The Toyota turned on to Al-Faisal avenue. It was barely ten o’clock, three hours before his flight departed. He had time for a few beers at the hotel. He might even try seeing Claire again. Once more for old times’ sake.
Maxwell tried to focus on the briefing, but the image kept reappearing in his mind: Claire and the guy with his hand on her knee.
Again Maxwell pushed the picture from his thoughts. A Navy captain from the NAVCENT intelligence unit was talking about fleet defense and target critical nodes. He had a voice as monotonous as a twenty-eight-volt motor.
“… if the launch vehicles — the Fulcrums — were to penetrate the battle group’s two-hundred-mile defense perimeter, not even our shipboard Phalanx batteries would be guaranteed to stop an incoming Krait…”
The two of them at the bar, the guy’s hand on her knee… It looked natural… She was used to it.
He should have known better. After five years she had a life that did not include him. It was better this way. He had enough problems without becoming involved with a female reporter.
“The Latifiyah propellant facility —” the captain was aiming a pointer at the chart on the screen — “is identified by this fortified bunker with these ventilation stacks.” He indicated a series of concrete funnels protruding from what looked like a low, one-story building.
The captain droned on through the high value target list, identifying critical nodes for each, topographic details, then discussed the current state of Iraq’s air defense system. When he finished, he looked at his boss. “Anything else, admiral?”
Before he could respond, Whitney Babcock rose from his chair. “I have a few comments.”
The admiral looked dubious, but he had no choice. “Gentlemen, I think you all know Mr. Babcock, the Undersecretary.”
Instead of his Navy khakis, Babcock was wearing a bush jacket with the belt tied behind. He looked like a white hunter. “Fellows, I just want to tell that I’ve just spoken with the President about this situation. He wants you to know he is behind you one hundred percent.”
Several pilots exchanged bemused glances. Someone guffawed.
Babcock ignored this and continued. “I think you all know me to be a straight shooter, right? Well, trust me when I tell you this, this President is determined to get tough with the Iraqis. Once and for all, he’s going to put a finish to the Iraqi threat. You can take my word for it, gentlemen, your commander-in-chief is one hell of a warrior.”
At this, a titter rippled through the room.
The admiral looked pained. Standing behind Babcock, he glowered at the group and shook his head vigorously. CAG Boyce peered around at his pilots and let them read his lips: Shut the fuck up.
Silence fell over the group.
Babcock came to the end of his pep talk. “So, from one fighting man to another, let me tell you I have the utmost confidence in you.” He paused for effect, then pulled off his glasses and said in a booming voice, “Good hunting, chaps.”
Several seconds passed. Someone tried clapping, but it quickly sputtered out. An anonymous voice said, “Chaps?”
It was afternoon, nearly two o’clock, when the bus returned them to the Holiday Inn. A cloud formation was scudding in from the Saudi peninsula, carrying with it cooler temperatures and a hint of approaching rain. The briefing had taken them through the lunch hour, so most of the pilots headed directly for the poolside bar to order food. At four-thirty, the bus would return them to the helo pad, and they would be on their way back to the Reagan.
Maxwell went to his room to pack. The message light was blinking and a written note had been slipped under the door.
Where have you been, Sam? It’s noon, and I will not leave this room until you call! Please, please call. Better yet, come by. In case you forgot, it’s room 238.
Love and kisses, C.
P. S. It’s still my birthday.
As he stuffed his clothes and dop kit back into the duffel bag, he debated with himself. Call her and tell what you think. Ask her what that scene in the bar was all about.
No, drop it.
He went to the phone and picked it up. Then he changed his mind. Drop it.
After several minutes he picked up the phone again, punched room service and ordered a club sandwich. He finished packing, then watched CNN until the waiter delivered the sandwich.
He was leaving the room when the phone rang. He paused, listening to it ring. He closed the door and walked on down the hallway.
At the checkout desk, he scanned the lobby. He saw a half-dozen of his fellow pilots from the Reagan and several Bahraini businessmen sipping coffee at tables. He paid his bill, which included the beers yesterday afternoon and all the unanswered phone calls to the Gulf Hotel and came to nine dinars — nearly thirty dollars.
She wasn’t anywhere in sight. That was probably good. He didn’t want a scene, and, anyway, he knew he was not in control of his feelings. Still fixed in his mind was that hand on her knee. Who the hell was that guy? Someone familiar enough to fondle her in public.
Why the hell did it matter? he asked himself. It didn’t. Let it die.
He was nearly to the coffee shop when he heard her voice. “Sam?”
He froze.
“Sam, I’ve been looking for you.” She was wearing the same outfit, a sleeveless, knee-length silk dress, he had seen her in last night. When the guy had his hand on her knee.
He thought she looked stunning.
The other pilots saw her at the same time. DeLancey was walking from the elevator. He stopped in mid-stride and stared. So did Craze Manson. And CAG Boyce.
She ran to him and gave him a warm hug. Maxwell felt awkward, angry, foolish.
“Why didn’t you call?” she said. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” She looked at his face. “Are you angry, Sam?”
He didn’t answer. He felt everyone in the lobby watching him. He wanted to say, damn it, he had tried to call her. She hadn’t answered because she was out with that dissipated-looking asshole who had his hands all over her.
Instead, he said, “I was tied up this morning.”
“Why didn’t you stop when you saw me in the bar last night? I was waiting for you, Sam.”
He was aware of DeLancey and the whole crowd watching them. “Let’s talk outside,” he said.
She followed him to the sidewalk. The afternoon heat still lay over Bahrain like a blanket. The bus was already waiting on the semicircular drive to transport the pilots back to the helo pad. Most of the pilots were clustered around the door of the bus.
She stopped and looked at him. “I know why you’re upset. Please listen to me. What you saw last night isn’t what you think.”
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“I didn’t expect that Chris would be here. I haven’t seen him in months. We’ve been separated for over a year. The divorce papers are in New York waiting for signature.”
Maxwell felt foolish. “Your… husband? The guy who writes the anti-American stuff from Baghdad.”
She nodded. “Chris Tyrwhitt.”
“Saddam’s mouthpiece. Are you feeding him information, or vice versa?”
She looked like she had been slapped. “Neither. I was having a drink with him while I waited for you to show up.”
The pilots were coming through the revolving door, carrying their bags. Maxwell saw CAG Boyce standing by the bus, watching them.