“There he is.” Shoshana had turned around and picked him out behind them in the stopped traffic. She jumped out and ran back to his car and piled into the backseat just as the cars started to move. By the time they reached the entrance to SwissAir, she had changed clothes and scanned the new documents. She was now Abigail Peterson.
“Peterson entered the country three days ago,” Avidar explained, “and Passport Control might have your old name and orders to stop you.”
Avidar carried her bags as they hurried toward the immigration counters. Three other late arrivals for the SwissAir flight were still in line and she caught her breath as Avidar dropped her bags and disappeared. When the last person in front of her moved away from the counter, she bent down to pick up her bags. She looked up into the deadpan face of the same immigration official who had cleared her into Iraq.
“Miss Temple,” he said, recognizing her immediately, “we’ve been waiting for you. Your passport and exit visa please.” He held out his hand, enjoying his power over her now that there was no Is’al Mana to intimidate him and Al Mukhabaret had issued orders to detain her.
“Of course,” Shoshana replied. She reached into her handbag and touched the Walther. Then her mind was made up. She clenched the pistol and glanced at the exit to her left. Just maybe she could avoid capture long enough to pass the combo pen off to Avidar. She would have to be the decoy to let Avidar escape. This was not the way she had planned to die.
“Passport!” the man demanded. He was staring at her handbag. Suddenly his head snapped up and he came to attention. “Sir!” Habish was standing directly behind Shoshana wearing his dark suit coat and sunglasses. He looked exactly like an Iraqi ape from the secret police and he was waving an identification card that established him as an inspector. Avidar had done his work well and the ID card was a perfect copy. The Iraqi was trembling.
Habish grabbed Shoshana by the arm and jerked her toward the exit. The force pulled Shoshana’s hand free of her handbag and the contents spilled on the floor. Habish kicked the Walther toward the counter. “You’re a fool,” he snarled. “She would have shot you and I should have let her. Now, pick everything up.” The man hurried to do as he was told. “Give it to me.” He took the handbag and rushed Shoshana through the exit leading to the street.
Avidar was right behind them with Shoshana’s suitcases. “Hurry,” he urged, “two real agents are at the counter.”
The Safety Investigation Board was convened at RAF Stone-wood in less than twenty-four hours after the crash. Matt was amazed at the efficiency of the base and the board in starting the investigation. The wing’s Safety Officer had guided him through the first hectic hours. Sensing trouble, Matt had asked for a lawyer, but the Safety Officer explained that the Safety Board took no disciplinary action and none of its findings could be used in a court-martial. The board simply wanted to determine the cause of the accident to prevent it from happening again. If the Air Force wanted to hammer Matt, it would convene and Accident Investigation Board to conduct an investigation and gather evidence independently of the Safety Board.
Seventy-two hours after the accident, the Safety Board had issued a preliminary report on the accident. While the report said the cause of the accident had yet to be determined, every experienced fighter jock knew what the final verdict would be — pilot error. And all eyes were looking directly at Matt. He gave up going to the casual bar in the officers’ club when he overheard a pilot and wizzo talking about the accident.
“You think Locke screwed up?” the wizzo asked.
“No way,” the pilot answered, “Locke was too good for that.”
The memorial service in the base chapel for the three men was a gut-wrenching experience for Matt. He sat alone at the end of one pew, avoided by the men of his squadron, and concentrated on what the chaplain had to say. Then a two-star general, Rupert Stansell, stood in front of them and delivered the eulogy. The general asked them to look at Locke’s life and draw lessons from his example. Stansell’s final words rang true when he offered a prayer: “Please take this man and judge him fairly, for he was among the best we have.”
The mourners gathered outside the chapel and waited. The roar of distant jets could be heard and three F-15s overflew the chapel in a missing man formation. Then three RAF F-4s passed over in the same formation, their roundels catching the setting sun. Matt had heard that a British air marshal, a Sir David Childs, had ordered the flyby. He looked at die high clouds that were turning from hues of pink to blood-red and knew that Locke’s influenced had reached deep. Not knowing what to do, he followed a basic instinct and sought out Locke’s British wife. He found her standing with friends, holding the hands of her two small children.
“Mrs. Locke, please accept my condolences …"He felt like a rigid fool.
The woman raised her chin and looked at him. Her eyes were dry and clear. She had done her crying in private. “Yes, thank you.” He knew he was dismissed and walked away.
Matt did not escape without hearing a muttered “He’s such an asshole,” when he crossed the street, heading for his BOQ room.
“Yeah, and his family will bail him out,” another voice said. “You won’t see an Accident Board on this one.” He recognized both voices and knew they meant him to hear.
A week later, the accident board finished their investigation and issued an interim report: Nothing new had been discovered and the cause of the accident would have to wait further analysis of the wreckage. Matt found that no one in the squadron would talk to him. He was in limbo. That afternoon he went to the Class VI store and bought a bottle of Scotch, determined to hang on a colossal drunk in the privacy of his BOQ room.
The next morning he walked into the squadron building, still feeling the aftereffects of the Scotch he had swizzled the night before. That’s not the answer, he told himself. He tried to sneak by the scheduling counter when he recognized the pudgy major talking to the sergeant on duty.
“Captain Pontowski,” the sergeant called. “Major Furry here wants to talk to you.”
Matt stifled a groan. Major Ambler Furry was the wing’s weapons officer, a distinguished graduate of the Air Force’s Fighter Weapons School, and Locke’s old backseater. Furry’s career stretched back to F-4s and he was one of the original cadre of the 45th who had served under Colonel Muddy Waters. Matt cursed his luck for being associated with legends of the Air Force. In any other unit, he could have sunk into welcome anonymity.
Furry pointed to an empty office and left the counter. Matt followed him. Normally, men built like Furry tended to waddle, but Matt noticed the wizzo had a rolling gait that shouted self-confidence. Furry closed the door behind them and motioned for Matt to sit down. “How’s it going?” Furry asked.
“Not good. You’d think I had a case of the plague that could be caught by standing inside fifty feet.”
“Sounds more like you’re still feeling sorry for yourself.” Furry didn’t wait for an answer. “Look, it’s always hard getting over an accident.”
Matt turned away and looked at the white wall board that still had the sketch of an air-to-air engagement on it. “I’m not sure I can fly anymore … I haven’t flown since the accident. I don’t even want to. I look at an F-Fifteen and I see trouble… Hell, I’m not even sure what caused the accident.”