“You’ll meet Colonel Chiu and Commander Lei tomorrow,” said Boyce. “Madame Soong wants to pin medals on all of you. She thinks you guys saved Taiwan.”
At the mention of Chiu’s name, Maxwell saw Mai-ling’s nose wrinkle. He wondered if Colonel Chiu would be pleased to see the Americans again. Probably not. He’d be even less pleased to see Mai-ling.
“That’s not the end of it,” said Buckner. “In a few days Maxwell here will be flying back to Washington for a very discreet ceremony in the Pentagon. Someone wants to give him a Navy Cross.”
“Me?” Maxwell said. “What about Catfish? Why doesn’t he get—”
“You’ve been out of the loop,” said Buckner. “It seems that someone in the Navy—” he shot Boyce a look “—has already made an end run and convinced my boss that the Navy shouldn’t have the only hero in this caper. I had no choice except to put Bass in for an Air Force Cross. It was either that or court martial him.”
“Good choice, General,” offered Bass.
“Don’t be too smug,” said Buckner. “It’s a symbolic medal only. No photos, no public record, nothing in your file. The medals and the citations that go with them will be sealed for fifty years. You get to wear them in your next lifetime.”
“Beats Leavenworth,” said Bass.
Mai-ling nodded her agreement while she stroked Bass’s hand.
Watching the two, Maxwell had the distinct feeling that he was still missing part of the story. There was something more. Had to be.
“Another mai tai, General?” said Mai-ling, smiling sweetly.
“Why not?” Buckner allowed her to refill his glass, then he raised it. “A toast, ladies and gentlemen. Out of this dangerous episode, our Major Bass has not only covered himself with glory, he has acquired something more significant than a medal.”
“A sucking chest wound?” said Boyce.
“That was nothing. Something much more significant.”
Maxwell nodded. Here it comes, he thought. There was more.
Boyce asked the question. “What is it that he has acquired, General?”
“What do you think? A gorgeous girl friend.”
“More than a girl friend, General,” said Bass. “A lot more than that.”
Mai-ling was smiling. Maxwell thought he even detected a blush on her high, regal cheeks.
Bass turned to Maxwell. “Remember when she said she hated those smartass Air Force ROTC guys?” He squeezed Mai-ling’s hand. “Guess what? She got over that.”
Boyce walked Maxwell to his room.
“Your dress blues are in the closet,” he said. “And I brought you this.” He handed Maxwell a packet of letters bound with a rubber band. “Your mail from the ship. It came while you were goofing off in Nevada.”
He watched while Maxwell unwrapped the packet. “The one you’re looking for is on top.”
Maxwell opened the letter. He recognized the handwriting.
Washington, D.C., 29 September
My dear Sam,
Still nothing further from you — no email, no letter— which can mean only one thing. You’ve made a decision about our relationship. It also means that I was wrong about you. I thought you loved me. Somehow I thought that you would understand my dilemma and wait for me.
I didn’t want to believe that Sam Maxwell would just walk away. You are a fighter pilot. I thought I was worth fighting for.
As always,
Claire
Boyce waited until Maxwell finished. “Judging by your face, it must be a Dear John.”
“No. I got that a couple of weeks ago.”
“Too bad. Did she meet someone else?”
“Yeah. Her husband.”
Boyce looked at him. “Baghdad Ben? I thought that Iraqi-sympathizing asshole was dead.”
“Not dead enough. He’s back, and it turns out he was CIA, and now Claire thinks that maybe he wasn’t such an asshole.”
Boyce gnawed on his cigar for a moment. “Look, it’s none of my business, but what does she say in Dear John Part Two? That it’s really over?”
Maxwell considered telling him he was right, it was none of his business. But he knew Boyce. He wouldn’t leave it alone until he’d gotten the story. “She said that I was a fighter pilot and… that she thought she was worth fighting for.”
“Yeah?” Boyce removed the cigar and gave him a hard stare. “So what seems to be the problem?”
CHAPTER 28 — RED ROSES
It was mid-afternoon and the traffic in downtown Washington was already gridlocked at the intersections. Horns blared, and pedestrians scuttled between rows of stopped automobiles.
He knew he should have telephoned, but something prevented him. If what they had to say was finished in only a few minutes, he wanted it to be face to face, not over the phone.
Half a block before G Street, he spotted what he was looking for. Ten minutes later, carrying a dozen red roses with their stems held upward, he strode into the Media One Building lobby. He took the elevator to the eighteenth floor, then entered the front office of Mutual Studios.
“Whom did you wish to see, sir?” asked the receptionist, a prim, middle-aged woman with round glasses.
“Miss Phillips. Claire Phillips.”
She looked him over, noting the Navy uniform, the motorcycle helmet under his arm. Then her gaze fixed on the roses. “Who may I say is here?”
“Sam Maxwell.”
Her face broke into a smile. “Commander Sam Maxwell? The one we’ve heard so much about?”
He nodded.
“Is Claire expecting you, Commander?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” She peered into her computer monitor. “She’s supposed to be doing an interview down at the Mall this afternoon. Shooting at—” she poked at the keyboard. “Let’s see… four-fifteen to four-twenty five. Traffic is terrible right now, but if you have a fast way to get there, you might catch her before she’s finished.”
“I have a fast way.” He turned to leave. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Excuse me, Commander, but are those roses for Claire?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You want a tip from a lady? Just give her one. Trust me, it works.”
He dropped the Harley into first gear and drove the bike up on the sidewalk. The staccato bark of the twin pipes cleared the pedestrians out of his way. Dodging a pair of roller-bladers, he veered onto the grass and motored over to where the crowd was gathered.
Ahead he could see the equipment vans and the people clustered around the cameras. On the ground were coils of cable and boxes and audio equipment. A man had a large dolly-rigged camera trained on the tall woman standing inside the ring of spectators.
She had just finished interviewing someone. He looked like a beltway type — a congressman or some administration official in a gray suit. He was walking away from the set. Behind them the Washington monument rose like a monolith against the pale blue sky.
Maxwell recognized her outfit. It was her standard choice for outdoor shoots — silk scarf, sleeveless blouse, long skirt rustling around her legs. Her chestnut hair ruffled in the breeze that blew in from the Potomac.
His heart skipped a beat.
She was speaking to the camera when she spotted him. She continued talking, but her eyes kept darting to the apparition coming toward her — a red Harley-Davidson ridden by a man in a Navy dress blue uniform. The deep-throated, blatting exhaust sound was feeding into the audio.