“Anyway,” he told Catherine, “we were talking about this Georgina Spence. David’s not the intellectual type.”
“You mean he isn’t smart.”
“Of course he’s smart, but she sounds a bit hoity-toity to me. Degree in political science and…”
“You may know a lot about boats, John, but you’ve a lot to learn about women. David’s probably attracted to her because she’s got brains. Lord, you don’t want an airhead for a daughter-in-law, do you? Besides, you didn’t mind Robert marrying her sister, and she’s a school teacher.”
“That’s different,” proclaimed the admiral. “More, well-now they’ve got the young one coming along. This Georgina, on the other hand, doesn’t seem the marrying type.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“It’s this shacking-up business,” retorted John Brentwood.
“Oh, so that’s it. You think she might be ‘preggers,’ as the English say?”
“Well — aren’t you concerned?”
“Fiddlesticks! I gave up worrying about that a long time ago. After Ray. I didn’t think he’d live through that ordeal, and I vowed to God that if he did — if Beth, their children, that family came through together, I’d quit worrying about things that don’t matter.”
“Don’t matter! You tell the pregnant doesn’t matter??”
“Of course it does. But David’s a grown man, John. You still think of him as a little boy.”
“Yes,” he said, and paused. “I do.”
“John, your sons have been decorated by the president of the United States. And if young David has survived that maelstrom in Europe, don’t you think he can take care of himself in bed?”
“Not the same.”
“I should hope not. I’m glad he’s not in combat.”
“He might be if he marries too soon. By God, Catherine, I’ve seen domestic situations in the services. Make your hair stand on end. Like sailing into a typhoon. Husband’s away at sea for months at a time… you can’t expect—”
“Well, we’ve stayed together haven’t we? Anyway, David isn’t in the navy, and for another thing he’s about to be demobilized.”
The admiral, normally tight-lipped about such matters, decided that it was time to enlighten Catherine about something that normally wasn’t discussed, even between husband and wife. “Catherine, David’s in the army, yes, but he volunteered for SAS.”
“I know that.”
“But you only know that because those blabbermouths on TV have no regard for military security. If I’d had my way, I wouldn’t have allowed anything to be printed about the raid on Moscow. For my money every damn blabbermouth on those networks would—”
“John, don’t go on about what you’d do to Peter Arnett. Besides, I don’t think it’s anatomically possible with a cannon.”
The admiral scowled, Catherine patting his arm.”What were you going to say about David?”
“He’s on the SAS/Delta Force list. They’re on twenty-four-hour call, Catherine — especially during crises like this.”
“Like what?”
“Good God, Catherine. Siberia’s decision to—”
“Oh, that. I’m sure they’re bluffing.”
“Bluffing? Woman, haven’t you been watching the news?”
“You told me I shouldn’t watch TV.”
“I didn’t say you shouldn’t watch it. I said you shouldn’t believe any of the goddamn—”
“Then why watch it? And don’t swear. It makes you sound like a ‘lefty.’ “
While Admiral Brentwood was fuming, his youngest son was calm, made so by Georgina Spence’s attentions; but there was nothing inactive about his serenity, the blood pumping through him with every caress. The old stone cottage turned motel was a favorite among SAS because it was no more than fifty miles from Brecon Beacons, the three-thousand-foot-high twin peaks east of Carmarthen Bay that marked the site of the most gruelling commando courses in the world. He’d chosen the cottage carefully for he could be back in Hereford, SAS HQ, in a matter of hours should the call ever come.
But here, in Laugharne, he and Georgina were away from it all, in the world of Under Milk Wood, not twenty minutes from the tiny, rough-and-ready room, with the copy of Van Gogh’s “Bedroom” tacked on the worn white wall, where the drunken genius of Dylan Thomas had poured forth its heart. For Georgina, despite what her father had earlier referred to as her “somewhat radical” politics, or perhaps because of them, the room had quite unexpectedly become a shrine when her cool reason happened upon the banal yet arresting truth of the heart that the “heart hath reasons that reason cannot know.”
Georgina snuggled dose to him, holding him. The panic-filled disorientation of the nightmare drained from him as she gently nibbled a lobe of his ear, the nails of her trailing, sensuous touch stroking him until all thoughts of the Moscow raid were replaced by visions of her astride him, gently rocking back and forth, her hair softly whipping his chest, her lips against his. But for now Georgina hadn’t moved from where she was. But he knew she would stop stroking him soon, taking off the engagement ring, and he would moan, “Oh, God, no.” Which meant “Yes, but tease the a little longer.” Then slowly she would rise from the bed, fending him off, and walk about the room wearing his khaki drill shirt, slipping on, pulling up her panties, slowly swaying like a tart in front of him and then, holding onto the two bedstead knobs at the end of the bed, gently pushing herself, thrusting, against the brass bars, moving sideways against them.
“No more!” he begged.
She pretended not to hear him; then suddenly she pulled the cord of the overhead light and all was in darkness. He would have to find her. When he did she switched the light on. “I love you,” she said, and enjoyed watching him watch her. “We’ll do it,” she told him. “Any way, every way — until you’re sore.”
He moaned, his arms outstretched, feeling for her hair.
“Love you,” he said. In answer her tongue slid down on him, her lips tight about him, sliding back and forth with a furious intensity.
CHAPTER NINE
Deep in Ratmanov’s control bunker, Lieutenant General Dracheev was stressing the importance of a quick response to his Special-Purpose Forces, or SPETS — emphasizing how the moment any enemy paratroopers were detected or even suspected of being dropped on the island fortress, the SPETS teams must go out and engage. “Pomnite Antverpen “—”Remember Antwerp,” Dracheev reminded them. “Cut them to pieces before they even touched ground.”
As General Douglas Freeman stepped out of his plane onto the rain-polished tarmac at Elmendorf, and a push of reporters, some in anoraks, their hoods up against the pelting rain, crowded about him, he was handed an urgent message from the White House. It read:
UNDER NO CONDITION ARE YOU TO PERSONALLY LEAD AIRBORNE ASSAULT. GENERAL J. GREY, JCS.
Freeman’s first order upon arriving at Cape Prince of Wales was that the CBN reporter was to get off Little Diomede—”posthaste.” Another CBN reporter who challenged him on this order had a follow-up question. “Is it true, General, that you’ve referred to the Siberians as rats?”