The Trojan Sea (45 page)
Seagrave slammed the Lightning down onto the deck and headed due east, hoping the Flogger pilot had opted to disengage and kept going in the opposite direction. He took a quick look at Stuart. Because of the violent maneuvering and G forces, his leg was bleeding under the tourniquet. Seagrave jerked the Lightning left, then right, to check his six-o’clock position as his head twisted with the check turns. The Flogger was high above and sweeping down on them in full afterburner. “How did you do that?” Seagrave muttered. The ability of the Flogger to turn and accelerate was awesome, and the Cuban pilot was not going to let him disengage. Seagrave’s eyes were padlocked on the Flogger as he stroked the afterburners and pulled on the stick. He climbed into the sun.
When he judged that the angles were right, Seagrave pitched back into the Flogger, again coming at him head-on. But this time the sun was at his back, and he had the sun advantage. The Flogger pilot momentarily lost him in the glare and hesitated for a split second. Seagrave heard a loud growl in his headset, telling him his one remaining AIM-9 was tracking, not that it made any difference. This was strictly seat-of-the-pants flying. His right thumb mashed down on the pickle button. The missile came off the rail and went ballistic as it flew directly at the Flogger.
The AIM-9 flew up the Flogger’s right intake. The MiG’s big turbofan engine simply came apart and exploded. The aft section of the Flogger mushroomed as the Lightning flew past.
“Holy shit!” Stuart shouted. “What was that?”
“The golden BB,” Seagrave replied. He pulled the throttles out of afterburner and climbed as he turned to the north. They were still over Cuba, but it had been an incredibly long engagement and now fuel was critical. They had to get to altitude.
Dallas
L.J. had slipped out of her shoes and was still standing at the window. Her arms were outstretched, her palms against the glass as she leaned forward, her head down, between her arms. The intercom buzzed, but she ignored it and didn’t move. It buzzed again. Still she didn’t move.
Shugy burst into the office. “It’s the captain from one of the drilling ships.”
L.J. shrugged it off. What did it matter? “Which one?”
“I don’t know,” Shugy answered. L.J. waved her hand, dismissing her. But the secretary picked up the phone and handed it to her. When L.J. wouldn’t take it, she punched on the monitor. “Miss Ellis’s office,” she said.
“We hit it!” the man shouted. His words echoed across the office. “We hit the biggest god-awful strike—” He sputtered, searching for the right words. “It’s humongous! Big!”
“Which ship?” L.J. asked, suddenly alive.
“All of ’em! Every goddamn one!” L.J. closed her eyes for a moment. She wanted to ask how, why the oil was there. But that could wait for the rock-tappers. She looked at her watch. It was midnight in London. But it didn’t matter. “Shugy, please call Felix Campbell. I know he won’t mind being disturbed.” Another thought came to her.
“And please leave a message for Ann in Washington. Tell her we’ll be glad to pay the fines.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Shugy sang. She ran to her desk to make the calls.
L.J. closed her eyes and tilted her head back, her palms pressed against her temples. Then she shook her hair free and twirled around, her spirits soaring.
Over Santaren Channel, the Caribbean
“How you doing?” Seagrave asked.
“Makin’ it,” Stuart replied. His voice was weak, and he was drifting in and out of consciousness. Seagrave checked the blood-soaked bandage and took another twist on the tourniquet. But no matter what he did, the blood was still flowing and pooling on the floorboards.
How much blood can a man lose?
he asked himself. He didn’t know, but he knew he had to do something. He grabbed the GPS and checked the distance to go: 138 nautical miles to Navy Key West. He did the math in his head. Sixteen minutes plus another two or three for approach and landing. He hit the go-to button on the GPS and called up the nearest emergency airfield. The window flashed and Nassau International appeared, 135 nautical miles to the northeast.
Not worth it,
he reasoned. Then his brain kicked in, and he cursed himself. He should have thought of a diversion sooner, when they were much closer to Nassau. But he was dog-tired from the engagement, and Stuart hadn’t been bleeding as badly then. Besides, fuel wasn’t a problem. Or was it? He rechecked the fuel gauges. Twenty-three hundred pounds remaining with 135 miles to go. They’d be landing on fumes, but they should make it. If the gauges were accurate.
Time to talk to someone friendly and have help waiting for us.
He dialed in a new frequency. “Miami Control, Panda One with you at flight level three-six-oh. Destination Navy Key West.”
A bored-sounding controller answered. “Panda One calling Miami, say again. You’re coming through broken.”
Seagrave’s head came up. He wasn’t a Panda. That had been the call sign they had used as part of the deception plan. He was a Lightning returning from combat. But there was more. It was the only time a Lightning had seen action, and he had downed two aircraft. He mashed the transmit button. “Correction, Miami. This is Lightning One.”
“Aircraft calling Miami, you’re unreadable.”
“Lightning One transmitting in the blind. Inbound to Navy Key West with wounded on board and will require medical assistance on landing. Declaring minimum fuel at this time. Request a tanker and priority handling.” Again the response was the same, and he wondered if he had taken battle damage. He scanned the instrument panel. Everything was as it should be, except for the low state of fuel. He’d try again when he was a little closer.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a jet flash by at his eight-o’clock position going straight up. His head twisted as he watched it climb high above him. Instinctively he paddled off the autopilot and check-turned to the left to better follow it. It was an F-16 with the letters HO on the tail. Stuart was conscious and had also seen it. “An interceptor out of Homestead,” he said. Seagrave kept the turn coming another twenty degrees and found the second aircraft. It was rolling in at his deep six.
“Shit! They think we’re hostile!”
“They won’t fire unless they have a positive ID,” Stuart assured him.
“Right,” Seagrave muttered, not believing him. If the first aircraft had shot through his altitude to identify them, then why was the other F-16 rolling in for a firing pass? But he didn’t have time to discuss it. He racked the throttles to flight idle and hit the speed brakes, slowing down as quickly as possible. He had to get his landing gear down, the traditional sign for a surrendering aircraft. Much to his surprise, the second F-16 overshot him and spit out in front. But the first jet was slicing back down on them.
Seagrave lowered the gear. He knew what it would do to his fuel consumption, but he didn’t have a choice. He inched the throttles up and wallowed along at a leisurely two hundred knots. A voice came over the Guard channel. “Westbound MiG, identify yourself and say intentions.”
“This is Lightning One.” He put on his thickest English accent. “I’m a British aircraft with RAF markings. What do they teach you bloody fools in the name of aircraft recognition?” He didn’t wait for an answer and sucked the landing gear up. He nosed over for a long-range descent. “I’m minimum fuel with wounded on board and recovering at Navy Key West. Request a radio relay.” He couldn’t help himself. “Or is that asking too bloody much?” He looked over at Stuart, who was smiling feebly at him. “It’s not funny, lad,” Seagrave said.
“Yes it is.”
“That little diversion played havoc with our fuel.”
Navy Key West
The two men stood on the ramp as the Lightning came down final. All around them the Gray Eagles paced nervously. They had monitored the radio transmissions and knew what Shanker was going through. The last crash truck raced by to take its place on a taxiway. “They got to be flying on fumes,” Shanker said to no one.
“Will they have to eject?” Butler asked.
Shanker shook his head. “I doubt if Mike could survive if they did.” They held their breath as the Lightning touched down. Shanker saw it immediately. “Fuck me in the heart! No drag chute!” His face was grim as Seagrave got on the brakes, dragging the fighter to a halt. Smoke poured off the brakes as he ran out of runway. Finally he came to a halt on the overrun. Shanker and Butler jumped into their pickup and raced for the runway. They slowed just long enough for two Gray Eagles to pile into the back.
When they reached the Lightning, the canopy was up and Seagrave was motioning for a boarding ladder. “Come on!” he yelled. “I’ve got a wounded man here. He’s bleeding to death.” A fireman banged a ladder against the cockpit, and Seagrave scampered down to let them extract Stuart. On the ground he ripped off his helmet. His face was lined with fatigue, and his eyes were bloodshot. “Flamed out on landing,” he muttered.
“Thanks,” Shanker said. “I owe you big time.”
“I mucked it up,” Seagrave said. “Should have recovered at Nassau, or called for a tanker sooner.”
“It wouldn’t’ve done any good,” Shanker said. “None were available.” Shanker watched as the crash crew lifted his son out of the cockpit. He knew better than to get in the way. “Don’t go beating yourself up.” He tried to act nonchalant, the unruffled fighter pilot who could take anything in stride. But it was all a façade to hide his worry. “How’d it go?”
“Not bad,” Seagrave replied, playing the same game. “Got jumped going in and coming out. Had to splash two of the poor buggers.”
Shanker looked at him in amazement. “You got two?” A nod in reply. “I never did that.”
“My dear chap, you were simply flying the wrong fighter.”
Shanker gave the Englishman his moment. He had earned it. By every standard Shanker valued, Seagrave was a superb fighter pilot and the Lightning an outstanding warbird.
The crash crew lowered Stuart gently to a stretcher, and two medics bent over him. One held a plastic bag above his head as the other found a vein to insert the needle. “I need another unit of blood!” the medic yelled.
“Sweet Jesus,” Shanker said, shedding the last bit of restraint. He hurried over, the worried parent. “I’m his father,” he said, pushing through. Tears were in his eyes. He looked down at his son, certain he had lost him.
“I’m okay, Pop.”
Shanker took a deep breath. There was so much he had to say. But for now it could wait. He brushed away his tears. “What the hell am I supposed to tell your mother?”
Stuart thought for a moment. “Cheated death again?”
The White House
Butler had to walk. He stepped out of the entrance to the West Wing and savored the lovely March day. It was good to be alive. Mazie Hazelton joined him. As usual, she was wearing a stylish suit, but she had traded her high-heel pumps for white walking shoes and socks. “May I join you?” He nodded, and they stepped onto the road and walked briskly for the west appointment gate. They were totally mismatched, the gray and hunch-shouldered spook and the petite and beautiful politician.
“Maddy’s going to recognize Cuba’s new government this afternoon,” Mazie told him.
“Does she really have a choice?” Butler asked.
“Not if she wants the oil,” Mazie replied.
“Who would have ever thought?” Butler said. “Cuba about to become the wealthiest oil-producing nation in the world?”
“And all thanks to L.J. Ellis,” Mazie added.
“What are you going to do about her?”
“Nothing,” Mazie said. “Lloyd Marsten will have to serve some time but, like Shaw said, it’s a whole new ball game now.”
“Indeed it is,” Butler allowed.
“By the way,” Mazie said, “the president asked if you’d be interested in serving as her first ambassador to Cuba.”
The San Blas Islands, Panama
Eric steered the battered
Zodiac
inflatable as they rounded the point and headed for anchorage inside the reef. The noisy outboard motor coughed and sputtered before it caught again. “Dad,” he called, “isn’t that
Temptress
?” He headed for the only boat in sight.
Stuart squinted his eyes against the spray. “I think so.” The outboard sputtered again and died. The silence was a relief. Eric pulled at the starter rope a few times before giving up. He grinned and crawled forward to row.
“What a great spring break!” he said. “Becky and Andy are really going to be jealous when I tell them.” The two neighbor girls had become his inseparable companions. He pulled at the oars and found the rhythm as he rowed across the lagoon.
“Hello,
Temptress
,” Stuart called as they approached. They coasted to a stop about twenty feet away. A head popped out of the companionway and darted back inside. But not before Eric got a good look.
“Dad, I don’t think she had any clothes on.”
Stuart made the best of it. “Don’t be silly.” How could he tell a twelve-year-old boy that when you were alone in the tropics with not another person within ten miles and a limited water supply, running around starkers was more efficient than washing clothes?
Jane came on deck wearing a tank suit. She cocked her head and studied him for a few moments. “How did you find me?”
“I have my sources,” Stuart replied.
“We asked on the Net,” Eric said. The Net was the informal single-sideband radio channel that cruisers monitored to exchange information.
“We?” she asked. Eric bobbed his head enthusiastically. “What do you want?” she asked, giving them only four words.
“You, just you,” Stuart replied. Eric’s head was on a spring bouncing up and down.
She relented a little. “You two are crazy.” A little smile flickered across her lips.
Stuart caught it. “About you.” He upped the ante. “You get two for the price of one.”
“Is someone still out to get you?” she asked.
“Not anymore. I got them.”
Eric had to chime in. “But he had to go to Cuba and he got shot and almost bled to death. He’s still kinda weak, so I’m rowing.”
Her head came up. “Are you serious?”
Stuart stood in the
Zodiac
as it rocked back and forth. “Very serious.” He pleaded his case: “I love you, and Eric can’t stop talking about you. In fact, Jenny screams every time he mentions your name.”
“Which I do every day,” Eric called.
Stuart feigned dizziness and fell into the water. He pretended to sink. Jane didn’t hesitate and dove in, cleaving the water cleanly. Five strong strokes and she was with him, holding him up. “Were you really shot?”
“Sure was,” he burbled. She threw her arms around him, and he could feel her heart beating against his chest. “Eric!” Stuart yelled. “We could use a little help here.”
Eric rowed away. “Grown-ups,” he muttered under his breath. “Sink or swim,” he called.
Club Fed, Eglin Air Force Base, Florida
The phone call from the director of the Federal Bureau of Prisons had been short and simple: Roll out the red carpet. When the warden heard the name of the visitor, there was no doubt that he was facing a command performance, and he was waiting under the canvas marquee at the entrance long before the scheduled arrival time. His practiced eye swept his domain, Federal Prison Camp Eglin. Everything was ready.
To the uninitiated it looked like a military compound on a military installation. The lawns were neatly mowed, the barracks painted, the sidewalks swept. There was only a standard eight-foot chain-link fence surrounding the compound. There was no barbed wire, no armed guards. In fact, the fence was more to establish the installation’s boundaries and keep stray animals out than to keep the prisoners in. The real boundaries were painted lines on the ground that no inmate crossed without a pass. Not for any reason whatsoever. If any did, it was a very quick one-way trip to a regular prison.
The media referred to FPC Eglin as “Club Fed” or “the country club.” But every inmate would tell a different story. It was a tough place
because
there were no walls or barred windows, and the rules were self-enforced.
The warden saw the helicopter the moment it came into sight. He turned to the unarmed guard next to him. “Get Marsten.”
Lloyd Marsten walked out a few moments later. He was trim and tanned and glowed with health. His dungarees were freshly washed and pressed. “Lloyd,” the warden said, acknowledging his presence.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Marsten replied. The noise of the helicopter settling to the ground drowned out any further conversation. The door flopped open, and a steward helped L.J. Ellis step down.
The warden sucked in his stomach. He had seen photographs in the newspapers and, of course, the coverage on TV. But he was not prepared for the reality of her physical presence. “A beautiful woman,” he murmured.
“Indeed,” Marsten said.
She walked with long strides across the grass, and Marsten made the introductions. L.J. exchanged the customary courtesies with the warden before coming to the point. “Can Lloyd and I talk in private?”
“Of course,” the warden replied. Whatever this woman wanted, short of Marsten’s release, she would get. He motioned to the wooden picnic tables dotted around the lawn.
L.J. and Marsten walked into the shade and sat down at a table opposite each other. She reached into her bag and handed him a first edition of Ernest Hemingway’s
A Farewell to Arms.
He touched the book lovingly. The dust jacket was unblemished, and the book was in perfect condition. He turned to the title page and saw the author’s autograph. “Thank you. You must have paid a small fortune for it.” She shrugged. Money was truly meaningless now. A soft silence came down. Then, “Thank you for taking care of Amelia.”
“She’s a lovely woman. Do you see her often?”
“Every Saturday.”
“How’re you doing?”
“Much better than expected,” he allowed. They were silent for a moment. “How’s Duke?”
“Surviving,” L.J. admitted. “He’s with Billy.”
Marsten shook his head. “A dog in a nursing home?”
“The administration thought it was a good idea when I suggested it.” She didn’t say which administration.
“I imagine they did.”
Her hand reached out and covered his. “Oh, Lloyd, I’m so sorry, so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
A gentle shake of his head. “It was one of those times when you didn’t have a choice.” His words echoed in her mind, a gentle reminder of the lesson her father had taught her so many years ago when she had to bury her teddy bear.
He gazed at her, his face at peace. “I’m so proud of you.”