Would that save them, though? It wouldn’t exactly be difficult to figure out who had done what.
“You look like you’re trying to untie the Gordian knot.”
Surprised, Dog looked up to find Jennifer Gleason, the young computer scientist who worked primarily on the Flighthawk project, smiling down at him.
“The Gordian knot?” he asked. “You know, I’ve always wondered what that was.”
“The Gordian knot was a complicated knot tied by King Gordius of Phrygia,” said Gleason. “Supposedly, anyway. The oracles claimed that whoever could undo it would rule Asia. So along comes Alexander the Great. He hears about it, goes over to it, and without wasting a blink of his eye, slices it with his sword.”
Bastian laughed.
“Probably not a true story,” said Gleason. She flicked her head back so her long reddish-blond hair glistened at her shoulders. “But it has a certain charm.”
“Especially if you’re trying to work out a budget,” said Bastian.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No, I need interruption,” he told her, flipping the top page back over his pad so the writing couldn’t be read. “Sit down.”
She slid in across from him and took the top off her yogurt container.
“Dinner?” he asked.
“More like a late lunch.”
“No wonder you’re so skinny.”
“I hope that was meant in a professional way.”
“Touché, Doc.”
“Most people call me Jennifer or Jen, Colonel.” Gleason smiled and then spooned some of the vanilla-flavored yogurt into her mouth. “I always thought doctors were the people who were sticking stethoscopes in your face and thermometers in your chest.”
“I think that goes the other way around.”
She smirked. Dog searched for something else to say, but all he could think of was the Flighthawk project—not a good topic, since he’d already decided to recommend cutting it. And in fact he half-expected she’d sat down to make a pitch for keeping it.
“You run every morning?” she asked.
“I do actually.”
“I saw you this morning. I was going to ask if I could join you, but I chickened out.”
“I don’t bite,” said Bastian.
“I was a little worried about your pace. I only run to keep in shape for climbing. I rock-climb on weekends,” she added.
“You rock-climb nearby?”
“There are some great climbs in the mountains at the end of F Range,” she said.
“I always wanted to try it.”
The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them, but she didn’t laugh.
“It’s easy. I’ll show you sometime. As long as you don’t mind taking orders from a civilian.”
“I don’t think I’d mind at all.”
“Good.”
“You can run with me anytime you want,” he said.
“I’ll see you in the morning then,” said Jennifer, finishing her yogurt.
He watched her walk away, then went back to work.
JEFF HADN’T EATEN LIKE THIS IN YEARS, NOT EVEN IN A restaurant. Breanna had knocked herself out for him, and he appreciated it.
But it only made him more determined.
The truth was, he’d come to this conclusion months ago. Seeing her with Smith just brought him back to his senses.
So why didn’t he feel calm about it?
Dessert was the only course she hadn’t cooked herself, homemade cannolis from the only Italian bakery within five hundred miles. As Jeff finished his, he leaned back in the chair and watched her sip her wine.
“You’re beautiful, Bree. Really, truly, beautiful,” he told her.
“Nice of you to notice,” she said. The line had once been a joke between them, usually applied to something like doing the dishes or vacuuming without being asked. Now it sounded off-key, almost sorrowful. “You want some more wine?”
He shook his head. “Maybe that beer.”
“Fine.”
A twinge ran through him. He didn’t really want the beer. He was stalling. Damn, he’d become good at that, hadn’t he?
Still, he waited until she came back, the beer in a frosted pilsner glass.
“You thought of everything,” he told her.
Stall, stall, stall.
Just go for it.
Bree seemed to sense what was coming. “Jeff, I want us to work,” she said, her voice beginning to tremble. “I know it’s been hard. I know it’s going to be tough—”
Something deep inside him took over, a calm forcefulness that pushed him to take care of things as he knew they had to be taken care of. Jeff held his finger up to her lips. “Bree—”
“D-don’t—” she stuttered.
“I saw you the other night with Mack Smith.”
“You saw me where?” She straightened, suddenly stiff. “I saw him come out of your suite at Dreamland. Our suite.”
“No—”
“It’s okay, Bree. It really has nothing to do with anything.”
“But—”
“Look, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I decided a long time ago—six months maybe. You don’t need me, Rap. I’m going to hold you back.”
“That’s bullshit. It’s all bullshit,” she said. Her face was flushed; she practically spat as she spoke.
Wine or blood?
“No, listen to me,” he said calmly. “It’s not your fault. I understand. Totally. This wasn’t part of the deal.”
His hands started to tremble. He reached to put the glass of beer on the table in front of him; it slipped halfway, falling to the floor.
“Oh, Jeff, no,” she said, throwing her arms around him.
“I want a divorce,” he told her. “For your sake. For mine too. It’ll help us move on.”
“No, Jeff, no.” Breanna buried her head in his lap, sobbing. He bent over, fingers running through her hair, his eyes blurry with the leaping flame of the candles on the table.
Ethiopia
22 October, 0350
SERGEANT MELFI SETTLED INTO THE CANVAS SEAT AS the Chinook jerked into the sky. The large engines on the big-hulled Boeing helicopter had a distinctive whomp that seemed to push the twenty Marines down between the tubular supports of their seats. Gunny scanned the row of men toward the front of the chopper. The dim red interior lights added more shadows to the darkened camo faces, making the unit look like a collection of ghosts riding in the night.
If the operation went smoothly, it would seem as if ghosts had carried it out. Within two hours, the Iranians would lose most of their ability to launch a preemptive strike against Gulf shipping.
Assuming everything went off as planned. The intelligence bothered Gunny; they’d been given satellite information that was several hours old. That might be okay for the big stuff—blowing up another Silkworm missile battery wasn’t a big deal. But the Iranians could easily have airdropped some light armor, or added more machine guns near the bluffs overlooking the Silkworm battery.
Too late to worry about it now.
“Zero-five to LZ,” barked the helicopter crew chief.
“Hang tough, girls,” said ,Gunny, cinching his helmet strap. “We do this dance the way we rehearsed it.”
KNIFE NOTED THE WAY MARKER AND DID A QUICK SCAN of his instruments. He had the volume on his radar-warning receiver near max; his air-to-air radar was set at wide scan. The sky was clear ahead, the sea and coastline peaceful.
Not for long, he thought. The helo was cutting a course bare inches from the scrub trees and jagged hilltops twenty miles to the west. Further along the coast, a flight of F-117’s was cutting over the Gulf of Aden, aiming for another secret Iranian base on the Somalian coast. All hell was about to break loose.
“Poison Flight, time to twist,” said Smith to his F-16 wingmen.
“Three.”
“Four.”
The two F-16’s peeled off, their exhaust nozzles swelling red in the dark sky as they accelerated northward. Knife pushed his nose down, beginning a glide toward their target area. His wingman fell in behind him.