The Trojan Sea: A Novel

1

Dallas, Texas

Ann Silton and Clarissa Jones sat in a corner of the large two-room suite in the Regency Hotel as the convention’s executive committee gathered for a late-afternoon meeting. Neither woman wanted to be at this particular meeting, and both had their arms and legs tightly crossed, sending an unmistakable signal. But they had no choice. Front Uni, the latest and largest coalition of environmentalist groups, was on a roll, growing daily in power and influence. The unbelievable success of the convention was a tribute to John Frobisher, the brains and organizing force behind Front Uni.

I told John, Ann said, "that we have no business talking to her just because she happens to be available." Ann shot a hard look across the room and speared John Frobisher, hoping he would get the message. Clarissa, the younger of the two, followed Ann’s lead and tried to emulate her stare. But Clarissa only managed to look doe-eyed, sweet, and naïve, a reflection of her true nature.

Why did we even hold the convention here? Clarissa asked.

Because John got an excellent deal and the hotel offered us the conference rooms free of charge. It was too good to turn down.

Clarissa gave a pretty shake of her long blond hair. Well, she conceded, the rooms are very nice. And I love the big bathroom with all the towels and free toiletries.

It’s too nice for what we’re paying, Ann muttered, going even deeper into her mental defensive crouch. Another thought came to her. "I wonder if she had anything to do with all this?" They fell silent when the subject of their conversation walked in.

Although Ann and Clarissa had seen Lee Justine Ellis on TV, they were not prepared for the sheer physical presence of the woman. L.J., as she liked to be called, simply devoured a room by the force of pure charisma. For Ann it hurt even more. She and L.J. were both thirty-eight years old, but L.J. looked ten years younger. L.J. was tall, with a mass of naturally curly, dark-blond hair pulled into a loose bundle at the base of her neck. She was wearing a man’s white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, loose-fitting jeans that hinted at her trim figure, and cowboy boots that made her long legs seem even longer.

At first glance her shirt and jeans looked as if they came off the rack at some bargain-basement sale. In reality the custom-tailored shirt cost three hundred dollars and the jeans over six hundred dollars. A connoisseur of Western wear would have recognized her cowboy boots immediately and guessed their value at over fifteen hundred dollars. He would have been half right. Lee Justine Ellis was a masterpiece of the kind of casual, down-home understatement that only the very wealthy can afford and the very beautiful carry off. And with her blue eyes, high cheekbones, and perfect mouth, she was drop-dead gorgeous.

She’s not wearing a bra, Clarissa whispered. Look at John. He’s all but stepping on his tongue.

It’s not his tongue he’s stepping on, Ann said, feeling squat and dowdy.

John Frobisher introduced L.J. to the five other members of Front Uni’s executive committee. I think you all know who Miss Ellis is. The environmentalists nodded in unison. L.J. was the president and chairman of the board of RayTex Oil, a small but feisty oil company she had inherited upon the death of her father. Many environmentalists shared the belief—it was part of Ann and Clarissa’s private mantra—that any oil company was inherently evil and had to be destroyed to save the world. For the two women, Lee Justine Ellis was a beautiful incarnation of Lucifer himself.

L.J. gave Frobisher a warm look, studying his features. His shaggy, prematurely gray hair and pudgy body reminded her of the teddy bear she’d loved as a child. Like most women, she had an irresistible urge to cuddle him. But there was more to it. Like a good general, L.J. had scrutinized the opposition and dissected the environmentalist movement. John Frobisher was a political operative and on the upper end of the environmentalist food chain. He was a savvy lobbyist and wore a suit and tie. He also understood the process of change and believed in engaging the enemy in a constructive dialogue, which was why he had invited L.J. in the first place. Of the four groups that made up Front Uni, he represented the one faction L.J. feared. But at the same time she respected him for what he was. And there was that teddy bear image that touched a childhood memory.

Ann and Clarissa were from Greenpeace, the revenue-generating machine and propagandists of the movement. But Greenpeace was running out of steam and hadn’t had a win since the Save the Whales campaign. They desperately needed an issue that looked good on a bumper sticker and would rally the faithful—and shake loose their checkbooks.

Of the three other men, two were scientists. They did the real work of the movement and dealt in the truth, which would never translate to a bumper sticker. Because they were complex, rational, and legitimate thinkers, they were never mentioned by the media. The last man was from Earth First. He was a true believer and an ecoterrorist not above spiking trees in old-growth forests or sabotaging oil refineries.

I hope you’re enjoying Dallas, L.J. said. She pulled up a chair and sat down next to the two women. The four men hurried to join her, forming a tight but casual circle in one corner of the room. L.J. crossed her legs and leaned forward. She clasped her hands and gave a little smile that was both timorous and half apologetic. It is nice of you to take the time to see me. Her voice had a soft, barely discernible Texas accent. I was hoping we could talk.

Miss Ellis, Ann said. She paused to take a deep breath.

Please, I do prefer L.J.

Ann frowned. Drop the phony act and cut to the chase. L.J. gave Ann a knowing look, taking her measure. Like John Frobisher, Ann Silton was a person L.J. could respect, and under the right circumstances might even like. But they were adversaries about to engage in mortal combat. L.J. gave a little nod, accepting the challenge. Ann had no idea what she had started. I’m not the enemy, L.J. said. In fact, we share many points of common interest.

Why do I doubt that? Ann shot back.

Please, Frobisher said. At least we can listen to what L.J. has to say. Ann gave a tiny snort and fell silent.

Again the little nod from L.J. I feel like Marc Antony at Caesar’s funeral. She paused for effect. The allusion to the famous speech from Shakespeare’s play was not lost on the environmentalists. Like Antony, L.J. was facing a very hostile audience, many of whom would be glad to see her quick demise, preferably in a public and humiliating manner. She started to speak, her words matter-of-fact, her tone friendly. Oil is the world’s biggest business because it’s the linchpin of our civilization. Petroleum pervades our life, and we are, whether we like it or not, a hydrocarbon society. Oil is so critical that in the twentieth century it meant money, power, and mastery.

Honey, Ann said, her voice dripping with sweetness, this is the twenty-first century. Things change.

L.J. gave her a smile and the little nod. Have they? Petroleum has changed every aspect of our civilization, and I don’t see us getting along without it.

And I don’t see how we can live with it, Ann said, her voice calm and reasoned. Oil is the great polluter. It’s killing the environment.

I agree, L.J. said. The silence in the room was absolute, surprise on every face. Unfortunately I don’t see Hydrocarbon Man giving up his cars and suburban way of life.

L.J.’s ready agreement startled Ann. You got the ‘man’ part right.

There’s no need for us to fight, L.J. said.

Frobisher sensed that it was time to intervene. There are two issues on which there is no compromise.

L.J. turned to look at him, her blue eyes full of understanding. Oil spills and air pollution.

Correct, he said. And I repeat, there is no compromise.

In both of these areas we have many points of common agreement where we can work together to make things better.

Why? Ann asked, genuinely interested but still doubtful.

It’s complicated, L.J. replied, and I can’t explain it in ten seconds. But in a nutshell, it’s in my economic self-interest to do so.

You’ll have to do better than that. This from the ecoterrorist. A lot better. His face was granite hard, a perfect reflection of his voice.

L.J. pulled off the gloves. The environmentalist movement is laboring under the illusion that environmental improvement is basically ‘free,’ a matter of regulation, and there is no price tag, no bill to be paid. That’s totally wrong. The two scientists nodded in agreement. Oil is so integral to our economy, L.J. continued, that any change will involve money, massive amounts of it. Also, I know change is coming, and I want to be part of it.

The ecoterrorist was the type of alpha male Ann Silton detested, and she liked the way L.J. stood up to him. Ann repeated her question, the hostility in her voice gone. You still haven’t answered why.

Because, L.J. answered, I’m going to make money when the bill is paid. Lots of it. But there’s another reason, and whether you believe it or not, I am an environmentalist and I care.

Ann wanted to believe her, but there was still so much between them. You are one conflicted woman if you believe all that.

L.J.’s laugh filled the room with music. My father claimed I’m part Southern belle and part feminist. How much more conflicted can you get than that?

Maybe, Frobisher allowed, "there are areas where we can work together."

L.J. gave him a look that made his knees go weak. Oh, I hope so. Now, where do we begin?

At exactly nine o’clock the next morning, Lloyd Marsten, the CEO of RayTex Oil, entered the company’s executive offices on the top floor of the Fountain Plaza Building. As always, he moved with a measured, purposeful dignity, and nothing betrayed his impatience. His secretary, Mrs. Shugy Jenkins, sprang from her seat and held open the door to the CEO’s corner office. Good morning, Mr. Marsten. Tea? She was a prim, childless, birdlike woman in her mid-forties, a Southern Baptist whose faith was the only thing that flourished on her parent’s hardscrabble farm in west Texas.

That would be nice, thank you. Marsten’s British accent matched his outward appearance. He was tall, gray-headed, slightly stooped, and impeccably attired in a Savile Row suit, not the regulation Brooks Brothers ensemble worn by his fellow CEOs. The suit helped highlight the differences between him and his American contemporaries. He was the epitome of the European oil man—suave, cultured, intelligent, technically competent, and aristocratic. But underneath the smooth and urbane exterior lurked a shark, a very hungry predator. Is Miss Ellis in yet?

Shugy worked hard not to frown at the mention of L.J. Not yet. She couldn’t help herself. Her chauffeur dropped her off at the Dallas Regency yesterday afternoon for the meeting with the environmentalists. He never picked her up.

Ah, Marsten said, not missing a beat. Perhaps she was offered another way home.

If she went home, Shugy thought, hurrying to get Marsten’s tea. She worshipped the very ground Marsten walked on and considered L. J. Ellis a Jezebel.

Marsten settled into his chair and gazed out the window. It was an unbelievably clear day for September, and Fort Worth’s skyline etched the far horizon. But he didn’t really see it as his stomach churned with anxiety. The door opened, and Shugy wheeled in a tea cart. L.J. was right behind her, still wearing the same clothes as the day before. The secretary poured two cups of tea and stirred in the right amount of milk and sugar for Marsten. Thank you, Shugy, Marsten said, sending her on her way.

L.J. sipped her tea and waited for the door to close. Is Shugy her real name?

I believe it is, Marsten replied. A diminutive derived from the word ‘sugar.’

She reminds me of my old spinster aunt. The poor thing believed if you enjoyed something, it was sinful. But she did like her soap operas.

He arched an eyebrow. I’ve often wondered what you Texas ladies enjoyed.

I enjoyed last night, she replied.

Were there, ah, developments?

No, I did not sleep with John Frobisher. But he thinks we might. She considered the possibility, recalling the teddy-bear image and the urge to cuddle him.

‘A promise made is a debt unpaid,’ Marsten quoted.

‘And the trail has its own stern code,’ L.J. added. She laughed, and as always, he was enchanted. It helped calm his growing apprehension. ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee.’ When did you start reading Robert Service?

I am trying to understand you colonials. Again he arched an eyebrow, still waiting for a full report on the night’s activities. If it were germane to RayTex Oil, she would tell him.

I had to tame the two women on the executive committee. The older one, Ann Silton, has a brain and isn’t afraid to use it.

Which you like in a woman, Marsten added.

We do have a lot in common, L.J. said. She’s aggressive and wants to make a difference. The younger one, Clarissa Jones, is in need of an ego. We sat up most of the night talking about women’s issues. It turned into a girl’s slumber party. She thought for a moment, a sadness in her eyes. Have ARA check them out. ARA, or Action Research Associates, was the firm of private investigators RayTex Oil used. Like the CIA, ARA had global reach; however, there was one big difference. ARA was very good at what they did.

Again the expressive eyebrow from Marsten.

No, I did not sleep with either of them.

A promise made…

I’m not that kind of girl, L.J. said.

Do they know we’re picking up the tab at the Regency?

No. But it would have been cheap at ten times the price.

Your search for allies is admirable, Marsten said. I just hope it isn’t misguided.

Change is coming, Lloyd. We can’t stop it. But we can delay. For that we need friends at court.

Ah, he replied. The slow roll.

The slow roll, she acknowledged.

Marsten paused, judging his timing. By the way, Steiner arrived last night.

An eager look flashed across L.J.’s face. Just as quickly it was gone. Did he bring it?

It’s in my safe.

And Steiner?

Marsten walked over to the safe hidden in the wall. He held his right hand against the palm-print scanner. Safely ensconced in the Parke Royale with two ladies of his choice. The safe door clicked and swung open. Marsten extracted two CD-ROM disks. His hands shook slightly as he inserted the disks into the small but powerful computer tucked away in the credenza behind his chair. The keyboard rolled out from a slot in his desk, and he typed a command. He turned ninety degrees to face what looked like a painting by Constable hanging on the wall. The picture on the high-definition plasma display smoothly transformed from a bucolic landscape into an image familiar to anyone in the oil industry: the seismic reflection cross-section of the geological structure of Saudi Arabia’s Safaniyah field, the world’s largest offshore oil field.

In theory, seismic mapping was easy to understand. Prospectors fired a small pyrotechnic charge to send an acoustic signal into sedimentary rock sections beneath the earth’s surface. Using a string of geophones, a special type of seismograph, they measured the time taken by the waves to travel from the explosion into the earth and then bounce back to the geophones, anywhere from one-thousandth of a second to six seconds later. The data were recorded on a magnetic tape and later processed through a computer to determine the subsurface geological formations. Long experience had taught what formations might hold oil and, equally important, those that didn’t. While it wasn’t insurance, it was the next best thing.

All very familiar, yes? Marsten said.

I wish we had the concession, L.J. allowed.

A sad look crossed Marsten’s face. Not very likely in this day and age. He tapped a command on the keyboard. The image on the screen split, and a second seismic reflection cross-section appeared. Here is an area where Steiner recently shot seismic using the traditional methods. Nothing here to interest us, yes?

She nodded. A total waste of time and money to drill.

Again his fingers danced on the keyboard. Here he surveyed the same area using his new Seismic Double Reflection technique that allowed him to probe deeper than ever before—and voilà! we have… The second image on the screen metamorphosed into a seismic map very similar to that of the Safaniyah field.

L.J. gasped. Does this mean what I think it means?

It does. Nothing betrayed the emotion Marsten felt. You are looking at what may be the largest elephant of all time. In oil-industry lingo an elephant is a giant oil field. But it’s deep. Very deep.

Raw emotion coursed through Lee Justine Ellis like a huge earthquake leaving severe aftershocks in its wake. For a moment she was so overwhelmed that words escaped her. Then the one demon deep inside that she had never been able to control came out of its hidden lair. She wanted the elephant. It had to be hers, no matter what the cost or what she had to do. It was a need so overpowering, so central to what she was, that it could not be denied without destroying her. How big? she finally managed to ask.

Bigger than Saudi Arabia.

She looked at Marsten in shock as her demon raged in demand. Saudi Arabia possessed one-third of the world’s known oil reserves. Where?

Marsten shook his head. Steiner won’t say.

Nothing betrayed the emotions tearing at her. Really? As I recall, we’re paying the bills.

He seems oblivious to that minor detail. L.J. considered her next move. Who knows about this?

As of now, three of us. You, me, and Steiner.

She fixed Marsten with a hard look. Keep it that way.

Lloyd Marsten understood perfectly.

The Pentagon

The summons came after lunch, much earlier than Stuart had expected. He stood up in his cramped cubicle and carefully adjusted his tie and uniform coat. His boss, Colonel Roger Priestly, was an obsessive compulsive and a stickler on dress and appearance. Lately there had been an epidemic of pant cuffs being altered a fraction of an inch to conform to regulation length. It gives him something to do, Stuart thought. He heaved an inner sigh of resignation and walked resolutely to the colonel’s office. My first day back from leave, and it’s already hit the fan, he told himself silently. For a moment he wished he were back on Temptress in Miami. But just as quickly the image vanished. That was all behind him.

Peggy Redman, Priestly’s secretary, was sitting at her desk. She was a heavyset African-American in her mid-fifties with short-cropped hair and a flair for finding stylish clothes at sales and outlets. She smiled at him, glad that he was back. The atmosphere in the office was always much more pleasant when he was around. How was the Caribbean?

Stuart returned her smile. You might say we got rained on.

Peggy looked concerned. It wasn’t what you expected?

We were caught by Hurricane Andrea.

That must have been terrible. But welcome back. We missed you. She waved him into the colonel’s office.

Lieutenant Colonel Michael Stuart reporting as ordered, Stuart said, snapping a sharp salute.

Priestly waved his fighter-pilot salute back. It was a cocky blend of informality and arrogance, allowed to the Priestlys of the world but not the likes of Stuart. On the surface Roger Ramjet Priestly was a fighter pilot’s pilot—tall, ruggedly good-looking, athletic, articulate, and well sponsored, thanks to a good marriage. The fact that he had never flown combat and avoided cockpit assignments whenever he could hadn’t hurt as he clawed his way up the rank structure. His current assignment to ILSX, Pentagonspeak for Installation Logistics Supply Plans, was a slight detour in his quest for his first star and flag rank.

Priestly had fought for a slot in Contingency Plans, the hotbed of new ideas. But some quirk in the colonels-assignment system, probably because both had plans in the title or someone had a sense of humor, had landed him in ILSX. His sponsor had urged him to take the assignment with the promise that once in the Pentagon, he could transfer to Contingency Plans or to the Joint Chiefs. But so far he was stuck in ILSX. Normally ILSX was headed by a veteran supply officer, and thanks to his predecessor, Priestly had inherited a superefficient and well-run organization that needed little tending and less expertise on his part.

Stuart, on the other hand, was nonrated, a ground-pounder without wings on his chest. He was one of the faceless officers, a combination of technician and bureaucrat, who made up the infrastructure of the Air Force and kept it working on a day-to-day basis. Because of officers, NCOs, and airmen like Stuart, planes were fixed, supplies delivered, control towers manned, accounts balanced, buildings painted, computers programmed, telephones repaired, laws enforced, dining halls opened, and the sick cared for.

In Stuart’s particular case, he managed the complex and baffling world of petroleum, oil, and lubricants—or POL for short. His job, in the simplest of terms, was to ensure that JP-A, kerosene-based jet fuel, would always be available, especially in time of war. Michael Eric Stuart would never be in harm’s way or see the inside of an airplane except as a passenger, but what he did was essential to the Air Force mission. His only claim to fame was Air Force Manual 23-110, the sixty-page regulation he authored that detailed how fuels were managed.

Priestly left Stuart standing to keep him off balance and send the message that he was less than happy. He tossed a report onto the desk between them. What’s this piece of shit? he asked almost good-naturedly.

Stuart cocked his head and eyed the title through his glasses. Our input into the Quadrennial Defense Review.

And you expect me to sign off on it?

I’ll be glad to witness your X, Stuart thought. Wisely, he stifled that thought and said, I just crunch the numbers.

Crunch them again.

Will do, sir. But the results will be the same.

Priestly leaned forward. The mission of the Air Force is to be able to fight two major theater wars simultaneously. He tapped the offending report with a forefinger. Now you’re telling me we can’t do that.

I didn’t say that.

What exactly did you say? Educate me.

Not possible, Stuart decided. I said that we do not have the necessary access to tankerage to guarantee the flow of POL to two major theater wars being fought simultaneously.

There’s no way I’m going to tell the committee working on the Quadrennial Defense Review that the Air Force cannot meet its mission.

Stuart tried to be reasonable. The operative words, sir, are ‘cannot guarantee the flow.’ There are work-arounds described in Appendix C.

Priestly kicked back in his chair and steepled his fingers, studying the man in front of him. He sighed. Stuart, you’re just another thumb-sucking milicrat—Priestly’s term for a military bureaucrat—who wants to get down to the third floor. The third floor of the Pentagon was the money floor, where the defense budget was assembled. For the professional bureaucrat it was considered a plum assignment with real power. Stuart wanted to say that he only wanted out the front door—in eighteen months. It’s too bad, Priestly continued, that you can’t see the big picture for the trees. It would help if you had ever strapped on a jet and been on the cutting edge of what the Air Force is all about. He paused, gathering steam for his favorite lecture about being a can-do Air Force. Stuart braced himself for the tirade. He had heard it before and accepted it as the penultimate act before Priestly sent him back to his cubicle in disgrace.

Unfortunately, the telephone rang before Stuart could escape. The colonel answered it with a curt Priestly. He listened for a few moments and stared at Stuart. This is the first I’ve heard about it, sir. I assure you— His faced flushed as the caller cut him off. The colonel was not used to being on the receiving end of a harangue. Then, Yes, sir. I’ll check into it. He carefully dropped the phone into its cradle. An image of a monk handling a holy relic that delivered ecclesiastical messages directly from God flashed in Stuart’s mind.

Priestly took a deep breath. That was my boss, Brigadier General Castleman. What exactly in God’s name were you doing in Cuba? Before Stuart could answer, Priestly shifted into overdrive. Your security clearance prohibits you going there, and you should’ve reported you were in contact with a hostile foreign power. By not reporting that contact, you took all my options off the table. I have no recourse but to ask for an Article 32 investigation leading to court-martial.

Sir, I tried to tell you, but—

Priestly held up a hand and interrupted him. Air off, Stuart. I don’t want to hear any lame-ass excuses. He glared at the lieutenant colonel. But how in the hell did Castleman learn about it?

Because I reported it, as required, when I signed in from leave this morning. It was early, you weren’t here yet, so I left a memo for the record on your e-mail.

Priestly shook his head. That’s a load of bullshit, and you know it.

It’s a matter of record, sir. And there are mitigating circumstances, which are outlined in the memo. It’s all in your computer.

Priestly shook his head in wonder, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He tapped the offending document lying on his desk. First this report and now Cuba. What’s got into you?

Good question, Stuart thought. He was standing up to Priestly, when not too long ago he would have been running for cover.

Priestly made his decision. I’m sidelining you until I can get to the bottom of this. Report to the Administration Section and make yourself available for whatever shit detail they have. They’re always hollering for help.

Is that all, sir?

Dismissed, Priestly muttered. Stuart snapped a salute and, without waiting for it to be returned, spun around to leave. You’re on the edge, Priestly said, stopping him. One more screw-up and I’ll push you over. You can kiss your retirement good-bye. Think about it.

I am thinking about it, Stuart thought.

The Pentagon is aptly named for its five sides, five concentric rings of offices, five floors, and the five-acre center courtyard that has been called Ground Zero. The inhabitants of the Puzzle Palace, or Fort Fumble, as it is sometimes known, don’t think it’s funny, because it was a commonly accepted fact that in the heyday of the Cold War, the Soviets had fed the center coordinates of the courtyard into at least five ICBMs. This was not attributed to a Russian sense of humor but to the reliability, or lack of it, of their missiles and warheads.

Big is the adjective that best describes the Pentagon, and with over 6.5 million square feet, it’s easy to get lost. If the casual visitor should see a man in uniform talking to a pretty civilian employee, it’s not because he’s trying to score but because he’s lost. Yet everyone will think he’s hitting on her, which even in this day of political correctness is much better than appearing to be asking for directions, a major violation of the male ethic. When the $1.2 billion renovation that was started in 1993 is completed in 2006, the added 200,000 square feet of office space will only make the situation worse.

But in spite of its size and idiosyncrasies, the occasional scandal about contracting and budgeting, the personal ambitions stalking its offices, and the egos that define the command corridors, the Pentagon is an efficient place, and the taxpayers get good value for their money. For the next two days Stuart worked in an administrative limbo, making it even more efficient, shuffling the never-ending flow of paperwork that flooded the Air Force. Paperwork was really a misnomer, since most of the Air Force’s business was conducted on computers. But the devilish machines had not streamlined the military’s penchant for documentation. In fact, they’d only made it worse. Consequently the first file Stuart opened contained over thirty unanswered queries, letters, and one inventory form to be filled out and dutifully forwarded. He went to work on the inventory, the most time-consuming project.

Late on Wednesday afternoon Peggy Redman, Priestly’s secretary, telephoned. You can come back. Everything’s fine.

What happened?

Cooler heads prevailed and decided you did the right thing by riding out the hurricane in Cuba. And, can you believe it, your report was forwarded, unchanged, to the committee working on the Quadrennial Defense Review? She gave a low, very wicked laugh. No one knows how that happened or how to answer the committee’s questions, least of all Colonel Priestly. It seems you’re suddenly the indispensable man around here. The good colonel has dropped the investigation.

Stuart shook his head in amusement. Peggy Redman had saved him because she had what management experts call institutional loyalty. An untold number of trees had died providing the paper describing this phenomenon but, in short, it was nothing more than a blend of dedication and common sense. Peggy believed in what her office did and knew what it took to get the job done. It also helped that she liked Mike Stuart and hated Colonel Roger Ramjet Priestly with a pure and refined passion.

Thanks, Peggy, he said, vowing to send her a large bouquet of flowers. He was certain she had forwarded the report to the committee by simply misrouting it. He returned to the inventory he was working on because it grated on his nature to leave projects incomplete, no matter how trivial. He worked hard, but it was after 8:00 P.M. by the time he finished. He turned out the light in the admin office and hurried to catch the next Metro. For Stuart, as for so many who worked at the Pentagon, it was easier to take the subway than fight the traffic and parking. But at that late hour there were only three other passengers on the train.

As the crow flies, it was less than four miles from the Pentagon to Stuart’s basement flat in Capitol Hill, the multiracial residential area immediately east of the Capitol. The journey normally took about thirty minutes, depending on how quickly he transferred lines at the midway point, and it was a short walk from Eastern Market, the station where he got off, to his apartment just past Archibald Walk. During daylight it was a safe enough walk, but after dark he preferred to catch a cab, if one was available.

Stuart came out of the station and decided to wait a few minutes to see if a cab might drive by. He checked his watch. Come on, he thought.

Three African-American teenagers, all wearing the latest gear, ambled by and stopped at the entrance to the Metro station. They were full of life and trading good-natured insults as they discussed the merits of certain young females. It was all part of the life in his neighborhood and one of the reasons he liked living there. A fourth teenager joined them, and the insults grew loud as the words flew back and forth. Stuart got a good look at the newcomer when he stepped under a streetlight. He was much older than the three boys and definitely not a teenager.

Alarm bells went off in Stuart’s head, and he moved away. Again he checked his watch. No taxi tonight, he thought. He decided to walk just as a street-sweeper truck lumbered around the corner. Suddenly the words changed tone, now ugly and menacing. Stuart hurried past, moving toward the approaching sweeper as the four young men started to push and challenge.

Stuart saw a knife flash, and the latecomer broke away, running directly at him. Stuart froze. The man barreled into Stuart and knocked him into the path of the oncoming sweeper. The screech of brakes deafened Stuart as headlights blinded him. He knew he was dead.

Something snapped inside, filling him with rage.

He threw himself to the ground, centering up on the sweeper’s bumper, anything to get away from the big wheels. He flattened his right cheek and stomach against the asphalt as the truck rolled over him. He felt the back of his coat rip as it slammed to a stop.

Stuart lay under the sweeper, afraid to move. He could feel the weight of the truck on his back and his glasses smashed under his cheek. He saw feet run past and heard shouting. Then the cab door swung open, and he felt the driver getting off. The belly of an incredibly overweight man appeared as the driver knelt down beside the truck. Then his face emerged. Am I hurt? Stuart asked.

You’re talking, the driver said. I’ll get a flashlight and call for help. Don’t move.

Don’t get back into the truck! Stuart shouted. But his warning was too late, and the truck rocked on him. Stuart moaned. He got back in.

The next few minutes turned into an eternity as the police and then a fire truck arrived. Everyone kept telling Stuart not to move, and finally a paramedic, a slender woman, crawled under the truck. Well, she said, good evening, sir.

Does your husband know we’re meeting like this? he muttered between clenched teeth.

He’s not the jealous kind. She examined him and took his pulse. I think you’re okay. We’re going to jack up the truck in a few minutes.

He closed his eyes as the emergency crew shoved a hydraulic jack under the chassis and started to pump. Someone grabbed his ankles and gently pulled him free. He looked up into the smiling face of the paramedic. You are one lucky man, she announced.

It was after midnight when Stuart got home. He dropped his ruined uniform coat in a chair and headed for the shower. He stripped off his clothes and examined himself in the mirror. Other than a few minor scrapes and bruises, he was fine. He could feel the onset of stiffness the examining doctor had warned him about. The hot water felt good as it coursed over his body. He got out, toweled himself dry, and padded into the kitchen, ravenously hungry. The flashing light on his answering machine announced that he had two messages.

The first one was from his ex-wife. Hi, honey. This is Jenny. Give me a call whenever. He gave a little snort. The unspoken protocols of their divorce were well established, and she wanted money. If the call was about Eric, their twelve-year-old son, she would have said, Mike, we have a problem. But Eric was with Stuart’s parents, touring England. He decided to put Jenny’s call on a back burner until whenever felt right.

The second message was short and to the point. This is Jane. Call me anytime.

For reasons he didn’t understand, he wanted to talk to her. He dialed her number, and she answered on the third ring. I know it’s late, but you said to call anytime.

It’s okay, she said. You’re hard to contact.

A lot of pressing matters around here, he replied. How’s the shoulder doing?

"Better. Question: What about Temptress?"

The empty feeling in his stomach was back, and it had nothing to do with the lack of food. The last time he had seen his boat was in a slip in Miami. It was gleaming in the early-morning sun, none the worse for wear after the hurricane and the sojourn to Cuba. Sell her, I guess.

Good time to sell. Beginning of the season here. How much?

Whatever’s fair.

A long pause. Then, softly, I’d like to buy her. Can you carry the loan?

The gentleness in Jane’s voice touched him. Okay by me, Stuart replied. But I need some cash up front.

I’ll talk to a bank, she said, breaking the connection.

Stuart smiled to himself as he hung up. That’s Jane, he told himself. A woman of few words.

2

RAF Cranthorpe, England

The boy kept bouncing against his seat belt, not wanting to miss any part of the old English air base. This is neat, Gramps, he kept repeating.

Colonel William Shanker Stuart, United States Air Force (retired), smiled at his grandson’s unfeigned enthusiasm. He was glad he had brought Eric to RAF Cranthorpe for the air show and the dedication ceremonies. The old Royal Air Force Base had been restored to its glory days during the Battle of Britain and was being dedicated to those so few men who had accomplished so much. Yeah, it is neat, Shanker admitted. He inched their rental car into a parking space and got out.

A large group of men and women carrying signs and placards were gathering in the parking lane in front of them. Shanker estimated their number at over two hundred, and the signs they carried worried him. He watched in silence as they unfurled a large banner. The last thing Shanker wanted to see was a demonstration ruining the ceremonies. Too many volunteers had worked too hard to keep RAF Cranthorpe alive.

Eric read another one of the signs. What’s ‘Ban the Bomb’ mean?

It’s a throwback to another time, son, when people were worried about nuclear war.

The two Americans watched as three well-dressed men approached the group of protesters. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave, one of the men told the demonstrators.

Who are you, mate? a scruffily dressed woman shouted.

I’m from the CAA, and—

The crowd started shouting, Hell no, we won’t go, and drowned out the CAA man. The three men gave up and retreated to the safety of their car as the crowd grew larger and the chanting louder.

What’s the CAA? Eric asked.

That’s the British government’s Civil Aviation Agency, Shanker answered. It’s the same as our FAA, the Federal Aviation Agency.

I thought you didn’t like the FAA.

I don’t dislike them, son. I just think they’re a pain in the ass. Like all bureaucrats.

Dad says he’s just a bureaucrat in the Air Force.

That’s different, Shanker replied. But not much, he groused to himself. All he ever wanted was for Michael to be like his older brother and fly jet fighters. But Mike’s poor eyesight had precluded that, and as a result he was a nonrated officer with a desk job. His younger son was one of his life’s major disappointments. He put his arm around his grandson’s shoulders. Come on. They got an F-4 here like the ones I used to fly.

That’s neat, Gramps. Can I sit in it?

We’ll see, son, Shanker said, feeling much better. There was hope for the family yet. They followed the crowd out to the old parking lots, where three generations of warbirds were on display. Shanker paused when he saw the old F-4 Phantom II, and for a moment the memories came rushing back. It was 1972, and he was a young captain walking out to a bomb-laden Phantom for a mission over North Vietnam. We were young then, he said in a low voice.

I’m afraid you were born old, a voice with a clipped English accent said from behind him, bringing Shanker back to the moment.

Shanker turned around. The speaker was a tall, lanky man his age. A mass of unruly gray hair framed a ruddy face, and close-set, bright blue eyes twinkled above an outrageous RAF-style handlebar mustache. He was wearing an olive-green flight suit with leather gloves protruding from a leg pocket. Chalky! Shanker shouted. You old reprobate! The last I heard, you were flying for the Saudis.

I was until they phased out the Lightning and bought F-15s from you Yanks.

Can’t say I blame them, Shanker allowed.

The Englishman shook his head. The old, long-forgotten, good-natured rivalry was back. Who’s the young gentleman?

Wing Commander Seagrave, may I present my grandson, Eric Stuart. Eric, Wing Commander Robin Seagrave, better known as ‘Chalky’ because of his hair, which turned white the first time he flew in a real jet.

Eric extended his hand. Pleased to meet you, sir. The two shook hands, the Englishman impressed with the boy’s good manners.

Eric, Shanker said, don’t pay any attention to what Chalky says about the Lightning.

What’s the Lightning? Eric asked.

Seagrave laughed. Obviously your grandfather has neglected your education. Come, I’ll show you. He led the two to another parking