The Trojan Sea Page 28

  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.

  A loud “Squad-ron, a-ten-hut!” echoed over the hangar, stopping all conversation. It was Shanker forming up the Gray Eagles. At the command of attention, they all straightened up and did their best to appear military. “Dress right, dress!” Shanker shouted. The men extended their right elbows to take pacing and shuffled their ranks. The senior NCO shook his head at the sight of the retirees drilling. “You may be able to dress ’em up,” he said, “but you definitely don’t want to take ’em out.” He turned back to work and ignored the Gray Eagles.

  Stuart studied the missile and the launch rail. His college degree was in engineering, but he hadn’t used it in years. Yet this was exactly the type of problem he enjoyed solving. He bent down and looked under the wing. “Did you mount a pylon here?” He pointed to a teardrop-shaped panel on the underside of the wing.

  “Correct,” Seagrave said. “We could carry a thousand-pound bomb or rocket pod under each wing.”

  “Is the wiring still intact, and do you have the pylons?” Stuart asked.

  “Yes and yes,” Seagrave replied. He led them to the back of the hangar, where all the spare parts were carefully stored and catalogued. The two pylons were wrapped in protective foil.

  Stuart pulled away the foil and carefully examined the streamlined attachment that bolted to the underside of the wing. “I’ve got an idea.” He led them into the office and sat at the table. “Here’s how it works.” He sketched a diagram of the bomb pylon hanging under the Lightning’s wing. “The problem is mounting the missile launch rail on the bottom.”

  “They’re incompatible,” the senior NCO said.

  “True,” Stuart replied. “But in the mobility kits you maintain for deployments, you’ve got universal wing-tank adapters so you can mount NATO fuel tanks on our pylons.” The NCO nodded in agreement. Stuart sketched the clamps that were part of the universal adapter. “You take the mounting clamps off the adapters and bolt them here and here.” He drew arrows to the underside of the Lightning’s pylons. “Then you mount the missile rails to the new clamps. It should work.”

  Eric was looking at his father, admiration in his eyes. “You know all this stuff, Dad?”

  “Yeah. Anything to do with fuel. You name it, I’ve been involved.”

  “Your dad is a vital part of the team,” Seagrave said. “Without him nothing happens. I do have a question: How do I jettison the missile in case of an emergency?”

  “The same way you jettison a Sidewinder,” the NCO replied. “You launch it off the rail. Just be sure to point it so it won’t hit anything.”

  Seagrave shrugged. “If all you need is a firing signal, why not? I’m quite sure the Eagles can jury-rig the wiring.” Another thought came to him. “Of course, I’ll need a pylon and missile on the other wing. Aerodynamics, weight and balance, that sort of thing.”

  “Sounds good to me,” the NCO said. “Let’s see what my bosses have to say.”

  “Sorry, folks,” Stuart said. “We’ve got to go.” He looked at his son who was beaming with pride. “Say good-bye. We’ve got to hit the road.”

  Eric marched up to Seagrave and stuck out his hand. “Good-bye, sir. I’ll always remember the
ride.”

  “My pleasure,” Seagrave replied, shaking the boy’s hand.

  Eric bobbed his head and walked over to Shanker, who was still drilling the Gray Eagles. Again he extended his hand to say good-bye. But the cantankerous old man wasn’t having any of it. He gathered his grandson in his arms and gave him a big hug. “Always check six, hear?”

  “I will, sir,” Eric promised. He took a last look at the Lightning and walked quickly out of the hangar.

  “You need to straighten that woman out,” Shanker groused.

  “I’m trying,” Stuart replied. “By the way, what’s this all about?”

  “We’re goin’ to Washington and we’re gonna protest,” Shanker said. “That woman and her goddamn stupid gun law.”

  Stuart shook his head and followed his son into the rain.

  Occoquan, Virginia

  “It’s a nice place,” Stuart assured Eric as they turned down the lane leading to Jenny’s new home. The weather had finally broken, and the sun had come out.

  “Yeah,” Eric muttered, oblivious to his new surroundings.

  Stuart turned into the driveway. “Damn,” he said softly. Barbara Raye’s black Cadillac and a BMW he didn’t recognize were parked in front of the garage. “Her lawyer, no doubt.”

  “I’m not going in,” Eric said.

  For a moment Stuart didn’t know what to do. But he couldn’t blame Eric for not wanting to be here. “Let me go grease the skids.”

  “Make them go away,” Eric told him.

  Stuart nodded and went inside while Eric walked down the street. Jenny took him into the family room, where Barbara Raye and her lawyer were waiting. “Where’s Eric?” Barbara Raye asked.

  “He’s waiting until you leave,” Stuart told her.

  “I’m his grandmother. Don’t you forget that.”

  Something hardened inside Stuart. “Then I’d suggest you start acting like one.”

  Barbara Raye glared at him. “You little weasel. You’ve poisoned him against me.”

  “I think you did that yourself,” Stuart calmly replied.

  Barbara Raye jutted her chin at her lawyer, bringing in her reinforcements. “Colonel Stuart,” the lawyer began, “we have determined that it’s in Eric’s best interests to modify the custody agreement. We have two choices: We can either be civilized or do it the hard way.” He handed Stuart another summons.

  Stuart glanced at the summons, read the court date, and flared. “Hold on! I agreed to bringing Eric here only if you dropped the court hearing.”

  “I changed my mind,” Barbara Raye snapped.

  “You don’t have a thing to say about it,” Stuart said, his voice deadly calm now.

  “Mike,” Jenny pleaded, “what’s gotten into you? You’ve always been so reasonable, and I do want to be with him.”

  “Maybe I’ve stopped being reasonable,” Stuart said. But she had a point. She was Eric’s mother, and he couldn’t deny her access to her son. “For now Eric can stay with you as long as the crocodile here—”

  The lawyer interrupted him. “Name-calling will not help matters.”

  Stuart turned on the man. “Wanna bet, fuckface?” He was an echo of his father, and the lawyer blanched. “Let’s get a few things straight. First, Barbara Raye will not have access to Eric without my permission. Second, either you leave now or Eric and I leave. Third, see you in court.”

  “That we will,” the lawyer said. He retreated to the front door. For a moment Barbara Raye glared at him. Then she followed him out.

  “Mike,” Jenny said, rebuke in her voice.

  Stuart waited until he heard the two cars drive off. “I’ll get Eric. Jenny, he loves you, but he can’t stand your mother. You’ll lose him if you’re not careful. And he’s a great kid.” They went outside and found Eric standing by the car talking to two pretty girls his age. “Seems he’s discovered girls,” Stuart said.

  Eric waved at them. “I think I’m going to like it here.” He paused. “I heard what Grandma Barbara said to her lawyer about you when she got in her car. Thanks, Dad. You were cool.” He wore the same expression Stuart had seen in the hangar.

  Annapolis

  It was late Saturday afternoon when Stuart arrived at the marina where Temptress was docked. He took a deep breath when he got out of the car. The gate was open, and he walked slowly down the dock. Will she listen? he wondered. He had called Jane three times while she was in the hospital, but she would talk only about Temptress and Eric. When he’d tried to visit her, the duty nurse had given him a hard look and said that Jane was not receiving visitors. He’d sent flowers, but they’d been returned with a note saying she’d been released.

  He recognized the signs before he reached the boat: The dinghy was stowed on the foredeck, jerry cans of diesel fuel were lashed to the port side of the cabin trunk, and the sail cover was off. Jane was preparing the boat for sea. She looked up from the cockpit and waited, not saying a word. “I didn’t know you were leaving,” he said, looking at the bandage on her face.

  “I’ve got a charter,” she replied. Four words or less once again.

  “But you’re not healed yet.”

  “I’ve been hurt before,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  She pointed to the aft shroud on the port side of the mast. “Rigging problems. It snapped. Hit me in the face.”

  He was stunned, and for a moment he couldn’t speak. The shrouds were the stainless steel cables that supported the mast. They were under tremendous strain when the sails were driving the boat, and the thought of one breaking and whipping across the deck was frightening. She was lucky to be alive. “How badly were you hurt?”

  She shrugged. “Lost an eye.”

  “Oh, my God! You can’t go anywhere.” No answer. “Jane, you’re in no condition to go sailing.” Still no answer. In the silence another thought came to him. “That was no accident.”

  She whirled on him. “Stop being paranoid. It was an accident, pure and simple.”

  He was stunned by the anger in her words. Then, slowly, “How do you explain the brakes on the Explorer?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Jane, don’t go.” He was pleading. “I was incredibly stupid. Please give me another chance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you.”

  Her face softened. “And I love you. Earn it.” She pointed at the dock lines. “Help me cast off.”

  He did as she commanded and watched as she motored out of the marina. Jane headed Temptress into the wind and alone, hoisted the mainsail. The wind was freshening, and she set the first reef before unfurling part of the jib. Even from a distance he could see that the boat was in perfect balance as the sails started to draw. He didn’t move until she was out of sight.

  He walked back to the car. He sat behind the wheel as a fine mist settled over the marina. He had never felt so alone. “Damn!” he raged, pounding on the steering wheel. His eyes narrowed into slits as something deep inside him turned to steel. “Time to get aggressive,” he said aloud to himself. He started the engine and headed back to Washington.

  24

  Near Fort Lauderdale

  The panic was back, eating at Sophia as the three men talked endlessly and cleaned their weapons again and again. The pressure kept building until she screamed, “Do something!” The men only stared at her and went back to whatever they were doing. She sat next to Eduardo and whispered. “Can you forgive me, my love? I’m only a woman.”

  “We understand,” he murmured. “The waiting is hard.” She whispered in his ear that she would show the proper gratitude that night in bed. He gave her his dreamy look and nodded. Her campaign to divide and conquer had finally borne results, however small.

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought it was the Wednesday or Thursday of the first week in February when their training routine changed. They all sat in the car, and Luis drove slowly around the compound. Without warning he slowed even more and shouted, “Go!” Franci
sco rolled out the rear right door holding his AK-47 submachine gun across his chest. The car accelerated away as he came to his feet and tried to bring the AK-47 to a firing position. But the combat vest he was wearing got in the way, and he fumbled with the weapon. They tried it again, but this time he hit the ground wrong and jammed the AK-47 against his sternum, knocking his own breath out.

  “It’s too big,” Sophia told them. “He needs a smaller weapon, like the MP5.” The Heckler and Kock MP5 was Luis’s prized weapon, which he treated like a child. The men discussed her suggestion for a moment, and Luis reluctantly handed Francisco his submachine gun. Again they drove around the compound. This time Francisco executed the maneuver perfectly. He came to his feet smiling and swung the submachine gun around in a clearing motion.

  “How did you know?” Luis asked.

  “You forget who I am,” she said. “Cuba trains its fighters well.” Luis nodded in agreement. “Your enemy is our enemy,” she told him. “Use me. Let me share the honor.”

  She was cleaning up after dinner that same night when Eduardo brought a large wooden cross into the trailer and set it in the corner next to the TV. Are they going to pray? she wondered. She went back to the dishes. Why can’t I get Eduardo to talk? He thinks I worship him and will do anything for him.

  Luis spoke quietly to her. “Why do you favor Eduardo?”

  “Why does the sun shine?”

  “He says you are one of us.”

  Her spirits soared. She was making progress! “We are the few against the many,” she said. “We are the weak against the strong. We are the pure against the impure.”

  Luis took up the chant. “We are the few against the many. We are weak against the strong.” He ran outside and was back in a few moments carrying a Cuban flag on a short staff. He propped it next to the wooden cross. “Do you truly wish to die for Cuba?”

  “It would give my life meaning,” she replied. She stood beside the flag and touched it. “This stands for all I cherish most dear.” Am I laying it on too thick? She touched the cross and drew her fingers down the coarse wood in reverence. Don’t overplay it.