So he suddenly remembered he had a ten o’clock meeting with CAG. He ushered Spam and her black miniskirt out into the hall.
“Will I see you tonight?” she wanted to know.
“Sure. I’ll give you a call this afternoon.”
“You know my room? 842?”
“Yeah. Let’s meet in the admin. About four or so, okay?”
He closed the door and leaned against it.
His skull ached from all the Scotch. They’d gone through a fifth and a half. It was crazy, he thought. Dangerous, reckless, irresponsible. Suicidal even.
Why did he do it?
Simple. Because it was the most mind-blowing erotic encounter he’d ever had. Parker represented his wildest sex fantasies bundled into one steaming, pulsating package.
It occurred to him that he was probably the latest in a series of career-advancing studs she had used like this. What if she talked?
He didn’t want to think about it. He needed a beer. That was the best way to clear your head after an all-nighter. Get some air, slam down a beer or two, you’d be ready again.
DeLancey dressed, went to the elevator and rode it to the lobby. He hadn’t bothered to shave. He was wearing wrinkled chinos and a polo shirt. It didn’t matter. It was early, and no one would be in the bar yet.
Passing the coffee shop, he caught the scent of strong Arabian java. That was what he needed — coffee and a Danish to get his heart started.
Then he stopped. Sitting inside the shop was Maxwell, talking to some babe.
Curious, DeLancey stepped inside. He recognized her — that Phillips woman who interviewed him on the ship after the MiG kill. She was wearing some kind of sexy sun dress that showed off a nice cleavage. She was engrossed in conversation with his least favorite squadron officer, Maxwell.
Okay, time for some command presence. He put on the Hollywood smile and moved in.
Maxwell said, “Claire, you remember my commanding officer, John DeLancey?”
“Just call me Killer.” DeLancey shook her hand, holding it longer than necessary.
Claire regarded him with interest. “Of course I remember you, Killer. You were a good subject.”
DeLancey slid his bar stool in closer, inserting himself between Claire and Brick. “Anytime I can help you, just let me know. If you’d like, I’ll arrange another shipboard news conference.” He took an appreciative glance at her crossed legs. “As long as Saddam keeps sending me MiGs, I’ll keep shooting them down.”
“It shouldn’t be too difficult if they’re all like the last one.”
DeLancey looked at her quizzically. “The last one? The Iraqi pilot entered the No Fly Zone with hostile intent.”
“Not what I hear. I understand he was a student fighter pilot on his first operational mission.”
The smile stayed frozen on DeLancey’s face. “What are you talking about?”
“Hakim Al-Fariz. He was probably lost and strayed over the boundary when you shot him down.”
“How would you know that?”
“I’m a journalist. It’s my business to know such things.”
“Look, Miss Phillips —
“Just call me Claire.” She smiled and recrossed her legs.
“I don’t know who’s been telling you that crap.” He looked pointedly at Maxwell. “But I can guess.”
Maxwell caught the accusation. “Claire has sources all over the place.”
DeLancey looked at each of them. “What the hell is this? Sixty Minutes or something?” He glowered at Maxwell. “It looks to me like you’ve been passing classified information to the media.”
“Not at all,” Claire said. “Commander Maxwell hasn’t told me anything.” She reached over and squeezed Maxwell’s hand. “Despite my best efforts.”
DeLancey stood up. The Hollywood smile was gone. “I wish I could say it was nice seeing you again, Miss Phillips. By the way, the offer for another interview is canceled. Commander Maxwell, you and I will talk later.”
They watched DeLancey march out into the lobby and disappear.
“So that’s the real Killer DeLancey,” said Claire.
“The one and only.”
“He’s rather handsome actually. Shorter than he seemed when I interviewed him. Probably has a Napoleon complex. A shame that he’s such a pompous ass.”
Maxwell had to grin at that. “Didn’t take you long to figure out Killer DeLancey.”
“And he’s your commanding officer. Too bad.” She looked at him. “I hope you realize that the man hates your guts.”
“I sometimes get that impression.”
“Are you going to tell me why?”
There it was again, the same old question. It occurred to Maxwell that it would be a relief to share the truth with someone. Someone he cared about.
But he wouldn’t. It was still too volatile. “No,” he said finally.
DeLancey raged as he rode the elevator back to the sixth floor. The snotty bitch! The kind that would cut your throat while she’s giving you that phony smile.
In his room, he went directly to the phone. He rang up Bouncer Oswald, a navy commander who ran the intelligence staff for the Joint Task Force.
“Claire Phillips?” said Oswald. “She’s married to a guy named Tyrwhitt. We call him ‘Baghdad Ben,’ because he writes bullshit about how we’re killing all the poor malnourished children of Iraq. Every time we hit one of their SAM sites, he says we’re bombing some school or orphanage. And she’s the one who somehow picked up the story about the pissing contest between the Air Force and the Navy over the MiG shoot last month?”
“Besides her husband, where does she get her material?”
“She’s a woman, isn’t she? I hear she’s not bad-looking.”
DeLancey smiled into the telephone. “What would you say if one of our air wing officers turned out to be sleeping with her?”
Oswald didn’t answer right away. “You trying to tell me something, Killer?”
“Maybe.”
“I’d say we got ourselves an informer.”
Chapter Eleven
Recall
Dusk was settling over the delta.
From the cockpit of his F-16 Viper, Captain Catfish Bass could see only a continuous blanket of cloud. Beneath the cloud deck lay the wide marshy valley of the Tigris River. To the east stretched the border of Iran. To the west, Iraq and the disputed No Fly Zone.
For two hours the four U.S. Air Force F-16s and their escort, a Marine EA-6B Prowler, had been on station. Twice now they had plugged into a KC-10 refueling tanker.
They were skimming the eastern rim of the No Fly Zone, near Basra, on a routine patrol. Ironclaw, the Grumman EA-6B, was busy probing and cataloguing the emissions coming from Iran. Nothing had come up except an occasional hit from Iran’s IADS — Integrated Air Defense System.
Situation normal. Nothing from the known sites in Iraq.
That was smart of them, thought Bass. Each of the F-16s was carrying a HARM missile — a radar-seeking weapon — which they were authorized to fire if they received a warning that an air defense site had locked them up.
Bass and his flight leader, Major Scrapes Williams, had just left the tanker. The second pair of Vipers was taking their place, plugging into the refueling boom. That was the preferred way to conduct the NFZ patrols — two on, two off. If someone got into a fight, he had a fresh pair of F-16s ready to cover him.
Bass peered down at the cloud layer directly beneath. He hoped Scrapes had a good handle on their position. Somewhere in the vicinity of Basra was an SA-3 ring. SA-3s were an old variety of Russian-built surface-to-air missiles. Primitive, but still lethal if you gave them an easy shot.