Watching him, she wondered again, What was it about him? He wasn’t especially handsome, at least not in a conventional way. He had that craggy face, with high cheekbones and those riveting blue eyes. His lanky, narrow-waisted build made him look more like some kind of athlete — ski bum or a tennis pro — than a career naval officer.
He spotted her. In long strides he came to her table. “Claire, I’m really sorry. I couldn’t make it any sooner.”
“That’s okay,” she heard herself saying. “I just got here myself,”
He flagged down the waiter, and they ordered more drinks. The moon, Maxwell pointed out, was just coming up over the eastern wall of the hotel courtyard. Why didn’t they stay right there for dinner? Through a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a dinner of calamari and grilled swordfish, they talked about the old days — Washington D. C., Patuxent River, the little bar they loved in Georgetown, the quaint way the fishermen spoke out on Tangier Island. And old friends they both knew.
“Where’s Devo?” Claire asked. “I heard you two were in the same squadron again.”
“Devo? Yes, he’s here. He — he said to say hello, but he’d had a long day. He probably hit the sack.”
She noticed the hesitation. “Eileen? Are they still —”
“Splitting up. Devo’s not handling it well.”
She nodded. She gathered by his voice that he didn’t want to pursue the subject. Eileen Davis, she remembered, was a girl who demanded a lot of attention. It wasn’t surprising that she would be discontented with a husband who spent half his life at sea. Claire wondered again how it might have been if she and Sam had stayed together.
She tried getting him to talk about the situation in Iraq. Maxwell artfully dodged the specifics of what the Reagan and its battle group might do. She kept trying.
“Okay, Sam, just tell me one thing.”
“Maybe. What?”
“You were there that day your skipper shot down the MiG in the No Fly Zone?”
“Yes. And?”
“Why didn’t you shoot the other MiG?”
Bogey!
Possible target, not yet identified. Delancey was the only one who saw it.
The Roadrunner BAG and GAG patrol was making an early return to base. The three — DeLancey, Miller, Cheever — had decided to cut their losses and head for the admin on the seventh floor. At least the booze was cheap, even if the women were nil. But DeLancey was still scanning for targets of opportunity.
Crossing the Hilton lobby, DeLancey saw something interesting in the corner of the bar, like a distant target against the horizon. He said nothing, and kept it to himself.
“Listen, guys,” he said. “Go up and put some music on. I gotta make a phone call, then I’ll be along.”
He waited until the elevator door closed on Miller and Cheever. Then he retraced his route across the lobby, to the bar on the mezzanine. He saw a long, shiny blonde mane and a short skirt. He couldn’t see her face — her back was to him — but she was showing a considerable length of tan legs.
He pressed on in. As he closed the distance, Delancey began to notice she looked very much like…but it couldn’t be…
It was.
Spam Parker was perched on one of the high stools at the bar, talking to some guy whom DeLancey vaguely recognized. He was a lieutenant commander from CAG staff, an NFO — Naval Flight Officer — who sometimes back-seated with the EA-6B squadron.
DeLancey stood there for a few seconds sizing up the situation. It was trouble, he thought. He should just walk away, go back to the elevators, and up to the admin. A voice inside him reminded him that nothing good could come from this.
But what the hell. It wouldn’t hurt to look.
She turned and saw him. “Skipper! I was wondering where you were.”
She was wearing a short black leather skirt — one of the tight minis that women were not allowed to exhibit in public in Arab countries, even in a liberal Muslim state like Dubai. She had on a thin white halter that showed she had no interest in a bra, which would have gotten her into even more trouble on the street.
Christ, thought DeLancey. Who would have thought she looked like that outside of her baggy flight suit? The woman had the body of an amazon. And she was showing it off for the benefit of this google-eyed backseat puke. The guy was swilling his beer and looking at her like a kid having his first wet dream.
She’d had a lot to drink, he could tell. Her tone had that breezy familiarity. Too breezy, too sexy for a junior officer to be using with her CO. But that was Parker’s style. Like the miniskirt and the halter.
“Tom Batchelder,” said the NFO, extending his hand. He was a friendly young man, tall and slender with a brown crew cut, wearing an Izod sport shirt over Dockers khakis. “CAG staff.”
DeLancey eyeballed him. He ignored the proffered handshake. “I’m Killer DeLancey,” he said. “Her commanding officer.” Intimidate, then liquidate, he always figured. Get the skirmishing over with.
The NFO blinked, suddenly worried. His eyes darted up and down the bar. He was sensing clear and present danger, and it was time for a quick reassessment.
“Uh-oh, look at the time.” He made an exaggerated study of his enormous wrist chronometer. “I’ve got to cut and run. I’m late to meet someone upstairs.” He slammed down the rest of his beer. “See ya, Spam. And, uh, it was really nice meeting you, Commander.”
Spam waited until the NFO had made his retreat. “Wow! Do you always intimidate people that way?”
“Just protecting you.”
She giggled and took a sip of her drink. “Is that what a skipper is supposed to do? Protect his women pilots from horny CAG staff officers?”
“A good skipper looks after his own.”
She gave him a knowing look, then leaned forward a little. “You know something, Killer — it’s okay if I call you Killer, isn’t it? I have an enormous respect for you. And you’re such a clever and persuasive man. I’m so glad I’m in your squadron.”
There it was again. She had just ratcheted the familiarity level up another notch. He knew she was stroking his ego, but he didn’t mind. She was just being female.
Spam stirred her drink with her finger, then inserted the finger into her mouth. With her eyes locked on his, she withdrew her finger, leaving it against her pursed lips. She curled her fingers into a ball and rested her chin on it.
DeLancey was getting a signal from his internal radar. He should just get the hell out here. But he was feeling a surge in his groin.
“I don’t suppose it occurred to you,” he said, “that that’s a very sexy outfit you’re wearing.”
“Really?” She batted her eyelashes again; looked down at the leather skirt. “This old thing?” She laughed and recrossed her legs. “Do you think it’s too…flashy?”
“The locals might get upset. But that’s their problem.”
“Does that mean you approve?”
He didn’t answer right away. He made a show of examining her legs. They were bare and surprisingly tan. He eyeballed her tiny skirt, her thin cotton halter.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “You pass the DeLancey test.”
“That’s good.” She leaned forward again, giving him a view down the front of the halter. “Because I really want you to like me, Killer. And not just as an officer. You know what I mean?”
DeLancey knew what she meant. And it definitely exceeded the rules of engagement. But there were times, he told himself, when you had to break the rules. No guts, no glory.
DeLancey waved the bartender over and signed the tab. He and Spam exchanged looks. No words were needed. Her eyes, gray, half-closed, said it all.