The Trojan Sea (44 page)

“Hey, Doc,” Stuart said, looking into the hole, “I’ve got a dead moose we can bury there.”

Silva snorted. “We have our own sacred cows for that.”

“Let’s start walking,” Stuart said. The doctor shoved a water bottle into his medical bag and handed Stuart a walking stick.

Over the Straits of Florida

“Panda Two,” Seagrave radioed, “I have you in sight.”

“Cleared for contact,” the Viking pilot replied. A hose with a drogue basket fed out from the buddy refueling pack under the S-3A’s left wing as Seagrave moved into position. He barely had enough light to see and was thankful for the refueling light on the drogue. He retarded the throttles a hair and flew into the drogue, making contact on the first try. The old skills were still with him. The fuel transfer went smoothly, and he monitored the seven flight-refuel lights on the upper left console. One by one the lights went out. When the last one blinked off, he had a full load of fuel, including 4,260 pounds in his overwing external fuel tanks. He moved the refuel switch to normal and broke contact.

“Many thanks,” Seagrave radioed, climbing to thirty-five-thousand feet.

“Our pleasure,” the pilot answered. “Sorry we couldn’t clean your windscreen. By the way, our gear was active.”

Seagrave frowned. The “gear” was the Viking’s radar warning receiver, and “active” meant that the Cubans were painting them on a search radar. He took a deep breath. Time for the next, oh-so-critical step. He punched 133.7 into the radio and hit the transmit button. “Havana Control, Panda One with you at flight level three-five-oh, destination San Juan Airport, Puerto Rico.”

A woman with a heavy Spanish accent acknowledged the call.

Dallas

The clock’s blanking luminescent numbers read 5:00. L.J. gave up trying to sleep and crawled out of bed. She hadn’t slept a wink all night and was exhausted. But the conversation was still fresh and clear in her mind. RayTex’s chief legal counsel had called her after dinner with the news that the Department of Justice had reneged on all deals. They were back to square one. “Expect a search warrant first thing tomorrow morning,” the lawyer had warned.

L.J. pulled on a robe and sat on the edge of the bed.
First Lloyd, now this,
she thought.
Damn the bastards to hell!
She stood and walked to the French windows overlooking her garden. All the toys from the day care center were gone, and only the fence around the swimming pool was left as a reminder of the children who had played there. She was going to miss them. She hugged her arms to herself.
I should have seen this coming when the county enforced that ordinance forbidding businesses in private residences.
She wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep. But her relentless mind drove her on, forcing her to face the inevitability of the coming day.

“Expect a search warrant first thing tomorrow morning” echoed in her mind. Their strategy was obvious. Every time RayTex opened for business, the FBI would be there with a search warrant.

“Well, do it right,” she said to herself. She walked into her big closet and carefully selected the clothes she would wear.

Near Camagüey

Silva had his arm around Stuart as they hobbled down the road. “I think I’m bleeding,” Stuart said. The doctor helped him to a low tree, and they collapsed on the ground. For a moment neither said a word, breathing deeply. The light was rapidly improving, and Silva examined the bandage. His lips drew into a grim line, and he reached for his medical bag. He removed the bandage and cleaned the wound.

“The exercise makes it bleed,” he said. “It’s okay for now. But I don’t think you should move.”

“We may not have to,” Stuart said. He pointed behind the doctor. Stretching away from them into the early-morning light was a long strip of concrete.

Over Great Bahama Bank, the Caribbean

Seagrave punched at the GPS and highlighted the TRIP field. He pressed the enter button, and the number 250 flashed at him. He had flown 250 nautical miles since taking off. “Time, gentlemen,” he muttered. He checked the fuel gauges. He still had a thousand pounds remaining in each overwing tank, and all the others were full. “Very nice,” he said to himself. He punched up Guard, the emergency frequency, on his radio and made the announcement. “Pan, Pan, Pan. This is Panda One on Guard.” He worked to put the right amount of panic in his words. “I have an emergency and am descending at this time, heading for Exuma International.” Exuma International was on Great Exuma Island in the Bahamas. “Repeat, I have an emergency and am diverting to Exuma International.”

He turned to the northeast, away from Cuba, racked the throttles to flight idle, and nosed over. He was going in the wrong direction but would be on the deck and below radar coverage after traveling less than fifteen miles. Not a long diversion, he reasoned, if the Cubans bought it and he disappeared from their radar screens. He scanned the instruments as he plummeted earthward. His radio squawked with a heavy Spanish accent asking him to state the nature of his emergency. He ignored it. With nothing else to do, he reached out and wound the clock.

Passing through two thousand feet, he broke his rate of descent and leveled off a hundred feet above the ocean. He turned due south, toward Cuba, and set his airspeed at 340 knots. “Might as well save some fuel,” he told himself. “No need to hurry. At least not yet.” He scanned the sky, looking for aircraft. Cuba was seventy nautical miles on the nose, twelve minutes’ flying time. The ocean was gray below him as the sun cracked the horizon. Soon it would be a bright blue, and the Lightning’s dark gray paint would stand out like a harsh shadow. But for now it was the perfect camouflage. The minutes passed. He glanced inside the cockpit at his GPS—thirteen miles to the coast. Then it was only another five minutes to the highway strip.

Again he searched the sky. He coasted in over some mangrove swamps and across the western end of Cayo Sabinal Island. He turned to the southwest. That was also part of the plan. If anyone saw him, they would assume he was heading for the fighter base at Camagüey. The land was flatter than he expected, and he squeaked it down another twenty-five feet. His eyes swept the sky in a constant search, looking for the bandits he assumed were out there. He wasn’t happy when two dots appeared at ten o’clock high. Just maybe they were heading for the base and not out looking for him. But it was an assumption he wasn’t willing to make. He nudged the throttles up, touching 420 knots, and altered course, all part of the plan. A quick glance at the fuel gauges for the external tanks—almost empty. Get rid of them before he was jumped and had to maneuver. A glimpse at the GPS to confirm he was on course and well clear of the base. His left hand automatically lifted the cover guarding the external-fuel-tank jettison switches. “Damn!” The two dots had become a pair of MiG-21s, and they were turning onto him, ready to slice down. Shanker had told him how difficult the small MiG-21 was to see, but he never imagined an engagement could develop so quickly. He started to reef into the lead MiG but hesitated. The MiG pilot wasn’t turning as aggressively as he should, and that was puzzling.

Seagrave hardened up his turn a little as his eyes padlocked on the MiG. Although he was less than a hundred feet above the ground and traveling at over seven hundred feet a second, he had no trouble maintaining a level turn. The MiG’s nose seemed to wobble as the pilot made constant corrections. “Okay,” Seagrave muttered. “So you’re afraid of the ground.” He almost smiled as the MiG slowly closed to a firing solution. His left hand flicked out and hit the dump switch, opening the rear end of the overwing tanks. Fuel streamed into his slipstream. “Reheats,” Seagrave said as he shoved the throttles full forward. The afterburners cracked and lit the raw fuel in the slipstream, sending a torch eighty feet behind the Lightning. At the same time Seagrave hardened up the turn, increasing his G load, and hit the overwing jettison buttons. The two tanks separated cleanly, tumbling up and backward, barely clearing the vertical stabilizer. They came together like two hands clapping and fire-balled right in the face of the MiG pilot. Seagrave was never sure what happened next. Either the tanks hit the MiG, causing it to explode, or the pilot maneuvered to avoid the fireball and crashed into the ground.

But it didn’t matter. “Sorry for the bad day,” Seagrave grunted. He rolled out and looked for the other MiG. But it was gone. “Stalwart fellow,” he muttered. He glanced at the GPS and turned toward the highway airstrip. Less than two miles on the nose. He racked the throttles aft and climbed to a thousand feet as he hit the speed brakes to slow down.

He overflew the field as he decelerated to approach speed. As soon as his airspeed touched 250 knots, he dumped the flaps and gear. He turned on a short downwind to scan the highway. The concrete was clean, and he could see the parking shelter at the far end. He circled to land and touched down. He popped the drag chute and got on the brakes, dragging the fighter to a slow roll. He shut down the number-two engine as he taxied into the shelter, the drag chute bumping along on the ground behind him. Once inside the shelter, he jettisoned the drag chute and let the cable drop to the ground underneath the tail.

He raised the canopy and looked around for Stuart. But Seagrave was totally alone. He scanned the highway and sky. Both were clear.
Are they still looking for me?
he thought. “Come on, Mike,” he urged under his breath. “Where are you?” He glanced at his watch: 6:42 local time, twenty-two minutes after sunrise. Again he looked around and scanned the sky. Nothing. “Time to go,” he told himself. “But who in their right mind is out and about this early when fools are shooting up the countryside?” He glanced at the box of antibiotics still strapped onto the seat next to him. “Besides, someone needs this, and you’re quite safe for the moment.” His instincts told him to take off. “Don’t be stupid. Make a decision.”

He did.

Near Camagüey

“I think we should leave,” Silva said, still not sure what to make of it all. He was standing in the open, staring down the long highway. The sight of a jet fighter flashing overhead and then circling to land was so far beyond anything in his experience that it had created sensory overload.

Stuart staggered to his feet, feeling dizzy. He still couldn’t believe it. At first he had thought it was a MiG. But the moment the aircraft had circled and he saw the aircraft’s planform, he had recognized the Lightning. And when it flew past them as it landed, there was absolutely no doubt that Chalky Seagrave was at the controls. “It’s okay,” he assured Silva. They stood there and waited for the Lightning to taxi back.

“Where is it?” Silva asked.

“I don’t know.” Stuart squinted, trying to make out the jet in the distance. “I think he’s turning around.” But the jet never reemerged on the highway. “Can you see anything?” he asked.

The doctor shook his head. He stared at the tree for a moment. Then he quickly pulled himself up into the branches and climbed as high as he could. “I can see him. He’s stopped in that shelter or whatever it is next to the highway.”

“Oh, shit,” Stuart moaned, finally figuring it all out. “The concrete is too narrow to turn around. We have to go to him.”

“It’s a long way, maybe four kilometers.”

“Two and a half miles,” Stuart said, putting it in terms he understood. He picked up his walking stick and hobbled out onto the concrete. “You coming?” he asked.

Seagrave was starting to sweat. He pulled off his helmet and unstrapped. He reached for the canopy bow and pulled himself up, standing in the seat to gain every bit of height he could. He squinted, looking down the highway, and could barely make out two figures walking toward him. His instincts told him one of them was Stuart. Then the sound of a low-flying jet caught his attention, and he automatically looked up. But all he could see were rays of light streaming through the cracks in the shelter’s roof. The sound grew louder as a shadow passed over the ground. The jet pulled up and turned away, disappearing in the sky. But even at that distance Seagrave had recognized the distinctive shape of a swing-wing MiG-23, the fighter known to NATO as the Flogger. It was a formidable opponent, and he wanted nothing to do with it. He looked at the two figures in the far distance. “Get the thumb out,” he urged.

“Señor,”
a voice said behind him. Seagrave almost fell out of the cockpit as he whirled around.

The sight of the second jet fighter was too much for the doctor. He turned around and ran. Stuart watched him for a moment. “Can’t say I blame you,” Stuart muttered to his back. He headed for the waiting plane, his steps dragging and unsure. He felt something warm, and he looked down. His pant leg was soaked in blood. “Hey, Doc!” he called. “I sprung a leak.” But he doubted if Silva heard him. He took a few more steps and collapsed to the ground. “This ain’t gonna work,” he announced. He was on the verge of passing out.

“Do not give up yet, my friend.” It was Silva. “I lost my nerve for a few moments.” He bent over Stuart and examined the wound. But lacking an operating room, there wasn’t much he could do. He applied a fresh bandage and then wrapped his belt over it. He formed a loop in the belt and stuck a small stick through it. He twisted it down, making a tourniquet. The bleeding stopped. He helped Stuart to his feet.

The four boys stared up at the pilot, who was still standing in the cockpit. “Well, gentlemen,” Seagrave said to them, “what do we have here?” He estimated the oldest was maybe ten or eleven years of age, the youngest seven or eight. The boys just looked at him. “I see we have a failure to communicate.”

“¿Americano?
” one of the boys asked, finally finding his voice.

Seagrave shook his head as an idea formed in the back of his mind. He pointed at the unfamiliar roundel on the fuselage beneath the cockpit. “Russian,” he said. They weren’t convinced. What name had the general used?
“Defensa Antiaérea y Fuerza Aérea,”
he said, looking hopefully down at them. They babbled in Spanish, at last falling for the story. They had heard too many confusing stories about how the Russian Bear had been their friend and was now poor like them. Besides, the plane was definitely not like those flown by the Americans. One of them pointed at the drag chute lying on the ground underneath the tail. “That would be too much to hope for,” Seagrave muttered. He made a rolling motion with his hands and arms. The boys pounced on the chute and quickly rolled it up. It took two of them to hold it up for his inspection. “
A presento
,” he said, pointing to them.

The boys were beside themselves as they talked. Seagrave checked his watch. He had been on the ground over an hour. He looked at the two figures struggling down the highway and estimated they were still a half mile away, but he could see that one was definitely limping and supported by the other. How much longer did he have? Maybe he could speed things along. “Gentlemen,” he called, gaining the boys’ undivided attention. He pointed down the highway at the two figures and made an underhand waving motion. “Go help them.” No response. “Help?” he looked hopeful. One of the boys got it and shouted. They bolted out of the shelter and ran to the men.

The youngest skidded to a stop and ran back. He pointed to his chest. “Me fighter pilot.”

Dallas

It was business as usual, more or less, when L.J. arrived at RayTex’s offices shortly after seven o’clock that morning. The computers were all up and running, and Shugy had made coffee, waiting for the staff to arrive. “My, you look nice today,” Shugy said. “I’ve never seen that dress before.”

Normally L.J. wore a business suit with a skirt or pants to work. But this morning she was wearing a very pretty, exquisitely feminine dress. “I was saving it for a special occasion,” she said, thinking of how Marie Antoinette or Mary, Queen of Scots must have felt on the last day of her life. She walked into her office to wait for her executioners.

Near Camagüey

The sun was well above the horizon as the heat started to build. Seagrave checked his watch. He had been waiting in the cockpit for over two hours. “Come on,” he muttered. Outside, the doctor and four boys were half carrying Stuart as they covered the last few feet to the shelter. “Good show,” Seagrave called when they finally made it. The two men collapsed to the ground. “What kept you?” the pilot asked, almost conversationally.

Stuart’s face was bathed in sweat, obviously not from the heat. “We hit a moose hole,” he said.

“I see,” Seagrave replied, not understanding at all. “Well, perhaps it’s time you came aboard.”

“How?” Stuart asked. The cockpit was almost ten feet above the ground and there were no recessed handholds in the fuselage, even if he had been strong enough.

“A bit dodgy,” Seagrave allowed. “If the doctor can get you up high enough, you can step on the refueling probe and I can pull you in.” Silva translated for the boys, explaining what they had to do. They surrounded Stuart and helped him to his feet while Silva got on his knees. Stuart was so weak from loss of blood that the boys had to hold him while he stepped on the doctor’s shoulders. The doctor slowly stood while the boys propped Stuart up, holding him against the fuselage. Finally, Stuart was able to step onto the refueling probe as Seagrave grabbed his shirt and pulled, dragging him into the cockpit. A trail of blood dripped down the side of the fuselage.

“Very good,” Seagrave panted. He passed the box of antibiotics down. The sound of a jet passing overhead deafened them. “Bloody hell. The bastard’s back.”

Dallas

Tom Fine, the U.S. Attorney, arrived at exactly eight with a large team of FBI agents. He presented a search warrant to Shugy with a curt “I think you’ll find everything is in order.”

“Please,” Shugy replied, “may I see your identification cards?” He ignored her and set the team to work. Shugy buzzed L.J. with the news that the FBI was in the building. But L.J. was on the phone talking to her lawyer. Shugy hung up and asked Tom if he would like some coffee. Again he ignored her.

The FBI was very thorough that morning and stripped the offices bare, taking all the computers and every shred of paper, file, record, and address book they could find. When they were finished, L.J. walked through the offices and sent everyone home. She knew when she was defeated.

Near Camagüey

Stuart was strapped in, his helmet on and plugged in to the oxygen and intercom. Silva was still standing beneath the cockpit, clutching the box. “You must release the tourniquet about every twenty minutes to let the blood flow. Then tighten it back down.”

“Now?” Seagrave asked.

“Yes, now.”

Seagrave did as the doctor ordered, and blood gushed down Stuart’s leg, pooling on the floorboards. Then he retightened the tourniquet, and the blood slowed to a trickle. “I don’t know about that,” he said to himself.

“I’ll be okay,” Stuart mumbled.

“Time to go,” Seagrave said. “Doctor,” he called, “please look outside, and if you see that jet fighter, give me a thumbs-down sign.” Silva nodded and told the boys what he wanted. They all ran outside to search the sky as Seagrave began the start-engine sequence. He quickly brought the engines on-line and did a cockpit check. He glanced at the doctor and the boys, who were standing outside the shelter, their eyes scanning the sky. He lowered the canopy and taxied forward into the full sun, then turned onto the concrete to line up. He paused to salute the doctor and boys. They all had their hands out, thumbs down.

Dallas

The top two floors of the Fountain Plaza Building were eerily quiet when Ann Silton’s office called.

But Shugy refused to put the call through until Ann was on the line and not her assistant. It was all gamesmanship, but Shugy was a fierce gatekeeper when it came to defending her employer. Like most bureaucrats, Ann was very brave on the phone. “L.J.,” she said, “so good to speak to you again. I just wanted to let you know that the injunctions against offshore drilling until all ships and rigs are certified environmentally safe are back in place. I’m afraid your three ships are grandfathered only through today. They must stop all operations after midnight and return to port for certification or be subject to heavy fines.”

“Thank you for your concern,” L.J. replied.

“There is one more thing,” Ann said, triumph in her voice.

Near Camagüey

Seagrave shoved the throttles full forward. The afterburners cracked, and the Lightning rapidly accelerated down the narrow highway. The nose gear lifted at 90 knots, and at 150 Seagrave moved the stick smoothly rearward. The Lightning came unglued from the ground at 180 knots. Seagrave snapped the gear up and hugged the ground as they accelerated. “Where are you?” he shouted. He set the Lightning on its tail and climbed straight up at. 9 Mach. He looked back, desperate to get a visual on the MiG he knew was in the area. “Goddamn!” he roared. Behind him a MiG-23 Flogger was strafing the highway as the doctor and four boys ran for cover. The shelter where he had been parked only moments before exploded in flames. Since he was in front of the Flogger, there was no doubt the pilot had seen him and had chosen to go after the people on the ground. “
I’m
the fucking target!” He ruddered the Lightning over to turn into the Flogger.

Dallas

L.J. dangled the phone by its cord from her fingertips. But she could still hear Ann’s voice. “We know who made the videotape. I believe that the FBI wants to have a few words with you about that. And a check is in the mail reimbursing you for my wardrobe. Thank you for the loan. It was most kind.”

“You’re most welcome,” L.J. said. “And I do believe that was
two
more things.” She hung up without waiting for a reply and walked to the big window overlooking Dallas. She loved the way the buildings rose majestically out of the flat prairie, challenging the sky. She sighed, recalling what her lawyer had told her. Without a deal with the Department of Justice, RayTex was history.

“So close.” She looked at the big whiteboard where she had originally conceived the Trojan Sea. The irony of it all struck her. She had only managed to deceive herself. Marsten had warned her off, and even her subconscious had seen through Steiner’s Seismic Double Reflection. But she wanted to believe and had convinced herself otherwise. Now the board was wiped clean, like RayTex. “But I had to try,” she said aloud. At least the government wouldn’t get the company, and BP would take care of her employees.

She stood at the window for the last time.

Near Camagüey

A fighter pilot lives and dies by a few very basic truths and high on that list is “Know the opposition.” Unfortunately, Seagrave knew what he was facing. The MiG-23 Flogger could outaccelerate and, thanks to its swing wing, outturn the Lightning. It didn’t help that the Flogger was armed with a twenty-three-millimeter, five-barreled Gatling gun in a belly pack and probably two air-to-air missiles. All Seagrave had were two AIM-9 training missiles. The seeker heads could track a target, but the missiles could not guide or detonate. All he could do was jettison them by launching them off the rails. Equally high on the list of truisms was “Honor the threat.” And that was exactly what Seagrave had in mind, provided he wasn’t flying against a Cuban version of Baron von Richthofen. He armed up his missiles for jettison as he arced down onto the Flogger.

The Flogger pilot saw the Lightning and pulled off straight ahead as he swept his aircraft’s wings back. He started to climb as Seagrave hardened up his diving turn to cross behind the Flogger. For a brief moment the Lightning’s nose was in front of the Flogger’s, and Seagrave mashed his pickle button. The left missile leaped off the rail and, as programmed, went ballistic. It streaked across the Flogger’s nose. The Flogger pilot saw the missile, honored the threat, and did the right thing. He turned into the Lightning and pulled up even harder. The two aircraft came together head-on, the Lightning going down, the Flogger up. Just as they merged, Seagrave rolled left and brought the Flogger aboard, canopy to canopy, with less than fifty feet separation. He was fully aware that the Flogger’s Gatling gun was firing at him. “He’s good,” Seagrave growled.