As she rolled down a map of Yemen, several pilots exchanged amused glances. The alien.
She began with a discussion of Yemen’s history, from the Ottoman Empire to the creation of the Suez Canal and British rule, until the present.
“The Republic of Yemen was created in 1990 by unifying the two warring countries of South Yemen and North Yemen. In 1994, fighting broke out again between government forces and southern secessionists. Since then the government has had to cut deals with different factions in order to stay in power.”
“Al-Fasr being one of them?” asked Hozer Miller.
B.J. nodded. “Terrorism is to Yemen what drugs are to Colombia. It’s their number one exportable product. It protects the government and provides a cottage industry for the peasants.”
While B.J. went on, Maxwell watched the pilots’ expressions. It had been his idea to have B.J. deliver the in-country briefing on Yemen. Since she had downed the MiG in Iraq, the squadron pilots had developed a grudging respect for her. Most had gotten over their entrenched bias against women fighters, but not all. To a few, the women would always be aliens.
Now they were wearing a new expression. They looked perplexed.
Bud Spencer raised his hand. “Excuse me, B.J., where did you learn all this stuff?”
“Ship’s library. The Internet. The intel office. When I heard we were headed into the Arabian Sea, I dug up everything I could find about the place.”
Maxwell could see what they were thinking now. Maybe this chick knows what she’s doing after all…
She went on, talking about the prevailing weather, which at this time of year meant monsoon winds that howled in from the sea. Sometimes, at least along the coast, it even rained.
Then she got into the part nobody wanted to think about.
“The highlands of northern Yemen, where we’re going, are rugged but habitable. There’s plenty of vegetation, terraced fields cut into the hillsides, even stands of forest. If you go down, you’ll find cover. Stay in the hills, hide in the brush. Don’t approach the farmers or villagers. Most will be carrying a curved dagger called a jambiyya. They will probably be sympathetic to the terrorists, or at least be frightened enough to slice your throat just to save themselves.”
At this, several aviators stirred in their chairs. A few felt compelled to check the magazines on their service pistols.
At 0800, Spook Morse’s face appeared on the ready room television monitor. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. the Reagan is currently steaming ninety miles from the coast of Yemen, abeam the port of Ahwar. The coordinates of our launch and recovery positions for today’s strike on Al-Fasr will be on the screen at the end of the brief. Now, here are your entry and exit routes.”
The camera switched to a colored chart of Yemen. Large arrows defined the path over the Yemeni shoreline, northwestward to the Al-Fasr target in the highlands. Another arrow leading due southward described the exit route from the target.
“The strike package will be led by Commander Maxwell. It consists of four elements — an element of HARM shooters composed of sections from all three Hornet squadrons, an LGB-dropping element from VFA-36, another LGB element from VFA-34, a cluster bomb element provided by VFA-35.
“Tanking will be provided by four KS-3 Vikings, who will shuttle from a pair of Air Force KC-10s on station over the Gulf. Note that the only CAP assigned will be the Tomcats on MIGSWEEP, due to the remote likelihood of enemy air opposition.
“The surface-to-air missile threat is considered negligible. Any sites that light up will be taken out by the HARM element that precedes the strike package. You might get some small-bore antiaircraft fire. Respect your minimum release altitudes, and it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Morse then went over the fine points of the mission: mode one and two transponder squawks, the avoidance of collateral damage to nearby villages, lost-communications procedures, bingo fuel requirements, bull’s-eye navigation reference points, code words, weapon loads, search and rescue contingencies.
From the Roadrunner ready room, Maxwell watched Morse’s briefing. A cut-and-dried operation, he thought. Almost like one of the scripted air wing exercises they ran monthly while the Reagan was at sea.
Something nagged at him. It was too cut-and-dried. The target was too accessible. He couldn’t get over the uneasy feeling that something was missing. What the hell was it?
She caught him in the passageway to the flight deck escalator.
“Hey, sailor,” Claire said. “Leaving without saying good-bye?”
“Just taking a little airplane ride.”
“That’s not what I hear. You’re going off to bomb terrorists.”
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough to figure out what you’re doing. Your Mr. Babcock has been very cooperative. I think he likes me.”
“He wants to be sure this glorious show of American power lands on every television screen. And for the record, he’s not my Mr. Babcock.”
“Okay, the President’s Mr. Babcock. He let me watch the briefing and he promised that I could hear the poststrike reports.” She put her hand on his sleeve. “I know, for instance, that Commander Maxwell is leading the strike.” Her face turned serious. “You’re not going to do anything crazy, are you, Sam?”
“Flying off carriers is crazy. Everything else I do is sane.”
“I mean something really crazy. Like taking revenge on whoever killed Josh Dunn.”
He almost said the truth, that he was going to kill that sonofabitch. Seeing the look on her face, he caught himself. “No, nothing that crazy.”
She eyed him for a moment. She looked at his flight gear — the helmet he clutched under his arm, the oxygen mask snapped to the harness. She took a close look at the pearl-handled .45. “Good lord, what is that? It looks like something Patton would have carried.”
“His was a revolver. Two of them, actually, but they were inlaid with ivory. Patton thought pearl handles were for brothel madams.”
She touched the white inlay with her finger. “I can almost understand why men love these things. They’re beautiful — in a deadly sort of way. Like the fighters you fly.”
Maxwell thought of the week they almost spent together in Dubai. He remembered all the things he wanted to talk with her about. They were still strangers, still learning about each other.
The peculiarity of the situation struck him again. Here he was, ready for combat, about to launch from an aircraft carrier, saying good-bye to the woman he cared for most of all in the world. This ought to be a time to hold her close. To say good-bye, just in case.
But he was still a naval officer. Not here, not now.
“Do you love me, Sam?”
He looked at her in surprise. After an awkward silence, he said, “Yes.”
“Why don’t you ever say it?”
“I just did.”
“No, you didn’t. I supplied the question, and you filled in the blank.”
She had a point. “As you may have noticed, I’m not very good at expressing how I feel.”
“Or not willing.”
“I’m willing. Just out of practice.”
“Then you should practice.”
He nodded. “Okay, how’s this?” He cleared his throat and said, “I love you, Claire. Even when you don’t hear it from me, it’s true. I love you.”
She smiled. “You’re definitely getting better.”