hear the president shout, “Get out of my way!” as seven Secret Service agents surrounded her. “Back off! Give me room!”
“Madam President,” an agent shouted, “we’ve got to get you to—”
“I don’t give a damn what you have to do! There are injured people out there.” She pushed clear of the cordon and started pointing, issuing commands. For a moment there was utter chaos around her. Then there was order.
Liz Gordon faced the camera. “We have witnessed a miracle here. President Turner is totally unscathed.” The cameraman panned to the burning pillar of flame reaching into the sky. “All others on board perished in the crash.” *
In Ann Silton’s office, silence bound the four people as they stared at the TV. Clarissa started to cry, and John sat down, his hands shaking. Ann rushed over and put her arm around Clarissa to comfort her. L.J. stood in the center of the room, her own arms crossed across her chest, her face a mask.
“Who could do such a thing?” Clarissa gasped.
A very good question, L.J. thought.
Newport News
Shanker hunched over the computer in his den, picking at the keys, while Stuart sat on the couch and read. Shanker grunted in satisfaction at what he was finding. “Right on. That’ll fix the bitch.”
“Who’s the bitch?” Eric said from the doorway, fresh from school. He was still carrying his backpack.
“None of your business,” Stuart told him, “and you shouldn’t use that word. Any homework?”
“Naw. Today was the last day before Christmas vacation, and the teachers gave us a break.” The boy walked over to help his grandfather with the computer. He read the screen. “Boy, somebody really hates President Turner,” he said.
Stuart’s head came up. “What are you doing?” he asked his father.
“We’re getting organized to stop her dead in her tracks,” Shanker explained. “No way we’re going to let her outlaw semiautomatic weapons. The Gray Eagles are all against her, and we’re going to do something about it. That dumb-ass bill will never get through Congress. We’ll see to that. Besides, it’s plain unconstitutional.”
“My social studies teacher,” Eric said, “hates guns, and he’s really upset, too. He says he’s writing his congressman and wants him to vote against it, too.”
“Even a stopped clock is right once a day,” Shanker grumbled.
Stuart looked at his son while he tried to fold a chart. “Did your teacher say why he was against the bill?”
“Well,” Eric said, trying to appease his grandfather, “he says it’s all wrong because everyone who already owns a semiautomatic weapon gets to keep what they already got. He says that won’t solve anything, and the government ought to outlaw all guns.”
“Another friggin’ liberal,” Shanker grouched.
“Is that true, Dad?” Stuart asked. “You can keep your weapons?”
“Supposedly,” Shanker replied, his voice loud and angry.
“Sounds to me like she’s pissed off both sides of the argument,” Stuart said. “Who knows? She might be onto something.”
Shanker glared at his youngest son. “Lee Harvey Oswald, where are you now that we need you?”
“Who’s Lee Harvey Oswald?” Eric asked.
“Dad,” Stuart said, “that wasn’t called for, and you know it.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment. “This is my goddamn home!” Shanker shouted. “And I can say anything I want!” He stormed out of the room just as his wife rushed in.
“Turn on the TV,” Martha gasped. Eric grabbed the remote control and flicked it on. A picture of a burning helicopter filled the TV screen. Tears filled Martha’s eyes. “Oh, no,” she moaned. “How could anyone do such a terrible thing?”
“The reporter says she’s okay!” Eric shouted.
“Look at her,” Stuart said, wonder in his voice. “She’s taking charge.”
Shanker stood in the doorway, a grim look on his face. “What would you know about taking charge?”
“I can only guess, since I’ve never been in a situation like that,” Stuart replied. “And neither have you.”
Shanker didn’t reply because it was true. He had faced real danger and real bullets many times in combat. But neither he, nor his wingmen, had ever been hit. He had never lived through the terror of a crash. He glared at his youngest son. It was the first time Stuart had ever stood up to him.
21
Near Fort Lauderdale, Florida
Sophia James stood at the kitchen sink of the grimy mobile home and scrubbed at the three men’s dirty underwear. She pulled her hands out of the hot water and studied her fingernails. They were all broken and in need of a manicure. You miserable bastards! she cursed silently She peeled off the cheap red T-shirt Luis had given her to wear and threw it in the hot water. “Let’s see how you like pink shorts,” she hissed to herself.
She walked past the three men, who were watching TV, and into the single bedroom at the back. They were so used to seeing her naked that they took no notice. She slipped into a clean T-shirt and sat on the edge of the bed, half listening to the TV. At least I only have to fuck one of you a day, she thought. That and the T-shirt had been the only concessions she’d wrung from Luis. Rather than let herself fall into another round of despair and self-pity, she seriously contemplated murder.
The sound of the woman’s voice on TV didn’t register at first, and Sophia had to concentrate on what she was hearing. She walked to the door and listened. As one, Luis, Eduardo, and Francisco were leaning toward the TV set. “We have witnessed a miracle here,” the woman reporter said. “President Turner is totally unscathed. All others on board perished in the crash.”
All three men started yelling at once in Spanish. They spoke so fast that she had a hard time understanding. Slowly the pieces came together. They were angry because someone had tried to assassinate the president of the United States. And failed.
“They bungled it!” Eduardo shouted.
“Amateurs,” Francisco said.
“That’s why they failed,” Luis said, flopping back onto the couch. “The Secret Service will be on full alert and much more dangerous now.”
“How can they call themselves men?” Eduardo said. “Protecting a puta.” Sophia assumed the puta was Madeline Turner.
“Is it still possible?” Francisco asked.
“It will be even a greater honor because of the danger,” Luis told him. “The cause of our people is sacred, and we do not run from danger. Always remember, we live and die as men.”
Sophia caught her breath, at last fully understanding. That explained why two of them would disappear for long periods of time into the shack behind the trailer while one guarded her. That was why they would order her into the bedroom, turn up the TV, and then sit at the kitchenette table and talk for hours at a time.
They were plotting to assassinate the president of the United States.
Eduardo rolled off her and fell asleep. Sophia waited until he was snoring loudly before she got out of bed and went into the bathroom. She took a quick shower and wrapped a large towel around herself. She padded quietly into the kitchen, careful not to wake the two men asleep in the small living room, reached into the freezer, and pulled out the small paring knife she’d hidden there the day after Luis had sealed them in. Since they hadn’t missed it, she assumed it was safe to move it to the bedroom. She knew exactly where to hide it: under the pile of dirty clothes they expected her to wash. She walked quietly back into the bedroom and hid the knife before lying back down.
Then she lay awake, forcing herself to think and not give in to the panic that threatened her sanity. There was no doubt they would kill her, either before they moved or immediately afterward. Probably before, she decided. She ran possible scenarios through her mind. One fact stood out: She had to make herself indispensable t
o them until she could escape. But how? What did she have to offer that had value to them? Being Latino, they would never take her into their plans, which was just as well, since it was such an absurd idea. Pointing out the flaws in any plan they could come up with would only make them angry at her. Divide and conquer, she thought. She liked that idea.
She thought about the three men, trying to visualize them in different situations. It had to be Eduardo, the dreamer. But first she would have to do something about the shorts she’d stained pink.
22
Newport News
It was a military wedding, complete with an honor guard and mess dress uniforms as Maggot and Mary exchanged their vows. As the best man, Stuart stood back and crossed his hands when the priest turned to the congregation. “Let me introduce Colonel and Mrs. Stuart.” Maggot lifted his bride’s veil and swept her into his arms in the best fighter-pilot style. Stuart tried not to look embarrassed and smiled at Jenny, who was sitting with Eric in the first pew. Movement at the back of the church caught his attention as Jane slipped into the last pew. She had made it back from her charter cruise as promised.
The organist played “We’ve Only Just Begun” as the couple retreated down the aisle. As it was raining and spitting snow outside, the honor guard was at the back of the church, forming an arch with their swords. As the couple approached, the first two swords dropped, blocking their way. Maggot kissed Mary, and the guardsmen raised their swords to let them pass. The second set of swords dropped, again barring the way. Again the couple kissed before the swords were lifted. Twice more they repeated the rite, kissing their way free of the arch. As tradition dictated, the last guardsman tapped Mary’s rear end with the broadside of his sword, sending them on their way.
Jenny’s laughter rang over the church. “They never did that at our wedding,” she sang out.
Stuart caught the funny look on Jane’s face and made his way to the rear, anxious to talk to her. Eric joined him. “I’m glad she made it,” Eric said.
“Me, too, son. Me, too.”
Because of the weather, the guests were slow to gather at the reception at the Officers’ Club at Langley Air Force Base. Shanker pulled at the tight-fitting jacket of his mess dress uniform, feeling very uneasy next to the dapper Chalky Seagrave, whose old RAF mess dress uniform still fit perfectly. The two men smiled when eight pilots from Maggot’s old A-10 squadron marched in wearing gray-green flight suits and yellow bow ties made out of the squadron’s neck scarves. “Why do I sense this is going to be quite the reception?” Seagrave asked as Jenny descended on the pilots.
She was wearing a low-cut, skintight black dress that reached to the floor and was split dangerously high up the side. “I do hope she’s wearing knickers,” Seagrave murmured as the pilots surrounded her. “Ah, there’s Jane.” He wandered over to speak to her. “May I escort you to a table?” She held his arm as they found places next to the head table.
“I feel so out of place,” Jane said, looking at the other guests. She was dressed in a bright spring dress with beige shoes, the best clothes she owned, and was in total contrast to the other women, who were wearing winter ensembles.
“You look lovely,” he told her. “A breath of sea air.” It was just the right thing to say, and she brightened.
The dinner and toasts proceeded normally, although an eager anticipation hung in the air as the guests waited to see what might happen. The disc jockey started the music, and Stuart slipped away from the head table to finally join Jane and Seagrave. “It’s been a madhouse,” he told her. She listened and smiled at all the right times as Stuart and Seagrave recalled the preparations for the wedding. “I’m glad you made it,” he told her.
“We had rigging problems,” Jane said, “and made for Norfolk. Docked there this morning. My charter didn’t mind and jumped ship. I’ll single-hand Temptress back to Annapolis.” Behind them the dance floor filled and voices rang out.
A woman’s voice shouted “Dead Bug!” and all the men in uniform, including Stuart and Seagrave, fell to the floor on their backs, their feet and arms upright and waving helplessly in the air. Jane stared at them in disbelief. On the dance floor a lovely pair of bare legs kicked in the air. “It’s a drinking game,” Stuart explained from the floor. “The last guy to make like a dead bug gets to buy the next round of drinks.”
“Are all Air Force weddings like this one?” Jane asked.
“I hope not,” Stuart replied.
“Pity,” Seagrave murmured.
“Do women play, too?” Jane asked.
Stuart came to his feet to see who the bare legs belonged to. “No.” He looked at the dance floor. “Jenny.”
“She called Dead Bug,” Seagrave said.
“Oh, no,” Stuart muttered.
“Is that bad?” Jane wondered.
“The generals don’t allow singing or games in the bar anymore,” Stuart explained. “It’s not professional.”
“He means,” Seagrave added, “that it’s not politically correct.” Along with everyone else, he stood. “I do hope the generals are all safe in their beds when the shooting starts.” At the bar, two male voices bellowed the final stanza of “The Balls of O’Leary” with gusto.
The women all muster, to see that great cluster
And they stand and they stare
At that bloody great pair
Of O’Leary’s balls.
“That broke the ice,” Stuart said. “It’s going to get wild. I better get Eric home.”
Before he could leave, Jenny hurried up, anxious to talk and out of breath. “Oh, Mike,” she breathed, “thanks for inviting me. It was just what I needed.” She gestured at the group of fighter pilots wearing flight suits. “They’re so cute and cuddly.”
“Jenny,” Stuart warned, “they’re all certified aerial assassins. They fight hard and play hard. They’re not kittens.”
She reached out and caressed his cheek. “You were right, I didn’t need to prove anything.” She didn’t draw her hand away. “You were there when I needed you.” She kissed him, lingering a moment. Her tongue flicked at his lips as she pulled away. “Thanks, Mike.” She turned and walked back to the waiting pilots.
Jane turned and walked away. For a moment Stuart didn’t move, stunned by the events. “Go after her,” Seagrave urged. Still Stuart didn’t move. “Jane, you dolt.”
Stuart ran into the foyer, desperately looking for her. Then he saw her through the entrance windows, walking through the blowing rain and sleet. He ran after her, slipping and sliding on the sidewalk. He fell once and caught her as she slid into the driver’s seat of her rented car. “Jane, what’s the matter?”
She clutched the steering wheel and looked at him. “What’s the matter? The matter is that I’m stupid. Why did I ever think that…” Her voice trailed off.
“I don’t understand,” he bleated.
“You slept with her!” She jerked the door closed and gunned the engine. The wheels threw up a wave of slush and mud, drenching his pants.
He stood in the rain as a desolate wind blew through him.
Stuart turned up the heater in the hangar’s office as gusts beat at the big doors. He gazed at the Lightning parked in the big bay while an Air Force lieutenant colonel outlined his proposal to the Gray Eagles. “Someone finally got a clue at ACC,” the eager young LC said. ACC was Air Combat Command, headquartered at Langley Air Force Base. “We’ve been concentrating on avionics and missiles, assuming we’d kill the enemy before the merge.”
“Which means,” Shanker said, “your pilots can’t yank and bank worth shit.”
“I think,” Seagrave said, trying to smooth any ruffled feathers, “that my friend means you need to return to basics.”
“Exactly,” the lieutenant colonel said, “and that’s where your Lightning comes in. It’s perfect for DACT.” DACT was Dissimilar Air Combat Training, or dogfighting. The generals hated DACT because it involved two very different fighters maneuvering against each other in mock c
ombat. It was inherently dangerous, and success all came down to pilot skill. “As a third-generation fighter,” the officer explained, “it will give our pilots a taste of what they’ll be up against in a conflict with China. Also, by denying the F-15s use of their radar, we can simulate an engagement with a stealth fighter where visual contact is everything. Congress, in all its wisdom, has finally decided it was time to get serious about training and has given us the money to do something worthwhile.”
“Train like you plan to fight,” Shanker muttered.
“We couldn’t agree more,” the officer said. He laid out the details of a lucrative contract in which the Lightning would simulate a MiG-21 type aircraft and fly DACT against F-15s and F-22s based at Langley. To make the training more realistic, the Air Force wanted to hang training missiles on the Lightning.
“If you think the Lightning is a MiG-21,” Seagrave huffed, “you chaps need to spend more time in aircraft recognition.”
“There is a resemblance to the untrained eye,” the officer said.
Stuart’s attention wandered as he half listened to the men discuss the contract. Damn, he thought. I blew it with Jane. How could I be so stupid? He was looking directly at the side door when it banged open. The men all glanced up. “It’s Jenny,” Stuart told them. “I’ll take care of it.” He stepped out of the office and headed for his ex-wife. Halfway there he regretted it. Barbara Raye and the lawyer who was a permanent appendage to her hip came through the door. From the way Jenny paced back and forth, he knew there was trouble.
“We came for Eric,” Jenny said.
“Why?” Stuart replied. “He’s still in school. What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” the lawyer said, “is the environment he’s in.” He gestured at Jenny. “Mrs. Stuart objects to the influences he is being subjected to.”
The Trojan Sea Page 26
