She laid her head on his chest. "Why not?"
"Because he really is pure. He's never been married, has no outside interests. Flying and fighting are all he knows and all he cares about. He's very good at it, but there's not much else for him besides sport flying. I worry about what might become of him. There's nothing sadder than a warrior without a war."
Claudia ran her finger around his lips. "Maybe we could adopt him. At least have him to dinner or occasional weekends." Her face turned serious. "John, what's the attraction of combat? I get the feeling that some of you actually enjoy it."
He thought for a moment. "Yes, some of us do. I think of the Marine recruiting slogan way back when. 'Nobody likes to fight but somebody has to know how.' That's strictly public relations. The plain fact is, most of the really good fighters do love to fight. A lot of us just enjoy the hell out of flying the airplane, but Ed and his type are beyond that. The airplane isn't a vehicle-it's a weapon.”
"What makes men like that?"
"Ego. Remove ego or self-respect from the human equation-they're both related-and you remove war." He stroked her back, concentrating on his line of thought. "I believe that implicitly. And it's the biggest factor overlooked in discussions of the causes of war.”
Claudia moved her head to his shoulder, and he savored the touch of her hair on his skin. "I never told you, John, but you scared me and attracted me when we met. There was something about you that was… well, it was dangerously appealing. And I've noticed it among your pilots. They respect you, but I think a lot of them are a little frightened of you, too."
He chuckled. "That's what I hope for. Keeps 'em alert."
Bennett rolled over and nibbled on Claudia's ear. She inhaled sharply between clenched teeth. "You know what that does to me."
"Affirmative. Let's take a bath before dinner."
They adjusted their legs to accommodate one another in the tub. Claudia reached for a bar of soap, unwrapped it, and rubbed it between her hands. Then she leaned forward, lathering his chest and shoulders. Her eyes twinkled as she playfully rinsed the suds from his body by splashing water on him.
In turn, he picked up the bar and applied soap to her breasts and back. Then came a scratching noise, faintly heard, from the door.
Claudia began to ask a question but he silenced her with a raised hand. He heard the sound again and knew it was not a key. He knew everything he needed to know, and his adrenaline surged.
With a silent curse, Bennett leapt from the tub and sprinted eight steps around the comer to his nightstand. He knew he had made two mistakes: He should have taken the black bag with him to the bathroom, and he should have closed and locked the bathroom door. He heard the main door open as he brought the Browning Hi-Power up from the bag.
Bennett heard Claudia scream as a metallic tinkling filled the narrow hallway around the comer. He heard the sound of copper-jacketed bullets striking porcelain and enamel. Keeping low and kneeling, he braced his left forearm against the edge of the wall and centered his front sight on the intruder's upper torso. One glimpse told the story.
The entrance door was open and the gunman had stepped inside to his left, without silhouetting himself. He had pivoted right when he saw the open bathroom door, fired a long burst into the tub, and was swinging back left. The muzzle of the silenced Ingram MAC-ll came toward Bennett, slightly high.
In the next instant Bennett squeezed the Browning's three-and-one-half-pound trigger and the sharp-nosed, armor-piercing round smashed through the intruder's sternum. Without hesitation, Bennett lifted the auto pistol and sighted on the man's forehead and the next round shattered the cranium. The body collapsed backward against the vanity mirror and slid to the floor, twelve feet from the Hi-Power's muzzle.
Two rapid heartbeats later another form appeared against the backlighted hallway. Bennett's loading sequence was armor piercing backed up by hardball, and he fired two quick rounds into the center of mass. The second man, also armed with a silenced MAC-ll, staggered forward and-perhaps from reflex-triggered a burst which went into the wall near Bennett's right rear.
The terror, the lethal pressure, and the semidarkness combined to ruin Bennett's sight picture. He lost the competitive sharp image of his front sight and fired his next round at the assassin's head. It was proper procedure-what the South Africans called the Mozambique Drill. But the sight alignment was off, and the man took a grazing hit in the neck.
Slumping to his knees, still trying to bring the submachine gun to bear, the man strained toward his target.
Bennett was momentarily upset by his failure to stop the fight with two good hits, and he thought of his.45 back home. But then there was a clear and angry mind at work behind the Browning's sights. The reduced distance made sights seem hardly necessary but he forced himself to focus on the front ramp. Then he squeezed the trigger.
It was over. Bennett thought of a reload, but estimated he had fired six rounds; the magazine still held seven. He felt an ephemeral sense of exhilaration, followed by disgust at the unpleasant substances on the walls and floor. Then he thought of Claudia. But he was disciplined enough to order his priorities.
Scrambling to his feet, Bennett checked around the corner and found it clear. He jumped over the cadaver at his feet, slammed the door, and locked it. He turned and threw both Ingrams on the bed, noting a lock-picking kit had fallen from one man's pocket.
Claudia.
He knew what he would find. She lay in the tub, up to her chin in red-dyed water. She had taken ten.380 rounds in the chest and abdomen from that one long burst.
Bennett slumped on the bed, suddenly cold. He huddled into a sheet. Violent emotions tore at him from different directions. Delayed fear, the heaviness in the arms, the raspy dryness in the throat. But there was more: anger, remorse, a numbing sense of loss.
A loud pounding on the door brought Bennett's senses back to the immediate. He glanced around, noting the familiar blue T-shirt on the floor. Picking it up, he held it to his cheek. And that is how they found him, sobbing softly to himself.
When John Bennett returned to Tiger Force, Ed Lawrence was the sole person on hand to meet him. It was contrary to the group of IPs and students who normally were present as a mark of courtesy and respect.
He looks ten years older, Lawrence thought to himself as Bennett came down the stairs of the commuter jet. The exec noted his friend's haggard appearance-especially the circles under the eyes and the slumping posture. Lawrence walked toward the man the students called "King Tiger." Now he resembled neither.
Bennett held out his hand. "Hello, Devil."
"Welcome home, Pirate." Then Lawrence put his arms around Bennett's shoulders.
Bennett unwrapped himself and smiled grimly. "Let's have a drink. "
The redhead said, "I think even Allah would approve."
Seated in Bennett' quarters, Lawrence filled him in on recent events. "You wondered why the Saudis were including you in all the air force planning, remember? Well, I talked to Rajid and a couple of others from Class One. You know there are about five thousand princes in this country?" Bennett nodded. "Well, we have our share flying F-20s. I guess it's still a case of not what you know but who you know that counts. Because it looks like our guys, the Saudi pilots, used some of their influence. After Handrah and Jauf were killed in the car bomb, our tigers told Saudi HQ they didn't want any more outsiders as squadron Cos. They wanted us, the IPs, to fill the gaps."
Bennett showed interest. "That could mean trouble in our relations with the Saudi Air Force."