With Hostile Intent

Chapter Seventeen Bahrain

A mini-tornado of dust swirled beneath the CH-53E Super Stallion helicopter as it alighted on the embassy landing pad. The khaki-clad naval officers trotted away from the helo in single file, clutching bags and hanging onto their caps. Each was running in the hunched-over position that fixed-wing pilots always took when they were forced to walk beneath the whop-whopping blades of a rotary-wing aircraft.

Of all the Gulf emirates, Maxwell liked Bahrain the most. The prosperous little archipelago was separated by a single causeway from the great Saudi peninsula. Though the same family — the Al-Khalifas — had ruled it for over two centuries, the emirate had received a heavy dose of westernization during a century of British occupation.

Maxwell dropped his bag at the edge of the concrete helo pad and gazed around. Bahrain looked just as he remembered. He could still see vestiges of the British colonial past in the architecture, in the way shops and stores were set back from the street. Bahrain was the most liberal and westernized of the Gulf states, and that was reason enough to be glad they were here.

All fifteen designated strike leaders, as well as every squadron commanding officer from the Reagan’s air wing had been summoned to the briefing. For the strike leaders, it didn’t matter what the reason was. It was a weekend off the ship.

Because the U.S. military’s Bachelor Officer Quarters in Bahrain was too small to accommodate the attendees to the strike conference, the Reagan contingent would stay at the Holiday Inn. A bus was waiting at the edge of the helo pad to transport them to the hotel.

As the bus lurched out of the embassy compound, CAG Boyce yelled to back of the bus. “Check into your rooms, then show up for beer call at seventeen-hundred.” He jammed a cigar in his mouth. “I mean everyone. No excuses.”

The bus wound through the narrow side street, then onto the main thoroughfare of downtown Manama, the capital of Bahrain. The Navy pilots stared at the clean, well-kept buildings, the recently paved streets, the neatness of the city. They passed Sheikh’s beach, which was one of the few places in the Middle East where you could see women in bikinis.

They drove past a residential complex where, in one block, stood four identical houses. One of the Tomcat pilots knew the story. “Some rich local guy has four wives. According to the Koran, a man can have multiple wives, but he has to treat them equally. So the poor schmuck had to build a house for each one.”

The Holiday Inn was a sprawling two-story building. It had a richly carpeted lobby, ornamented with brass and marble, and it was staffed by a brigade of what they called TCNs — Third Country Nationals — mostly Pakistanis and Filipinos, who were in perpetual motion delivering messages, fetching cocktails, emptying ashtrays.

The pilots stood in the lobby and gazed around. After the steel-encased dreariness of a Navy warship, the hotel looked like an imperial palace. It also possessed the most vital of accoutrements — a long, brass-railed bar extending just off the lobby. Through a glass-paneled door they could see the other essential component — a swimming pool and poolside bar where, if fortune should smile on them, they would encounter flight attendants in transit or a cluster of female tourists.

Directly across the street stood another palace, the Gulf Hotel, where it had been confirmed that a contingent of GAGs were staying. Bahrain was an even happier hunting ground than Dubai.

Maxwell was the last to check in. The desk clerk handed him the room key and said, “Message for you, Commander Maxwell. It came an hour ago.”

On his way up the elevator he read the pink note sheet.

Maxwell’s room was spacious, with sliding doors that opened on a sunny verandah with a table and patio chairs. He went to the phone and punched up the number for the Gulf Hotel.

“Room 238, please.”

No answer.

After he’d unpacked his duffel bag and hung up his uniform, he put on his swimming trunks and went down to the pool. Most of the Reagan strike leaders were already there. DeLancey and Manson were at the poolside bar making moves on a couple of bikini-clad European women.

Maxwell swam half a dozen laps, then flopped in a lounge chair and let the sun dry him off. After several minutes, he went to the bar and picked up the phone. He tried the Gulf Hotel again. While the phone rang he waved at DeLancey, who was eyeing him from across the bar.

Still no answer.

Maxwell ordered a beer, then chatted with a young British Airways first officer who was on a crew layover. At ten minutes after four, Maxwell went back to his room to get dressed for CAG’s beer call.

He tried Claire again. Still no answer.

“Do you want to leave a message?” asked the hotel operator.

Annoyed, he hesitated, then said, “No.”

CAG Boyce took a test puff on the Cohiba, then exhaled a long stream of smoke. He smiled in approval to the bartender. That was one of the blessings of deploying overseas. You could obtain real Cubans, not the knock-offs they sold back in the states for which they charged you twenty bucks.

From his stool at the end of the bar, Boyce watched his pilots. They were slamming down beers, telling flying stories, maneuvering their hands in the way fighter pilots always did at bars. Most were wearing chinos, polo shirts, loafers. By the short haircuts and the way they moved their hands, there was no mistaking them for anything but U.S. military jocks. Each held the rank of lieutenant commander or commander and was either a squadron commanding officer or a strike leader.

Hanging out like this with his pilots was a treat for Boyce. Being the air wing commander was a lonely job. He wasn’t directly in command of a squadron, just the overall boss of the flying units aboard the Reagan. What he sorely missed was the daily hands-on business of running his own fighter squadron.

He couldn’t help thinking about the real reason they were here. Behind the joking and hand-flying was a serious purpose. Boyce remembered how it had been during the last Gulf War, and again during the punitive raids they had delivered on Iraq throughout the last decade. The procedure was simple. Take out the SAM sites first, the AA positions, drop a few bridges, put some smart bombs on their command and control facilities. Inflict a little pain.

This time, he had a feeling, would be different. The targets were not benign. If they didn’t succeed in eradicating the threat, the threat could eradicate them. Somebody else would be inflicting the pain.

At the end of the bar, DeLancey was telling a story. Craze Manson was glued to his side, paying rapt attention and chortling in the right places with his goofy laugh. Boyce noticed that Brick Maxwell stood apart from DeLancey’s group, drinking a beer by himself.

Boyce waited until DeLancey had finished his tale, then he ambled down to the end of the bar.

DeLancey was on a roll. He saw CAG coming and said, “Smoking those things will make your hair fall out, CAG.”

“It’s worth it.” Boyce took another puff on the cigar. “Update me on the female pilot problem. The mouthy one, Parker. Is she getting her act together?”

A look of alarm flashed over DeLancey’s face, then quickly vanished. “Spam? Oh, sure, she’s gonna be all right.”

“Doesn’t look all right to me. She’s been scaring the hell out of the LSO. The air boss and the captain both called me about it.”

“She’s showing a lot improvement, CAG. I think she’s gonna work out fine.”

Boyce knocked the ash off his cigar. Something just didn’t compute. DeLancey sticking up for a woman pilot. He had been one of the loudest female-bashers in the strike fighter community. Now he sounded like a women’s-libber. Why?

There was one frighteningly obvious possibility.

Boyce placed his cigar in the big marble ashtray. He looked around, then said in a low voice, “Killer, would you by any chance be screwing Lieutenant Parker?”

DeLancey broke out in a laugh. “C’mon, CAG, give me a break. I’m her commanding officer, for Christ’s sake. You know I wouldn’t —”

“You’d screw a pile of rocks if you thought there was a snake in it.”

DeLancey kept smiling, but his eyes darted around, making sure no one else was listening. “Not if it had ‘U.S. Navy’ stamped on it. I know better than that. I just think the kid deserves a break. Hell, she’s a good pilot. In fact, she’s already approached me about being a section lead.”

“Section lead?” Boyce nearly choked. “Tell her she’d better learn how to get aboard the ship first. Next cruise, maybe we’ll talk about section lead.” If she’s still around, he thought.

DeLancey nodded. “I’ll tell her.”

Boyce puffed his cigar back to life. He hoped Killer wasn’t bullshitting him. When a female pilot was having flying problems, it was a no-win situation. If you saved her life by kicking her out, you faced a sexism charge. If you kept her in the cockpit and she hurt herself, you were to blame. Either way, everybody lost.

At exactly six o’clock Boyce finished the stub of his cigar. “Drink up!” he bellowed. “CAG’s hungry.”

He knew a restaurant called Cico’s which, he informed them, had the most superb Italian food in the Middle East. Maybe in the whole damned world. Boyce knew this because his mother was Italian. No one argued. The pilots understood the realities of military life. CAG was boss; they were on their way to a joint called Cico’s.

Maxwell thought once again about the Gulf Hotel and Claire. Why hadn’t she answered his calls? Damn it, she knew he was here. She had left the note.

On the way through the lobby, he tried phoning again. Still no response. This time he left a message with the concierge that he would call after dinner.

The food at Cico’s, just as Boyce had promised, was excellent. He presided at the head of a long table with a red-and-white-checkered cloth. Bottles of wine were passed up and down the table. Boyce told a story about when he’d been on exchange duty with the Royal Air Force in Oman and they’d gotten drunk and stolen a camel. Everyone laughed, though most of the senior pilots had heard the story a dozen times.

The pilots liked CAG Boyce. He was a traditional fighter jock, not one of the politically astute fast-burners on his way to higher command. Boyce was an old war horse who, everyone figured, had gone as far as he would in the Navy’s pyramidal rank structure.

The conversation around the table dwelled on the usual subjects: airplanes and women. The only subject not being talked about was the one most on their minds: why they were in Bahrain. If asked, the pilots had been warned to say only that they were on weekend liberty. Sea duty was a bitch, you know. This was the New Navy, and they had to give you time on the beach to blow off steam.

Leaving the restaurant, the group dispersed. Boyce and a contingent of his strike leaders piled into taxis and headed for a jazz place. DeLancey and his followers announced they were laying siege to a gin mill called Henry’s. They had gotten reliable intelligence reports that a flock of GAGs had been sighted on the premises.

Maxwell watched them depart, then took a taxi back to the hotel.

“Come on, Claire, be a sport. Let’s drink up and go to my room.” Chris Tyrwhitt gave her a bleary smile. “For old times’ sake.”

Claire Phillips swirled the ice in her vodka tonic and regarded him over the rim of her glass. He hadn’t changed. Still ruddy-faced, probably from all the drinking. He was wearing the same old attire: wrinkled khaki shorts, long stockings, safari shirt. His mop of reddish hair had begun to show flecks of gray. “You haven’t forgotten how to make a girl feel wanted, have you?” she said. “Is that still all you ever think about?”

“When I’m with you, yes.”

“You haven’t been with me for — what? A year and a half?”

“Nineteen months, sixteen days and —” he made a show of looking at his watch, “— nearly seven hours. Your choice, not mine.”

“I remember. After you’d spent the night with that Danish woman, the consul’s wife. Or was it the other one, the German floozy who —”

“She wasn’t a floozy. She was a cabaret singer with a voice like Piaf.”

“And a disposition like Himmler. Wasn’t she the one who threatened you with castration?”

“No, that was the Ukrainian girl who worked over at the Reuters bureau. And I’m pleased to report that she didn’t succeed. Since you believe nothing I say, however, you may wish to verify that fact for yourself.”

She ignored the suggestion while she fumbled in her purse for a half-empty Marlboro pack. She had nearly kicked the habit. These days she smoked only when she was stressed out. She pulled a cigarette from the pack, then changed her mind and left it unlit in the ash tray.

“Baghdad must be pretty boring now,” she said. “Most of the embassies shut down, no major news services except your own. What do you do for amusement?”

“The usual thing. I’ve developed a relationship with a certain female named Martha.”

“Martha? Is she Iraqi…?”

“Hard to tell. She’s a camel, but I’m not sure of her nationality.”

Claire had to laugh. It was that wacky outback humor that had drawn her to him in the first place. She reminded herself to be careful. This was a guy who could flaunt every code of moral conduct — especially the seventh commandment — and have you laughing about it. At least for a while.

“Do the Iraqis censor your dispatches?”

“Sure,” he said. “But they like what I write, so it’s no problem.”

She crossed her legs and tugged the hem of her skirt closer to her knees. “Is that why you write such ingratiating bullshit? Like that piece about the schoolchildren in Basra? Are you on their payroll?”

He didn’t seem to be insulted. “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way.” He gave her a wink.

“You know what the U.S. military calls you out here? Baghdad Ben. They think you’re the Iraqis’ mouthpiece.”

“How do you know what the U.S. military thinks? Still hanging out with the Yank flyboys?”

“I’m still a reporter.”

“Anything for a story.” He tipped his glass up and drained it. “Basically, we’re all whores.”

“That’s pretty tasteless, Chris.”

“We do what we have to do.”

She bristled but let it go. After all, that was Chris Tyrwhitt’s style. Three years ago, back in Washington, she had thought he was terrifically funny, that disarming Crocodile Dundee manner. She had known him only a couple of months before they were married. He was witty, good looking and, when he felt like working at it, could be a competent journalist. What she learned later was that Chris Tyrwhitt seldom worked at anything except drinking and philandering.

Tyrwhitt put his hand on her knee. “I really have missed you, you know.”

“You missed me so much you went to Baghdad.”

“You threw me out, remember?”

She was about to make a sarcastic reply when she noticed he wasn’t looking at her. Tyrwhitt was gazing at something over her shoulder. She turned to see what he was looking at.

Sam Maxwell stood in the entrance to the bar. His eyes were locked on the two of them.

“Do you know that chap?” Tyrwhitt asked. “He’s been standing there staring at us.”

For a second their gazes met. Maxwell’s face was a frozen mask. Claire was suddenly aware that Tyrwhitt’s hand was still on her knee.

Maxwell turned and walked away.

“Oh, damn!” she said, and yanked Tyrwhitt’s hand off her knee. She walked quickly over to the entrance of the bar. “Sam?” she called, looking around.

He was nowhere in sight.

The bus that took them to the strike conference was the same one that had delivered them to the hotel yesterday. But instead of the smiling young Bahraini at the wheel, their driver was a Marine gunnery sergeant. He wore a sidearm and a UHF radio headset. Two more Marines in full combat gear, each carrying an M-16 and wearing their own headsets, occupied the front and the rear rows of the bus.

The bus wound through a labyrinth of back streets, while the guards maintained a watchful lookout. Not until they stopped did the pilots realize they were back at the old American embassy, an under-used facility that contained the only SCIF — Special Compartmentalized Intelligence Facility — this side of Riyadh. The SCIF had a blast door and another squad of armed guards. The exterior shell of the facility was shielded against monitoring or electronic intrusions.

Maxwell took a seat with the other pilots in the large, windowless briefing room. A half dozen tiers of seats faced a narrow dais with a lectern and a row of folding chairs. Behind the lectern sat a khaki-clad admiral with two stars on his collar, and two civilians. By their ubiquitous button-down shirts and wingtips Maxwell knew they had to be spooks — either CIA or Defense Intelligence.

Next to the admiral, wearing his own khaki outfit, sat another civilian — the Undersecretary of the Navy. Whitney Babcock smiled and came over to shake hands with Boyce and DeLancey.

Rear Admiral Dinelli, whose title was a convoluted military acronym, COMUSNAVCENT — Commander U.S. Naval Forces Central Europe — took the lectern and opened the conference. “As you know, gentlemen, the Iraqis have been scaling up their threat posture steadily since last month. It began, as you might also suspect, precisely on the afternoon of 25 April.”

Several pilots nodded. “When Killer flamed the MiG,” someone volunteered.

“Correct. But not just any MiG. It happened to be a jet flown by a pilot named Al-Fariz, who, we have determined, was the nephew of the president of Iraq.”

Someone in the room whistled. Several cast sideways glances at Killer DeLancey. DeLancey, for a change, was not grandstanding. He maintained a stoic expression.

“Since that day,” the admiral went on, “things have heated up. They’ve been lighting up their air defense radars. On the 17 May, they managed to bring down the F-16 at Az Zubayr. We have reason to believe they may have more ambitious plans than ever before.”

The admiral turned to the wall behind him. “Chart, please,” he said, and an eight-foot-square illuminated map of Iraq lowered from the overhead. The admiral aimed a laser pointer at the map, positioning the beam directly over a spot to the south of Baghdad.

“Latifiyah,” he said, making a tiny circle around the spot. “Iraq insists the facility is a pharmaceutical plant. They have, of course, denied United Nations inspectors access to the facility. The admiral aimed the laser again. “Here, at Al Fallujah, and another one five kilometers south of Baqubah.” He pointed to a spot in the fertile valley northeast of Baghdad.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a lieutenant commander from the Blue Tail squadron. “I remember Latifiyah from the Gulf War. I know for a fact we nailed that place.”

The admiral nodded. “You did. It was gutted. Now they’ve rebuilt and gone deep underground. We have evidence that Latifiyah is the most heavily bunkered facility in the country with the exception of Saddam’s own headquarters in Baghdad. Baqubah and Al Fallujah were also bombed and have been totally reconstructed with fortified storage containers.’

“Storage for what, sir?” asked CAG Boyce.

The admiral seemed to consider the question, then he nodded to the seated civilians. “I’ll let Mr. Ormsby of the Central Intelligence Agency take that one.”

Ormsby took the lectern. His plump face was punctuated with round oyster-shell framed glasses beneath a receding hairline. “For the past six years, after the first U. N. inspection team was thrown out, Latifiyah was developed as a chemical and biological weapons plant. We have new evidence that it is being used as a rocket propellant facility and probably a missile assembly shop.”

“What kind of missile?” asked Burner Crump, the F-14 squadron commander. “The new Scud?”

The spook shook his head. “Not a Scud, and not even a Silkworm, though the Iraqis would have no trouble obtaining them. Something not seen before in the Middle East.” Ormsby turned to the screen behind him. The map of Iraq vanished and was replaced by a projected color image of a long, tapered missile cradled in a mobile launcher. The missile had sharply swept-back guide vanes and a concave indentation in its body.

“The Krait,” he said. “Developed in China, brokered and sold by North Korea. Uses cheap and efficient global positioning satellite guidance — courtesy of our own Defense Department. The surface-launched version of the Krait has a range of three hundred miles and a speed in excess of mach three.”

Murmurs came from the assembled pilots. Each was doing the same quick calculation.

“That’s right,” said Ormsby. “Operating in the extreme northern Gulf, the Reagan battle group could be within range of the surface-launched version.”

“You said ‘surface-launched version,” said Gordon. “Does that mean—”

“It does. Our sources report that they are reconfiguring several Fulcrums at Al-Taqqadum as strike fighters. We’ve observed what appears to be extensive low-altitude pilot training being conducted in the north, in the Mosul area. If they use the Fulcrum as a launch vehicle for the Krait, then every target in the Middle East will be vulnerable. Including the Reagan.”

Tyrwhitt emerged from the windowless gloom of the SCIF. He stood for a moment on the curbside, blinking in the sudden brilliant sunlight. Even with the dark glasses it was painful.

The blue Toyota was waiting. “Hilton Hotel,” Tyrwhitt said as he climbed in the back. He recognized the driver — a young Bahraini in the employ of the American consul.

As the Toyota headed down the road that paralleled the access to the SCIF, Tyrwhitt looked back at the front entrance. He saw the bus that had just delivered the American Navy pilots. They were getting their own briefing, most of it based on the information he had just delivered to his handler.

The pipeline of secrets, he thought. It flowed through the Middle East like crude oil.

His handler, Ormsby, was a pompous twit. He had conducted the debriefing as if it were a therapy session, delivering all this professional wisdom to the amateur spy. He even saw fit to admonish Tyrwhitt about drinking and exercising discretion with local women. The slightest lapse in discipline, you know, could jeopardize the balance of power.

For nearly three hours Ormsby had grilled him about the reports from the Iraqi military informer. What did the informer want? He didn’t know. What was his job? No idea. Why was he willing to inform? He didn’t say. Did he want to defect? Apparently not. Could he be trusted? Of course not. Could anybody?

The trouble with Ormsby, Tyrwhitt finally concluded, was that he was a prude. But so were most of the Americans he had encountered in the espionage business. Tyrwhitt was sure that Ormsby had never gotten drunk or laid in a shithole like Baghdad. Ormsby had probably never been in a whorehouse, at least in the Middle East. The pink-cheeked twit knew nothing about real life.

Now they were in the end game. Though Ormsby hadn’t said as much, they both understood that Tyrwhitt’s return trip to Baghdad was probably his last. The danger level had ratcheted off the scale. It would soon be time to effect the egress plan.

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.

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.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Claire’s voice was breaking.

“Why are you here?” he demanded. “To pry another story out of me?”

“I’m here because I wanted to see you. I don’t understand you. Why are you so cold?”

Maxwell didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He wanted to take her in his arms, but he couldn’t. He was paralyzed. He remembered DeLancey’s accusation about her being a security risk. Now he didn’t know.

Claire’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Damn you, Sam Maxwell!” She said it loudly enough that all the aviators boarding the bus stopped and gawked at them. “You idiot! I love you. Don’t you know that?”

Maxwell stared at her, totally confused.

“I’ve always loved you.” She whirled away from him. She disappeared from his view around the corner of the hotel.

The bus driver beeped the horn. Maxwell turned and saw that the other pilots were all aboard, watching him through the windows.

CAG Boyce appeared in the door of the bus. “Get in the bus, Brick. We need to talk.”

He took the seat next to Boyce in the last row.

As the bus rumbled out of the parking lot, Boyce said, “You may be a hell of a pilot, Maxwell, but you got a lot to learn about women.”

“Sir?”

“That girl back there on the sidewalk. You stood there like a lump of cow crap and let her run away.”

“We, ah, were having a disagreement, CAG.”

“I know all about your disagreement with Claire Phillips.”

Maxwell looked at Boyce in surprise. “Excuse me? You know —”

“She called my room last night, and I went down to meet her in the lobby. She kept me up well past midnight while she told me all about herself. And you.”

Maxwell had to shake his head in wonder. There was no end to the ways Claire surprised him. Nor Boyce.

Boyce went on. “She was worried that I — or the Navy — would think she was a security threat, being close to you. And the truth is, I thought she might be. But I realize now that the woman understands more about Middle East problems than you or I and probably our intel staff.”

“Did she tell you about last night in the bar?”

“Yeah. While she was talking to her ex-husband, you stormed off like a kid who got stood up on his first date.” Boyce shook his head in disgust. “That was pretty damn dumb.”

Maxwell nodded, remembering the rage he had felt. Okay, that was dumb. He hadn’t given her a chance.

Boyce gnawed on his cigar for a while, watching the bleached scenery of Manama roll past. The bus arrived at the embassy gate. The Marine sentry saluted, and the bus continued to the pad where the CH-53 Sea Stallion waited.

Boyce waited until the other pilots had exited the bus. “Assuming it’s not too late — and it might be, after your sterling display of ineptitude — you might consider getting on your knee and begging forgiveness. For some reason that defies my understanding, that girl is in love with you.”