“Some super oil field?” Prevatt asked.
The pilot had shaken his head. “The largest natural gas field in the world. Trillions, and just when the rest of the world was starting to perfect LNG technology. Liquefied natural gas. They cool the stuff down so that they can ship more of it and send it off to Europe for all of those energy-efficient cars.”
Now, thirty or forty years later, all that wealth stood visibly on the skyline of Doha.
Still, it was just another assignment to Prevatt. He loved to fly and sighed at the mere thought of his next assignment: A desk job, which to a pilot was akin to a diagnosis of cancer. At least this one would be in the Afghanistan theater. As air officer to the combined task force, he would control the air support for all of the units in theater. If he couldn’t fly, at least he would be in combat. It was a cruelty of advancing rank. Colonels could not fly as often as captains. He would be grounded by his rank and he resented it.
Just as he now resented waiting on the runway. For what?
Prevatt looked up to see another aircraft on final approach in the distance.
“Air Force Six-Niner, hold for a passenger.”
His copilot stared at him. “What the hell is this?”
Prevatt scratched his head. “I think it’s that same executive bird that was going into Kuwait last night.”
He had heard the call sign as the two aircraft crossed the North Atlantic on parallel paths the night before.
As he spoke, a Gulfstream jet landed before them with full flaps extended. As the wheels settled on the surface, the massive jet’s engines went into reverse, causing the aircraft to stop like a hesitant motorist with a last-minute light change. Smoke from the wheels puffed up underneath the aircraft. The pilot wasn’t wasting any time. The plane turned to taxi off the active runway and, as it did, the bold markings of blue, white, and silver, reading UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, flashed by the C-17. It was one of the executive fleet aircrafts and Prevatt watched as it pulled up on the side of the medevac aircraft, stopped, and, as its door opened, two armed men carrying M4 automatic rifles ran down the stairs to the tarmac. Both stood at the wingtip of the jet as another man, dressed much like a corporate attorney, disembarked and approached the C-17.
“I know that man,” Prevatt said.
His copilot peered over the pilot’s seat, craning to see the three men on the ground.
“Yep, it’s the damn deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency himself,” said Prevatt as he turned to the flight chief behind him. “Go unbutton the door for our guest.”
The CIA deputy director climbed from the blazing hot tarmac into the dark, chilly cave body of the C-17, losing his vision for a brief moment. The flight chief took him by his arm and led him and his bodyguards over to three web seats in the bay of the aircraft.
“Strap in, sir. We are ready to roll.” The flight chief pulled their seat belts out and handed them to the passengers.
As Deputy Director Robert Tranthan fumbled with the seat belt, his senses began to adjust to the dark, the antiseptic smell, and the quiet. The jet rolled forward and the engines began to spin up in a high-pitched roar, until he felt the aircraft tilt sharply upward. As it tilted and his eyes were adjusting, he realized the bay was crammed, wall-to-wall, with the beds of the injured, the IVs swinging with the motion of the aircraft. Some were lying on gurneys, their heads wrapped in white gauze stained bright red.
“Sir, I’m the physician in charge of this flight.” A lanky, thin man in a desert brown flight suit stood over Tranthan. His stethoscope hung loosely around his neck. He seemed to be a look-alike of Jimmy Stewart and had the same easy, soft voice.
“Robert Tranthan.” They shook hands. “We diverted from Kuwait City when we heard about the bombing. How many do you have on board?”
“Thirty-six wounded.”
Tranthan was concerned only about one in particular, but he could not allow himself to be so direct.
“How badly?”
“I am told that the cement truck had about two tons of explosives in it. It left a crater twenty feet deep. Six are reported missing, with no trace that they ever even existed.” The flight surgeon spoke in his low, somber voice, barely audible over the hum of the engines.
“How about the ambassador?”
“He wasn’t even in the embassy at the time.”
“Do you know who the six missing are?”
“Two Marine guards, three locals, and the security officer.”
Maggie had mentioned Pat Stuart to Tranthan on several occasions. In fact, she had even joked that Tranthan must have put her with Stuart, a married man with a pregnant wife, so that Pat could act as her watchdog.
“What happened to the security officer?”
“He apparently stepped directly into the bomb blast. Nothing was left.”
“What about the woman that worked in his office? Our representative at the embassy, Ms. O’Donald?”
“A concussion, but that isn’t the worst of it. A beam of the building collapsed onto her legs. It took them over an hour to get her out of there. If the blood loss isn’t too great, she might make it.”
“God.” Tranthan rested his head in his hands. His first sight of her had been those long legs walking down a stairway at Langley. He felt sick. She would not have been in Qatar but for him. It was supposed to be a safe place. The relationship risked both his marriage and career. He had weighed the decision carefully. She had to be placed out of sight. He just didn’t anticipate how good she would become in her new job. Maggie was coming up with intelligence that no one had even a hint of.
“Where is she?”
“Follow me.” The doctor led him back down the row of injured to the last gurney. She looked so small and helpless. Two small tents covered her legs and a bandage covered most of her head.
“Maggie,” he whispered into her ear. As he leaned over, he saw the shimmer of the gold necklace and locket that he had given her prior to her leaving.
“Maggie,” he whispered again, but she didn’t react to his voice.
He touched her on her shoulder. She turned upon being touched, and he looked directly into her dazed eyes.
“Hey,” Maggie mumbled under the morphine.
“Hey, you, Maggie E.” Tranthan didn’t really know what to say. He could only use his nickname for her. Her body was virtually covered except for those green eyes. Blood-tinged gauze wrapped around her head. She seemed slow to react to his words, as if, in addition to all the other damage, the blast had deafened her.
“Hey,” she said again. He could see the confusion in her face. “We need to pull it.”
“Pull what, Maggie?”
“Pull it out.”
“Pull what out?”
“Yes, that’s what we need to do. Pull it out.” She kept repeating it in a low, soft mumble. It was as if she knew what to do but had no idea how to do it. Pull it… He had no idea what she was talking about. Perhaps the severe head injury had torn apart her memory.
“Where’s Pat?”
He could barely hear her voice.
“He may be in the back,” he lied.
“His phone…” Then her eyes closed as she drifted back into a deep morphine sleep.
“Hey, Maggie E, don’t try to talk. Just take it easy.” Tranthan spoke the words encouragingly, but he felt desperate, powerless. He slumped next to her until sleep found him as well.
Tranthan stayed by the side of her gurney throughout the long night. And it was near the end of that night that he made a decision. Both his career and his life had been nothing but safe moves, but now he wanted to hurt someone very badly.
After the C-17 landed and Maggie was installed in the trauma unit in Landstuhl, Tranthan’s Gulfstream returned to Washington. He could not be seen with her at the hospital. He knew she would understand.