Sleep. It was the farthest thing from her mind. Christine wondered if she might somehow lift his arm and get up. But deep down she knew it was pointless. He would know. He probably knew what she was thinking right now. She looked at the clock. 11:55. Three hours would be an eternity. Try as she might, Christine could not hold back. Her diaphragm tightened, and small convulsions welled up from deep within. She was glad he was asleep and couldn’t feel it. Christine did her best to hold still as tears began to trickle from her tightly closed eyes.
The EC-130 lumbered northward at twenty-two thousand feet. It was a version of the U.S. built C-130 Hercules, a tactical transport aircraft designed in the 1950s. Rugged and overbuilt, its ungainly appearance drew constant jibes from fighter pilots who mused about the large number of moving parts associated with four big turboprop engines. And then there was the Herc’s slow speed. They’d say the aircraft didn’t need an airspeed indicator, just a calendar. The Israeli Air Force had modified this particular aircraft with a number of large, bulbous antennae, which only heightened its decidedly non-aerodynamic appearance.
In spite of it all, the Herc was one of the most effective military aircraft ever built. The same basic design had been in production for fifty years, far longer than any other current military aircraft. It was used for airlift, airdrop, intelligence gathering, search and rescue, disaster relief, Arctic supply, command and control, and a plethora of black and gray special operations. The C-130 did it all, and it was hard to find a pilot who didn’t enjoy flying it.
Major Lev Schoen banked the airplane into a steep left turn on a command from the electronic warfare officer. They were in the clouds, as had been the case for the last two hours, but the conditions were irrelevant. This search was electronic, not visual.
“Roll out heading one niner zero,” came the scratchy instruction over the intercom.
“I’m glad we found it right away,” Schoen’s co-pilot commented.
“Right where they said it would be,” said Schoen.
The crew had been rousted out of bed, straight into a nine-hour flight from Israel to Rota Air Base in Spain. After a short rest and refueling, they continued southwest over the open ocean. All had hoped it wouldn’t be an extended search and, luckily, after twenty minutes on station the faint signal had begun to register.
Schoen said, “Two more passes and we’ll head back to Torrejon.”
The loadmaster’s voice came up on the intercom, sounding sleepy — no surprise since the only cargo today was a single pallet of electronic gear. “How long did you say we’ll have in Madrid, skipper?”
“Twenty hours, unless someone changes their mind. Then we head back home.”
“Twenty hours!” Schoen’s co-pilot remarked to the loadie. “You’ll have time to get drunk twice, Kroner.” The two pilots laughed. Sergeant Kroner had a reputation for getting out of hand on layovers.
Kroner replied crustily, “And it’ll take more than that candy-ass veen rooge you sip on lieutenant.”
Ten minutes later the EWO made the announcement they’d all been waiting for. “Fourth pass confirms. We’ve got it down to a gnat’s ass.”
“Good, let’s go home,” Schoen declared. “Rudi,” he said, addressing the EWO, “fire up the sat-com secure. Send in the position you plotted.”
“Roger.”
As the plane sped northward, albeit a relative term for the big Hercules, it was still enveloped in layer after layer of high stratus clouds. It took another hour before they began to break out of the weather. Late afternoon sun filtered onto the flight deck, warming bodies and spirits all around.
Soon after finding clear skies, Kroner’s husky voice came excitedly over the intercom. “Hey skipper! I see a boat down low on the port side. Maybe we could go down for a titty check?”
Schoen looked out his side window and spotted a small sailboat three or four miles off, headed north. Kroner always pressed for a low pass on pleasure craft to get a look at any unsuspecting, partially clad females who might be frolicking around. He claimed a success rate of one in four. While Schoen doubted that statistic, Kroner carried a camera with a telephoto lens to document any triumphs, and some of his more well-endowed targets had their pictures plastered on the squadron bulletin board.
“Sorry Kroner. Even if there were vixens aboard, it’d be way too cold for what you have in mind.”
“But skipper, I’ve seen ’em tanning their—”
“Not today, Sergeant.” Schoen’s voice gave no room for argument.
The loadmaster went silent, no doubt fuming.
Major Schoen looked over at his co-pilot and smiled. “He’s such a pervert.”
Christine’s body ached from the stillness she’d forced. Laying with him, their torsos remained meshed — his relaxed, hers rigid. There was no way she could ever sleep under these conditions. Her rest would have to come later.
He had stirred periodically over the last three hours, though never actually waking. At one point she’d heard an aircraft, and Christine wondered if it might be searching for survivors from his ship. Since the course Windsom was running backtracked the currents, they might be near where it had gone down.
His arm was still draped across her waist like a huge tentacle. How long would he be out? So far the weather had held, but sooner or later she’d have to go topside to check things over and — and what? One part of her wanted to keep Windsom’s sails taut to reach England as quickly as possible and get this nightmare over with. But what would he do when they arrived? He might only be keeping her around because he had doubts about sailing Windsom solo. Perhaps he’d toss her over when they approached port, as easily as he’d discarded the winch handle and flares.
The thoughts rattled around endlessly in Christine’s head as she lay next to her captor. Her emotions tracked the ocean’s depths, from shallow hope to abysmal despair. Still, she always came back to the same thing in the end. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt her, and he hadn’t. Christine would wait. She’d look for everything and anything to get out of this fix, but she had to wait.
He stirred an hour later. His body stiffened, but she sensed he was still asleep. She could feel his warm breath on her neck, more rapid and shallow than it had been. Suddenly the arm lying across her waist jerked outward, and his legs moved as he began to mumble. He was having a nightmare.
More than ever, she wanted to get away. Christine willed herself to lie still as he muttered through his semi-conscious state. She tried to make out what he was saying. Numbers. Five? Something seven? Then it sounded like he said doctor. Christine wondered if he was dreaming about her. His body began to twist violently and it was all she could do to keep still. She felt his damp sweat. She smelled him and it made her afraid. The convulsions reached a peak and Christine could take it no more. She threw his arm off and scrambled away from the bed.
He woke instantly, bolting to a sitting position. Beads of perspiration covered the man’s face. His clothes were soaked. He gasped for air and Christine saw something new in his wide-open eyes. Was it fear? Or perhaps pain? Some kind of terrible pain. It only lasted a moment, then the blank mask returned. Whatever had been there was gone, like a lone wave crashing into a seawall in an explosion of energy, then receding anonymously into the surrounding sea. Christine was pressed against the far wall, alert and ready, not knowing what to expect. The man laid back down and fell still, to a Zen-like tranquility.