But there was no father to turn to. There were no prayer leaders or fellow officers with whom he could talk. He was alone, in the cold desert night — alone, with all the fears and anxieties that young men experience on the eve of their first battle.
Tiring of listening to the French ambassador's view of geopolitics and the role that the United States should be playing in the current Egyptian-Libyan crisis, and tired of allowing him to inspect her cleavage at close quarters, Jan Fields politely bowed out of the small circle gathered round him. She turned and slowly began to move about the crowded room, looking to see who was there and who wasn't. That was usually a good stress indicator. If all the principals of the Egyptian government agencies who had been invited were there, chances were that nothing was imminent. If, however, their deputies, or representatives of even lower rank, were there, then odds were that something was about to happen. From the looks of the crowd, including the diplomatic corps, all was as it should be.
As she approached the far side of the room, she glanced into a small side room where one of several bars was set up. Other than the bartender, the only person in the room was an American Army officer, leaning against the far side of the bar with his back to the door. Seeing the officer there alone suddenly made her realize that there was a decided lack of military types. A quick scan of the room revealed few uniforms. Deciding to follow a hunch, Jan walked into the room and approached the officer from behind.
The click of high heels on the marble floor and a whiff of perfume from behind him alerted Scott Dixon that a female was coming up fast at his six o'clock. Pushing off from the bar, he stood, tugged at the bottom of his mess dress jacket, and turned to see who the lady was. To his surprise and disgust, it was Jan Fields.
Jan froze in mid-stride when she saw who the officer was. For an awkward second, she stood there speechless. The last time she had seen Scott in the flesh was at the live fire demonstration, just after the assassination attempt. He had just finished making a grandstand play by gunning down a jeep loaded with terrorists. When she and her camera crew reached him, he was standing there next to a dead Egyptian soldier. Dixon stood there like a statue, his legs shoulder-width apart, holding his pistol with both hands aimed toward the sky near his right shoulder. His eyes were riveted on the overturned jeep less than ten meters from him. In that instant he reminded her of a rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike. Though Dixon was of medium height and build, he looked bigger than life. Only after two Egyptian soldiers reached the jeep and confirmed that its passengers were dead did Dixon relax his stance and turn toward Jan. When he did, she saw his face and looked into his eyes. What she saw in his eyes was haunting, almost frightening. The impassioned look, the deep dark eyes, and the hard expression etched on his face were like that of a great white shark, a natural killing machine.
"Well, if it isn't Madame Media. Correction — Mademoiselle Media. What brings you here this evening? A night off? Or are we trawling for a story?" It was obvious that Dixon was well past the feeling-no-pain stage and was in the process of hoisting his third sheet to the wind.
Recovering from her surprise, Jan put her right hand on her right hip, then put her left hand over it. She cocked her head back and shook it, tossing her long brown hair about in the process. "I was invited by the ambassador. We happen to be old friends. He helped me on several stories in Paris, and I provided him with some international TV exposure."
Dixon was about to make a snide remark about the type of exposure, but checked himself. Instead, he looked at her. Her stance was defiant but decidedly feminine. Jan's outfit was simple, elegant, and sensual. The black form-fitting sheath dress with long sleeves and an open V back that dropped to her waist accentuated all of Jan's best features. Her face, framed by her long hair and simple gold jewelry, radiated confidence and poise. Her eyes were alive and gleaming. They stood there for a moment, looking into each other's eyes, equally prepared to do battle or simply talk. Disarmed by her simple but striking beauty, Dixon offered her a drink.
Jan, too, was taken by Dixon. Standing there, well manicured and dressed'in a form-fitting dress uniform, bedecked with gold braid and rows of miniature medals, Dixon was the image of the dashing cavalry officer who once had stolen Fay's heart. Rather than lashing out at him for what he had done to Fay, Jan simply replied, "Yes, I'd love one."
Lieutenant Colonel Hafez had few fears or apprehensions. He knew what was about to happen, and he was ready — ready to carry out his orders and do what he knew was necessary to restore his honor and pride.
In the mayhem that followed the assassination attempt, no one even suspected that Hafez had had anything to do with Sadiq or the plot to kill the two presidents. At least that was what Hafez hoped. Unfortunately, there was no way to be sure. Hafez had no idea who knew of his role in the plot. If the Libyans knew, then there was the possibility of revenge against him or his family. There was, of course, no way he could seek protection for his family without raising suspicion or telling the whole story. As before, Hafez found himself in a quandary with no good way out. No way but one — the only honorable way out for a soldier.
It had come to him slowly. At first Hafez was repulsed by the thought. It was against his training to seek death. Only live soldiers, able to fight and survive to fight again, served their nations well. Martyrs did little good in modem war. Death in battle, however, was an attractive solution. One attacked a man's loved ones as a way of striking at the man. If Hafez were dead, there would be little use in attacking his family. Besides, death in battle would be a means of purifying himself of the treason that he had encouraged and almost committed. Hafez was now convinced that it had been God that had decided for him on the seventh of December. Believing that, then, he had to regain God's favor by serving him one more time in battle — his last.
So Hafez faced the coming battle with the calmness of a man who saw clearly what was to be and was confident in his decision. Commencing at 0615 hours the next morning, when the opening barrage would begin, Lieutenant Colonel Ahmed Hafez's life would be in the hands of his God.
For the longest time Dixon lay next to Jan, watching her sleep in the pale light of her bedroom. She was on her stomach, her head lying on a pillow and turned toward him. Her long brown hair was piled on her back in a swirl of loose curls. In the light, with her makeup off, she had a wholesome, clean, and natural beauty that reminded him of a young girl's. Carefully Dixon placed his hand on her naked shoulders. Slowly he ran it down the center of her back, over her buttocks, and along the back of her thigh. The feel of her warm, smooth skin beneath his hand excited him.
Though still asleep, Jan was also becoming aroused. She let out a soft, low murmur, squeezing the pillow she held to her breasts. Carefully Dixon withdrew his hand. Rolling over to face the night stand, he looked at the clock. It was well past the time when he needed to leave. The next day would be a long one, and he needed at least a couple of hours of sleep before he reported back in. As much as he would have loved to work Jan back into another frenzy, it was time to go.