The coxswain barked an order. The boatswain’s mate heaved the bow line to the sailor on the landing. The big gray utility boat bumped gently against the piling, and the crew snubbed the lines fast.
Maxwell stepped ashore. The air was dry and warm with a light breeze from the sea. He was wearing civvies — khaki trousers, a knit polo shirt, deck shoes. In one hand he carried his blue overnight duffel bag.
He stood there on the fleet landing for a moment. He set the bag down while he looked around. He didn’t see anyone except the shore patrol detail and a row of taxis waiting for the flood of sailors that would soon arrive from the Reagan.
She didn’t come.
Why should she? he asked himself. Not after the time in Bahrain. Not after he let himself get swept up in all that paranoia about reporters pumping Navy officers for information. Claire was a journalist, not a spy, which he had known all along. But he had let his brain go dead when he spotted her with the guy in the bar that night. He had insulted her, then compounded his stupidity by not owning up to it and apologizing.
After all these years, Maxwell realized, he still hadn’t learned zip about women. Nada. Probably never would. But he knew when he’d blown it.
Still, he had hoped she might be there. He picked up the duffel bag and headed toward the row of taxis. She didn’t come. Okay, another place, another life —
He saw her.
She was standing in the shade beneath a towering palm. She was wearing a sleeveless summer dress, the same kind she used to wear when they went out on the Chesapeake. She had the scarf around her neck…the one he had given her in Dubai.
She stood there watching him. For a moment Maxwell had the thought that she was there to meet someone else, and he just happened to show up.
Stupid thought, he told himself. No more stupid thoughts.
For what seemed to Maxwell like an hour, but in fact was only five seconds, they regarded each other. Neither spoke. Claire’s face was expressionless, her somber blue eyes fixed on him. Maxwell tried to read her thoughts. He couldn’t.
Finally, she smiled.
He went to her and put his arms around her.
“Sam Maxwell,” she said, “boy astronaut.”
“Claire Phillips, girl reporter.”
He didn’t know what to say after that, so he kissed her.
They stood that way for a while, their arms around each other, neither speaking. It was a beginning, thought Maxwell. After all the false starts, it was another beginning. This time, he promised himself, he would get it right.
In the gathering dusk, the temperature was dropping rapidly. The sun lay low over the high western ridge. At this elevation, nearly two thousand meters above sea level, the vegetation was reduced to scrub brush and a few patches of scrawny weeds.
The convoy clattered over the last rise, then began the long descent to the border. Each of the six trucks hauled a load of crude oil in the tank welded to its frame. Over each tank flapped a ragged tarpaulin.
All in all, it had been a routine journey. The convoy had begun with nine vehicles. Two had broken down with engine problems, and one was stolen at gunpoint by Kurdish tribesmen. It was the cost of doing business.
“Look,” said the driver of the lead truck. He nudged his passenger who had dozed off again. “Ahead. You see? They are waiting for us.”
The passenger blinked and looked through the dirt-encrusted windshield. Ahead lay a check point. He saw jeeps and soldiers in red berets.
“The border,” said the driver. “We have arrived.”
The passenger was awake now, even though he had not truly slept for two days. A stubble of beard covered his face, and his arm was aching again. With his good hand, he adjusted the sling that kept the broken wrist bound to his side. Soon he would receive medical attention and the broken limb could be set.
An officer came to the passenger’s window. He was very polite. He asked their identities.
The passenger didn’t reply at first. He peered up at the sign that covered the border entrance. It read WELCOME TO TURKEY.
“I am Colonel Tariq Jabbar,” he said. “Formerly of the Iraqi Air Force.” A broad smile spread over his face. Hayat jaeeda, he thought. Life is good.
About the Author
ROBERT GANDT is a former naval officer, international airline captain, and an award-winning military and aviation writer. He is the author of more than a dozen books, including the novels The Killing Sky and Black Star Rising and the definitive work on modern naval aviation, Bogeys and Bandits. His screen credits include the television series Pensacola: Wings of Gold. His acclaimed account of the Battle for Okinawa, The Twilight Warriors (Broadway Books, 2010) was the winner of the Samuel Eliot Morison Award for Naval Literature. He and his wife, Anne, live in the Spruce Creek Fly-In, an aviation community in Daytona Beach, Florida. Visit his website at www.gandt.com.