He was, quite literally, full of holes. He had been shot three times. The details of his “death” and disappearance are quite sensitive, but the U.S. government made some very complicated exchanges in order to free him from Iraq.
Now the hard part. I am badly disoriented. Do I love you? Yes, deeply. But I am still the wife of Chris Tyrwhitt. I realize that I was wrong in some of my judgments about him. He is not the scoundrel I thought him to be (or at least as much of a scoundrel). His actions in Iraq, though he is not at liberty to discuss them in detail, were more honorable and noble than I would have dreamed.
Chris is making no demands. He says that we can proceed with the divorce if that is my wish. He also insists that he loves me, has always loved me, and wants to remain married. I believe him.
Please give me some time and space to work this out, Sam. I no longer know up from down. What I feel for you is real and true, but a part of me is still in love with a ghost. I don’t know if it is real or not.
Please understand.
With love,
Claire
For a solid five minutes he sat motionless, staring at the screen. The pixels on the display winked back at him like stars in a galaxy.
That’s all they are, he thought. Pixels. Bytes. Microscopic pulses of energy. How could something so inconsequential have the power to cause him this much pain?
He kept waiting for the anger to spew out, like steam from a cauldron. Nothing came. There was only a deadness inside him. He felt more alone than ever before in his life.
Claire. She had entered his life when they were both young, still careless with their hearts. For reasons neither understood, they went different ways, he to the space shuttle and a new life and love; she to a career as a broadcast journalist and marriage to a dashing reporter named Chris Tyrwhitt.
Years later, when they found each other again, it seemed like a storybook romance. He was a widower, his astronaut wife lost in a training accident. Claire was divorcing her wastrel husband. They were more in love than ever before. It seemed too good to be true.
And so it was.
She was right about one thing, he thought. Life was stranger than fiction. And a hell of a lot more cruel.
For another five minutes he sat at the computer, trying to compose his jumbled thoughts. In tiny increments, the anger began to come, rising in a slow simmer. His hands returned to the keyboard. Slowly, without looking up or taking his fingers from the keys, he typed a reply.
Date: 10 September
From: SMaxwell.VFA36@USSRonaldReagan.Navy.mil
To: Claire.Phillips@MBS.com
Subj: Re: Unexpected dilemma
Dear Mrs. Tyrwhitt — I am very sorry to hear about your problem. I am even more sorry to hear that the reappearance of your husband presents a dilemma. It can only mean that our relationship was based on shakier ground than I thought. As you know, that’s one of those things I’m not good at — figuring out relationships. Especially ours.
You say you need time and space to work it out. Not a problem. You may have all the time and space you need.
Please have a happy life.
As always,
Sam
For a minute he stared at the message while a vat of dark emotions stirred inside him. The screen swam in his vision, pixels and lines running together in a blurry amalgam.
He slid the mouse pointer on the screen to the SEND button.
Don’t, said a voice inside him. He knew he was angry, bitter, jealous. Filled with irrational thoughts. Not a good time to send a message to the girl you love.
To hell with it. It’s over. Finito. Send it.
His finger went to the left-click button on the mouse—
A rap on the stateroom door.
He hesitated, his hand on the mouse. Finally he rose and swung the door open.
The wide bulk of Commander Bullet Alexander filled the doorway. “Sorry to bother you, Skipper. CAG wants us in the air wing office ASAP.”
Alexander had come by his call sign naturally. He was a handsome, burly-shouldered African-American man with a shaved skull that approximated the shape of a .45 caliber round. He had come aboard a month ago as Maxwell’s new executive officer.
“Give me a second.”
He returned to his desk. The mouse arrow still covered the SEND button on the message screen. He saw Alexander watching him from the doorway.
His hand hovered over the mouse key. He didn’t have to reply the message. He could let it molder there in the IN basket while he considered. Nothing had to be done now.
Abruptly he reached down and slapped the SEND button.
Snatching his hat off the hook on the bulkhead, he stormed out of the room. He closed the door behind him with a vicious slam.
“Something the matter, Brick?”
“No.” Maxwell gave him a ferocious look. “Why the hell do you think something’s the matter?”
“Oh, no reason.” Alexander kept his eyes straight ahead. “What’s her name?”
CHAPTER 4 — POSTER BOY
Bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep.
To Raymond Lutz, the incessant twittering of the half-acre of electronic slot machines sounded like music. It was natural that he would choose Caesar’s Palace to do his business. He loved it here — the glittering lights, the electronic sound effects, the underlying current of greed and hedonism.
He followed his usual pattern. First, a drink. Lutz didn’t particularly like liquor, but it had a calming effect on him. That was something he needed at the moment.
His eyes scanned the floor while he sipped the Scotch and water. Same crowd as always. Hicks from the Midwest, hopeful idiots blowing their vacation stash, guys with gold chains and pinkie rings impressing flashy girl friends. Hookers, hustlers, junkies, bimbos.
A good place to get lost.
He cruised the floor until he saw a blackjack table that looked promising. The female dealer, a cute redhead, seemed friendly enough. Only two other players sat at the table. He took a seat at the end.
Lutz was a disciplined player, adhering to the rigid system of odds and probabilities that he had developed on his computer. After two hours of small-stakes play, he was nearly eight hundred dollars ahead. Not a big profit, but better than average. His system worked in small increments, not big hauls.
Time for the next phase.
He strolled down to the rows of slots, pausing to hit a five-dollar machine for a dozen losing passes. He moved on, picking up another Scotch at the small corner bar. His nerves were kicking up again. He needed calming.
In the third row of dollar slots he came to the machine he was looking for. A chain-smoking woman who looked like she just left a Tennessee trailer park was shoving her last chip into the machine.
Another loser.
“Goddamn thing,” she muttered, giving the machine a slap. “They’re rigged. Every damn one of them.” She walked away, still cursing.
Lutz took her place. This one was ripe.
He made a stack of one-dollar chips and began feeding them into the machine. Every half dozen or so passes he would get a few chips back. Finally, when his stack of chips was nearly gone, the row of oranges in the machine jiggled into alignment. Lights flashed and a warbling sound emanated from the machine. A pile of chips clattered into the tray.