The Trojan Sea (5 page)

“I have you in the binocs,” the tower radioed. “Your undercarriage appears down and locked.”

“How encouraging,” Seagrave answered. “But I still have a red.” He turned final and again gently yawed the aircraft, hoping gravity might perform some magic. It did, and the offending light turned to green. Then it blinked red to green and back. “Do make up your mind,” Seagrave groused. “No need to amuse the spectators with a gear-up landing.” As if on cue, the light turned steady green. The runway, finally clear of the demonstrators, loomed up in front of them. “Crossing in now, one seventy-five, ease back gently, gently, one fifty-five, one fifty, ah, there we are.” It was a picture-perfect landing. He eased the nosewheel onto the runway. “Brake chute now, Liz.”

Her hand flashed out and pulled the handle, straight and smooth as he had told her. The chute popped out from the base of the vertical stabilizer and snapped open. He tapped the brakes, depleting the last of the pressure accumulator. They stopped on the runway, still going straight ahead. Seagrave’s right hand danced on the console. “HP fuel cocks off.” The engines died of fuel starvation and spun down. Seagrave keyed the radio. “Cranthorpe tower, Lightning One is down. We’ll need a tow back to dispersal. Thanks for the help. Good show all round.” He peeled off his oxygen mask and smiled to Liz. “Ground crew will have to use a hand pump to open the canopy. I hope you don’t mind waiting.”

Liz reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand was warm. “That was the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You were brilliant. And that entitles you to say the three magic words: ‘Cheated death again.’”

“Cheated death again,” she repeated.

The car carrying the three CAA officials reached the Lightning at the same time as the ground crew. The crew piled out of the van and quickly installed ground locks on the landing gear. Once the gear was secure, two men fitted a hand pump to the socket on the left side of the fuselage, just aft of the wing’s trailing edge. One man pumped furiously, and the canopy slowly opened while Shanker and Eric climbed out of the service van. Shanker gave Seagrave a thumbs-up. “You did good,” he shouted.

The CAA headman jumped out of his car, his face bright red, and started shouting the moment Seagrave climbed down the boarding ladder. “This aircraft does not carry a certificate to fly, nor were you authorized to fly!”

Seagrave ignored him and helped Liz climb down, her legs still a little weak. “Are you okay?” Seagrave asked.

“Perfect,” she answered.

Seagrave walked around the jet with Shanker and Eric, examining it for damage. One of the ground crew was looking in the left main gear well. “Here’s the problem. A gland let go when you retracted the gear. Never happen if the system were exercised regularly.”

“It’s the same with us,” Shanker said. “You got to keep ’em flying once or twice a week or they turn into hangar queens.”

The CAA headman was livid with rage as he trailed after Seagrave. “What’s your name? What are your qualifications? Who gave you permission to operate this aircraft? Why did you take off? What speed were you going when you flew down the runway? What was your height? What do you have to say?”

Seagrave gave him a sad look. “Which question to answer first? Ah, height. Six feet three inches in my socks. Question one: Robin Seagrave. Question two: eight thousand hours on fighters. Question three: your chaps. Question four: It was either take off or kill half the crowd on the runway. Not a long time to make that decision, and I don’t recall hearing any input from the CAA at that particular moment, which would have been most helpful. Question five: six hundred knots. That’s six hundred ninety miles per hour for you nonflying types.”

The CAA man sputtered. “That’s supersonic!”

Seagrave shook his head in resignation, his suspicions about the CAA fully confirmed. “Don’t you consider it strange that no one heard a sonic boom?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Try seven hundred sixty miles per hour at sea level for Mach One. What was I saying? Oh, yes, question six: I’ve already answered that, but if you mean altitude, two hundred feet.”

Seagrave leaned into the CAA official, his eyes cold blue steel. “As to what I have to say? Are you naturally thick, or did you take a course? Talk about failed common sense. If you, as the CAA official in charge, had done your work properly, you would have known a protest was planned and exercised proper crowd control or canceled the taxi demonstration.”

Shanker had to add his two cents’ worth. “I saw the CAA talking to the demonstrators about two hours earlier in the parking lot.”

The CAA official whirled on Shanker. “Your contribution was not called for.”

Shanker gave him an expressive shrug that was clearly a “fuck you” message.

“Offhand,” Seagrave said, rolling in for a second strafing pass on the CAA, “it appears that your lack of appreciation of the situation allowed those bloody stupid demonstrators to place a large number of people in danger, the least of whom were my passenger and myself. In fact, I plan to raise the issue with my MP.”

The CAA official blanched at the thought of Seagrave’s MP, or member of Parliament, questioning the CAA in the House of Commons. Now it was his turn to attack. “I want this aircraft towed to the nearest hangar and salvaged immediately. It will never fly again.” He stormed away without waiting for a reply.

“Have a nice day,” Seagrave called. He took a deep breath and turned to the ground crew. “I’m afraid I cocked it up. Looks like the end for the old girl.”

“Maybe,” Shanker said, “I can help.”

Miami, Florida

Eduardo Pinar was the first to arrive at Café Martí, a sidewalk café in the heart of Little Havana. He found a table at the back and collapsed into the chair, his slender body spent from the exertion of walking two blocks in the early-September afternoon sun. As always, he was oblivious to the noise and hustle around him. Just another dreamy young man with a droopy mustache and limpid, brown eyes going nowhere and without ambition.

A waiter approached and made small talk as he waited for Eduardo to order. “The heat has finally broken,” the waiter said in Spanish. “Soon we’ll see the tourists again.”

“Will we?” Eduardo replied in English. “Espresso and a newspaper,
por favor
.”

“Cuba Libre?”
the waiter asked, not that it made any difference.
Cuba Libre
was the only paper allowed in the café, which was frequented by equal parts anti-Castro exiles, Cuban spies watching the exiles, and FBI agents watching both groups and trolling for recruits among either. For the waiter the only question was which group Eduardo currently belonged to. Allegiances changed almost daily, but he’d sort it out.

A skinny little woman Eduardo knew only as Carita arrived at the same time as the espresso and newspaper. Like Eduardo, she ordered a small cup of the potent brew that could etch a sidewalk. “Where’s Luis and Francisco?” she demanded in English.

“Coming,” Eduardo replied. He didn’t like Carita, but Luis had insisted she join the group.

“Have you heard about the others?” she asked.

“I heard they were arrested and are in jail.”

“They’ll die there,” she said, unconsciously lapsing into Spanish. “The bastards will execute them in their cells.”

“Were we betrayed?” Eduardo asked.

“Of course we were,” she snapped. “How else—” She fell silent as the waiter returned with her espresso. When he left, she continued. “Our country will never be free.” She fought back her tears. “Not in our lifetime.”

Eduardo was moved by her tears and reached across the table, covering her hand with his. His eyes flashed with passion, and he spoke in Spanish. “Do not lose faith. For every one of us they cut down, four more will arise in his place. We will free our country of this evil, this abomination to God and humanity. Our children will return to their homeland and not have to live under the cruel tyranny that has driven us into exile.” He stopped talking when Luis Barrios and Francisco Martínez arrived. Like Eduardo, they were in their mid-twenties.

Luis Barrios, the group’s leader, slumped in a chair and mumbled a few words of deep despair for their jailed comrades. Then he talked about their struggle to win the freedom of their country. Slowly his own words renewed his spirit and filled him with purpose. The movement was not dead, and as the Semtex explosive had been delivered, they had work to do.

Eduardo called for their bill.

The waiter scoffed at the small tip Eduardo left behind and scooped it off the table in disgust. A tall, very pretty woman with dark hair sitting at the next table caught his attention. She often came to the café, always alone, and most of the waiters thought she was either an FBI or a CIA agent. But as he always pointed out, beauty attracted attention, and that was bad for an agent. Personally, he thought she was attracted to Latin men or just practicing her Spanish. Perhaps both. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” Sophia James said in passable Spanish. “Are they really freedom fighters?”

“Them?” the waiter said in disgust. “They’re from Puerto Rico, not Cuba.”
She couldn’t hear the accents. At least she’ll leave a large tip.

She did.

RAF Cranthorpe

Inside the hangar, Shanker and Seagrave sat in deck chairs nursing monumental hangovers while Eric played in the Lightning’s cockpit. The boy’s dark blond hair kept bobbing out of sight as he fought his version of the Battle of Britain. Outside, a cleanup crew of volunteers swept up the trash from Saturday’s air show. “The bastards,” Seagrave kept grumbling over and over. “She’s too good a bird to turn into scrap.” He fell into a pit of deep remorse. “I should have mowed the bastards down.”

“A kill is a kill,” Shanker muttered, each word a pile driver of agony spiking his headache.

A silver Bentley drove up and stopped in front of the hangar. The chauffeur popped out and held the rear door open. Prince Reza Ibn Abdul Turika climbed out, stretching his tall frame. Seagrave stood and walked, a bit unsteadily, over to meet the Saudi prince. They knew each other from the time Seagrave had trained Saudi pilots in the Lightning. “So, my friend,” Turika said, “you have problems.”

Seagrave told the prince about the unauthorized flight and how, in retaliation, the CAA had ordered the Lightning to be salvaged for scrap. “All my fault,” he admitted. “I should have killed the fools on the runway.”

Turika walked around the jet. “Very good,” he admitted, admiring the immaculate restoration work. “You did this all with private contributions?” Seagrave quoted the figures in pounds sterling and the estimated number of man-hours that had been volunteered. “It sounds like a labor of love,” Turika said. Eric stuck his head out of the cockpit and quickly climbed out. Seagrave introduced Eric and then Shanker, telling the prince how Shanker had flown F-4 Phantoms. Turika was immediately interested. “Did you know a Colonel Anthony Waters?” Turika asked.

A rueful look crossed Shanker’s face. “Yeah. I knew Muddy. They don’t get any better. I was with him at Ras Assanya. I was evacuated out just before the base was overrun.”

“Muddy was a good friend,” Turika said. “And Jack Locke.”

“I knew Jack,” Shanker said. The two men shook hands, bound by a common tie to two legends of the U.S. Air Force.

“Well,” Turika said, “Chalky here tells me you can help with our dilemma.”

“I belong to a group in the states called the Gray Eagles. We restore warbirds and keep ’em flying for air shows and demonstrations. We’re long on volunteers and short on money, but we can take care of the Lightning, providing it was a donation and transported to the States.”

“And provided,” Turika said, “the CAA doesn’t turn it into scrap.” He studied the Lightning for a moment. “This was the first Lightning I ever flew. Chalky was my instructor. Do you remember that?”

Seagrave nodded. “Like yesterday. Technically it still belongs to your government and is on loan to us.”

Turika exhaled loudly. “The ownership is a confused issue. My government wants nothing to do with it.”

“But the CAA doesn’t know that,” Seagrave said. Turika fell silent, considering his options.

“Gramps,” Eric said, “if the Gray Eagles get it, I can wash it and keep it clean. I got lots of friends who’ll help me.” A thought came to him. “You know what would be real neat?” He was so excited he couldn’t contain his twelve-year-old enthusiasm. “We can paint it with Saudi markings, just like when Prince Turika and Commander Seagrave flew it.”

“I doubt if the Saudis would allow that,” Seagrave said. He looked at Turika. “But there would be a certain poetic justice, since your country has kept it alive.”

Turika smiled at the boy, recalling when his sons had been the same age. But they had all grown up, and not one had followed in his footsteps. “Do you want to be a fighter pilot?” Eric nodded vigorously, a big grin on his face. Turika turned to Shanker. “You’re a very lucky man to have such a grandson. Let’s make something happen, for his sake.” He paused, remembering the past. “And for Muddy Waters and Jack Locke.” He looked at Seagrave. “Chalky, do you know anyone in your government who might be sympathetic?”

“Miss Liz will help,” Eric blurted out. Just as quickly he added, “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Seagrave murmured.

“Sorry, Chalky,” Liz said, “but I don’t have the authority to do anything.” She gazed at the Lightning and recalled her short flight from the day before. “What a shame. It is a magnificent machine.”

“What if we submitted a letter returning the Lightning to its rightful owner?” Seagrave asked.

“I thought the RAF Cranthorpe Memorial Display owned it,” she replied.

“It is my understanding,” Turika said, “that it is on loan from my government, along with all the equipment, tools, spare parts, and extra engines.”

Liz understood exactly what the men were suggesting. “Well, if you submitted the letter through my office…”

“And if you didn’t forward it for a week or so,” Seagrave added.

“I had planned on taking leave starting tomorrow,” Liz said. “I’d be gone a week. It would be on my desk waiting for my return.”

“And if I happened to take possession of the Lightning during that time,” Turika said.

“Yes, I see,” Liz said. “You could move it at your discretion.” She warmed to the idea. “Actually, if it was out of the country, the problem goes away, for which I personally would be most grateful—in my official capacity, of course.”

“What about an export license to clear customs?” Seagrave asked.

“No license is required for exporting salvage,” Liz replied. “Just a declaration and estimate of value to pay customs.”

Shanker shook his head. “It doesn’t look like salvage to me.”

“What does salvage look like?” Eric asked.

“I imagine that customs doesn’t really care what it looks like,” Turika said, “as long as it is declared salvage and they have an estimate of value.”

“I can provide that,” Liz said.

“We can’t ask you to do that, Liz,” Seagrave said. “You’re taking too much of a chance declaring it salvage, giving us an estimate, and then sitting on the letter while we abscond with the goods.”

“Not to worry,” she replied. “Since when has one bureaucracy talked to another?” She gave them a radiant smile. “Cheated death again, yes?”

The Pentagon

Colonel Roger “Ramjet” Priestly was not a happy man as he reread the lengthy memo from the secretary of defense’s office. He was unhappy because his name was not on it and Lieutenant Colonel Michael E. Stuart’s name was. He threw down the memo in disgust and buzzed his secretary. “Peggy, I want Stuart in here on the double.” He didn’t wait for a reply before breaking the connection. He checked his watch. Exactly forty-five seconds later Stuart presented himself in Ramjet’s office. Peggy had warned him, and not even his glasses could hide his worry. Ramjet threw the memo at Stuart. “I suppose you’ve already seen this?”

Stuart scanned the memo. “No, sir. This is all news to me.”

Ramjet came out of his chair, his palms flat against his desk, his arms rigid, and leaned forward. “In a pig’s ass! This has got your pecker tracks all over it. Tell me a major initiative coming from the National Security Council and forwarded to me from the Sec Def, that directs”—he grabbed the memo and jabbed a forefinger at the opening paragraph to quote—“‘A comprehensive review of the Strategic Petroleum Reserve to include movement and distribution affecting defense commitments’ isn’t tied to your tail.” His face turned beet red.

Stuart tried to be rational. “We do this type of thing all the time, sir. I don’t see the problem.”

Ramjet fell back in his chair. “The problem is that I’m totally out of the loop. It looks like I was asleep at the switch. From now on you will back-brief me after every meeting you attend. Also you will submit nothing, and I mean nothing, without my signing off on it first.”

Stuart tried to explain. “Any top-to-bottom review is going to involve the heavy hitters. I’m just one of the troops buried on some subcommittee doing the legwork.”

“Remember who you work for and you won’t have a problem. Forget where your first loyalty is and I’ll be the one who buries you. Do you understand everything I’ve said?” Stuart nodded. “Good,” Ramjet said. “One more thing: I’ll hang you out to dry if you ever make an end run around me like this again. Dismissed.”

Stuart decided that protesting his innocence was a waste of time, and he hurried out of the colonel’s office.
Maybe Hurricane Andrea wasn’t so bad after all,
he thought.

Peggy Redman waved a blue memo slip, stopping him before he could escape. “First meeting this afternoon,” she told him.

He skidded to a halt. “I was lucky to get out of there alive. He hates my guts, and I don’t know why.”

“He hates himself,” Peggy replied. “He doesn’t need a reason.” She sighed. “I’ve seen it before. It’s very sad.”

“Not when you’re the target,” Stuart groused. He read the memo and let out a groan. “The meeting’s at the NSC across the river. He’s not going to like this.” The NSC was the National Security Council, and across the river meant the other side of the Potomac and the Old Executive Office Building across the street from the White House. For Ramjet Priestly that was much too close to the president. Stuart had a distinct image of being sent
up
the river and not
across
it.

“I’ll tell him,” Peggy said.

He gave her his best grin. “Thanks. I owe you.”

Peggy made a note and watched him go. She picked up the phone and dialed a friend in the NSC. “Gloria, it’s Peggy. Lieutenant Colonel Mike Stuart will be at the meeting. Put in a good word for him, okay?” She listened for a moment. “You’ll like him. He’s one of the good guys.”

Stuart was the only uniform on the third floor of the Old Executive Office Building, and he felt like a fish out of water. But that was typical of the Turner administration with its deliberate muting of the armed services’ presence in the nation’s capital. Although the president, Madeline O’Keith Turner, preferred to keep the military in the background, she was not hostile to the Department of Defense and trusted her military advisers. It had been that way since the Okinawa crisis, when her own party had turned against her and only the generals had stood firmly behind their commander in chief.
*

Stuart found the conference room and walked in. The table was arranged with name cards and handouts at each seat, and flowers, the trademark of the Turner administration, were in the center. It all made him think of a formal banquet. Stuart glanced at the civilian sitting next to him and then his name card. General something, he couldn’t quite read the last name. He was gray-headed, hunch-shouldered, and totally nondescript. “Colonel Stuart,” the general said, “we’re supposed to wear civvies on this side of the river.”

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t know. It won’t happen again.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Colonel Roger Priestly, the chief of ILSX.”

“I’ll speak to him.”

Stuart suppressed a groan. That was all he needed. He automatically stood with everyone else and at first couldn’t see who entered the room. He caught his breath when he saw Mazana Kamigami Hazelton, the national security adviser.

“Please be seated,” the national security adviser said. She remained standing while the committee shuffled into their seats. It was the first time Stuart had seen her in person. She was petite, very short—less than five feet—and beautiful. Her delicate features reflected the best of her Hawaiian and Japanese heritages. Her exquisitely tailored business suit and diamond engagement ring with its matching wedding band shouted wealth, while her last name, Hazelton, signaled power and influence. Mazie, as she liked to be called by her friends, carefully cultivated her image as the administration’s Dragon Lady to tame Washington’s willful, and often obstinate, power brokers. In the rarefied air of the nation’s capital, she was recognized as Madeline Turner’s staunchest advocate and a force to be reckoned with. She could also be a very kind and supporting friend.

“Thank you for coming,” Mazie began. “Before we start, why don’t we go around the room and everyone introduce themselves?” It was quickly done, and Stuart was shaken. Some of the most influential names in the capital were seated at the table, and he was a tadpole, a small fry, or something equally insignificant. He tried not to look uncomfortable.

“President Turner,” Mazie said, “has asked for a complete review of the Strategic Petroleum Reserve and is very concerned about how it impacts on our war-fighting capability. I think you all know how the president works.” She stopped to let her words sink in, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Stuart panicked. He didn’t have the slightest idea how Madeline Turner worked. He was way in over his head.
Time to bail out,
he thought. Cautiously, he raised his hand, half hoping the national security adviser wouldn’t see it. She did and gave him a little nod. The butterflies in his stomach turned into a swarm of bats in full flight. Very big bats. “Madam…” What was the proper form of address? “Ah…”

For a moment Mazie was back in time and sitting in the same spot. A warm smile spread over her face. “In a meeting like this, Mike, I prefer Mazie. Or if that makes you uncomfortable, Mrs. Hazelton.”

Stuart was so flustered that he missed her use of his first name. But the general sitting next to him didn’t. “Ah,” Stuart said, “I think I took a wrong turn somewhere. You really want my boss here, not me.” No answer from Mazie, just the same encouraging smile. Stuart shook his head. “I have no idea how the president works.”

“Efficiently,” Mazie answered, “and she’s amazingly straightforward. In this case she wants a hard, honest, and complete evaluation without a political spin. If there’s bad news, she wants to hear it now, not later when it’s too late to do anything about it. Let me put it this way: She hates surprises. Mike, you’re here because I briefed her on the shortfalls in tanker availability you predicted. She was impressed. Now, if you’ll all turn to paragraph two of the cover letter in front of you, you’ll see she wants a total review of the SPR, to include all upstream, midstream, and downstream factors.”