The Trojan Sea (35 page)

In her preoccupation with Marsten’s safety, L.J. missed the message. “We can worry about all that later. After you’re back.”

“Dr. Steiner, Silton, and Drill may not be available if we delay,” he replied, trying once more. The noise coming from the street turned into the deep-throated sound of a diesel engine with the unmistakable clanking of steel tracks. It had to be a tank. But even that did not prepare him for the sight of the old Soviet-built T-62 main battle tank grinding and jerking as it turned the corner. Nothing in his experience—movies, TV, books, nothing—had prepared him for the reality of the steel monster coming his way, and raw fear shot through him. “What’s that noise?” L.J. asked.

“I believe it’s a tank,” Marsten said. He fought to control his panic.

“For God’s sake, Lloyd, get out of there!”

“Believe me, I’m trying.” Marsten watched the tank as it clanked to a stop. The turret hatch swung open, and the tank commander’s head emerged. He glanced at a piece of paper as if he were checking on an address. The woman from the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution came out of her house and spoke to the soldier. “I forgot to tell you,” Marsten said, laboring to keep his voice normal, “that I had arranged for them to start work this Wednesday. I do hope they’re ready. If they can’t, you’d best cancel their contract.”

“Stop worrying about business and come home, okay?”

Marsten’s heart raced when the woman raised her hand and gestured in his direction. He couldn’t hear what she said, but from the way the tank commander looked directly at him, there was no doubt that the subject was Casa Salandro.
Did he see me?
There was no way of telling. The tank commander disappeared down the hatch, and the cover banged closed. “Oh, dear,” Marsten said, calling up the last of his British reserve. The tank started to move. “Can I call you back later?” He scooped up the telephone and dropped it into his shoulder bag, along with his passport, shoes, and belt with the Krugerrands. He ran from the room as the clanking grew louder. He was racing down the stairs when the tank ground to a halt. A loud whirring sound echoed over the courtyard with its beautiful fountain as he ran for the back of the building. It was a sound he had only heard in the movies: a tank turret traversing on its track. Amelia Salandro, Rosalinda’s mother, came out of the kitchen. “Run!” he shouted. For a moment she hesitated, confused. He grabbed her and jerked her out the rear entrance, still running.

The explosion was deafening. Marsten kept running as dust and debris rained down on them. A second explosion rocked him. Now he was sure the source was the tank’s cannon. He looked back as a heavy machine gun barked. Plaster and chips blew out the rear wall of the house in a horizontal cascade. Then the machine gun stopped, and the flying debris died away. The unmistakable sound of a house crumbling in on itself echoed down the narrow alleyway. Amelia Salandro fell to her knees weeping hysterically. He had a brief impulse to run away, leaving her behind. Instead he pulled her to her feet. “Come,” he said, leading her down the alley.

Dallas

The phone clicked, and L.J. heard a dial tone. She started to redial Marsten’s number but thought better of it. Obviously he was caught up in the middle of a revolution and didn’t need a phone going off at the wrong time. She reran the entire conversation through her mind. “Of course,” she groaned to herself, finally getting the message. “Dr. Drill. How stupid can I get?” Cuba’s fate would be decided by Wednesday. Her fingers beat a relentless tattoo on her desk. The three drilling ships were in southern Florida and ready to go. But unfortunately they were all in harbor, and that meant under Ann Silton’s injunction. RayTex held a lease on a foreign ship, but getting it into position and drilling would take weeks. And she had only days.

More fingers drumming. Her hand flashed out and picked up the phone. “Shugy, please contact Mr. John Frobisher at DOE.” Automatically, she checked her watch—1:35
P.M.
Dallas time—and made the conversion to Washington, D.C., time. John Frobisher came on the line. “John,” she sang.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Ellis. What can I do for you?” His voice was cool and reserved.

“I’m going to be in the city this evening, and I was wondering if we could chat?”

“And the subject?”

“John, we do have some unfinished business from the convention.”

“Really?”

She pitched her tone just right. “I’ll be staying at the Four Seasons. I do hope you’re free.”

“As a matter of fact, I am free this evening.”

“Wonderful. Shall we say eight o’clock?” He readily agreed, and she let her contentment show. “Until then,” she said. She punched off the connection and buzzed her secretary. “Shugy, call Love Field and get the Sabreliner ready for a flight to D.C. Have them file an IFR flight plan to Ronald Reagan International, departure at three
P.M.”

“Yes, ma’am. But won’t you need a copilot? Tim Roxford has left, and I don’t know who’s available.”

“Have them find someone.”

“I’ll try,” Shugy promised.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Ellis,” the dispatcher at Love Field said, “but we don’t have any qualified copilots available on such short notice.” He handed her the completed flight plan that needed only her signature.

“Not a problem,” L.J. said. She wrote in the name “S. Jenkins” as her copilot, signed the flight plan, and handed it back. She gathered up the paperwork and hurried out to the flight line. “Shugy,” she called, “have you ever been to Washington, D.C.?”

“Oh, Ms. Ellis. I couldn’t possibly go on such short notice.”

“Why not? What’s waiting for you? Billy’s in the nursing home, and he won’t miss you for one night. We’ll buy anything you need, and we’ll be back tomorrow by noon. It’ll be fun.” Shugy started to weaken. L.J. gave her an encouraging smile.

“Well, all right.”

“You’ll love it, and you can sit up front with me and play copilot.”

Over Virginia

The approach controller cleared the Sabreliner for the approach to Ronald Reagan International Airport. L.J. read the clearance back. “Cleared for the ILS to Runway Thirty-six.” She did a quick review. The radios were all set up, the ILS tuned and identified, the GPS selected as a backup, and she had the inbound course, altitudes, decision height, and missed approach procedures memorized. She took a deep breath and punched off the autopilot before lowering the gear and flaps. Approach cleared her to the tower frequency. “Washington Tower,” she radioed. “Sabreliner four-four-two Kilo, outer marker now, ILS Runway Thirty-six.” Simultaneously she started the timer and checked the compass heading and gear-down indicators. She picked up her instrument scan as light turbulence rocked the jet.

“Sabreliner four-four-two Kilo,” the tower replied. “Cleared for landing. Be advised the last two aircraft ahead of you went missed approach and diverted.”

“Copy all,” L.J. replied. The turbulence increased as the airspeed indicator fluctuated from five to six knots. She stabilized the airspeed and kept her instrument scan going. They had a left-to-right crosswind, and she shaded the heading to the left. She turned farther to the left. Slowly the CDI—course deviation needle—on the ILS centered. The turbulence spiked and rocked the Sabreliner. For a fraction of a second the aircraft was out of control.

“Dear me,” Shugy said from the right seat. She clutched the arms of her seat.

“Make sure you’re all strapped in,” L.J. said, her voice labored with strain. Even in the cool cockpit her face glistened with sweat. She rechecked the gear. Down and locked. Another gust rocked the jet, but not as bad. Airspeed good. Coming up on decision height. Ten seconds to go on the elapsed timer. “Where are you?” she shouted. The altimeter touched the decision height, and she looked up from the instruments. The approach lights were at her one-o’clock position and not in front of her! She fought the impulse to alter heading. She inched the throttles back and crossed the runway numbers at 115 knots, still holding fifteen degrees of crab for wind correction. Just before touchdown she kicked the rudder and lowered the left wing.

The left main gear touched down as a sudden gust of wind hit the Sabreliner. She blipped the throttles and cranked in more aileron to keep the jet on the runway. Instinctively she eased off on the ailerons as the gust bled off. The right main touched down just as the nose wheel came down. Another gust of wind skidded them to the right. She corrected with rudder and nose-gear steering, fighting to stay on the runway. Finally they stopped on the right side of the runway with two thousand feet remaining.

L.J. bent over the yoke and breathed deeply, for the first time fully appreciating what she had done to Tim Roxford on the Life Flight into Norfolk. “Oh, Tim. I’m so sorry.”

“My!” Shugy said. “That was certainly exciting.”

Washington, D.C.

The young man looked up from the computer screen. “Good evening, Ms. Ellis. Welcome to the Four Seasons.” The limo driver had called ahead and primed reception for her arrival. “Your suite is ready.” He motioned for the bellhop to take her small bag to the Presidential Suite. L.J. paused and motioned at Shugy. “My companion came along at the last moment and will need to do some shopping.” She thought for a moment. “Perhaps a new outfit and makeover this evening? Put it all on my bill.”

“Certainly, Ms. Ellis.”

She walked with Shugy to the elevator. “I’ve asked them to spoil you this evening,” L.J. said. “Now, don’t you go telling them no. You’re to enjoy yourself, hear?”

“I can’t,” Shugy protested. L.J. laughed. “Oh, yes you can! Especially after what I put you through. I’ll call you in the morning.”

John Frobisher relaxed into the sofa’s deep cushions as he watched L. J. pour the wine. She was wearing a simple, floor-length sheath that moved and flowed over her body in ways that set his nerves jingling. A CD played softly, setting the mood. “Who’s the artist?” he asked.

“Charles Aznavour,” she replied, handing him the wine. “I like his interpretation of ‘My Way.’ Much better than Sinatra’s.”

He sipped the wine. It was excellent. He looked around the hotel suite. Like the wine, it made a definite but quiet statement about elegance, good taste, and wealth. It was a quantum leap from the Regency Hotel in Dallas where they had first met at the Front Uni convention. Now, as then, she dominated her surroundings. He tried to take her measure, but she was beyond him. Rather than lose his focus, he simply accepted her as an elemental force of nature. “I don’t think you asked me here to talk about the relative merits of French and American recording artists.”

She sat beside him and sank into the corner of the sofa, looking at him over the rim of her glass. “No.”

“You’re concerned about the latest regulations stopping offshore drilling,” he said.

“Aren’t you?”

“Is there a reason I should be?”

She moved closer to him. “John, you didn’t think it through. Anytime you, or any other government agency, changes one of the ground rules, the rest of the system changes with it. You’re not dealing with a static situation. The entire dynamic shifts.” It was obvious he didn’t understand. “I make hundreds of decisions every day based on the existing rules. For example, if the tax code is altered in any way and it’s to my benefit financially, I can take RayTex outside your jurisdiction with a few computer keystrokes. That’s the nature of the global economy.”

“Yes, but you’ll leave most of your capital investment behind.”

She gave him a look he couldn’t read. “Will I?” She doubted he understood the complicated system of ownership, financial mirrors, and leaseback arrangements the oil industry employed. She certainly wasn’t going to explain it to him.

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because in the long run it’s to my benefit to remain in the system. Take that away and RayTex is gone. Besides, I care about the people who work for me.” She turned her back to him and slipped a shoulder strap onto her arm. “Can you rub my right shoulder? It’s been a terrible day.” He gently massaged her shoulder, feeling the bone structure underneath. “Perfect,” she murmured.

“But you want something.”

“Of course,” she said. “The other shoulder, please.” He did as she asked, now rubbing both shoulders. The dress slipped lower and exposed her back. “Can we do this in the Jacuzzi?” She heard him sharply inhale. “Come. Bring your glass.” She stood, picked up the wine bottle, and walked into the huge bathroom. She set down her glass and the bottle and stepped out of her dress.

Frobisher stared at her as she stepped into the Jacuzzi. He wanted to possess her so badly that it hurt. But he wasn’t a fool. “L.J., this isn’t going to work.”

“We’re just going to talk,” she said. She sat down and laid her head on the edge to watch him undress. She appraised his body as he slipped into the water. Like so many of the inhabitants of the Imperial City, he was pudgy and out of shape. “You do know why my company is interested in Cuba, don’t you?”

He chose his words carefully. “According to Dr. Steiner, there’s the possibility of a large offshore discovery.”

“An elephant,” she said.

Frobisher shook his head. “Our geologists tell us that’s impossible.”

“That’s why they work for you and not me.” She sat up and turned her back to him. “Again, please.” He dutifully massaged her shoulders as she sat between his legs. She gave a little wiggle and scooted against his groin. She felt his erection turn to granite. “I’ve a narrow window of opportunity to act—by Wednesday at the latest—if a U.S. company is to develop those reserves.” She bent over and held her hair back. “Lower, please.” He did as she asked. “That’s good.”

Frobisher wasn’t thinking too clearly. “So you’re saying if you lose, we all lose.”

“No, John, that’s not what I’m saying at all. “The United States loses. I’ll still be a player, because an offshore corporation of RayTex, which is beyond your control, holds the concessions for the elephant.” It was a lie, but there was no way he could verify it.

“How in the hell did RayTex get the concessions?”

She leaned back into his hands. “By having my man in Havana at the right time, talking to the right people.”

He fought to control his voice. “What exactly do you need?”

“The injunction lifted, so my ships can do what I’m paying them for.”

He moved his hands down her arms and said, “Ann probably overstepped her authority when she approved the new standards. I can always raise a few legal questions that need to be resolved. We might have to delay implementation until the secretary’s chief legal counsel signs off.”

She turned around in his arms and faced him. With an easy motion she straddled him, locking his thighs with hers. Her arms were around his neck. “That would be wonderful.”

His words were deep and husky. “There’s something I’ve got to know. Who made that video of Ann and Clarissa?”

“No idea.”

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, understanding at last. “You want to keep it hanging over their heads for leverage.”

“Can we stop talking about business?” She shifted her weight on his lap. “A promise made is a debt unpaid,” she whispered in his ear.

Newport News

The silver Lexus pulled up to the hangar, and Eric jumped out. He waved at Stuart and Seagrave as he waited for the two young girls in the backseat to pull on their heavy coats. Jenny got out from behind the wheel and walked over to Stuart. “Thanks for bringing him,” Stuart said. “I know you didn’t have to.”

Jenny shot a look of disapproval at the two twelve-year-old girls. “The way he got on my case, I didn’t really have a choice, not since their school is having a day off for a teacher’s conference.”

Stuart followed her look. “Aren’t those your neighbors?” A curt nod answered him. “You look at them the same way your mother looked at me.”

Jenny snorted. “Little tramps. They call him constantly. I had to get him his own telephone.”

“Still, I do appreciate your bringing him to say good-bye. By the way,” he ventured, trying to make a peace offer, “do we really need to go to court? We’ve always been able to work things out before.”

Jenny ignored the offer. “He’s not allowed to fly while we’re here. Don’t even mention it—or we leave immediately.”

“I won’t. But flying’s not dangerous.”

“You forget I saw the videotape that reporter made.”

“They never aired that program because it wasn’t true.”

Jenny watched Eric show the two girls around the Lightning. Her eyes narrowed into tight lines. “My lawyer says it’s relevant.” She immediately regretted saying it.

Stuart deliberately passed over the remark but mentally filed it away for later use. He grinned at Jenny’s discomfort when Eric introduced the girls to Seagrave and Shanker, who were wearing flight suits. “Dad’s flying down to Key West with Chalky,” Stuart told Jenny. “That should be some flight.”

“How long will they be there?”

“The contract calls for six weeks,” Stuart answered. He smiled when Eric brought the two girls over to introduce them. Jenny was growing more agitated by the minute.

“Dad,” Eric said with great solemnity, “I’d like you to meet two friends, Becky and Andy.” Stuart shook their hands, and both girls giggled. Eric pointed at the two external fuel tanks mounted on top of the wing. “Are those fuel tanks?” he asked. “I thought drop tanks were hung underneath.”

“Not on the Lightning,” Stuart explained.

Eric wanted to impress the girls and asked, “So how do they jettison them in combat?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Commander Seagrave. By the way, your grandmother is in the office. Go introduce your friends before she leaves.”

“Martha’s leaving, too?” Jenny asked.

Stuart shrugged. “A lot of wives are driving down to keep an eye on things.”

“I see,” Jenny said. It was her turn to file away that bit of information.

It was time to launch the Lightning, and Eric helped the ground crew while the two girls joined Stuart and Jenny. “Isn’t he cute?” one of the girls whispered. Jenny glared at them. Engine start and taxi went smoothly, and Stuart herded them into the crew van to drive out to the runway to watch the takeoff. He parked on a taxiway three thousand feet down the runway, where he estimated the Lightning would lift off. They all piled out and stood by the van. The air behind the Lightning rippled like a mirage, and the jet started to move. Then a loud crack echoed over them when Seagrave lit the afterburners. The two girls watched transfixed as the jet hurtled down the runway toward them. The nose gear came up, and the Lightning lifted over them, still in full afterburner. The noise washed over them, pounding their bodies with a basic, primeval message pulsating with energy.

“Oh,” Jenny gasped, her face flushed. As it had in so many before her, the Lightning had touched a deep sexuality.

“Exciting, yes?” Stuart said.

Martha Stuart came out of the kitchen and set a bowl of hot soup in front of Stuart. “I saw you talking to Jenny at the airport. Is she still going ahead with the hearing?”

“I’m afraid so, Mom. Next Wednesday, March fifth.”

“How bad is it?”

“It’s not good, Mom.”

“What does your lawyer say?”

“Don’t use a lawyer.”

“Mike, don’t be foolish. Barbara Raye’s lawyer will be there and, and…well, you can’t go in there and face someone like that.”

Stuart patted the chair beside him for her to join him. “I’m not going in unprepared, Mom. What does Dad always say? ‘The guy who shot you down is the guy you didn’t see.’ Well, Mom, you’re the guy who’s going to shoot them down. Jenny thinks you’re in Florida with the other wives, so you’re going to blindside them.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a yellow legal pad full of notes. He outlined his strategy and what he had to learn in the next few days.

“Can you do all that?” Martha asked.

“I’ve got to try.”