A pair of French pilots came over and introduced themselves. It turned out they’d been nearby when Turk shot down the Mirages, and asked him to recount the engagement. He did so gladly, using his hands to show the different paths the antagonists had taken.
“It was over in less than two minutes,” he said. “I had to be lined up perfectly.”
“He is quite a pilot, isn’t he?” said Ginella, coming over. She threw her hand around his shoulder. “A real ace.”
“Well, not so much an ace,” said Turk.
“You need five planes to be an ace,” said one of the Frenchmen, citing the traditional tally for the honor.
His companion mentioned Célestin Adolphe Pégoud, the French World War One pilot who had first earned the title. Turk confessed that while he had heard of the pilot, he didn’t know much about him. The other man described him as an early test pilot — Pégoud had looped a Blériot monoplane before the war, by legend and common agreement the first man to do so.
As the Frenchmen spoke of some other early aces, Turk realized that Ginella’s hand was lingering on his back. It felt warm, and reassuring.
And sexual, though she didn’t do anything suggestive.
Eventually, the French pilots excused themselves, saying they had an early op. Turk turned to Ginella, whose hand was still on his back.
He hesitated a moment, not exactly sure what to do.
She leaned in and kissed him.
Her lips were lush, much warmer and more moist than he would have imagined. She pressed him gently toward her, her right hand coming up on his side.
He moved his lips to hers, tilting his head to meet hers. He felt her tongue against his teeth and opened his mouth to accept it.
A small part of his brain objected — he would have much preferred kissing Li — but every other cell in his body urged him on. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sweetness of the moment. It had been a long time since he’d had a kiss this passionate.
Finally, Ginella started to move back. Turk did as well, sliding his hands down. She caught them, gripping tightly.
“Problem, Captain?”
“Um, uh, no. No. Not at all.” He glanced behind her. The rest of the squadron had left. In fact, that bar was empty except for the two of them and the bartender.
“Maybe we should continue this upstairs,” she suggested.
“Well, I—”
“Sshhh.” She put her fingers on his lips. “Nothing.”
“Well.”
He was truly undecided. He wanted to go to bed with her, without a doubt. But there were reasons not to.
Like?
They didn’t quite compute at the moment.
“Come on,” she told him.
Turk opened his mouth to say yes, but before he could get a word out, she leaned in and kissed him again.
7
The video was very poor quality, and expanding it to fill the fifty-five-inch screen in Zongchen’s conference room further distorted it. But it wouldn’t have been very pretty to look at under any circumstance.
Zen shook his head as the video continued, the camera running with the mob after the Osprey. He saw a glimpse of his wheelchair heading for the aircraft, then saw only the backs of heads and finally the ground. The last shot was the Osprey in the distance.
“They showed us,” said Zen sarcastically. The two men were alone; except for an aide watching the phones, the rest of the staff had quit for the night.
“My government has filed a protest,” said Zongchen. The Chinese general wore a deep frown. “This has been a great disgrace.”
“We should have expected it,” said Zen.
“We were assured complete security,” said Zongchen.
Zen kept his answer to himself. The general was a military man, with high standards and expectations. Like military professionals the world over, he placed a great deal on personal integrity and honor.
Noble assets certainly, traits that Zen shared, and traits one could depend on in the military world, and often in the world at large.
But the world of politics — geopolitics included — was different. Lofty values often held you back. Zen had learned the hard way that the knife in the back from a friend was more common than the frontal assault from an enemy.
“We will pursue our investigation,” said Zongchen. “We will continue.”
“Good.”
“The explanations of how the system works have been most useful,” Zongchen added, nodding to Zen. “We appreciate your candor.”
“And your discretion.” True to his word, Zongchen had not pressed for the technical aspects of the system. Given the animosity between China and the United States, they were working together remarkably well. Part of it was certainly personal — the two old pilots respected each other — but perhaps it was an indication that the two great powers in the world, one young, one not quite so young, might find a way to cooperate going forward.
Careful, Zen warned himself, you’re getting all touchy-feely. Next thing you know, we’ll be sitting around the campfire singing “Kumbaya”—and then Zongchen will knife me in the back like a proper ally.
“The pilot is not at fault,” said Zongchen. “This is clear. But from your discussion, the only possibility seems an error aboard the aircraft. Would you agree?”
“There’s nothing that would contradict that,” said Zen. “Perhaps with a little more work we can identify it. But the teams working on it haven’t succeeded yet.”
“Hmmm.” The general seemed temporarily lost in thought.
One of the general’s aides approached quietly. Zen noticed him first, and glanced in his direction. Zongchen looked, and apparently saw something in the young man’s face that told him it was urgent.
“Excuse me, Senator.”
“Of course.”
Zongchen spoke to the aide in Chinese, then turned to Zen in surprise.
“A member of the Libyan government is on the phone and wishes to talk to me. He speaks English — which is good since Cho here does not speak Arabic.” Zongchen smiled. “Come, you should listen as well.”
Zen wheeled himself from the large room to Zongchen’s suite office. He stopped a few feet away, waiting as the Chinese general put the call on speakerphone.
“I have another member of our committee here with me,” Zongchen said before he even greeted the other man. “Senator Stockard, from the United States.”
“The man in the wheelchair,” said the Libyan. His English was good, with an accent somewhere between Tripoli and London.
“The senator lost the use of his legs in an air accident many years ago,” said Zongchen, glancing at Zen. “But he has had quite a career since then. He was an excellent pilot.”
“I am pleased to talk to him, or anyone else you designate. Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Colonel Abdel Bouri, and a few hours ago I have been designated to head the military portfolio of our government.”
“I am pleased to speak to you,” said Zongchen.
“The security breakdown was deeply regrettable,” said Bouri. “And a fault of the previous minister. Things have changed. The government has… reorganized. I have been asked… Let me find the proper words here.”
He paused, speaking to someone else in the office in soft but quick Arabic.
“I have been authorized to speak of a peace arrangement,” said the minister in English. “We are prepared to hold discussions with the rebels, if the proper conditions can be arranged. These talks would lead to a new government. Elections would be established.”
Zongchen and Zen exchanged a glance.
“The president himself cannot make this statement,” Bouri continued. “But I have full authority to conduct talks. This can only occur at the most confidential… under the most quiet circumstances.”