The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 39

Asad Khalil continued north on 1-95, retracing his route from Jacksonville, across the Georgia border, then into South Carolina. Along his route, he disposed of the computer disks from Paul Grey's office.

As he drove, he thought about his morning activities. Certainly by this evening, someone would be looking for the cleaning woman, or for Paul Grey. At some point, someone would discover the bodies. The assumed motive for Grey's murder would be the theft of the sensitive software. This was all as planned. What wasn't well thought out, he realized, was the problem of his pilot. Quite possibly, by this evening or tomorrow morning, the murders in Spruce Creek would come to the attention of someone at Alpha Aviation Services, and, of course, his female pilot, who would certainly recall the name Paul Grey. Khalil had not realized that the man's name would be on the hangar.

This woman would call the police and suggest that she may have some knowledge of this crime. In Libya, no one would call the police with any information that would bring them into contact with the authorities. But Boris had been fairly certain that this could happen in America.

Khalil nodded to himself as he drove. Boris had told him to use his judgment regarding the pilot, pointing out, "If you kill the pilot, then you must also kill everyone else who knew of your flight and who saw your face. Dead men cannot go to the police. But the more corpses you leave around, the more determined the police will become to find the murderer. A single murder of a man in his house for the purpose of theft does not cause too much interest. You may be fortunate enough to have it go unnoticed in Jacksonville."

Again, Khalil nodded. But he'd had to kill the cleaning woman, just as he'd done in Washington, in order to give him more time to distance himself from the killing. Someone should tell Boris that Americans did not like to clean their own homes.

In any case, the police were looking for a thief, not Asad Khalil. Also, they were not looking for his automobile, and if the pilot called the police, they would be looking for a Greek on his way to Athens via Washington, D.C. All of this depended on how stupid the police were.

There was the other possibility, of course-the female pilot, seeing the front page of the newspapers, might actually realize who her passenger had been… Undoubtedly, he should have killed her, but he had not. He had spared her life, he told himself, not out of pity, but because of what Boris and even Malik had said about too many killings. Boris was not only cautious, but also too concerned about the lives of the enemies of Islam. Boris had not wanted to gas the aircraft full of people, for instance, and had called this "an insane act of mass murder."

Malik had reminded him, "Your former government killed over twenty million of your own people since your revolution. All of Islam has not killed that many people since the time of Muhammad. Please do not preach to us. We have a long way to go to equal your accomplishments."

Boris had not replied to this.

As he drove along 1-95, Khalil put these recollections out of his mind, and thought once again of Paul Grey. He had not died as well as the brave General Waycliff and his brave wife. Yet, he had not died begging for his life. Khalil thought perhaps he should try a different method with William Satherwaite. They told him in Libya that the former Lieutenant Satherwaite had experienced some misfortunes in life, and Boris had said, "Killing him might be doing him a favor." To which Khalil had replied, "No man wants to die. Killing him will be as pleasurable for me as killing the rest of them."

Khalil looked at his dashboard clock-it was 3:05 P.M. He looked at his Satellite Navigator. Soon he would be leaving 1-95 for a road called ALT 17 that would take him directly to the place called Moncks Corner.

Once again his thoughts returned to the morning. These dealings with the female pilot had a disturbing effect on him, but he couldn't completely comprehend what had caused him such indecision and confusion. There were good reasons to kill her, and good reasons not to kill her. He recalled that she had said to the woman behind the counter, "I'll be back to take care of the Piper."

Thus, if she hadn't returned, they would be looking for her, and for him. Unless, of course, the woman behind the counter had the thought that her pilot and her customer decided to… be together. Yes, he could see that thought in the woman's face and the way she acted. However, the woman eventually might become concerned and call the police. So perhaps it had been better not to kill the female pilot.

As he drove, a vision of the pilot filled his mind, and he saw her smiling, talking to him, helping him into the aircraft-touching him. Those thoughts continued running through his mind, even as he tried to rid himself of her image. He found her business card in his pocket and looked at it. It had her home phone number written in pen above the business number of Alpha Aviation. He put the card back in his pocket.

He saw his exit at the last moment and swerved into the right lane, then onto the exit ramp for ALT 17.

He found himself on a two-lane road, much different from the Interstate. There were houses and farms on both sides of the road, small villages, gasoline stations, and pine forests. A compatriot had traveled this route on Khalil's behalf some months ago and reported, "This is the most dangerous of roads because of the drivers who are insane, and because of the police who have motorcycles and who watch everyone pass by."

Khalil heeded this warning and tried to drive so as not to attract attention. He passed through a number of villages and saw a police car and a motorcycle in two of them.

But it was a short distance to his destination-60 kilometers, or 40 miles, and within the hour, he was approaching the town of Moncks Corner.

Bill Satherwaite sat with his feet on his cluttered desk in a small concrete block building at Berkeley County Airport, Moncks Corner, South Carolina. He had the grimy handset of a cheap telephone cradled between his ear and shoulder, and he listened to Jim McCoy's voice at the other end. Satherwaite glanced at the anemic air-conditioner stuck through the wall. The fan was clattering, and a trickle of cold air was coming out the vent. It was only April, and it was already close to 90 degrees outside. Damned hellhole.

Jim McCoy said, "Have you heard from Paul? He was going to call you."

Satherwaite replied, "Nah. Sorry I couldn't get on the conference call Saturday. Had a busy day."

"That's okay," said McCoy. "I just thought I'd call you and see how you were doing."

"Doing fine." Satherwaite glanced at the desk drawer beneath where his feet were propped up. In the drawer, he knew, was a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniel's. He glanced at the wall clock: 4:10 P.M. Somewhere in the world it was past 5:00 P.M.; time for one small drink-except that the charter customer was supposed to be here by 4:00 P.M. Satherwaite said, "Did I tell you I flew down to see Paul a few months ago?"

"Yes, you did-"

"Yeah. You ought to see his setup. Big house, pool, hangar, twin Beech, hot and cold running babes." He laughed and added "Shit, when they saw my old Apache coming in, they tried to wave me off." He laughed.

McCoy took the opportunity to say, "Paul was a little concerned about the Apache."

"Yeah? Paul's an old lady, if you want my opinion. How many times did he piss us off wasting time checking everything a hundred times? Guys who are too damned careful get into accidents." He added, "The Apache passes FAA inspection."

"Just passing it on, Bill."

"Yeah." He kept staring at the drawer, then swung his legs off the desk, sat upright in his swivel chair, leaned forward, and opened the desk drawer. He said to Jim McCoy, "Hey, you really got to get down there and see Paul's setup."

In fact, Jim McCoy had been down to Spruce Creek a number of times, but he didn't want to mention that to Bill Satherwaite, who'd been invited just once, though Satherwaite was only about an hour-and-a-half flight time away. "Yes, I'd like to-"

"Incredible house and stuff. But you should see what he's working on. Virtual fucking reality. Jesus, we sat there all night drinking, bombing the shit out of everything." He laughed. "We did the Al Azziziyah run five times. Fucking incredible. By the fifth run, we were so shit-faced we couldn't even hit the fucking ground." He broke into peals of laughter.

Jim McCoy laughed, too, but his laughter was forced. McCoy really didn't want to hear the same story again that he'd heard a half dozen times since Paul had invited Satherwaite down to Spruce Creek for a long weekend. It had been, Paul told him afterward, a particularly long weekend. Up until that time, none of the guys had quite understood how much Bill Satherwaite had deteriorated in the past seven years since they'd last gotten together in an informal reunion of the flight crews from the squadron. Now, everyone knew.

Bill Satherwaite caught his breath and said, "Hey, wizo, remember when I waited too long to kick in my afterburners, and Terry almost climbed up my ass?" He laughed again and put the bottle on his desk.

Jim McCoy, sitting in his office at the Cradle of Aviation Museum on Long Island, didn't reply. He had trouble connecting the Bill Satherwaite he had known with the Bill Satherwaite at the other end of the line. The old Bill Satherwaite was as good a pilot and officer as there was in the Air Force. But ever since his too-early retirement, Bill Satherwaite had been on a steep glide slope toward the ground. Being a Gadhafi-killer had become increasingly more important to him as the years went by. He told his war stories incessantly to anyone who would listen, and now he was even telling them to the guys who flew the mission with him. And every year these stories got a little more dramatic, and every year his role in their little twelve-minute war got a little grander.

Jim McCoy was concerned about Bill Satherwaite's bragging about the raid. No one was supposed to mention that they'd been part of that mission, and certainly no one was supposed to mention other pilots' names. McCoy had told Satherwaite numerous times to watch what he said, and Satherwaite had assured him that he'd only used their radio code names or first names when he discussed the raid. McCoy had warned him, "Don't even say you were on that raid, Bill. Stop talking about it."

To which Bill Satherwaite had always replied, "Hey, I'm proud of what I did. And don't worry about it. Those stupid ragheads aren't coming to Moncks Corner, South Carolina, to even the score. Chill out."

Jim McCoy thought he should mention this again, but what good would it do?

McCoy often wished that his old squadron mate had stayed in the Air Force at least until the Gulf War. Maybe if Bill had participated in the Gulf War, life would somehow have been better for him.

As he spoke into the phone, Bill Satherwaite kept an eye on the clock and an eye on the door. Finally, he spun the top off the bourbon bottle and took a quick slug without missing a beat in his war story. He said, "And fucking Chip-slept all the way there, I wake him up, he tosses four, and goes back to sleep." He howled with laughter.

McCoy's patience was wearing thin, and he reminded Satherwaite, "You said he never shut up all the way to Libya."

"Yeah, never shut his mouth."

McCoy realized that Satherwaite didn't see any inconsistencies in his stories, so he said, "Okay, buddy, let's stay in touch."

"Don't go yet. I'm waiting for a charter. Guy needs to go to Philly, then overnight and back here. Hey, how's the job going?"

"Not bad. This is a world-class facility. Not finished yet, but we've got a great sampling of aircraft. We've got an F-lll, and we've even got a model of the Spirit of St. Louis. Lindbergh took off from Roosevelt Field just a few miles from here. You have to come up and see it. I'll put you in the F-lll."

"Yeah? Why's it a cradle?"

"Cradle of Aviation. Long Island is called the Cradle of Aviation."

"How about Kitty Hawk?"

"I don't ask-I'm not rocking the cradle." He laughed and said, "Fly up one of these days. Go into Long Island MacArthur, and I'll pick you up."

"Yeah. One of these days. Hey, how's Terry doing?"

Jim McCoy wanted to get off the phone, but old comrades-in-arms had to be indulged, though not for too much longer. He replied, "He sends his regards."

"Bullshit."

"He did," McCoy replied, trying to sound sincere. Bill Satherwaite was nobody's favorite anymore-probably never was-but they had shared the Holy Sacrament of Baptism by Fire, and the Warrior Ethos-or what was left of it in America-demanded that those bonds remain intact until the last man took his last breath.

Everyone in the squadron tried to accommodate Bill Satherwaite-except for Terry Waycliff-and the other guys had given the General a silent pass on that assignment.

Satherwaite said, "Is Terry still sucking Pentagon dick?"

McCoy replied, "Terry is still in the Pentagon. We expect that he'll retire out of there."

"Fuck him."

"I'll be sure to give him your best."

Satherwaite laughed. "Yeah. You know what that guy's problem was? He was a general even back when he was a lieutenant. Know what I mean?"

McCoy replied, "You know, Bill, a lot of people said the same about you. I mean that as a compliment."

"If that's a compliment, then I don't need any insults. Terry had it in for me-always competing with everybody. Broke my balls about me not kicking in the goddamned afterburners-wrote a snitch note about it, blamed me for the stray fucking bomb instead of blaming Wiggins-"

"Hold on, Bill. That's out of line."

Bill Satherwaite took another swig of bourbon, suppressed a belch, and said, "Yeah… okay… sorry…"

"That's okay. Forget it." McCoy thought about Terry Waycliff and Bill Satherwaite. Bill was not even in the Air Force Reserve, and for that reason he would normally have lost his post-commissary privileges and that would have been the ultimate blow for Satherwaite-losing his discount liquor privileges at Charleston Air Base. But Terry Waycliff had pulled some strings-unknown to Bill Satherwaite-and got him a PX card. McCoy said, "We had Bob on the conference call, too."

Bill Satherwaite squirmed in his chair. Thinking about Bob Callum and his cancer was not something that he did on a voluntary basis-or ever, for that matter. Callum had made colonel, and the last that Satherwaite knew, he was still working as a ground instructor at the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs. He asked McCoy, "He still working?"

"He is. Same place. Give him a call."

"I will. Tough break." He thought a moment, then said, "You survive a war, you die of something worse."

"He may beat it."

"Yeah. And last but not least, my little shit of a wizo-how's Chip?"

"Couldn't reach him," McCoy replied. "Last letter I sent to him in California got returned with no forwarding address. Phone is disconnected, no info available."

"Just like Wiggins to forget to keep his paperwork up to date. I really had to work to keep that guy in line. Always had to remind him to do everything."

"Chip never changes."

"You can say that again."

McCoy thought about Chip Wiggins. The last time he'd spoken to him was April 15 of the previous year. Wiggins had taken flying lessons when he left the Air Force and was now a pilot, flying cargo for various small airlines. Everyone liked Chip Wiggins, but he was not good about attention to detail, such as change-of-address cards.

Jim McCoy, Terry Waycliff, and Paul Grey had shared the thought that Wiggins didn't keep in touch because he was a pilot now, but hadn't been a pilot back then. Also, he had been in Satherwaite's crew, and that was probably reason enough to be ambivalent about the past. Jim McCoy said, "I'll try to track him down. You know, I don't think Chip even knows about Willie yet."

Satherwaite took another drink of bourbon, glanced at the clock, then at the door. Regarding the late Colonel Hambrecht, he said, "Chip liked Willie. He should be told."

"Right. I'll do my best." McCoy didn't know what else to say, knowing that Bill Satherwaite wouldn't put a stamp on an envelope to keep the group in contact, and that the work of maintaining everyone's whereabouts had mostly been his and Terry's.

In fact, ever since he'd gotten the job as Director of the Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum, Jim McCoy had become the unofficial corresponding secretary of their little unofficial group. The guys found it convenient to use him as a rallying point-he had the office assets to keep in touch by telephone, mail, e-mail, and fax. Terry Waycliff was sort of their President, but his Pentagon job made him unavailable most of the time, and Jim McCoy never called him unless it was important. Soon, they'd all be old men and have plenty of time to stay in touch if they wanted to.

McCoy said to Satherwaite, "Did you say you have a charter?"

"Yeah. Guy's late."

"Bill, have you been drinking?"

"Are you crazy? Before a flight? I'm a pro, for God's sake."

"Okay…" McCoy thought that Bill was lying about drinking, so he hoped that Bill Satherwaite was also lying about having a customer. He took a moment to reflect on the old squadron-Steve Cox, killed in the Gulf; Willie Hambrecht, murdered in England; Terry Waycliff, completing a brilliant military career; Paul Grey, a successful civilian; Bob Callum, sick with cancer in Colorado; Chip Wiggins, missing in action, but presumed well; Bill Satherwaite, a ghost of his former self; and finally, himself, Jim McCoy, museum director-good job, bad pay. Out of eight men, two were dead, one was dying of cancer, one was dying of life, one was missing, and three were okay for the moment. He said to Bill Satherwaite in a soft tone of voice, "We should all fly out to see Bob. We shouldn't delay. I'll put it together. You've got to be there, Bill. Okay?"

Bill Satherwaite remained quiet for a few seconds, then said, "Okay. Can do. Can do."

"Take it easy, buddy."

"Yeah… you, too." Satherwaite put the phone down and rubbed his eyes, which were moist. He took another drink, then put the bottle in his overnight bag.

Bill Satherwaite stood and looked around his shabby office. On the far wall was a state of South Carolina flag and a Confederate flag that a lot of people found offensive, which was why he kept it there. The whole country had gone to hell, he thought, politically correct faggots were in charge, and even though Bill Satherwaite was from Indiana, he liked the South-except for the heat and the humidity-he liked their attitudes, and he liked his Confederate flag. "Fuck 'em."

On the side wall was a large aeronautical plotting chart, and beside the chart was an old poster, faded and wrinkled from the humidity. It was a photograph of Moammar Gadhafi with a big bull's-eye drawn around his head. Satherwaite picked up a dart from his cluttered desk and flung it at the poster. The dart hit the middle of Gadhafi's forehead, and Satherwaite yelled, "Yeah! Fuck you!"

Bill Satherwaite went to the window of his small office and looked out into the bright sunshine. "Nice day for flying." Out on the runway, one of his two aircraft, the Cherokee 140 trainer, was just lifting off, and in the afternoon heat and turbulence, the small airplane's wings wobbled as the student pilot strained to gain altitude.

He watched the Cherokee disappear as it continued its wobbly climb. He was glad he didn't have to be in the cockpit with this kid, who had no balls, no feel for aviation, and too much money. Back when he was an Air Force student pilot, they just axed out the dead wood. Now, he had to cater to them. And this kid would never see a minute of combat-he wanted to fly to impress his main hump. The country was going down the toilet, fast.

To make the day worse, his customer was some stupid foreigner, probably an illegal alien running drugs up to the hopheads in Philly, and the bastard was late. At least the guy wouldn't say anything if he smelled the bourbon. He'd probably think it was an American soft drink. He laughed.

He walked back to his desk and checked out a note he'd made. Alessandro Fanini. Sounded like a spic or a greaseball. "Yeah, a wop. That's not so bad. Better than some Pedro from south of the border."

"Good afternoon."

Satherwaite spun around and saw a tall man wearing dark sunglasses standing at the open door. The man said, "Alessandro Fanini. I apologize for my lateness."

Satherwaite wondered if the guy had heard him. He glanced at the wall clock and said, "Only half an hour. No problem."

The two men walked toward each other, and Satherwaite put out his hand. They shook, and Khalil said, "I was delayed at my last appointment in Charleston."

"No problem." Bill Satherwaite saw that the man carried a large black canvas bag and was dressed in a gray suit. He asked, "You got any other luggage?"

"I have left my luggage in my hotel in Charleston."

"Good. You don't mind my jeans and T-shirt, I hope."

"Not at all. Whatever is comfortable. But as I said, we will be staying overnight."

"Yeah. I got an overnight bag." He motioned to an Air Force bag on the dirty floor. He said, "My girlfriend will be here later to watch the store and lock up."

"Good. You should be back by midday tomorrow."

"Whatever."

"I have left my rental car near the main building. It will be safe there?"

"Sure." Satherwaite walked to a sagging bookshelf and scooped up a stack of rolled charts, then retrieved his overnight bag. "Ready?" He followed his customer's gaze, which was fixed on the poster of Gadhafi. Satherwaite grinned and said, "You know who that is?"

Asad Khalil replied, "Of course. My country has had many confrontations with that man."

"Yeah? You got into it with Mr Moammar Shithead Gadhafi?"

"Yes. He has threatened us many times."

"Yeah? Well, for your information I almost killed that bastard once."

"Yes?"

Satherwaite asked, "You're from Italy?"

"I am from Sicily."

"No shit? I could've wound up there once if I'd run out of gas."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a long story. I'm not allowed to talk about it. Forget it."

"As you wish."

"Okay, if you open that door for me, we're outta here."

"Oh, one more thing. There has been a slight change in my plans that may necessitate some change on your part."

"Like what?"

"My company has ordered me to New York."

"Yeah? I don't like flying to New York, Mr…"

"Fanini."

"Yeah. Too much traffic, too much bullshit."

"I am willing to pay extra."

"It's not the money, it's the bullshit. Which airport?"

"It is called MacArthur. You know of it?"

"Oh, yeah. Never been there, but it's okay. A suburban airport out on Long Island. We can do that, but it's extra."

"Of course."

Satherwaite put his things down on the desk and looked for another chart on the shelf. He said, "Funny coincidence-I was just talking to a guy on Long Island. He wanted me to stop by-maybe I'll surprise him. Maybe I should call him."

"Perhaps a surprise would be better. Or call him when we land."

"Yeah. Let me get his phone numbers." Satherwaite flipped through a tattered Rolodex and extracted a card.

Khalil said, "Is he close to the airport?"

"I don't know. But he'll pick me up."

"You may take my rental car if you wish. I have a car reserved, as well as two motel rooms for us."

"Yeah. I was going to ask you about that. I don't share rooms with guys."

Khalil forced a smile and replied, "Neither do I."

"Good. As long as we got that straight. Hey, you want to pay up front? You get a discount for up-front cash."

"How much will this amount to?"

"Oh… now that it's MacArthur, plus the overnight and I lose some flight instructing time tomorrow, plus gas… let's say eight hundred in cash should do it."

"That sounds reasonable." Khalil took out his wallet and counted eight hundred dollars in cash, then added another hundred dollars to it and said, "Plus a tip for you."

"Thanks."

That was most of the cash that Khalil had, but he knew he would get it all back soon.

Bill Satherwaite counted the money and pocketed it. "Okay. Done deal."

"Good. I am ready."

"I gotta take a piss." Satherwaite opened a door and disappeared into the toilet.

Asad Khalil looked at the poster of the Great Leader and noticed the dart in the forehead. He removed the dart and said to himself, "Surely no one deserves to die more than this American pig."

Bill Satherwaite came out of the toilet, picked up his charts and bag, and said, "If there's no more changes, we can get moving."

Khalil said, "Do you have any beverages we can bring with us?"

"Yeah. I already put an ice chest in the plane. Got soda and beer-beer's for you if you want. I can't drink."

Khalil clearly smelled alcohol on the man's breath, but said, "Do you have bottled water?"

"No. Why spend money for water? Water is free." Idiots and fairies buy bottled. "You want water?"

"It is not necessary." Khalil opened the door, and they went out into the sweltering air.

As they walked across the hot concrete ramp toward the Apache parked a hundred feet from the office, Satherwaite asked, "What kind of business you in, Mr. Panini?"

"Fanini. As my colleague told you when he called from New York, I am in the textile business. I am here to buy American cotton."

"Yeah? You came to the right place. Nothing's changed here since the Civil War, except now they have to pay the slaves." He laughed and added, "And some of the slaves are Spanish and white now. You ever see a cotton field? Talk about shit work. They can't find enough people to do it. Maybe they should import some stupid Arabs to pick cotton-they love the sun. Pay 'em in camel shit, and tell 'em they can take it to the bank for money." He laughed.

Khalil did not reply, but asked, "Do you need to file a flight plan?"

"No." Satherwaite pointed to the clear sky as they continued their walk toward the airplane. "There's a big-ass high-pressure area across the entire East Coast-great weather all the way." Thinking he might have a nervous passenger, he added, "The gods are shining on you, Mr. Fanini, 'cause we've got a great day for flying all the way to New York and, probably, when we come back tomorrow, too."

Khalil did not need to hear this man tell him that Allah had blessed the Jihad-he already knew it in the depths of his soul. He also knew that Mr. Satherwaite was not flying home tomorrow.

As they continued to walk, Satherwaite said, as if thinking to himself, "I might check in with New York approach control radar when we cut across the ocean south of Kennedy Airport on the direct route to Islip. They'll keep us away from airliners inbound to JFK."

Khalil thought a moment of how he had been inside an airliner on that very route only a few brief days ago, yet it now seemed almost an eternity.

Satherwaite added, "And I'll call Long Island Tower for a landing clearance. That's it." Satherwaite waved his hand around the nearly deserted Moncks Corner airfield. "Sure as hell don't have to talk to anyone to depart from here," he said with a laugh. "Hell, there's no one around to talk to, except my own student out there in my own piece-of-shit Cherokee. And that kid wouldn't know what to say if I called him on the radio anyway."

Khalil looked out to where the pilot was pointing at the small single-engine airplane that was now lined up and descending toward the landing runway, wobbling slightly from side to side. He could see that the airplane very closely resembled the type that he had chartered out of Jacksonville with the female pilot. The memory of her crept back into Khalil's thoughts, and he quickly pushed her image from his mind.

They stopped at an old blue and white two-engine Piper Apache. Satherwaite had earlier untied the ropes, removed the control locks, and put aside the wheel chocks. He had also checked the fuel. That was all he ever checked, anyway, he thought, mostly because there were so many things wrong with the old airplane that it was a waste of time finding anything more. Satherwaite said to his customer, "I checked it all out before you got here. Everything's in tip-top shape."

Asad Khalil regarded the old aircraft. He was glad it had two engines.

Satherwaite sensed some concern on the part of his paying customer and said, "This is a very basic machine, Mr. Fanini, and you can always depend on it to get you there and back."

"Yes?"

Satherwaite tried to see what the prissy foreigner saw. The plexiglass windows of the 1954 airplane were a little dirty and crazed, and the paint on the fuselage was a bit faded-in fact, Satherwaite admitted, it was now hardly more than a hint of what it had previously been. He glanced at the foppishly dressed, sunglasses-wearing Mr. Fanini and gave him more encouragement. "There's nothing complex or fancy about it, but that means that nothing of importance can go wrong. The engines are good, and the flight controls are working fine. I used to fly military jets, and let me tell you, those things are so complex that you need an army of maintenance people just to launch on a simple one-hour mission." Satherwaite glanced beneath the right engine where a growing puddle of black oil had accumulated in the week since he'd last flown the Apache. "In fact, I took this to Key West and back yesterday. Flies like a homesick angel. Ready?"

"Yes."

"Good." Satherwaite threw his overnight bag on the wing, then with the charts under his arm, he climbed onto the Apache's right wing, opened the only door, and retrieved his bag. He threw his bag and the charts in the rear and said to his passenger, "Front or back?"

"I will sit in the front."

"Okay." Bill Satherwaite sometimes helped passengers up, but the tall guy looked like he could manage. Satherwaite climbed into the cockpit and maneuvered himself across the co-pilot's seat into the pilot's seat. It was hot in the cabin, and Satherwaite popped open the small vent window on his side, waiting for his passenger. He called out, "You coming?"

Asad Khalil placed his bag on the wing, climbed up onto the skidproof surface, which was worn smooth, retrieved his bag, and slid into the co-pilot's seat, placing his bag on the seat behind him.

Satherwaite said, "Leave your door open a minute. Buckle up."

Khalil did as his pilot instructed.

Bill Satherwaite put on a headset, flipped some switches, then hit the starter for the left engine. After hesitating a few seconds, the prop began to swing around, and the old piston engine sputtered to life. Once the engine was running smoothly, Satherwaite hit the starter for the right engine, which fired up better than the left. "Okay… beautiful sound."

Khalil shouted over the sound of the engines, "It is very loud."

Satherwaite shouted back, "Yeah, well, your door and my window are open." He didn't tell his passenger that the door seal leaked, and it wouldn't be much quieter with it closed. He said, "Once we get up to cruise altitude, you can hear your mustache grow." He laughed and began taxiing out toward the runway. With the money in his pocket, he reflected, he didn't have to be overly nice to this greaseball. He asked, "Where'd you say you're from?"

" Sicily."

"Oh… yeah…" Satherwaite remembered that the Mafia was from Sicily. He glanced at his passenger as he taxied, and it suddenly dawned on him that this guy could be in the mob. He immediately regretted his high-handed manner and tried to make amends. "You comfortable, Mr. Fanini? Do you have any questions about the flight?"

"The time of the flight."

"Well, sir, if we get good tailwinds, which is what has been forecast, we'll be at MacArthur in about three and a half hours." He checked his watch. "That should put us on the ground about eight-thirty. How's that?"

"That will be fine. And must we refuel along the way?"

"Nope. I got extra tip tanks installed so I can go about seven hours, non-stop. We'll refuel in New York."

Khalil asked, "And you have no difficulty landing in the dark?"

"No, sir. It's a good airport. Airlines go there with jets. And I'm an experienced pilot."

"Good."

Satherwaite thought he'd smoothed things out with Mr. Fanini, and he smiled. He taxied the Apache to the end of the active runway. He glanced up and through his windshield. His student was going around again in the traffic pattern for Runway Twenty-three doing touch-and-go landings in the crosswind and apparently not having any problems. He said, "That kid up there, he's a student pilot who needs a double-ball transplant. You know? American kids have gone way too soft. They need a kick in the ass. They need to become killers. They need to taste blood."

"Is that so?"

Satherwaite glanced at his passenger and said, "I mean, I saw combat and I can tell you, when the Triple-A is so thick you can't see the sky, and when the missiles are cruising alongside your cockpit, then you become a man real fast."

"You have experienced this?"

"Lots of times. Okay, here we go. Close your door." Satherwaite ran up his engines, checked his instruments, then looked around the airport. Only the Cherokee was there, and he was no conflict. Satherwaite taxied the Apache onto the runway, pushed up the power, and they began to roll. The aircraft picked up speed and with half the runway remaining, lifted off.

Satherwaite said nothing as he made adjustments in his throttles and controls. He banked the aircraft and turned to a course of 040 degrees as the plane continued to climb.

Khalil looked out the window at the green countryside below. He sensed that the aircraft was more sound than it looked, and that the pilot, too, was better than he looked. He said to his pilot, "What war did you fight in?"

Satherwaite put a piece of chewing gum in his mouth and said, "Lots of wars. The Gulf was the big one."

Khalil knew that this man had not fought in the Gulf War. In fact, Asad Khalil knew more about Bill Satherwaite than Satherwaite knew about himself.

Satherwaite asked, "Want some gum?"

"No, thank you. And what type of aircraft did you fly?"

"Flew fighters."

"Yes? What is that?"

"Fighters. Fighter jets. Fighter-bombers. I flew lots of different kinds, but I ended up on something called the F-lll."

"Can you discuss that-or is it a military secret?"

Satherwaite laughed. "No, sir, it's no secret. It's an old aircraft, long since retired from service. Just like me."

"Do you miss this experience?"

"I don't miss the chickenshit. That means the spit-and-polish-like saluting, and everybody looking up your butt all the time. And now they have women flying combat aircraft, for Christ's sake. I can't even think about that. And these bitches cause all kinds of goddamned problems with their sexual harassment bullshit-sorry, you got me started. Hey, how are the women where you come from? They know their place?"

"Very much so."

"Good. Maybe I'll go there. Sicily, right?"

"Yes."

"What do they speak there?"

"A dialect of Italian."

"I'll learn it and go there. They need pilots there?"

"Of course."

"Good." They were climbing through 5,000 feet and the late afternoon sun was almost directly behind them, and that made the view ahead particularly clear and dramatic, Satherwaite thought. With the backlighting, the lush spring terrain took on an even deeper hue of colors, and created a clear line of demarcation against the distant blue of the coastal waters. A 25-knot tailwind added to their ground speed, so they might make Long Island sooner than he'd estimated. Somewhere in the back of Bill Satherwaite's mind was the thought that flying was more than a job. It was a calling, a brotherhood, an otherworldly experience, like some of those holy rollers in Moncks Corner felt in church. When he was in the sky, he felt better and had better feelings about himself. This, he realized, was as good as it was going to get. He said to his passenger, "I do miss combat."

"How can you miss something like that?"

"I don't know… I never felt so good in my life as when I saw those tracers and missiles around me." He added, "Well, maybe if I'd been hit, I wouldn't have felt so good about it. But those stupid bastards couldn't hit the floor with a stream of piss."

"What stupid… people?"

"Oh, let's just say the Arabs. Can't say which ones."

"Why not?"

"Military secret." He laughed. "Not the mission-just who was on the mission."

"Why is that?"

Bill Satherwaite glanced at his passenger, then replied, "It's a policy not to give out the names of pilots involved in a bombing mission. The government thinks these stupid camel jockeys are going to come to America and take revenge. Bullshit. But you know, the captain of the Vincennes -that was a warship in the Gulf that accidentally shot down an Iranian airliner-somebody planted a bomb in the skipper's car, his van-in California, no less. I mean, Jesus, that was scary-almost killed his wife."

Khalil nodded. He was very aware of this incident. The Iranians had shown, with the car bomb, that they did not accept the explanation or the apology. Khalil said, "In war, killing leads to more killing."

"No kidding? Anyway, the government thinks these camel jockeys could be dangerous to their big, brave warriors. Shit, I don't care who knows that I bombed the Arabs. Let them come looking for me. They'll wish they never found me."

"Yes… Do you arm yourself?"

Satherwaite glanced at his passenger and said, "Mrs. Satherwaite didn't raise an idiot."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm armed and dangerous."

Satherwaite continued, as they climbed through 7,000 feet. "But then, during the Gulf War, the stupid government wants good press, so they put these pilots on TV. I mean, Jesus, if they're afraid of the fucking Arabs, why are they parading these fighter pilots in front of TV cameras?-I'll tell you why-they wanted big public support back home, so they put these pretty fly-boys on TV to smile and say how great this war is, and how everybody loves doing their fucking duty for God and Country. And for every guy they had on, they had about a hundred broads-I kid you not. Parading the pussy in front of the cameras to show how fucking politically correct the military is. Jesus, if you watched the war on CNN, you'd have thought the whole war was being fought by pussies. I'll bet that went over big with the Iraquis. You know? Thinking they were getting the shit kicked out of them by a bunch of broads." He laughed. "Jesus, I'm glad I'm out of there."

"I see that."

"Yeah. I get worked up. Sorry."

"I share your feeling about women doing the jobs of men."

"Good. We gotta stick together." He laughed again, thinking this guy wasn't so bad, despite the fact he was a foreigner, and maybe a little light in the loafers.

Khalil said, "Why do you have that poster on your wall?"

"To remind me of the time I almost put a bomb up his ass," Bill Satherwaite replied without a thought about security. "Actually, my mission didn't include his house. That was Jim and Paul's mission. They dropped one right on the bastard's house, but Gadhafi was sleeping outside in a tent, for God's sake. Fucking Arabs like their tents. Right? But his daughter got it, which was too bad, but war is war. Fucked up his wife, too, and a couple of his kids, but they lived. Nobody wants to kill women and children, but sometimes they're where they're not supposed to be. You know? I mean, if I was Gadhafi's kid, I'd keep a mile between me and Pop." He laughed.

Khalil took a deep breath and got himself under control. He asked, "And what was your mission?"

"I hit the commo center, a fuel depot, a barracks, and… something else. I can't remember. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I find this fascinating."

"Yeah? Well, forget it all, Mr. Fanini. Like I said, I'm not supposed to talk about it."

"Of course."

They were at their cruise altitude of 7,500 feet. Satherwaite pulled back on the power, and the engines got a little quieter.

Khalil said, "You will call your friend on Long Island?"

"Yeah. Probably."

"He was a military friend?"

"Yeah. He's the Director of an aviation museum now. Maybe if we have time in the morning, I'll shoot over there and check it out. You can come if you want. I'll show you my old F-111. They've got one there."

"That would be interesting."

"Yeah. I haven't seen one of those in lots of years."

"It will bring back memories."

"Yeah."

Khalil stared out at the landscape below. How ironic, he thought, that he'd just come from killing this man's comrade, and now this man was transporting him to where Asad Khalil would kill another of his comrades. He wondered if this man beside him would appreciate the irony.

Asad Khalil sat back and looked into the sky. As the sun began to set, he said his required prayers to himself and added, "God has blessed my Jihad, God has confused my enemies, God has delivered them to me-God is great."

Bill Satherwaite asked, "You say something?"

"I just thanked God for a good day, and asked him to bless my trip to America."

"Yeah? Ask him to do me a couple of favors, too."

"I did. He will."