The Lion's Game (18 page)

Lieutenant Chip Wiggins said to Lieutenant Bill Satherwaite, “We’re getting a strong crosswind. There’s that south wind that blows out of the desert. What’s it called?”

“It’s called the south wind that blows out of the desert.”

“Right. Anyway, that’ll be a good tailwind getting the hell out of there—plus, we’ll be four bombs lighter.”

Satherwaite mumbled a reply.

Wiggins stared out the windscreen into the dark night. He had no idea if he’d see the sun rise on this day. But he knew that if they accomplished their mission, they’d be heroes—but nameless heroes. For this was no ordinary war—this was a war against international terrorists whose reach went beyond the Middle East, and thus the names of the pilots on this mission would never be released to the press or the public, and would be classified top secret for all time. Something about that rubbed Wiggins the wrong way; it was an admission that the bad guys could reach out, right into the heartland of America, and exact a revenge against the pilots and crew or their families. On the other hand, even though there would be no parades or public awards ceremonies, this anonymity made him a little more comfortable. Better to be an unnamed hero than a named terrorist target.

They continued east over the Mediterranean. Wiggins thought about how many wars had been fought around this ancient sea and especially on the shores of North Africa—the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Carthaginians, the Romans, the Arabs, on and on for thousands of years right up until the Second World War—the Italians, the German Afrika Korps, the British, the Americans ... The sea and the sand of North Africa was a mass grave of soldiers, sailors, and airmen.
To the shores of Tripoli
, he said to himself, aware that he was not the only flier that night to think those words.
We will fight our country’s battles
...

Satherwaite asked, “Time till turn?”

Wiggins came out of his reverie and checked his position. “Twelve minutes.”

“Keep the clock.”

“Roger.”

Twelve minutes later, the formation began a ninety-degree turn to the south. The entire air armada, minus tankers, was on a course toward the Libyan coast. Satherwaite pushed his throttles forward and the F-111 gathered speed.

Bill Satherwaite scanned the clock and the flight instruments. They were approaching the aerial gate where the attack preparations and profiles would begin. He noted his indicated air speed at true four hundred eighty knots and his altitude at twenty-five thousand feet. They were less than two hundred miles from the coast and headed dead-on for Tripoli. He heard a series of radio clicks, which he acknowledged in kind, and with the rest of his squadron began his descent.

Satherwaite was inclined to start the final checklists right then, but he knew that it was a little early, that it was possible to get yourself peaked too soon, and that was not a smart way to go into combat. He waited.

Wiggins cleared his throat, and over the interphone it sounded like a roar and gave them both a start. Wiggins said, “One hundred miles to feet dry,” using the aviator’s term for land.

“Roger.”

They both looked at the radar screen, but there was nothing coming out of Libya to greet and meet them. They leveled off at a mere three hundred feet above sea level.

“Eighty miles.”

“Okay, let’s get started on the attack review.”

“Ready.”

Satherwaite and Wiggins began the litanies of the checklist and reviews. Just as they were finished, Wiggins looked up and saw the lights of Tripoli straight ahead. “Tally-ho.” Satherwaite looked up, too, and nodded. He moved the hydraulic wing position lever, and the outstretched wings of the F-111 began to sweep further aft, like the wings of a hawk who’s spotted his meal on the ground.

Wiggins noticed that his heart had speeded up a little, and he realized he was very thirsty.

Satherwaite increased power again as the F-111s approached the coast in formation. Their run-in altitude remained at three hundred feet, and they’d been told there were no radio towers or skyscrapers that high to worry about. Their run-in speed was now five hundred knots. It was zero-one-fifty hours. In a few minutes, they’d break formation and head toward their individual targets in and around Tripoli.

Wiggins listened closely to the silence in his headset, then heard a warbling tone that indicated a radar lock-on.
Oh, shit
. He looked quickly at his radar homing and warning screen and said, with as cool a tone as he was able to fake, “SAM alert at one o’clock.”

Satherwaite nodded. “I guess they’re awake.”

“I’d like to kick that briefing officer in the nuts.”

“He’s not the problem and neither are those missiles.”

“Right ...” The F-111 was flying too low and fast for the missiles to score a hit, but now at three hundred feet, they were squarely in the killing zone of the anti-aircraft guns.

Wiggins watched two missiles rise up on his radar screen, and he hoped these Soviet-made pieces of junk really couldn’t track them at their speed and altitude. A few seconds later, Wiggins visually spotted the two missiles off their starboard side streaking upward into the night sky with their fiery tails burning red and orange.

Satherwaite commented dryly, “A waste of expensive rocket fuel.”

It was Wiggins’ turn not to reply. He was, in fact, finally speechless. In total contrast, Satherwaite was now chatty and was going on about the shape of the coastline and the city of Tripoli and other inconsequential matters. Wiggins wanted to tell him to shut up and fly.

They crossed over the coast and below them lay Tripoli. Satherwaite noted that despite the air raid in progress, the streetlights were still on. “Idiots.” He caught a glimpse of the Arch of Marcus Aurelius and said to Wiggins, “There’s your arch. Nine o’clock.”

But Wiggins had lost interest in history and concentrated on the moment. “Turn.”

Satherwaite peeled out of the formation and began his run-in toward Al Azziziyah. “How do you say that word?”

“What?”

“Where we’re going.”

Wiggins felt sweat forming around his neck as he divided his attention between the instruments, the radar, and the visuals outside his windscreen. “Holy shit! Triple-A!”

“Are you sure? I thought it was Al-something.”

Wiggins didn’t like or appreciate Satherwaite’s sudden cockpit humor. He snapped back, “Al Azziziyah. What fucking difference does it make?”

“Right,” Satherwaite replied. “Tomorrow they’ll call it rubble.” He laughed.

Wiggins laughed, too, despite the fact that he was scared out of his mind. Arcs of anti-aircraft tracers cut through the black night much too close to their aircraft. He couldn’t believe he was actually being shot at. This really sucked. But it was also a rush.

Satherwaite said, “Al Azziziyah, dead-on. Ready.”

“Rubble,” replied Wiggins. “Rubble, rubble, toil and trouble. Ready to release. Fuck you, Moammar.”

“Asad.”

Asad Khalil’s heart almost stopped. “Yes ... yes, over here.” He asked quietly, “Are you alone?”

“Of course.” Bahira walked toward his voice, then saw him kneeling on the prayer rug.

“Stay low,” he whispered hoarsely.

She crouched below the parapet as she moved toward him, then knelt on the prayer rug in front of him. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. But you are late.”

“I had to avoid the guards. The Great Leader—”

“Yes, I know.” Asad Khalil looked at Bahira in the moonlight. She was wearing the flowing white robe that was a young woman’s customary garment in the evenings, and she also wore her veil and scarf. She was three years older than he and had reached an age when most women in Libya were married or betrothed. But her father had turned down many suitors, and the most ardent of them had been exiled from Tripoli. Asad Khalil knew that if his own father were alive, the families would certainly have agreed to a marriage between Asad and Bahira. But though his father was a hero and a martyr, the fact was that he was dead and the Khalil family had little status except as favored pensioners of the Great Leader. Of course, there was a connection between the Great Leader and Asad’s mother, but that was a hidden sin and of no help.

They knelt facing each other and neither spoke. Bahira’s eyes went to the Koran lying at the corner of the rug, then she seemed to notice the rug itself. She stared at Asad, whose look seemed to say, “If we are to commit the sin of fornication, what difference does it make if we also commit a blasphemy?”

Bahira nodded in agreement to the silent understanding.

Bahira Nadir took the initiative and pulled aside the veil that covered her face. She smiled, but Khalil thought it was more a smile of embarrassment at being without her veil, less than a meter away from a man.

She slid the scarf off her head and unfastened her hair, which fell in long curly strands over her shoulders.

Asad Khalil took a deep breath and stared into Bahira’s eyes. She was beautiful, he thought, though he had little with which to compare. He cleared his throat and said to her, “You are very beautiful.”

She smiled, reached out and took his hands in hers.

Khalil had never held the hands of a woman and was surprised at how small and soft Bahira’s hands were. Her skin was warm, warmer than his, probably the result of her exertions in traveling the three hundred meters between her home and this place. He also noticed that her hands were dry, while his were moist. He moved closer to her on his knees and smelled now a flowered scent coming from her. He discovered as he moved that he was fully aroused.

Neither of them seemed to know what to do next. Finally, Bahira let go of his hands and began caressing his face. He did the same to her face. She moved closer to him and their bodies touched, then they embraced and he could feel her breasts beneath her robe. Asad Khalil was wild with desire, but a part of his brain was elsewhere—a primitive instinct was telling him to be alert.

Before he knew what was happening, Bahira had moved back and was unfastening her robe.

Khalil watched her and listened for signs of danger. If they were discovered now, they were dead. He heard her saying, “Asad. What are you waiting for?”

He looked at her kneeling before him. She was completely naked now and he stared at her breasts, then her pubic hair, then her thighs, and finally back at her face.

“Asad.”

He pulled his short tunic over his head, then slipped his pants and undershorts down to his ankles and kicked them off.

She stared at his face, her eyes avoiding his erect penis, but then her eyes glanced downward at him.

Asad didn’t know what to do next. He thought he would know—he understood the position they would assume, but he was not sure how to arrive at it.

Bahira again took the initiative and lay down on her back on the prayer mat, her garments beneath her head.

Asad nearly lunged forward and found himself on top of her and felt her firm breasts and warm skin beneath his own. He felt her legs parting and sensed the tip of his penis touching warm, wet flesh. In an instant, he was half inside her. She cried out softly in pain. He thrust further, past the resistance, and entered her fully. Before he could move, he felt her hips rise and fall, rise and fall, and between two heartbeats he released himself inside of her.

He lay motionless catching his breath, but she continued the rising and falling of her hips though Asad didn’t know why she continued after he was satisfied. She started to moan and breathe heavily, then began saying his name, “Asad, Asad, Asad ...”

He rolled off her and lay on his back looking at the night sky. The half-moon was rising in the east, the stars seemed dull over the lighted compound, a poor, pale imitation of the brilliant stars over the open desert.

“Asad.”

He did not answer. His mind could not yet comprehend what he had just done.

She moved closer to him so that their shoulders and legs were touching, but the desire was gone in him.

She said, “Are you angry?”

“No.” He sat up. “We should get dressed.”

She sat up also and put her head on his shoulder.

He wanted to move away from her, but he didn’t. Unhappy thoughts began to creep into his mind. What if she became pregnant? What if she wanted to do this again? The next time they would be caught for sure, or she would become pregnant. In either case, one or both of them might die. The law was not clear on some things, and it was usually the families that decided how the disgrace was to be dealt with. Knowing her father, he could imagine no mercy for either of them. For some reason that he couldn’t comprehend, he blurted out, “My mother has been with the Great Leader.”

Bahira did not reply.

Khalil was angry at himself for revealing this secret. He didn’t know why he had and didn’t know what he felt for this woman. He was dimly aware that the desire for her would return again and for that reason he knew he should be polite. Still, he wished he were anywhere else but here. He eyed his clothing at the far end of the prayer mat. He noticed, too, a dark stain on the prayer mat where she had lain.

Bahira put her arm around him and with her other hand stroked his thigh. She said, “Do you think we would be allowed to marry?”

“Perhaps.” But he didn’t think so. He glanced at her hand on his thigh, then noticed the blood on his penis. He realized he should have brought water for washing.

She said, “Will you speak to my father?”

“Yes,” he replied, but he didn’t know if he would. A marriage to Bahira Nadir, daughter of Captain Habib Nadir, would be a good thing, but it might be dangerous to ask. He wondered if the old women would examine her and find that she had lost her virginity. He wondered if she were pregnant. He wondered a lot of things, not least of all if he would go unpunished for this sin. He said, “We should go.”