With Hostile Intent

Chapter Ten Liberty Call

It sounded like incoming artillery. Heavy metal, drums, electronic strings. The noise was coming from somewhere down the hallway, in the next wing — the same ear-blasting rock music the JOs liked to play nonstop in the Buttwang. Maxwell tried to remember the name of the group. Korn? Pearl Jam? One of those godawful rock groups favored by the younger pilots. They would be deaf before they hit thirty-five.

It was five o’clock in the afternoon of the Reagan’s first day in port. After three weeks on station in the Persian Gulf, the crew of the warship was on liberty.

Maxwell followed the clamor down the hallway of the Dubai Hilton, around a corner to the end of the wing. Inside the half-opened door to a suite he came to the source. Suite 748 had been established as the official site of VFA-36’s Admin Ashore — their private party and recreation headquarters.

Maxwell glanced around the suite. Hozer Miller was stationed behind the bar, mixing drinks from the private stock of booze that had arrived in a gray metal sea locker labeled “VFA-36 Admin Supplies.” Flash Gordon, wearing his standard liberty uniform of jeans, polo shirt, and deck shoes, was locked in a conversation with a brunette in a tight sun dress. Leroi Jones and Pearly Gates, both in shorts and squadron T shirts, were in an animated argument about fighter tactics, using their hands as airplanes. Neither could hear the other over the din of music.

Maxwell made a head count. “Where’s the skipper?” he yelled to Hozer Miller.

“Patrolling,” Hozer yelled back, and gave Maxwell a knowing wink. “He locked up a pair of British Air girls down by the pool.”

Maxwell understood. The Dubai Hilton was renowned as a hunting ground for airline flight attendants. Killer DeLancey was the undisputed king of the hunters. He was famous not only for destroying enemy aircraft, but even more for his relentless pursuit of women when the carrier sailed into port.

On a couch, looking glassy-eyed and disheveled, sat Devo Davis. He clutched a drained cocktail glass in both hands.

Maxwell went over to him. “Hey, Devo, how about a refill?”

Davis stared at him blearily. He held out his glass. His lips moved, but no words came out.

Maxwell took Davis’s glass to the bar.

“Lots of water for the XO, light on the scotch,” he said to Hozer Miller.

“Roger that,” said Hozer. “He was like that when he came in. You ask me, the guy’s got a problem.” Hozer sloshed a dollop of scotch into a tumbler of water and handed it to Maxwell. “By the way, this came for you a little while ago. Some admiral, a three-star named Dunn, wants you to meet him at six o’clock.” He handed Maxwell a pink Post-it. “What’s up, Brick? You getting a decoration or a court-martial?”

Maxwell glanced at the note and stuffed it in his pocket. He and Hozer went through the pretense of being friends. Since the MiG shoot down, the rift between Maxwell and DeLancey had widened. The junior officers had divided themselves into DeLancey supporters and Maxwell backers.

Maxwell knew without a doubt what side Hozer was on. It was well known in the squadron that he was DeLancey’s number one snitch.

“Both, maybe. Admiral Dunn is a troubleshooter at OpNav.” OpNav was the office of the Chief of Naval Operations.

A perplexed look passed over Hozer’s face.

Maxwell could have explained to Hozer that Admiral Josh Dunn was an old shipmate of Maxwell’s father. He had known Brick Maxwell since before he could walk. When he was on the road, Dunn never passed up the chance to spend an evening with Harlan Maxwell’s kid.

Hozer, Maxwell knew, would report the information to DeLancey. Let him stew over it, he thought.

Another CD was playing, this one even more metallic and ear-breaking. Flash Gordon was closing the gap between him and the brunette, who had a decidedly British accent, which meant she was either a BAG or a GAG. She was giggling at something he told her. Jones and Gates were still arguing and flying their hands in a simulated dogfight, oblivious to the racket around them.

Maxwell delivered Devo Davis’s drink. “How’s it going, chum?”

Davis took several seconds to recognize Maxwell’s face. Then he said, “He’s gonna do it.”

“Who’s gonna do what?”

“DeLancey.”

Davis was having trouble forming the words. “He’s gonna get rid of us.”

“What do you mean?” said Maxwell, knowing exactly what he meant.

“DeLancey hates our guts. He’s gonna get rid of us.”

Maxwell glanced around. This wasn’t a good place for such a discussion. Davis was shit-faced. “Cool it, Devo. Let’s just chill out and have a good time. Okay?”

Davis blinked while his sloshed brain processed the suggestion. He took a slurp from his fresh drink and shrugged. “Yeah, shit, whatever.”

Maxwell went over to draw another beer from the keg. He umpired the hand-flying disagreement between Leroi Jones and Pearly Gates, declaring that neither was correct in his analysis of high alpha tactics. Flash Gordon was dancing with the cute brunette, who had been positively identified as a New Zealander and a GAG on a thirty-six-hour layover. For Flash, life was good.

The music was getting to Maxwell. He needed to take a walk. Admiral Dunn’s note asked that he meet him at six. It was now five-thirty.

“Listen, guys,” he said to Jones and Gates. “Keep an eye on the XO. Make sure he gets to his room okay.”

“No problem,” said Pearly. “We’ve got the old guy covered.”

Maxwell was almost to the door when he noticed for the first time the slight figure in the corner lounge chair. B.J. Johnson sat by herself nursing a Coors Light. She was wearing jeans and a T shirt that bore the likeness of Eric Clapton.

Maxwell went over to her. “Hey, you. Trying to be invisible?”

She gave him a wan smile. “Yeah, I can blend into the wallpaper.” She waited until he sat down in the chair facing her. “I wish I had been invisible yesterday, before I got whacked by that Saudi Eagle driver. That was dumb.”

Maxwell nodded. “Maybe. Do you know why it happened?”

B.J. chewed on a thumbnail. “Sure. I screwed up.”

“That you did. But think about it. What did you do wrong?”

“I guess I was out of position.”

Maxwell spread a napkin out on the coffee table. “Look at this,” he said, and sketched four winged symbols. “This is a a four-ship combat spread. Look how each section supports the other. If you’re dash four, your job is to cover your section leader’s right flank.” He drew semi-circles around the symbols. “Look what happens if you get wider than about five thousand feet from your leader. An oncoming bogey can split your defense quadrants, and you lose mutual support.” He drew an arrow between two fighter symbols. “Zap! One of you is dead meat.”

B.J. stared glumly at the napkin. “Me, in this case.”

“That’s what training is all about. Nobody was really morted, and you learned a valuable lesson.”

She nodded toward the bar where Undra Cheever and Hozer Miller were huddled. Cheever was cracking up at something Miller said, laughing in his trademark hyena laugh. “The worst part,” B.J. said, “is that those guys get to thump their chests and say they were right about dumb women pilots.”

Maxwell looked at the two pilots. Cheever and Miller were the worst of the alien-haters. Each had gone out of his way to make life miserable for the women pilots. One was probably the phantom caller. “Don’t worry about them. I happen to know that each of those guys has made dumber mistakes. We all have. It’s part of learning to be a fighter pilot.

“I know you’re trying to make me feel better. Thank you.”

Maxwell folded the napkin and gave it to her. He rose to leave. “You’ll get another shot at it. You’re gonna do just fine, B.J. Believe it.”

B.J. managed a smile. “Okay, Brick. I’ll try.”

“So you kicked some butt over at Al-Kharj yesterday.”

“Yes, sir,” said Maxwell. “And we took out all their fighter assets.”

A broad grin split the face of Admiral Joshua Lawrence Dunn. He refilled both their wineglasses. “I love it,” he said. “The way they’re telling it at JTF, it was a damn turkey shoot. Both the ACE and the Fifth Fleet Commander were over there rubbing the Air Force’s noses in it. They say you suckered in those F-15s like ducks to a blind.” Dunn cracked up thinking about it.

Josh Dunn was a gangling, six-foot-four former attack pilot who had flown 140 missions over North Vietnam. Having survived to command a squadron, an air wing, a carrier division, and, ultimately, the U.S. Navy’s Sixth Fleet, Dunn was in the twilight of his forty-year career.

“I can’t wait to tell your old man about this,” he said. “Harlan Maxwell’s boy — leading the whole goddamn large force exercise, and kicking their asses from here to Riyadh. He’s gonna swell up like a toad.”

“Probably not. Dad’s still mad because I left NASA to come back to the fleet.”

Dunn nodded. “Well, that’s the way fathers are. He was so proud that his kid was an astronaut. When you walked away from the space shuttle program, it nearly broke his heart.”

Maxwell remembered. It was almost a year ago now, but the phone call was still vivid in his mind. His father, a retired rear admiral, had been incredulous. “Sam, for Christ’s sake, think it over. Everything you’ve worked and studied for. I know you’ve suffered a loss, but trust me, son, you’ll get over it and …”

Suffered a loss. Yes, recalled Maxwell, that he had. But his father had been wrong about one thing: He wouldn’t get over it. Some things you didn’t get over. What happened on the cape was burned into his memory. What he had lost was irreplaceable.

He never wanted to fly into space again.

Josh Dunn took a sip from his wineglass. “So tell me. How’s it going in your new squadron?”

“Oh, pretty good,” Maxwell said carefully.

“Getting along with the famous Killer DeLancey?”

Maxwell couldn’t tell if Dunn was fishing or just making conversation. He took the cautious route. “More or less. Killer’s a pretty opinionated guy.” You didn’t spill your guts to a three star admiral, even if he was like your uncle.

“Not what I hear. Back at OpNav the rumor is the MiG shoot last week put you and DeLancey in a major pissing contest.”

“We had a disagreement about rules of engagement.”

Dunn tilted back in his chair and looked around the room. A pair of crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a soft yellow light. The only other guests in the Dubai Hilton dining room were a half dozen Europeans having a quiet dinner and a couple of Arab businessmen huddled over coffee.

“DeLancey served under me during the Kosovo operation,” said Dunn. “I was running CarGru Eight. I wanted to court-martial the sonofabitch for violating the ROE, but I got overruled. He had patrons high up in the Navy Department. Goddamn civilians who thought he wore a mask and a cape. So he got decorated and promoted instead.”

Maxwell nodded. Some things never changed, he thought. “Sounds like Killer.”

“All I’m saying is you better watch your six o’clock. A commanding officer like that will ruin your career. Don’t trust the sonofabitch.”

Maxwell had to smile at that one. Don’t trust Killer DeLancey? The one thing you could trust about DeLancey was that you couldn’t trust him. “I’m watching my six o’clock.”

The admiral regarded him for a moment, then leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Listen, Sam, I’ll deny I ever said this. But I can arrange for you to get orders to another squadron. It would solve everyone’s problem. DeLancey will give you an unsatisfactory fitness report and ruin your chances of getting your own command someday.”

“No, sir.” Maxwell said it so quickly he surprised himself. “I appreciate what you want to do. I have to deal with Killer my way.”

“What way is that?”

Good question, thought Maxwell. He had no idea. But he couldn’t allow a high-ranking friend of his father’s to bail him out. “I’m going to do my job the best I can. I’ll let the system take care of the rest.”

“Killer is the system. He’ll derail your career.”

Maxwell shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, Admiral.”

Dunn sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I knew you’d say that.” For several seconds he stared into his wineglass. “You know something? You’re just as pig-headed as your old man.”

Claire Phillips waited at a cabana table, sipping a vodka tonic. She glanced at her watch again. How long had she been sitting here? Twenty minutes? Damn, she thought, a cigarette would taste wonderful. Never mind that she had given it up three months ago. Why was she nervous? Come on, girl, get a grip.

It was past eight o’clock. She wondered if he had gotten the note she left with the concierge, who promised to deliver it to Commander Maxwell’s room.

The press conference, just as she expected, was a godawful waste of time. The ambassador was a wealthy California automobile dealer and a political crony of the President. He was famous for convening these events for no other purpose than to have himself videotaped in the presence of visiting dignitaries. The dignitaries in this case amounted to a couple of admirals and their staffs, and that self-promoting twit, Whitney Babcock.

But that was okay. As Claire well knew, out here in the Gulf journalism and politics were intertwined. Someday she would be asking for the ambassador’s help with a breaking story, and she had a card to play. So she would see to it that the ambassador’s pointless news conference got coverage. She showed up at six-thirty with her producer and two cameramen. The conference amounted to a pronouncement by the ambassador about how the U.S. Navy intended to protect oil tankers, regardless of their flag, as they transited the Persian Gulf.

Mercifully, the pronouncement had been brief. Claire interviewed the ambassador, making sure to mention the dignitaries, then capturing all their beaming faces on videotape. She thanked everyone and got the hell out.

In the cabana bar, the white-jacketed waiter came by her table. She ordered another vodka tonic. The cabana was swathed in a yellow light from the array of Japanese lanterns strung in the palms. Half a dozen guests — three men and three women — were sitting at the long, curved bar. A lone musician in a safari shirt was producing a warbling electronic music with his keyboard.

The drinks were beginning to settle her now. She’d finish this one, and if he didn’t show up, she’d pack it in. And that was a bizarre turn, she reflected. Her journalistic beat — the Middle East, Europe, Southeast Asia — was filled with men, many of whom were powerful and well known, who would kill to meet her, take her out, just be seen with her.

Right, she thought. So why are you sitting here by yourself waiting for —

He stepped into the cabana. She saw him pause for a moment, standing in the light of the lanterns, peering around. Claire’s heartbeat quickened. Sam Maxwell. Still the boy astronaut.

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.

She nodded, and they rose together. Keeping a discreet distance between them, they made their way across the lobby, to the elevator. She waited primly while he pushed 6.

The doors closed.

They lunged at each other. For twenty-five seconds, while the elevator ascended to the sixth floor, they pulled at each other’s bodies. They kissed, groped, rubbed, fondled, stroked, until —

Ding. The door opened on the sixth floor and the outside world reappeared. A middle-aged European couple stood there, regarding them curiously. Resuming their three-foot separation, Delancey and Spam made a wobbly but dignified exit from the elevator. They walked down the hallway in a stately promenade.

To Room 612. DeLancey made a quick check in each direction. All clear.

He unlocked the door and let them in.

Thunk! She kicked the door closed and pressed her body into him. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” she said in a throaty voice. “I don’t care. I want you. I’ve wanted you since that day I first saw you…”

Brick and Claire sat in the sand at the water’s edge.

Over a distant loudspeaker they heard a muezzin wailing the morning call to prayer. The eastern sky was glowing orange, gold, pink. Overhead, Venus was a brilliant dot, offset by the sliver of a crescent moon. The symbol of Islam.

In the harbor, an ancient dhow was getting underway, drawing a V-shaped wake through the glassy water. Barely visible in the distance was the gray shape of the USS Ronald Reagan. Maxwell knew that the crew of the warship — those who were not ashore in Dubai — would be getting about the business of the day.

She broke the silence. “You miss it when you’re not there, don’t you?”

Maxwell nodded. She was reading his mind again.

It was like the time five years before, when they first met. They had talked until the sun came up. With Claire it was easy, he remembered. It was natural.

They talked about the good times, her passage through the labyrinthine world of international reporting. He told her more about his time at NASA. They hung on each other’s stories, filling in the gaps of the past five years. By silent agreement they steered around the bad parts. There would be time for that later.

Claire was different in one way, he noticed. She possessed an inner confidence that she lacked before. During the journey from cub reporter to becoming one of the top broadcast journalists in the business, she had acquired self-assurance. But she was not particularly happy, Maxwell guessed. He didn’t know why; it was just a look in her eyes. Perhaps, he thought, she would tell him.

Claire leaned forward and scooped a handful of sand across her bare feet. Maxwell watched her, noticing the smooth curve of her legs from her ankles, past her knees to her thighs, up to the hem of her dress.

Looking at her bare legs, he remembered something. It was a vision that had remained in his memory for the past five years like a secret treasure.

“Do you still have the scarf?” he asked.

She looked surprised. She shook her head and said, “No. Not after we broke up.”

He remembered now. They were at her apartment in Georgetown. It was her birthday, and he was taking her to dinner. He surprised her with a gift.

He still saw the excitement in her eyes when she unwrapped the package. The scarf was silk, with gold brocade and a floral pattern. She held it up to the light. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she said, “Oh, Sam, that is… absolutely… the loveliest gift I have ever received.”

She kissed him. Then, impulsively, she declared that she would wear it that very evening. But first she wanted to run upstairs and change.

Maxwell waited for her to come back. He waited for what seemed a long time, but was in fact only five minutes. Finally, she appeared at the top of the stairs.

Maxwell had to catch his breath.

“Well,” she said. “Do you like it?”

Claire was wearing the new silk scarf around her neck. And nothing else.

“I like it,” he said as he ascended the stairs.

They never made it to dinner.

“You’re staring, Sam.”

Her voice returned him to the present. “Sorry. You caught me.”

She brushed the sand off her feet and tugged the dress over her knees.

“Do you still think I’m pretty?”

Maxwell looked at her face. She was peering at him the way she used to back in the old days, with that quizzical, teasing expression. He remembered how much he had loved that look. He hadn’t expected ever to see it again.

He was feeling an unmistakable stirring inside him. It was good to be next to her, sitting with her like this. He wondered if she felt the same way.

“Yes,” he said. “I think you’re prettier than ever.”

Claire moved closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder. “I like that,” she said.

They fell silent again.

The red-orange ball burst above the rim of the sea. At the same time, a breeze rippled from the water, wisping Claire’s closely cropped auburn hair. The morning air was turning warm and balmy, a prelude to the day’s desert heat.

Claire said, “So you’re not going to tell me what happened?”

That was the other thing about her he remembered. The relentless curiosity. “Happened? When?”

“Don’t tease. You were in the No Fly Zone the day of the MiG shootdown.”

“You already know. One MiG-29 down. The other bugged out. End of story.”

Claire eyed him skeptically. “So Sam Maxwell, astronaut-turned-fighter pilot, didn’t shoot down the MiG?”

“Did you stay up all night with me because you wanted to be with me, or because you needed a story?”

“Both.” She squeezed his hand. “But I’ll settle for just being with you.”

He looked in her eyes for any trace of insincerity. Claire was a good reporter — and a hell of an interrogator. Maybe she was just pumping him for a story. But he was sure they had more between them than just a news a story. He could feel an electricity.

“Let’s make a deal. I’ll ask the command intelligence officer what I can and cannot say. Then I’ll get official clearance from the Public Affairs Officer to talk to you.”

She nodded excitedly. “Terrific. What’s my half of the deal?”

“It might be expensive.”

“Anything you want.”

He liked that answer. He gave her a grin, and she grinned back.

“Dinner first,” she said.

“No more interrogation?”

“No more interrogation.” Then she reconsidered. “Well, maybe a little. No more than necessary.”

He gave it a second, pretending to deliberate. “Sounds like a deal.”

They stood up and brushed the sand off.

“Well, since you’ve kept me up all night, why don’t you take me to breakfast? I’d kiss you for a coffee and a croissant.”

“Another deal.”

They kissed, then held it several seconds longer than necessary. Claire stepped back and peered at him. “Whew,” she said. “You haven’t forgotten anything, have you?”

DeLancey needed a break.

Actually, he decided, what he needed was a transfusion. Never in his career had he encountered a female with such prodigious sexual energy. She had used him like a stud animal. Then she wanted more. More to drink, more attention, more sex. She was insatiable.

He needed to get the hell away.

Getting her out of his room was difficult enough. She was ready for a matinee session, and he just didn’t have it in him. Anyway, he was sober enough to start worrying. What if his wife called? These phones didn’t have caller ID. Who might stop by his room? That was all he needed, CAG or some flag staff puke or, worse, some journalist to catch him shacked up with one of his female officers.

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.”