The Trojan Sea (28 page)

“What do I do?”

“When something goes wrong,” Shanker intoned, “get aggressive.”

For the first time Stuart understood what his father was telling him. But he didn’t know
how
to get aggressive.

Dallas

The phone call came before the close of business on Friday, January 24. Marsten sensed there was trouble the moment he heard the Jogger’s voice. “I’ve lost contact with Sophia.”

Marsten paused before answering. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Friday, the twenty-ninth of November.”

Almost two months!
Marsten raged to himself, But nothing in his voice betrayed his anger. “When you delivered the package?” Both men knew that the package was twenty-thousand dollars destined for the Group.

“Correct.”

“Has she done a flit?” Marsten asked. It was not unusual for mules to take the money and run.

“I don’t think so. I checked out her condominium and found her car. No trace of Luis and the Group.”

“Find her,” Marsten ordered, “and get back to me. Monday at the latest.” He broke the connection.
Damn! Maybe we should cut and run. Only two people can connect us to the Group—the Jogger and Sophia. If Sophia’s dead, he’ll be more than glad to sever the connection.
Was it time to tell L.J.? Maybe she didn’t need them anymore. He hit the intercom to her office. “L.J., a moment please.”

“Now’s good,” she answered.

Marsten made the short walk to L.J.’s office and passed Marcia, RayTex’s glamorous comptroller, as she left. From the stern look on her face, he sensed another problem, this time money. He found L.J. pacing her office deep in thought, a sure sign something was wrong. She came right to the point. “We’ve got a cash-flow problem.”

“With the elephant, no doubt.”

“Of course,” she replied. “We have to make something happen. Soon.”

“Perhaps, it’s time to cut our losses and withdraw.”

From the set of her jaw, he knew that the advice was premature. “Not yet,” she said, telling him the obvious. “But I don’t know how much longer we can hide it, not with Steiner talking to DOE. Sooner or later he
will
tell them.”

“The industry does feed on rumor,” Marsten said. She gave a little humph of disgust. “Perhaps we can turn it to our advantage,” he suggested.

“Perhaps,” L.J. allowed. She sat down and visualized her decision tree. Was a radical change called for? She had succeeded in the cutthroat oil industry by being flexible, always ready to exploit a change in circumstances without losing sight of the objective. But she was on new ground and feeling her way.

“If we can no longer hide it,” Marsten said, “flaunt it. Get everyone watching us so that when we start drilling, they’ll want a piece of the action. We can sell off enough blocks to cover our investment. They assume part of the risk.”

“If we can start a feeding frenzy—”

“Which has been known to happen,” he said.

“Do we need to crank up the rumor mill?” The oil industry fed on rumors as the companies watched each other. “Wentworth?” she suggested. Wentworth Country Club outside London was considered hallowed ground by European oilmen, and more information was exchanged, rumors spread, and deals cut on its golf links than in any boardroom.

“It’s winter,” he reminded her. “But there is the professional-amateur golf tournament in Palm Springs next weekend. I had accepted, but perhaps some of those hours you’ve spent on the links could be used to advantage.” They talked for another twenty minutes before he left. The subject of Sophia and the Group never came up.

Palm Springs, California

L.J. wired the Sabreliner’s airspeed at 165 knots and called for the gear and flaps. Ahead of them, Palm Springs Regional Airport shimmered in the morning sun as they came down final. “Very nice,” Tim Roxford said from the copilot’s, seat. “You’ve a slight left-quartering crosswind. No problem.” Their airspeed decayed to 125 knots as L.J. inched the throttles back and crossed the runway numbers at 115 knots to touch down at 110 knots. “Sweet,” Roxford allowed. He radioed the tower when they were clear of the active runway and ground control guided them to parking.

The ramp was full of sleek corporate jets that had brought in the professional golfers and business executives for the Pro-Am Golf Tournament. But of all the players, only L.J. had piloted her own jet. A silver Bentley convertible was waiting for her. “I’ll see you Sunday evening,” L.J. told Roxford. “Departure around six in the evening. Back to Dallas.”

“We’ll be good to go,” Roxford assured her. He placed her bags and golf clubs in the Bentley. “Ah, L.J.,” he stammered, “I’ve been offered a job with Delta, and they want me to report in two weeks.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said. It was no surprise, for she had spoken to a friend at the airline about hiring Roxford. But all the same, she was sad to hear that he was leaving. “You’ve been a wonderful instructor, and I’ll miss you.” With that she slipped into the driver’s seat of the Bentley and drove to the resort where she was staying during the tournament.

The two men were chatting amiably when L.J. joined them at the starting tee for the first round. “Felix,” L.J. called. “What a pleasure.”

The tall, gray-haired Scotsman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Sean Connery smiled at her. Felix Campbell was the epitome of the European oilman—educated, sophisticated, and politically adept. His credentials, as well as his manners, were impeccable, and he looked great on TV. “L.J., so good to see you.” They shook hands, for all the world the best of friends. He introduced his partner for the tournament, the current leader of the PGA tour. “And how is Lloyd?” Campbell asked.

“Doing quiet well,” she replied. “How are things at BP?” Campbell was the president of British Petroleum and rumored to be making a move to buy out Exxon. If the merger went through, it would effectively reform John D. Rockefeller’s Standard Oil.

“Moving right along,” Campbell replied.

L.J.’s partner walked onto the course and waved to the spectators. He was considered the grand old man of the PGA, and he worked the crowd like a master. They shook hands all around and posed for the cameras. The formalities dispensed with, the starter motioned them onto the green, and L.J. stepped up to the tee. Tournament rules allowed her to use the red ladies’ marker, which was the shortest distance to the pin. However, she moved to the white middle marker normally played by men. The two PGA professionals had to play the blue marker set thirty yards farther back. The signal was unmistakable: She was playing Campbell as an equal. No quarter would be given, and she didn’t expect any in return. A hush fell over the crowd as she addressed the ball and swung. The two pros followed her ball as it sailed down the fairway for 225 yards. It landed in the middle and rolled another twelve yards. “I think we’re in trouble,” Campbell’s partner whispered.

Campbell shook his head. “All show and no go.”

“A lightweight?” the golfer asked.

“In my business, the lightest.”

As Campbell had intended, L.J. overheard the exchange. She smiled sweetly at her partner.

On the third green L.J. stood beside Campbell while his partner sank a four-foot putt for an eagle, two under par. “How’s the merger going?” she asked.

“Rumor, merely a rumor,” Campbell told her.

“I was talking to Justice and Energy before Christmas,” she said, using the rumor mill to full effect. She was fairly certain the industry was buzzing about her summons to Washington. “They’re not treating it like a rumor.” This last was a blatant lie. Now it was Campbell’s turn to putt. But he wasn’t concentrating. BP’s lobbyist had reported that she and Marsten were in Washington and talking to the departments of Energy and Justice before Christmas. Now he knew why. He muffed his putt, sending it across the green.

L.J. studied her lie, a twenty-foot downhill putt from the cup. She addressed the ball and gave it a gentle tap. But she hadn’t hit it hard enough, and it was running out of momentum. The crowd held its collective breath. But the ball had legs and kept rolling. For a moment it held on the edge of the cup. Then it dropped in for a birdie, one under par. The crowd broke into applause.

“I thought you said she was a lightweight,” Campbell’s partner moaned. Even though it was a charity tournament, he hated losing.

Campbell had not become the president of British Petroleum by being either stupid or slow. “Rumor has it she’s an indifferent golfer.”

“That’s not an indifferent rumor we’re playing.”

“She’ll tire on the back nine,” Campbell predicted. “She always fades in the stretch.”

His partner grimaced as L.J. teed off on the fourth hole, driving the ball well over two hundred yards. “She plays like a man.”

Campbell waited until the seventh fairway before counterattacking. He spoke quietly as L.J. took a practice swing. “You’re not really involved with Steiner, are you?”

She didn’t answer and addressed her ball. Her swing was a study in perfection, but she deliberately hit it fat, leaving the ball well short of the green. “We’ve talked to him.” She pitched her voice just right, sounding nervous. “How did you hear about it?”

The muffed shot and her voice told him what he needed to know. “The rumor mill, how else?” Actually his Washington lobbyist had a highly placed source inside the Department of Energy.

L.J. chose the ninth hole to retaliate. “By chance, your rumor mill wouldn’t happen to be John Frobisher?” She saw his jaw tense. She used a five-iron to hit the ball 160 yards to the green. It rolled to within a yard of the pin.

“Great shot,” her partner said.

“By chance,” Campbell said, “would you be interested in a side bet?”

“It depends what the stakes are,” she replied.

The two pros overheard the exchange. “Would I like part of that action!” Campbell’s partner said, not thinking of golf or betting at all.

“She’d eat you alive,” the old master replied, knowing exactly what he was thinking.

Campbell spoke in a low voice to L.J. as they walked to the back nine. “Have you tested Seismic Double Reflection?”

“What’s the bet?” she asked.

“Next hole. I win, you answer.”

“Make it the fifteenth hole, and if I win,” L.J. said, “you give ten thousand to the charity of my choice.”

Campbell thought about it. He had played this course before, and the fifteenth hole was a killer. “Done,” he said.

L.J. hated losing but forced herself to miss a putt on the fifteenth that allowed Campbell to win by a stroke. “We’ve tested it in the field,” she told him.

“What were the results?” Campbell asked.

A smile flickered at the corners of her lips. “That wasn’t part of the bet.”

“Right,” Campbell said, enjoying the game. “Same bet on the sixteenth?”

L.J. agreed, and Campbell played the best hole of golf of his entire life, beating her honestly. “It works,” she told him.

“But was it significant?” he asked. She gave him the sweet smile but didn’t answer. “Okay,” he said, “same bet on the seventeenth.” L.J. played it perfectly and matched him stroke for stroke, again allowing him to win by deliberately missing a putt.

She frowned before answering. “It’s safe to say the results were significant.”

Campbell’s eyes opened wide. “Where?” Again no answer. “Same bet on the eighteenth?”

“No,” she told him. “Fifty thousand if I win.”

Campbell gulped. Hard. But he was hooked. “Done.”

L.J. stepped up to the white marker and teed off, driving the ball 240 yards down the fairway.

“So much for fading in the stretch,” Campbell’s partner said sotto voce. “She could turn pro.”

“Where I come from,” Campbell muttered, “a pro is a hooker.” He stepped up to the tee, took a practice swing, and then executed a picture-perfect swing, driving the ball farther than ever before. But it was too much, and it landed in the rough.

“Jesus H. Christ,” his partner said.L.J. suppressed a real groan when her shot from the fairway landed in a sand trap short of the green. Campbell was out of the rough with one stroke and onto the green with a long five-iron shot for three. The pros were both on the green in two with decent lies close to the pin.

L.J. took her time lining up the next play. This had always been the weakest part of her game, and it normally took her two strokes to get out of a sand trap. Her caddie handed her a sand wedge. She studied the ball and tried to get a decent stance, but it wasn’t going to happen. “I think I’ll try a nine-iron,” she said. The caddie shook his head and made the exchange. She walked up to the ball, set her feet, and swung. The ball rose out of the bunker in a shower of sand and cut a graceful arc over the green to stop two yards off the fringe on the far side for three.

Even though he was on the green, Campbell’s ball was farther from the hole than hers. Technically he should have played first, but he wanted to keep the pressure on. “Your shot,” he said to L.J., deferring to custom among American amateurs where the player still off the green plays first.

L.J. set her stance and started to swing. But she pulled up short.

“Sorry, I think the rules call for you to go first.” She stepped back from the ball, effectively putting the pressure back on Campbell. She smiled apologetically.

“The smiling assassin,” the old master whispered to the other pro.

Campbell carefully lined up his shot. “You shouldn’t play with the big boys,” he told her. He planted his feet and stroked the ball. It rolled straight for the hole, sure and true. But it slowed and stopped less than an inch from the cup. A loud groan swept over the spectators as Campbell willed it to drop. Nothing happened. He shrugged and tapped it into the hole for a bogey five.

The old master’s eyes followed L.J. as she took a few practice swings with a nine-iron. The pressure was off. “Five hundred says she sinks it,” he said to Campbell’s partner.

“You’re on.” L.J. swung, and the ball lifted out of the grass, hit the green, and rolled six feet into the cup for four.

“Yes!” the old master shouted.

Campbell’s eyes narrowed into slits as L.J. walked over to shake his hand. “Well done,” he said, hiding his anger. Then, “You didn’t find anything, did you?”

She fixed him with a steady look. “Let’s just say you’re merging with the wrong company.” She deliberately sashayed off the course, fully aware that every eye was on her.

The rumor mill was primed.

Newport News

Eric stood in the doorway as Stuart loaded his bags in the car. “It’s time,” Stuart said. He felt like crying when Eric turned to his grandmother and gave her a hug. Eric walked manfully to the car and got in, hiding his tears.

“Dad, I want to say good-bye to Commander Seagrave.”

“You want to see the Lightning, right?” Eric nodded, and Stuart started the car. “You’ll be back during spring break. Then there’s this summer to look forward to.”

Eric gave him a look he had never seen before. “If Mom sends me to Grandma Barbara’s, I’ll run away.”

“That’s not going to happen, son. I promise.” They drove in silence to the airport. Stuart wanted to tell his son that everything was going to be okay. But saying it wouldn’t make it true.

It started to rain as they pulled into the general-aviation side of the airport, and Stuart turned on the windshield wipers. He was surprised by the large number of cars parked around the hangars and had trouble finding a parking place. When he did find a spot, he and Eric had to run a fair distance through the rain. They pushed through the side door into the hangar and came to a dead halt. The hangar was full of people, most of whom Stuart had never seen before. A small group of active-duty Air Force maintenance NCOs were clustered around the Lightning with Seagrave while four senior airmen and a staff sergeant assembled a blue air-to-air missile.

In the large open area off to one side, Shanker was surrounded by approximately fifty men. All were about his age, gray-haired, and wearing black baseball caps with gold lettering announcing they were members of the National Rifle Association. “What’s going on, Dad?” Eric asked.

“I don’t know,” Stuart answered. They stepped into the side office where Hank Langston, the owner of the homebuilt Legend, was watching the videotape of the TV program that claimed he was a hero and had saved Eric from certain death in the Lightning.

“That shit-for-brains hasn’t got a clue!” Hank shouted. “He never mentioned Maggot, even though I told them he was at the controls when it counted.”

“That’s the media,” Stuart said. “Not much we can do about it.”

“We’ll see about that!” Hank roared.

“What are you going to do?” Eric asked.

“No idea. But when things go wrong, get aggressive.” He stomped out of the office.

“I think he’s been listening to your grandfather,” Stuart told his son. They followed him out to the hangar bay and joined the men gathered around the Lightning.

“There you are,” Seagrave said to Eric. “These men are from Langley and want to fit the Lightning with a training missile so we can fly against their jets.” He explained how the blue missile being assembled was the training version of an AIM-9 Sidewinder. The latest version of the Sidewinder was the best short-range, heat-seeking, air-to-air missile in the world. But the training missile was inert and didn’t carry a warhead. They needed its guidance head only so they could tell if a simulated launch during training was within the tracking and firing parameters of a real missile. It was the way they kept the pilots honest during the debrief after a training mission.

“It’s not going to happen,” the senior NCO said. “There’s not enough room to mount a launch rail in the missile wells. He pointed to the indented areas on the forward part of the fuselage just under the leading edge of the wing root.