“You know something? You’re one hell of a lousy shot.”
“What do you mean? I shot Rittmann.”
“You weren’t supposed to shoot me.”
“What did you expect? This is government work. Hold still while I get this antiseptic on.”
Dressing her wound, Maxwell realized again what a brutish weapon the .45 caliber was. Though the bullet hit only the muscle between her neck and her shoulder, just missing her collarbone, it left a two-inch-deep wound that was bleeding profusely.
In Rittmann’s case, the damage was more dramatic. He had fired all seven rounds — the full magazine — into the German. Rittmann was a mess.
Gross overkill. Maxwell could still feel the dark emotions that had taken possession of him. It was the first time he had killed an enemy at close range. No bomb, missile, or cannon. He could still see the look on Rittmann’s face.
“Owww, damn, that hurts!” B.J. said.
“It’s supposed to hurt. That’s how you know the stuff is working.”
The wound was still bleeding. He made a compress from several layers of gauze and pressed it onto the wound.
She winced again, then began to shiver. “I’m cold, Brick.”
“I’m almost finished. Don’t move while I put the bandage on. Then we’ll get you wrapped in the thermal blanket.”
It had been close. He knew he could never duplicate that shot on the firing range — hitting Rittmann in the throat at twenty yards, while missing the body of his wingman. Practically in the dark.
Well, nearly missing. B. J. Johnson would always have an interesting scar to remind her of how close she had come to a fatal bullet. Or getting her throat cut.
The memory of what happened kept inserting itself back in his mind. He was shocked at the ferocity that had overcome him. Rittmann was dead as a post. What secrets he possessed had exited through the seven bullet holes in him.
A high overcast obscured the sky. The darkness filled in the shadows around them. B.J. complained again about the cold, and Maxwell wrapped her in the thermal blanket from his survival pack.
They huddled in a crevice beneath a large boulder to wait out the night.
“Do I get a Purple Heart for this?”
“No way. You have to be wounded by the enemy.”
“But it was the enemy who caused me to be wounded. That, and your lousy aim.”
“It won’t help your case by making slurs about your commanding officer.”
She lapsed into a silence, and after several minutes Maxwell realized that she was sleeping. She lay snuggled close to him, her head on his shoulder.
Tentatively, so as not to disturb her, he put his arm around her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SAN‘A
Claire saw the battered white Toyota swinging around the corner. As Maloney rolled up to the front of the Al Qasmy, he reached over and opened the right door.
“I know a restaurant not far from here,” he said. “Off the street and quiet.” His face looked puffy, as if he hadn’t gotten much sleep.
She kept her silence while he weaved along the cobbled streets. Maloney, she remembered, loved intrigue. Whatever he had to tell her, he was going to milk it for its full dramatic value.
The restaurant was a hole-in-the-wall called Al-Salah, in a narrow side street about eight blocks from her hotel. The windows were curtained, and an awning covered the sidewalk in front. Half a dozen Yemenis looked up from huddled conversations as they entered. Maloney led her to a back table.
He waited until the drinks came. He looked around, then said in a low voice, “There was another airborne operation today. A team of marines went in to pick up a downed pilot, but they came under fire and now they’re on the ground too.”
Claire listened, barely able to breathe. “You said something about the lucky guy.”
“Another Hornet was shot down supporting the marines.”
She took a deep breath and waited.
Maloney said, “What is your guy’s name?”
“Maxwell. Sam Maxwell.”
He hesitated, and she could tell by his expression what was coming. “Claire, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but that’s the guy.”
“Is he…”
“No details. They think he ejected okay, but no word yet about his situation.”
Claire’s mind raced through the possibilities. If he was alive, he may have joined the marines on the ground. Or he was captured.
Or killed.
As these thoughts played in her mind, the anger swelled up inside her. “What the hell’s going on, Vince?” She knew she was speaking too loudly. The cluster of Yemeni men across the room looked up in surprise. They had probably never heard a woman raise her voice in anger. “Why are they letting this… this half-assed little bandit, Al-Fasr, get away with this? Why don’t we—”
“Ssh-shh.” Maloney was holding his finger to his lips, looking more nervous than ever. He nodded toward the Yemeni men. They had all halted their own conversations and were staring at them.
Claire turned and glowered back. “To hell with them,” she said. She swung back to Maloney. “To hell with all of them. Since when does the United States have to bow and scrape to thugs who kill Americans?”
Maloney’s nervousness ratcheted up another notch. “Look, Claire, I know how you feel. This is a very dangerous situation we’re in—”
“Dangerous for who? Are you state department people afraid you might lose your precious little jobs if you speak up? What about those Americans out there in the hills getting shot at by” — she paused and glowered again at the gawking Yemenis — “a bunch of Stone Age ragheads?”
At this, Maloney winced. She knew she sounded hysterical, but right now she didn’t give a damn. Sam Maxwell was in trouble, and nobody was doing diddly about it.
Maloney had his notepad out, scribbling something on it. He ripped out the page and slid it to her. “This is the phone number of the embassy security office and the address of the front gate, written in Arabic. If this thing blows up — and I predict that it will — get yourself there immediately. Give this to a driver you can trust and go to the front gate. The sentries will know you by name. Don’t tell anyone at the hotel where you’re going; don’t take luggage. If there’s an air evacuation, you have to be inside the embassy compound to get on it.”
“You really believe this place will blow?”
“If Al-Fasr comes to town, yes.”
“And you think he will?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you just get out now while you can?”
Despite his inebriation, Maloney seemed thoughtful. “You will find this hard to believe, but I still have a tiny sense of duty left in me. You know, the old death-before-dishonor thing. I intend to stay at my post.”
Claire nodded and finished her drink in silence. She was sorry she had flared up at Maloney. He was still her best friend in this hostile country.
They pecked at dinner, neither of them hungry, and made small talk about everything except what was on their minds. He paid the bill and they left. Passing the table of dark-eyed Yemeni men, Claire glowered again at them.
Outside, darkness had descended over the city. The air had turned chilly. She could see Maloney’s white Toyota parked a couple hundred meters down the street.
Maloney said, “I think you should come with me to the embassy compound.”
“What for? Is this another proposition?”
“You’ll be safe there.”
For a moment, she considered. Maloney meant well, even if he was potted. It wasn’t his fault that she was distraught, worried sick about Maxwell.