by Robert Gandt
Maxwell and Boyce arrived together. Behind them came Admiral Hightree, followed by Gus Gritti and his executive officer, Lt. Col. Aubrey Hewlitt, still wearing float coats from their helicopter ride.
Over Hightree’s objection, Maxwell had been picked for the mission by Gracie Allen because Maxwell knew Rasmussen better than anyone else in theater. They were former squadron mates, and that made it personal.
As the Air Wing Commander, Boyce would lead a contingency air support package—just in case. After the lesson learned in Yemen, the Reagan Battle Group would not insert a team into terrorist country without on-call air support.
Gus Gritti was still fuming. When Hightower got wind of Gritti’s plan to personally lead the Marine TRAP team— Tactical Recovery of Aircraft and Personnel—to accompany the mission into Iran, he called the Marine colonel on the Saipan. “What’s this about you leading the TRAP team?”
“Admiral, this mission should be led by the toughest sonofabitch in the Marine Corps. That just happens to be me.”
“Cool it, Gus. This is not a job for an MEU commander, especially a general-select.”
Gritti argued until Hightower told him to knock it off. Reluctantly, Gritti backed down and assigned his XO, Lieutenant Colonel Hewlitt, to lead the team.
Ted Bronson entered the compartment, looking like a raging bull. Behind him came Chris Tyrwhitt in his customary wrinkled bush jacket. Bronson acknowledged the senior military officers.
He spotted Maxwell and went directly to him. In a low voice he said, “It was you, wasn’t it, you sonofabitch?”
Maxwell smiled. “Hey, it’s good to see you, too, Ted.”
“You leaked the story, didn’t you?”
“Ted, how could you think such a thing?”
“Listen, hot shot. You may think you pulled something off, but I’ve got news for you. You violated national security. Your career is toast. You’re going to get twenty years in Leavenworth.”
“Haven’t lost your sense of humor, have you?”
Tyrwhitt stood behind Bronson, watching the exchange with a bemused expression. Bronson shot Maxwell one more baleful look, then stomped across the room and took a seat in the back row.
Capt. Gracie Allen took the podium and aimed a laser light at the illuminated chart on the bulkhead screen.
“The Karkeh River, gentlemen,” he said, tracing the stream that flowed through the marsh country of lower Iran. “The same area where you grabbed Colonel Al-Fasr. Our CIA colleagues have made contact with the Bu Hasa Brigade and have worked out a method to exchange prisoners. They get their man Al-Fasr, we get an American POW back.”
Allen’s pointer stopped at a place on the map. “Here, where the river flows into the Hawr Umr Sawan lake, is a deserted village. That is where we meet the Bu Hasa contacts and where we make the prisoner exchange.”
“Gracie, can you confirm the identity of the American POW?” said Boyce.
Allen nodded. “If our intelligence is correct, then it’s. . .” his voice cracked for an instant, “. . . a squadron mate whom we lost in action over Iraq in 1991.” The map on the screen flicked off, and in its place appeared a black-and-white photograph of a grinning young man in a flight suit, standing beside an F/A-18. “Lt. Cmdr. Allen Rasmussen. Call sign ‘Raz.’”
Maxwell stared at the photo and felt a lump rise in his throat. A silence fell over the room, and for a moment he and Gracie Allen made eye contact. They had the same thought. After all these years, Raz. We’re coming to get you.
Allen went on. He would be the on-site commander, with a direct link to Hightree, the Battle Group Commander. The Raven Swoop team would consist of only six Marines plus Allen, Maxwell, and Bronson. The Marine TRAP team—forty-two infantrymen with mortars, light and heavy automatic weapons, and a squad of the MEU’s best snipers—would be aboard a CH-53, ready to move in.
By the terms negotiated with the Bu Hasa, only two members of each force were to accompany their prisoner to the exchange point. After authenticating each other’s identity, each side would send its prisoner across the open courtyard of the village to join his respective countrymen.
Maxwell and Bronson would deliver Al-Fasr and retrieve Rasmussen.
Allen flicked off his laser pointer. “That’s the plan, gentlemen,” said Allen. “Questions or comments?”
“One comment,” said Gritti. “Don’t trust those assholes. Does anybody here remember Yemen?”
“That’s why we’ll have the TRAP team—plus air cover—just offshore,” said Allen. “For anyone monitoring from a coastal radar, it’ll look like standard cyclic night ops, but in reality we can have them on target in less than fifteen minutes.”
“What if our guys—Maxwell and Bronson here—walk into a trap?
“We’ve got human intel in the area and national assets overhead. You don’t need to know details. Just know that if the gomers try to sneak in a large force on us, we’ll catch them at it.”
Gritti nodded, but his expression showed that he wasn’t satisfied.
Allen took a few more questions. The briefing was finished.
Maxwell headed for the door. He passed Bronson, who regarded him with a look of contempt.
“Hey, Ted, I’m really looking forward to working with a great guy like you.”
“Fuck you,” said Bronson.
< >
Manama, Bahrain
“The Gulf lounge at six?” She wavered on the edge of indecision. Just say no, she told herself. Hang up the damned phone and ignore it when it rings again.
Instead, she heard herself say, “Okay, see you at six.”
She hung up and shook her head. You never learn, do you, girl?
Much as she had tried to rationalize her long relationship with Chris Tyrwhitt, Claire still didn’t understand her true feelings.
Do you love the guy? No, at least not in the traditional sense.
Are you attracted to him? Indisputably. Perhaps fatally.
She’d gone the distance with Chris. He had entered her life a few weeks after she’d broken up with a test pilot and astronaut-to-be named Sam Maxwell. Tyrwhitt was working the Washington beat for an Australian news syndicate, and he was just what she needed. He was fun, good looking, and had a good career going.
Not until later—after they were married—did she learn the rest. He was unfaithful, reckless, dishonest. He also drank too much. How could she love someone like that?
Not until he disappeared in Baghdad, supposedly shot and killed by the Iraqi secret service, and then reappeared in her life, did she learn the truth about Tyrwhitt. He was a spy.
But Chris Tyrwhitt would never change, she reminded herself. Not the philandering and drinking part, anyway.
Okay, so it wasn’t love. But she had to admit there was some sort of magnetism there. Something kept drawing her back into his orbit, even when all her senses were yelling at her to run in the opposite direction as fast as she could.
She had an idea what it was, and she didn’t like it. You’re attracted to outlaws. Chris Tyrwhitt was your world class, unreformed, kickass outlaw, even if he was in the employ of a Boy Scoutish outfit like the CIA. She smiled, thinking that he probably lied to them too.
She gave herself a final inspection in the vanity mirror. Chestnut hair coiffed and sprayed into place. Light red lipstick, the wet look, not the kind she wore for the camera. Silk blouse, top three buttons open, tied at the midriff. Her favorite Kate Spade shoes. Full length linen skirt, nearly diaphanous, the kind that flattered her long legs and slender shape.
She liked what she saw. Not the prim Claire Phillips seen on the evening news, wearing the phony little reading spectacles to make her look businesslike, reporting a suicide bombing or an air strike or the assassination of some PLO officer. This was the off-screen Claire Phillips, the one that still turned heads when she strolled into the Gulf bar.
Satisfied, she gathered up the oversize leather purse containing the tools of her trade—tape recorder, digital camera,
notepad, Palm Pilot. You had to be prepared, she told herself. Chris Tyrwhitt might be an outlaw, but he was also a source.
Chapter 22 — In Country
Manama, Bahrain
1800, Tuesday, 23 March
She liked the Gulf Hotel lounge. The atmosphere was a funky mixture of Casablanca and Miami’s South Beach, with a Filipino jazz pianist who sounded like a young Brubeck. The air had the ever-present scent of Drakkar cologne and sandalwood. A forest of palm trees lined the room, and a semicircular mahogany bar covered one whole wall.
She paused in the entrance and peered around.
Tyrwhitt was at the bar chatting up a pair of GAGs—Gulf Air Girls. The flight attendants for the local airline were mostly European women, non-Muslims, and unlike the local Bahraini women, they could go out alone. The Gulf lounge was one of their favorite watering holes.
Claire didn’t know whether to laugh or turn around and leave. Tyrwhitt would never change. Even when he was trying to charm his wife—soon to be ex-wife, she reminded herself—he couldn’t resist trolling for trophies.
He glanced up and saw her. He turned to the GAGs and gave them a low, sweeping bow, then kissed each of their hands. They both giggled.
Wearing a huge smile, Tyrwhitt strode across the lounge.
“Claire, my darling, you look absolutely smashing.” He gave her a wet smack on the cheek.
She nodded toward the bar. “I’m sure you told those two exactly the same thing.”
He glanced at the two women, who were still tittering. “Them? Oh, I was telling them about you, and they were quite impressed. They’re great fans of yours, actually. Nice young ladies, both Kiwis.”
She gave him an indulgent smile. The guy was full of bullshit, but she learned that years ago. She’d gotten over the heartburn from her husband’s endless flirtations. She was cured.
She could tell that he’d already had a few drinks. His ruddy face was ruddier than usual, and he seemed to be in exceptionally good humor. Careful, girl, she warned herself. That was one of Tyrwhitt’s dangerous attributes. The drunker he got, the more charming he became.
He led her to a table in the corner, and she felt the curious stares from the girls at the bar. That was the downside to being a broadcast journalist. Wherever she went in public, someone was sure to recognize her. Even without the phony glasses.
The waiter showed up with their drinks—Scotch neat for him, vodka tonic with a twist for her. The piano player recognized her and gave her a wave. He slipped into a rendition of “Take Five.”
“How does it feel being loved and admired?” asked Tyrwhitt.
“Being anonymous would feel better, thank you.”
“Too late. Your gorgeous face is now in the public domain. Even with those silly spectacles.”
They had a round of drinks, then another, Tyrwhitt out-drinking her two-to-one. She listened while he conducted a discourse on the convoluted politics of the region. In almost every country, he explained, the old ruling entities were in a contest with disgruntled religious factions. In Bahrain, the Emir was hanging on by placating the rebellious Shiite majority.
She knew most of this, but she was impressed anyway. She’d forgotten that Tyrwhitt, despite his dissolute life style, had a solid grasp of Middle East affairs.
“Do they teach that stuff to the employees of the CIA?” she asked. A loaded question, but what the hell.
He didn’t seem to mind. “Technically, I’m not an employee. Just an agent who performs services on call.”
“Isn’t that what you called—”
“A whore?” He smiled. “Of course. I’m a natural.”
“What about your boss? What’s his name. . .?”
“Ted Bronson. The station chief.”
“Is he a whore too?”
“No,” said Tyrwhitt, and he chuckled. “Bronson is what they call an operations officer, not an agent, which makes him a pimp, I suppose. We whores get to do the dirty work.”
She had to laugh. She could still see Bronson’s hard, dead-eyed expression. “He’s a strange one,” she said. “He gives me the creeps.”
Tyrwhitt smiled, not replying.
“I remember the way he shut you up,” she went on. “When you were talking about the American who you thought was in prison in Baghdad.”
Tyrwhitt nodded, still keeping his silence.
“So,” she said, keeping her tone light, “was he telling the truth?”
“About what?”
“About an American prisoner left behind in Iraq?”
“To quote my esteemed employer, such matters are several levels above my pay grade.”
She nodded and continued digging. “In other words, there is a prisoner, but the company line is that there isn’t?”
“This sounds very much like an interrogation.”
“Just friendly conversation.”
“Ha. Don’t forget, I’m a journalist too. I know when I’m being grilled.”
She laughed and let him change the subject. For a while they chatted about old friends, about working the Middle East beat, about the good times in Washington when they were newlyweds and the dark clouds hadn’t come to spoil everything. They delicately avoided talking about the bad times.
Claire felt herself slipping into a deliciously relaxed state. She realized that the stress of the past few days had dragged her spirit down like a leaden weight. The glamorous life of a broadcast journalist wasn’t really that glamorous. It was tedious, tiring, deadening.
Chris Tyrwhitt was good company, even if he was full of bullshit. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed his quick wit, that wacky, offbeat sense of humor. He made her feel like a woman, not a bespectacled mannequin to be positioned in front of a camera.
So does Sam Maxwell, she reminded herself.
But with Sam it was different. He didn’t make her laugh, at least not like Tyrwhitt. He was a man of deeper, more guarded emotions. What went on inside him was a private matter that he didn’t often share with the world. She could love Sam Maxwell, but she might never understand him.
With Tyrwhitt it didn’t matter. It wasn’t necessary to understand him. What you saw was what you got. Tyrwhitt was an eternal adolescent, driven by whim and hormones, damn the consequences.
They nibbled at an assortment of chicken wings and spring rolls, neither of them especially hungry. They kept chatting about inconsequential things, and Tyrwhitt ordered more drinks. Claire knew she was over her limit—she could hear her brain buzzing like a cicada—but she didn’t care. She was a working girl. She deserved to unwind once in a while.
The piano player finished with a jazzed up version of “September Song.” He lowered the cover on his keyboard and gave Claire a wave as he left the lounge.
They were the only ones still there. The GAGs had long departed.
“Time for Cinderella to fade,” she said. She gathered her oversized leather purse. It occurred to her that she hadn’t used any of the tools of the trade that she brought along. Oh, well.
“I’ll be gallant and walk you home,” said Tyrwhitt.
“I am home. I live in the Gulf Hotel.”
“Oh, yeah. Then I’ll see you to your room.”
“I know the way.”
“This is Bahrain. A lady needs an escort.”
She didn’t argue. They rose from the table, and she made a determined effort not to sway or wobble, taking long purposeful strides as they left the lounge, across the marble-floored lobby where a half dozen Bahraini men stared from deep leather chairs, to the row of brass-paneled elevators.
Riding to the sixth floor, conscious of Tyrwhitt at her side and, most oddly, not minding it, she had a thought: I shouldn’t be doing this.
Another thought: Why not? He’s my husband.
The elevator hushed to a stop, and the door opened. They stepped out and walked down the long carpeted hallway.
< >
USS Ronald Reagan
Carson fidgeted while the phone rang. It had
taken three tries before he got his nerve up to finish dialing.
An hour before he had been standing on the flight deck, bracing himself against the twenty-knot wind that swept over the bow, watching the jets launch into the darkness. One after the other, Super Hornets lunged down the catapult tracks, off the bow and into the horizonless sky.
As he watched the strike fighters leave the deck, the words of the executive officer kept replaying in his mind. You understand how important this job is, Carson. You know that we’re counting on you.
This was the only life he knew. Now it was about to end. He wanted to put on the chief’s hat—God knew he wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything—but the price had become too high to pay.
He had gone from the flight deck to the QA space on the second deck. For another twenty minutes he wrestled with his conscience. Standing there with the phone pressed to his ear, he felt like a man plunging over a cliff.
Finally he summoned the courage to make the call.
A deep voice came on the line. “Commander Alexander.”
Carson fought back the terror that rose up in him. “Sir, this is Petty Officer Carson, the QA rep.”
“What’s on your mind, Carson?”
“I. . . ah, was just thinking about your visit to the QA space, sir.”
“Yes? What about it?”
“You said to let you know if I had any problems.”
“Have you?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, sir. A real problem.”
Alexander didn’t reply for a moment. “Is it urgent? I’m supposed to have breakfast with the Air Boss in fifteen minutes.”
More urgent than you can imagine, thought Carson. He had to do this now or he’d back out. “Yes, sir. Very.”
“Can you find my stateroom on the O-3 level?”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
< >
USS Saipan
The blades of the SH-60 bit into the damp air, lifting the helicopter from the flight deck. Maxwell could feel the rumble of the two turbine engines through his metal seat.
