The Trojan Sea (22 page)

“His problems with Colonel Priestly are,” she told him.

Butler sighed. “I didn’t need to hear that. Is there anything else?”

Toni consulted her notes. “Do you know a Miss Jean McCormick?”

“I never heard of her. Why?”

“She was mugged at an ATM by the same man who assaulted Stuart and almost killed him.”

Butler frowned. “There’s the man you need to talk to.”

“Unfortunately, he was killed by a guard when he mugged Miss McCormick.”

“There’s still the lady.”

“I’ll get on it. Is there anything else, sir?”

“Mike Stuart is a good man, and I happen to like him. Help him if you can.”

“Will do, sir.” She stood carefully and walked slowly out of his office. She was riding the elevator down when the first pain hit her in the back. “Damn,” she moaned, holding on to the man next to her. He hit the emergency call button and summoned help.

Dallas

“How was Cuba?” L.J. asked.

Marsten looked up from his desk. “Most rewarding.” He hit the intercom. “Shugy would you be kind enough to bring tea for Miss Ellis and myself?” L.J. smiled. He was the only person she knew who spoke in sentences constructed like stained-glass windows. “I did make contact,” he told her. “The option for the concession will cost us a hundred thousand dollars a month until our partners can faithfully deliver. If and when we strike oil, we split the gross seventy-thirty.”

“My God! That’s a steal. Well done, Lloyd.”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

The door opened, and Shugy wheeled in a tea cart. Without a word she poured Marsten a cup and stirred in the normal two teaspoons of sugar and a dash of warm milk. Then she handed L.J. a cup. “I believe you prefer just one sugar and lemon,” she said. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Marsten said as L.J. shook her head. The secretary left, closing the door behind her. “Most unusual,” Marsten said. “She never did that before.” He gave L.J. a suspicious look. “What have you been up to?”

“We talked when I asked her to take care of Duke, that’s all.”

Marsten sipped his tea. “He’s doing much better. It seems that being with Billy helped.”

“Maybe it gave him a reason to live,” L.J. suggested. She thought for a few moments, “Lloyd, we need to talk. My office.”

Marsten took a final sip, set his cup down, and followed her along the hall to her much smaller office. She locked the door behind them, pulled the curtains, and turned on a high-frequency jammer that would scramble any eavesdropping device. “My,” he said, “this must be serious.”

“It is.” She pulled out the big whiteboard against the back wall and picked up a Magic Marker. Slowly she wrote The Trojan Sea across the top. Without a word she outlined a flowchart with arrows and boxes. “Here’s what I’ve been thinking.” She filled in the boxes, explaining as she went. She sat down next to Marsten and studied the chart, which was still incomplete. Her brows knitted in concentration. “Currently I see three problems: Stuart, Steiner, and activating the concessions.”

“ARA,” Marsten said, “tells me Stuart has been sidetracked and won’t be a problem.”

For L.J., Stuart was a faceless nobody and she didn’t need to know the details, only that he was no longer a problem. “And Steiner?” she asked.

“We know he’s told the Department of Energy about Seismic Double Reflection.”

“So DOE knows about the elephant,” she said.

“Apparently not,” Marsten replied. “I assume he’s keeping its existence a secret until he believes it’s safe to approach another company.”

“To do that he needs us out of the way. Well, that’s not about to happen. I’ll render the little bastard first.” She paused, deep in thought. Marsten recognized the signs and waited. She was about to make a critical decision. L.J. erupted from her chair and took four quick steps across the office to the whiteboard. “Watch.” She picked up a red marker and drew another vector that connected three boxes. She left the first and last box blank and wrote the words Castro Blamed in the middle box. The vector’s arrow touched the empty third box and then pointed at the words New Government in Cuba. Marsten gasped at her audacity, for the first time completely understanding where she was going. Then she picked up a yellow marker and made a series of connections.

“My God,” he whispered. “The money—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. “But the risks.” The words came slow. “No. You can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s totally over the top.”

“Not if we get the concessions. We’ll never have another opportunity like this one. We can break out, become international.”

“But the potential for”—he was sputtering—“disaster.”

“Think of the payoff. It will work. Every company will want a piece of the action in order to survive. And if we hold the concessions, we can auction off blocks in return for company stock.” She dangled the possibilities in front of him.

Marsten saw it immediately. “They assume the risk and we become key shareholders in every major oil company that wants to be a player.”

“We’ll be bigger than BP or Exxon,” L.J. announced.

“It’s not worth the risk if something goes wrong. It could mean the end of RayTex.”

She paced the floor with long strides. “Lloyd! We’ll go down in the history books.” More pacing. Marsten had seen L.J. in many moods, but seldom one like this. She was total concentration and focused energy. The image of a caged tiger he’d seen as a youth in the London Zoo flashed in his mind. The same relentless pacing, the beauty concealing the strength within, the will to hunt—all were there. Like the tiger, L.J. was a force of nature to be reckoned with, a power unto herself.
When was she last like this?
he thought. He couldn’t remember.

“The industry will never be the same,” she said. The same intensity was caught in her words, and he was fascinated, drawn to her like a moth to the flame, unable to resist its fate. “We’ve got to try.” She was alive with the challenge, resolute, convincing. Then he remembered. It was in Eritrea, when he lay in a fever near death. It was much different then, yet it was the same; she had been there, pacing the tent, claiming the moment. Then she had gone out and won their freedom.

“Is it the challenge?” he asked.

“It’s always the challenge,” she replied. “All we have to do is start a revolution in Cuba.”

Marsten shook his head. “William Randolph Hearst may have been able to do it in 1898, but it’s not possible now. One message came through loud and clear while I was there: For all their problems, the vast majority of the people love Castro and are very proud of the
revolución.
I don’t see it happening until he dies.”

“Until he dies,” she repeated. She thought for a moment. “Like in assassination?”

“Definitely not. If that happened, the Cubans would make him a martyr and turn the
revolución
into a holy crusade.”

L.J. stood in front of the whiteboard and contemplated her chart.

“There has to be a way,” she murmured.

Marsten came to his feet, his knees still a little wobbly from what L.J. had shown him. He waved a hand at the board. “Don’t even think about this. Too dangerous.”

“Keep all our options open. All of them.” She watched him leave and returned to the board. “Here’s to the revolution,” she said. Another thought came to her, and she buzzed Marsten’s office. “Lloyd, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. Why don’t we send everyone home at noon and come back Monday?” He agreed, and she resumed pacing the floor, glancing at the empty blocks in her flowchart. She darted to the third, and still empty box, and wrote “Castro removed in disgrace.” She sat down and savored her handiwork. Only one block remained to be filled in.

All she had to do was find something that could make it happen.

Newport News

A rare feeling of contentment worked its way through Jane. Normally she felt so at peace only at sea following a rough night when a vibrant sunrise cracked the horizon with the promise of another day of God’s grace. She was not a religious person and seldom thought about spiritual matters, but there was an order in the universe that was with Stuart’s family as they gathered for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. She held Stuart’s hand as Shanker murmured a blessing. He ended his prayer with “And please save us from that misguided creature in the White House.”

Martha, Stuart’s mother, gave her husband a warning look and told him to start carving the turkey. “What was that all about?” Jane asked in a low voice.

“Dad hates President Turner,” Stuart answered. “I don’t think he can handle the idea of a woman being the commander in chief of the armed forces.” Jane mentally categorized Shanker as an old grouch with nothing better to do than complain. She dropped the subject, remembering how her grandfather would go on endlessly about President Nixon, until finally they couldn’t take the old man anywhere.

Across the table, Chalky Seagrave, the English Lightning pilot, was thoroughly taken with Maggot’s fiancée, a pretty, vivacious, but slightly overweight woman from Missouri named Mary. Maggot sat on the other side of his bride-to-be and just smiled a lot. Stuart’s son, Eric, kept wiggling in his chair, excited about what Friday might bring.

“Do you think the weather will be okay?” he asked for perhaps the tenth time.

“Eric,” Stuart said in exasperation, “we’ve been over this I don’t know how many times.”

“It’s okay,” Seagrave said. “I remember my first flight in a jet. I didn’t sleep for two nights.” He looked at Eric. “There’s a weather update at eighteen hundred hours. We’ll check it then.” His bright blue eyes twinkled. “My guess is that you won’t be sleeping much tonight.”

“Then we’re going, we’re going!” Eric shouted.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Seagrave told him. “I want at least a five-thousand-foot ceiling and ten miles visibility before we take off.”

Maggot cocked his head, thinking. Federal aviation regulations called for a thousand-foot ceiling and three miles forward visibility under VFR, visual flight rules. “Are those your personal weather minimums?” he asked.

“Which are the highest in the world,” Shanker kidded. “It makes you wonder how the blokes ever crawled out from under the rocks and built Stonehenge, much less took off in an airplane.”

“I’ll think about that,” Seagrave said, giving as good as he got, “when I buzz the field. Of course, you
will
be watching from your normal position on
top
of the rocks, yes?”

“Boys, boys,” Martha said, warning the two to stop.

Seagrave, always with an eye for a pretty woman, explained it all to Mary. “Since we’re flying for fun and not to frighten ourselves, I want decent weather. No need to challenge the gods of flying.” He winked at Eric. “Right?”

“Right!” the twelve-year-old answered.

Jane squeezed Stuart’s hand. “Eric will be in good hands,” she whispered. Stuart gave a little nod, accepting the truth of it. However, he was still worried about his only son going up for a ride in the Lightning. But Eric had worked hard as member of the ground crew and had been there for every takeoff and landing when others had gone up. Now it was his turn.

“It’ll be all right,” Shanker said. “Chalky’s a damn good pilot.” Seagrave laughed. “This from Shanker? Will wonders never cease?”

Eric was up early the next morning and checked the weather. Disappointment crashed over him like a tidal wave when he heard that there was a heavy cloud deck at four thousand feet moving in off the Atlantic. “Not to worry,” Shanker told him. “It often lifts, and we should have five thousand feet by noon.” Martha went along with the amateur forecast and packed a picnic lunch for them to take to the hangar. “I love cold turkey sandwiches,” Shanker announced. The four men—Shanker, Seagrave, Maggot, and Stuart—allowed Eric to hustle them out to the car. Jane stayed behind with Martha and Mary to work on details for the wedding, which was scheduled for late January.

The hangars on the general-aviation side of the airport were alive with activity that morning as the men who called themselves the Gray Eagles gathered. They were an odd collection bound together by a love of old airplanes and their latest acquisition, the Lightning. But they were not alone and shared the hangar complex with an Experimental Aircraft Association chapter, whose members built their own aircraft. There was a lot of good-natured kidding and rivalry between the two groups, but they always worked together, sharing advice, tools, building skills, and lies.

When the Stuart family and Seagrave arrived that Friday morning, there was a rush of activity around the hangar. They watched as the Lightning was tugged outside between two hangars and parked next to a white Legend, a small kitplane that bore an uncanny resemblance to a World War II P-51 Mustang fighter. But unlike its famous predecessor, the Legend was much smaller, just under twenty-six feet long with a twenty-eight-foot wingspan. While the Legend sat on tricycle landing gear and was not a tail-dragger like the famous Mustang, there was no doubting its heritage. Hidden under the sleek cowling was a Walter 657 shaft horsepower turbine engine, which gave it a performance rivaling the old fighter.

The owner and builder of the Legend was a solid person, in both physique and reputation. He was a family man, a respected member of the community, and active in the Rotary Club. As a young man he had dreamed of flying high-performance fighters, but family pressure and an early marriage had forced him into the family business, where he had acquired a large fortune and a small potbelly. Nearing retirement, he had finally pursued his dream and built the Legend. He was a good pilot, safe enough, and knew his limitations. But deep inside, Hank Langston was a teenager who had never grown up, only old, and still dreamed of fighting the good fight. Consequently, and lacking a son of his own, he had semi-adopted Eric, and the two had become good friends.

“Is today the day?” Hank called when he saw Eric. The twelve-year-old boy gave him the traditional thumbs-up. “Well,” Hank said, “whenever you want to fly in a real airplane, give me a call.”

A TV reporter and cameraman drove up to shoot a special on Hank for a local TV station. When the reporter saw the two aircraft sitting side by side, he wanted to contrast the Legend against the overpowering Lightning. The Gray Eagles readily agreed, and soon the reporter was interviewing everyone in sight. He faked a deep envy when Eric told him he was going up for a ride in the Lightning, if the ceiling would only lift. The cameraman maneuvered to record Eric being strapped into the passenger seat while Shanker explained how the electrically operated seat had plenty of adjustment to accommodate even a boy who was just over five feet tall.

Eric was still sitting in the cockpit when Seagrave climbed into the seat next to him. “The weather is cooperating, and we’ve got five thousand feet,” he announced. “Let’s do it before Mother Nature changes her mind.” He laughed at the smile on Eric’s face. The Gray Eagles sprang into action and tugged the jet out to the main taxiway, where it was safe for engine start. Even at idle, the jet thrust reached back over a hundred feet and could do harm. The TV reporter followed as Harry gave a running monologue on what Eric must be feeling or, at least, what
he
would be feeling. The starting whine of number one, the engine mounted on top, drowned out any further conversation.