make the decision, not the American power brokers.
CHAPTER 29
THE SMALL U.S. AIR FORCE C-20 executive jet sped across the Atlantic, bucking through pockets of rough air that were being pushed east by a storm front. Colonel Ralph Sims, the only passenger aboard, was strapped tightly into a wide, comfortable seat. This rough, bucking ride might be a mild flight compared to what awaited him when he landed.
An Air Force staff sergeant came back to check on Sims, and perched on the armrest of the seat across from him. She was an attractive brunette, with her hair cut short to frame her face and flawless makeup. Slender and with long legs that were close enough for him to touch when she crossed them. She was barefoot, and had replaced her uniform jacket with a small dark blue apron. Her perfect breasts swayed with the motion of the aircraft, threatening to break free of the little buttons on her shirt. The staff sergeant obviously had been chosen as a hostess for VIP flights because of the sum total of all of her assets, and she was given custom-tailored uniforms and had her hair done professionally at a pricy salon, courtesy of Uncle Sam.
“How are things back here, Colonel?” she asked. The accent was uniquely regional to her native West Virginia, and added to the package of charm.
“Bumpy.” Sims had larger things on his mind than this girl’s sexuality, but damn, she looked good.
“It does get that way sometimes, but the pilot is going to take us up higher and bend a little to the south to pick our way through this muck.” She waggled her foot up and down.
“No shoes today, Staff Sergeant?”
“I’m from the coal fields, sir. Didn’t even
Sims smiled. “Well, I guess none of your passengers tonight will complain.”
“Nobody has yet, sir. We were going to be flying back empty tonight, but got a last-minute call to hold and wait for you.” She enjoyed only having to deal with just one person. “It’s dark outside and we’re flying into time, so maybe you want to get some rest? Nothing you can do to hurry us along.”
He thought about the valuable hours that were falling from the clock, never to be recovered. Double-Oh and the Sergeants’ Network had done a great job on logistics, for his departure had to look normal, which meant the staff had to be given an opportunity to prepare the PowerPoint slide show and a set of briefing papers. He spent the interval finishing the hardest part of his job as the commander of an elite unit, writing letters to the families of the Marines who were killed on the raid, personal notes that said how proud he was to have served with them. The letters would console some of the heartbroken recipients who would cherish the letter and read it out loud on birthdays, holidays, and special occasions. For others, his message would only fuel the deep personal hurt of losing a loved one, and he would be blamed. He had finished the last one just before going on deck for the evening memorial service for the fallen Marines, HIS Marines!
A helo carted him from the
“What time is it?” he asked. He had crossed several time zones since leaving the boat.
She turned and looked at three small clocks in gleaming brass holders on the rear bulkhead. One gave Greenwich Mean Time, one read Washington time, and one was set to the aircraft’s current zone. “Right now, in our itty-bitty piece of sky, it is exactly twenty-two hundred hours and, uh, forty-three minutes and, uh, fifty-eight seconds. We are right in the Greenwich zone.”
He had not realized the clocks were right behind him. Almost 2300 GMT, an hour before midnight. Subtracting five hours meant it was 1800 at both CENTCOM in Tampa and the Pentagon in Washington. No matter how fast the little bird flew, it was unlikely that there would be any meeting with General Turner today.
“Tell you what, Sergeant. I’m a bit wound up, but maybe if you bring me a Jack Daniel’s Black, ice, no water, it will help. After I work on these papers a little longer, I’ll try to get some shuteye.”
She smiled again. White, white teeth. “Yes, sir. One Black Jack coming up. How about I make that a double, and then tuck you in beddy-bye? You could get shitfaced, knee-walking drunk tonight and still be sober enough to finish your papers by the time we get to Tampa.”
The telephone beside him buzzed. “Your language needs work, Staff Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir! That’s what they tell me.” The girl laughed and padded away to the forward galley. She had long ago become a member of the Mile High Club, and this colonel was sort of cute, in a dumb brute kind of way, kind of like a big German shepherd that needed to be cuddled. Possibilities loomed.
The colonel answered his encrypted STU-III satellite telephone. “Sims.”
“Double-Oh here, sir. Your pilot is going to be getting the course-change message from Tampa to Andrews in about an hour, but there’s a problem.”
Sims gripped the telephone tightly. “What?”
“General Turner has left the Pentagon. He won’t be there when you get to Washington.”
“Damn, Double-Oh. Where is he?”
“The general is on his way to China, sir, some kind of emergency defense committee meeting about the new round of North Korean missile tests.”
“Oh, fuck me,” said Sims, closing his eyes.
“Not to worry, Colonel. I got the Network on it. His plane lands at Elmendorf in Alaska to refuel before jumping the Pacific by the polar route. A mechanical problem will keep him on the ground until you get there.”
“He will just take another plane.”
“Yessir, that’s probably exactly what he will try to do. Then that one will also have a malfunction. Airplanes are tricky things, particularly up there in all that extremely cold weather. You just keep going, Colonel. We will have another C-20 waiting at Andrews. Keep closing the gap, sir. He’s got to stop. You don’t.”
“But he’s got a half-a-world head start!” Sims replied. “Okay. Do your thing. Keep me posted.” He turned off the phone, tossed it onto the seat beside the briefcase, and shook his head. “China. Oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he whispered.
“Ooooh, high-altitude sex. I think that can be arranged, Colonel Sims,” the soft voice with a West Virginia twang purred. The staff sergeant was kneeling at his side with a glass of whiskey and two buttons undone on her blouse. “Drink up while I lock the door, turn on some music, and dim the lights. By the way, my name isn’t Staff Sergeant, it’s Mandi.”
CHAPTER 30
DARKNESS CAME SLOWLY, A gauzy haze of dust-laden, fading light streaks. Even when the final fiery edge of the sun disappeared, the temperatures stayed stuck in the nineties. Within a few hours, Swanson would be freezing his butt off. It would not really be cold by the thermometer, but a thirty-degree drop after sweltering in 110-plus heat would bring a good dose of the chills. When the sun took away its warmth, the sweat that had oozed from him all day and drenched his clothes would feel like ice when the nightly winds blew. The mission was to have been a quick in-and-out, so he had only the clothes on his back. Fuck it. Nothing he could do, and that missing sun was his clock.
It had to shift away and benignly bathe places like the south of France and Miami Beach and Waikiki and Bondi
