"Can you discuss that-or is it a military secret?"
Satherwaite laughed. "No, sir, it's no secret. It's an old aircraft, long since retired from service. Just like me."
"Do you miss this experience?"
"I don't miss the chickenshit. That means the spit-and-polish-like saluting, and everybody looking up your butt all the time. And now they have women flying combat aircraft, for Christ's sake. I can't even think about that. And these bitches cause all kinds of goddamned problems with their sexual harassment bullshit-sorry, you got me started. Hey, how are the women where you come from? They know their place?"
"Very much so."
"Good. Maybe I'll go there. Sicily, right?"
"Yes."
"What do they speak there?"
"A dialect of Italian."
"I'll learn it and go there. They need pilots there?"
"Of course."
"Good." They were climbing through 5,000 feet and the late afternoon sun was almost directly behind them, and that made the view ahead particularly clear and dramatic, Satherwaite thought. With the backlighting, the lush spring terrain took on an even deeper hue of colors, and created a clear line of demarcation against the distant blue of the coastal waters. A 25-knot tailwind added to their ground speed, so they might make Long Island sooner than he'd estimated. Somewhere in the back of Bill Satherwaite's mind was the thought that flying was more than a job. It was a calling, a brotherhood, an otherworldly experience, like some of those holy rollers in Moncks Corner felt in church. When he was in the sky, he felt better and had better feelings about himself. This, he realized, was as good as it was going to get. He said to his passenger, "I do miss combat."
"How can you miss something like that?"
"I don't know… I never felt so good in my life as when I saw those tracers and missiles around me." He added, "Well, maybe if I'd been hit, I wouldn't have felt so good about it. But those stupid bastards couldn't hit the floor with a stream of piss."
"What stupid… people?"
"Oh, let's just say the Arabs. Can't say which ones."
"Why not?"
"Military secret." He laughed. "Not the mission-just who was on the mission."
"Why is that?"
Bill Satherwaite glanced at his passenger, then replied, "It's a policy not to give out the names of pilots involved in a bombing mission. The government thinks these stupid camel jockeys are going to come to America and take revenge. Bullshit. But you know, the captain of the Vincennes -that was a warship in the Gulf that accidentally shot down an Iranian airliner-somebody planted a bomb in the skipper's car, his van-in California, no less. I mean, Jesus, that was scary-almost killed his wife."
Khalil nodded. He was very aware of this incident. The Iranians had shown, with the car bomb, that they did not accept the explanation or the apology. Khalil said, "In war, killing leads to more killing."
"No kidding? Anyway, the government thinks these camel jockeys could be dangerous to their big, brave warriors. Shit, I don't care who knows that I bombed the Arabs. Let them come looking for me. They'll wish they never found me."
"Yes… Do you arm yourself?"
Satherwaite glanced at his passenger and said, "Mrs. Satherwaite didn't raise an idiot."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm armed and dangerous."
Satherwaite continued, as they climbed through 7,000 feet. "But then, during the Gulf War, the stupid government wants good press, so they put these pilots on TV. I mean, Jesus, if they're afraid of the fucking Arabs, why are they parading these fighter pilots in front of TV cameras?-I'll tell you why-they wanted big public support back home, so they put these pretty fly-boys on TV to smile and say how great this war is, and how everybody loves doing their fucking duty for God and Country. And for every guy they had on, they had about a hundred broads-I kid you not. Parading the pussy in front of the cameras to show how fucking politically correct the military is. Jesus, if you watched the war on CNN, you'd have thought the whole war was being fought by pussies. I'll bet that went over big with the Iraquis. You know? Thinking they were getting the shit kicked out of them by a bunch of broads." He laughed. "Jesus, I'm glad I'm out of there."
"I see that."
"Yeah. I get worked up. Sorry."
"I share your feeling about women doing the jobs of men."
"Good. We gotta stick together." He laughed again, thinking this guy wasn't so bad, despite the fact he was a foreigner, and maybe a little light in the loafers.
Khalil said, "Why do you have that poster on your wall?"
"To remind me of the time I almost put a bomb up his ass," Bill Satherwaite replied without a thought about security. "Actually, my mission didn't include his house. That was Jim and Paul's mission. They dropped one right on the bastard's house, but Gadhafi was sleeping outside in a tent, for God's sake. Fucking Arabs like their tents. Right? But his daughter got it, which was too bad, but war is war. Fucked up his wife, too, and a couple of his kids, but they lived. Nobody wants to kill women and children, but sometimes they're where they're not supposed to be. You know? I mean, if I was Gadhafi's kid, I'd keep a mile between me and Pop." He laughed.
Khalil took a deep breath and got himself under control. He asked, "And what was your mission?"
"I hit the commo center, a fuel depot, a barracks, and… something else. I can't remember. Why do you ask?"
"No reason. I find this fascinating."
"Yeah? Well, forget it all, Mr. Fanini. Like I said, I'm not supposed to talk about it."
"Of course."
They were at their cruise altitude of 7,500 feet. Satherwaite pulled back on the power, and the engines got a little quieter.
Khalil said, "You will call your friend on Long Island?"
"Yeah. Probably."
"He was a military friend?"
"Yeah. He's the Director of an aviation museum now. Maybe if we have time in the morning, I'll shoot over there and check it out. You can come if you want. I'll show you my old F-111. They've got one there."
"That would be interesting."
"Yeah. I haven't seen one of those in lots of years."
"It will bring back memories."
"Yeah."
Khalil stared out at the landscape below. How ironic, he thought, that he'd just come from killing this man's comrade, and now this man was transporting him to where Asad Khalil would kill another of his comrades. He wondered if this man beside him would appreciate the irony.
Asad Khalil sat back and looked into the sky. As the sun began to set, he said his required prayers to himself and added, "God has blessed my Jihad, God has confused my enemies, God has delivered them to me-God is great."
Bill Satherwaite asked, "You say something?"
"I just thanked God for a good day, and asked him to bless my trip to America."
"Yeah? Ask him to do me a couple of favors, too."
"I did. He will."
CHAPTER 40
As the cab moved away from Federal Plaza, Kate asked me, "Are you coming in this time? Or do you need your sleep?"
This sounded a wee bit like a taunt, perhaps even a challenge to my manhood. The woman was learning what buttons to push. I said, "I'm coming up. You say 'up,' not 'in.'"
"Whatever."
We sat in the taxi in relative silence. Traffic was moderate, a passing April shower made the streets shine, and the taxi driver was from Croatia. I always ask. I'm doing a survey.
Anyway, we got to Kate's apartment house, and I paid the cab, which included the trip from JFK, and waiting time. I also carried her suitcase. There's no such thing as free sex, by the way.
The doorman opened the door, wondering, I'm sure, why Ms. Mayfield left with a suitcase and came back a few hours later with the same suitcase and a man. I hope it bothers him all night.
We went up the elevator and into her apartment on the fourteenth floor.
It was a small, basic white-wall rental, carpetless oak floors, and minimal modern furniture. There were no living plants, no wall art, no sculpture, no knickknacks, and thank