Several cadets did.
Then unexpectedly Zuiden spoke up. ‘You say your primary offensive installation is your tits. So why are you such a prissy bitch with us?’
Cain looked around at him, amazed. Even coming from a crass shit like Zuiden, the comment was out of line. The man was a Grade Three. He knew better than that.
A stunned silence in the room. Zuiden pugnaciously stared at Hunt.
Cain glanced at Vanqua expecting the Dane to pull him into line but the surgeon head sat impassively.
A tic of shock on Hunt’s face. Her answer was slow, deliberate. ‘When I started here, some people told me that surgeons were degraded thugs and emotionless assassins. I’ve tried to be more open-minded. Now I wonder why I bothered.’
‘Funny,’ Zuiden sniggered, ‘surgeons see dentists as stuck-up pricks and perverts.’ It was a direct hit at Rhonda.
Vanqua was up. ‘No name-calling here. Session finished.’
11
BULLET ENTRÉE
Lunch was a war zone. Tables for four with place cards. And at Cain’s table, facing each other — Zuiden and Hunt. It could have been avoided. But nothing was done. Cain was opposite Spencer. That, at least, was sane.
Hunt was ice, said nothing. Cain was thankful. Because, if she started, he’d have to defend her against Zuiden. And fronting a senior surgeon was as dangerous as it got.
No one spoke. Spencer was obviously embarrassed but Zuiden seemed to be enjoying himself and attacked his oysters kilpatrick with gusto. He paused between mouthfuls to finally say to Spencer, ‘Good grub.’ Then he turned to Hunt with the deliberation of a gun turret, stared down her front and said pointedly, ‘You know, all I care about is my stomach — and the little thing that hangs on the end of it.’
Cain said, ‘Cut it out.’
‘Jesus, Cain.’ Zuiden’s deprecating look. ‘Is your hand still up your arse?’
He wasn’t ready for the stab of derision and glanced around at Rhonda. She was at the head table, with Vanqua. Why hadn’t she handled this?
The almost imperceptible shake of her head warned him to do nothing.
‘So tonight,’ Spencer said to keep the peace, ‘we’re going up to vultures row to see the cats on the roof.’
‘Cats?’ Cain asked.
‘Tomcats. F–14s. They’re doing night launch and recovery cycles. The trouble is signing you out of this vault because it takes so long. So a few of us go tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll take the rest.’
‘Sounds good.’ He was grateful to the man for heading it off, tried to keep the conversation going. ‘The pilots must be hotshots.’
‘According to our surveys, they go through several stages. They’re hard-chargers up to 250 hours. Around 1200, they get careless. If they don’t goon it up and survive to 5000, they get too confident and relax again. Everything to do with fighters is pushing the envelope anyway.’
Zuiden stared at Hunt’s cleavage and said to her with a leer, ‘They certainly lift and separate. Like to help me lose some zinc?’
She stood bolt upright, slapped Zuiden hard across the face and walked out.
The conversation in the room had stopped. Everyone was watching the scene. Zuiden, now half out of his chair, seemed about to follow and drop her.
‘You bloody disgrace. Sit down.’ Cain fingered the release off the cannon. If he had to spread the table with the surgeon’s guts, he’d do it.
Zuiden looked at him levelly, deciding whether this was it. ‘Careful, Cain. Next time it won’t just be your toes.’
Cain fought rage, loathing the bastard, choking on what they’d drilled into him. EMOTION IS A FORCE, NOT AN ARGUMENT. No one in the room moved, aghast at the sight of two men who could kill anyone with impunity confronting each other like pit bulls. Finally, Zuiden, one cheek reddening, sat down.
Cain glanced at the head table. Both department heads were immobile. Then Vanqua, with measured action, passed Rhonda a bread roll. The tension in the room dropped one notch and conversation started again.
A waiting steward, shaking with terror, slid a main course under Zuiden’s nose. The surgeon regarded it unseeingly as if debating whether to attack.
Spencer cleared his throat. ‘You know, on the Midway it got so ugly, we had to separate whites from blacks. No-go areas. Perhaps it might work for EXIT departments.’
Zuiden thrust his face round to him. ‘What if I separate your head from your neck?’
‘So,’ Cain said to Spencer, ‘I hear you’re doing a preamble before my thing.’
Spencer looked at him nervously, sensing the volcano beside him. ‘Yes, Rhonda asked me to give a strategic summary before your talk.’
‘Well, thank you for that.’
‘Well, thank you for that,’ Zuiden mimicked. ‘You intellectual git. I bet you’re pissing your pants.’
Cain stared at the surgeon again. Something was wrong. Zuiden was too well trained for this. The resentments had always been there but they’d suffered each other for years. What had got into the bastard? He murmured, ‘Jan. Please don’t do this.’
The shock of hearing his first name must have gone deep. Zuiden glanced up as if caught out, then sullenly began to eat his food.
12
ATTACK IN BLACK
Presentations continued through the afternoon and even during dinner when the rumbling-voiced head of Mossad gave a summary on: Small Arms Developments, Unpleasant to Vile. ‘… lasers as small as rifles that cause irreversible blindness up to a distance of 3 kilometres. And a new white phosphorus grenade that…’
The details didn’t complement dessert.
After the meal, senior staff chaired discussion groups. Cain wanted to work on his speech but was obliged to head a forum of eight awed cadets — including the black woman he’d met in the shower.
When the session finished, she smiled up at him. ‘Fantastic to talk to someone who’s done it all.’
‘Glad it helped.’
‘So how was Pat? Good tunes on old fiddles?’
He smiled. ‘We go back a long way.’
‘Whatever rings your bell.’ A flash of coal-dark eyes made it clear. She was available if he wanted her.
Pat’s group was breaking up. She raised her eyebrows as he passed.
He shook his head. ‘Got to work on the speech.’
She made a face.
‘Only time to do it.’
‘Well, tomorrow night, you’re booked.’
In the glow from his bunk-head light, he scrawled bullet points to use as prompts. After an hour, still unhappy with it, he switched off the light and slept.
Something woke him. The cabin was black except for the crack of light beneath the door. The crack, a slight wedge shape, slowly became a line.
Someone had shut the door.
Someone now in the room.
Only Pat knew his door code and she wasn’t coming tonight.
He looked at the corner of the ceiling, searching with peripheral vision for movement. The breast-gun was in a drawer as the straps made it uncomfortable to sleep in. So for years he’d slept with a super-reliable SIG-Sauer automatic by his thigh.
He aimed through the bedclothes to the left of the door. Knife? Gun? Torch beam? In the first 30 seconds you were vulnerable — had to react first.
Nothing came. Whoever it was didn’t have night goggles or would have attacked. That gave him the advantage because the other’s eyes had to adjust. The intruder also couldn’t use his ears, because the ship’s noise drowned small sounds.