Just a Matter of Times: Adventures of David Blade

CHAPTER 1

PURSUIT

March 1988

Poised between heaven and earth, David Blade patiently waited for the opportunity to kill a man. He peered through the tree branches studying the distant group of people. Through his rifle scope he saw a giant Latin-American and two of his country’s military Generals as they stood waiting in a small clearing surrounded by dense jungle. They looked up at the descending helicopter with

U.S. markings. The aircraft made a gentle flare-out and settled expertly on its main landing gear, then eased down on the nose wheel. The pilot, kept the engine revs at take-off speed, a standard procedure for all U.S. government aircraft landing in sensitive areas. The engines would be idled down only after determining that no hostile action was imminent.

Don Vasquez’s bulging stomach strained against the bone-white material of his three-piece tropical suit and shook like Jello as he turned, grinning, and slapped one of the officers on the back. Look, can you believe that the Estados Unidos would come to my Estancia begging like peasants, for my money and my help?

The general of the Air Force winced at the slap, but turned it into a grin for his boss as he agreed, Si, but do you trust them?

Don Vasquez held his violently flapping, broad-brimmed hat on his head with his hand, securing it from the downdraft as he sneered, I trust what I own.

Two uniformed United States Marines jumped out of the waist door of the chopper, fixed short metal steps to the fuselage, and turned to aid the Assistant Secretary of Intelligence Services, Stewart Dixon, as he disembarked. Dixon and the two Marines walked just beyond the perimeter of the whirling rotor blades and stopped to await the approaching entourage. One of the Marines gave a hand signal to the pilot. The engines decreased their pitch and the rotors began to slow down.

Blade saw Dixon’s hawkish face form a welcoming smile, superimposed by the targeting crosshairs of his rifle scope. Dixon reached out to shake the hand of Don Vasquez, who was Chief of Staff of his county’s military, and controlled his own President.

Four hundred meters away, Blade’s finger squeezed the trigger of a Russian Dragonov sniper rifle. An instant later the liquid center slug impacted Dixon’s head with over a ton of energy, resulting in a miniature hydraulic explosion. The Marines dropped to the ground as Major Dangerfield reacted and slammed the throttles of the big Sikorsky CH-53 to full emergency military power.

Blade watched the distant scene unfold. He could see Don Vasquez, now blood-spattered and now the only one standing, as he bellowed at his generals who had also sought protection on the ground. He kicked one of them in the side, which inspired the officer to begin screaming orders into his handheld radio. The confused soldiers guarding the perimeter of the clearing frantically searched for targets.

The Marines dragged, then lifted Dixon’s inert form into the helicopter and jumped in after. The aircraft leaped off the ground and bank away over the tree line.

Colonel David Blade had verified the termination. Now he took advantage of this brief moment of surprise and confusion to drop the Dragonov and rappel unnoticed, down a nylon line from his tree perch. He pocketed his latex gloves and swiftly moved off through the underbrush. He purposely left the rifle to misdirect any investigation. Blade could tell from the sounds behind, that a reaction to his shot was developing quickly. He didn’t move in a straight line, but pressed through the green mass with a trained eye for the path of least resistance.

As Blade ran through the jungle, he mentally added Dixon to his lifetime total of ‘corrective actions’, as they were termed. Dixon had his own agenda. He’d been dealing with both the Russians and North Koreans, resulting in several fat personal bank accounts in Switzerland. He had arranged for the destruction of a JAL 747 flight over Russian airspace just to eliminate the U.S. congressman who was investigating him. He had cold-bloodedly murdered over four hundred people to eliminate one.

Blade had investigated Dixon for nearly a year, since AEGIS had received a tip from the South Koreans. When the facts were confirmed, Blade was given the sanction order by AEGIS, and Dixon was manipulated into the clandestine meeting with the Latin American drug lord/general, to provide a killing ground in unclear circumstances.

Blade stopped for a moment, turning his head left, then right, listening for of his pursuers. After a moment David sorted out the soldier’s Spanish from the jungle’s sounds. He could hear two or more men, approximately 40 meters off his left flank. Then he heard a rustling movement to his right.

Damn, he thought. They were on both sides now and were coming abreast of his line of travel. Blade took his .357 automag out of its shoulder holster, then stuck his machete into the ground. He fished the silencer out of his Kevlar, bullet-proof vest and quickly threaded it onto the gunbarrel. He started to reach for the machete as the dogs yelped their discovery of his scent, some distance behind. Shit Blade whispered, realizing he was about to be cut off from his escape route.

He frowned, then smiled wryly as he recalled an old Cheyenne ruse his grandfather had shown him in Wyoming, and decided to try a variation. Blade stepped over to a low bush and pushed back the foliage, exposing the base of the plant. He held back the leaves, unzipped his fly and urinated on the stalk where it entered the ground. Then he detached a grenade from the Kevlar vest, pulled the pin and delicately propped the grenade, handle down, against the base of the urine-soaked stalk and slowly eased the limbs back to their natural position over the stalk, hiding the grenade.

Blade reclaimed the machete and moved slowly toward the voices on his left. He had gone about fifty meters through the undergrowth, when the steady baying of the hounds jumped to a frenzy. He took cover and looked to his left, waiting with his gun at the ready. A few seconds later the grenade went off, announcing the dog’ discovery of Blade’s planted trap. That would reduce the odds a bit.

As he had expected, the sound of the explosion brought the flank men around in that direction to check the noise, and Blade would be in their path. A moment later, three soldiers emerged into view a few meters in front of him.

Between the dense foliage, Blade took careful aim beyond the first two soldiers and shot the furthest man in the chest. The man dropped his rifle and fell, which caused the two men in front of him to spin around to investigate. This exposed their backs and Blade placed his second shot between the shoulder blades of the nearest man. The remaining soldier spun back around to find see his sergeant lying face-down. The soldier crouched as he began to pan the undergrowth with his automatic rifle in waist-high firing position. As the soldier turned, David aimed and squeezed his trigger once more. Nothing happened.

Blade saw the man’s eyes narrow as he located his quarry’s camouflaged form. The soldier started to raise his rifle up to shoulder firing position. Blade had no other choice. he threw the machete at the man, dove to the right and burrowed into the undergrowth. A burst of rounds from the automatic rifle danced around him. The firing stopped abruptly, and Blade, with his head down in the dirt, heard a muffled sound like something heavy hitting the ground. He raised up slowly, peering through the leaves to locate his adversary.

The soldier lay face-up with the machete buried in his chest. Well I’ll be damned. Blade said, releasing his breath. He immediately wished he hadn’t, as a stabbing pain shot through his left side.

Blade’s first thought was that he was hit. He unzipped the Kevlar vest to check the damage, then found no blood and no hole in his shirt. He found none. Thankfully, he realized that his vest had turned an otherwise fatal wound into a probable cracked rib. He zipped the vest back up, grimaced from the pain, moved off as rapidly as possible in his original direction.

Blade thought as he ran, of the ill-advised ploy of Harold Botherby, his agency’s chief of R&D, adapting 9-millimeter slugs onto his .357 rounds to thwart any ballistics tests. He wished Harold could be with him now.

Four-hundred meters later Blade broke free of the jungle into a cleared field. He stumbled and fell, wincing in pain, then pushed himself back to his feet and ran, winded and panting, toward his extraction point. I’m getting too old for this kind of shit he muttered. Though Colonel David Blade was in superb physical condition and looked to be in his early forties, he was fifty-four years old.

There was a small hill about another four-hundred meters directly in front of him. He checked landmarks against the memorized area map and began running toward the hill. He followed his mission briefing explicitly, counting each step aloud. When he had counted to two hundred, he slowed and removed a small radio device from his vest pocket. He operated a slide switch on the side of it then pushed a recessed button. He was still fifty meters short of the base of the hill when the soldiers began to emerge from the wall of jungle behind him.

Bullets were kicking up dust behind him when Blade reached the base of the hill. He looked back once to see what must be more than a hundred soldiers pouring onto the field. He scrambled up the hill with renewed vigor, in a zig-zagging course. Huffing and puffing, he pressed on with the faith that only a military man can have, that the preparations laid on for his extraction were in motion. A muffled explosion threw one of the leading pursuers head-over-heels in the air, then two more were rocketed up by blasts, as they stepped on the small anti-personnel minelets camouflaged to look like rocks, which he had just activated with the radio control. The night before, an A-6 support aircraft had dropped several hundred of these devices in a doughnut-shaped ring around the hill, about one to two hundred meters from the base. The remainder of the soldiers backed off and continued firing at the receding figure ascending the knoll.

Blade reached the crown of the hill and dove behind a rock to avoid the rifle fire. He looked around furtively, wondering where his help was. His mission briefing hadn’t disclosed any details beyond this point. Then he heard the familiar, hollow, air-popping rythym of an approaching helicopter. He breathed more easily as a black, unmarked, Cobra gunship slipped in low over the trees. David smiled, then frowned, as the chopper flew over and past his position, then hovered to one side of the field and began countering the rifle fire of the soldiers. A few seconds later, a Harrier fighter jet came roaring in at tree-top level, from the south. Blade waved at the pilot. The Harrier slowed as it changed flight mode to VTOL, flared to a halt directly above David’s position and descended to the hilltop, landing with horrific noise and downdraft, raising a great cloud of dust.

Blade watched anxiously as the rear canopy opened. The pilot in the forward cockpit gestured with hand signals to Blade. He nodded understanding, pulled off his boots and tossed them away. He stood on top of his rock, reached up and placed his hands on the leading edge of the wing, near the tip. The metal was hot to the touch, but Blade couldn’t be bothered with small inconveniences now. He leaped upward and as his upper body bent over the top of the wing, he pushed off from the under wing fuel tank with one foot. He crawled along the wing to the fuselage then carefully inched forward, out over the bulging air intake. The roar was deafening as he cautiously traversed it, knowing that one wrong move would be fatal. Finally he reached out, grabbed the edge of the windscreen and pulled himself to the rear cockpit.

He reached into the aft seat for the helmet, scrambled over the canopy rail, lowered himself into the seat, and jammed the helmet onto his head. He grabbed the oxygen mask, strapped it across his face, then plugged in the communications jack and oxygen line. The canopy closed and the Harrier lifted off as he strapped into the seat harness. As the plane rose and began to enter conventional flight mode, Blade pressed the mike button and said, Thanks!.

Don’t mention it, said a young female voice. One moment Colonel. Sea Serpent, this is Pogo Taxi One. The fare is collected.

A hollow-sounding voice replied, We copy, Pogo Taxi One.

Another voice broke in on the frequency, Pogo, Pogo, this is Blackbird. I took a hit. I’m losing power. Cover me!

Blade glanced out at the Cobra gunship now wreathed in smoke.

That’s a copy Blackbird, follow me across, Lieutenant Janice Ackerty replied. She banked the Harrier, smoothly transitioned back into VTOL mode, and side-slipped the aircraft into position between the Cobra and the hostile fire. She drew and returned fire, pivoting the hovering fighter left and right as its 20mm cannons harvested the soldiers like wheat before a scythe. Ackerty traversed the field to the right toward the tree line, as she protected the helicopter. The wounded chopper followed, slowly gaining enough altitude to clear the trees surrounding the field. Finally, she gave the hovering Harrier the throttle and sped skyward, up and over the jungle, banking toward the sea.

Blade watched the smoking Cobra below as it turned north, skimming the treetops as it limped along. The radio crackled then Blade heard, Thanks Pogo. What a lady. We can make our ‘LZ’ O.K., we’re only ten mikes out.

Bye guys, drive safe, Ackerty responded, adding a wing-waggle.

Blade relaxed slightly and settled back to enjoy the rest of his rescue flight. He gazed out into the now tranquil sky.

Some Taxi! Blade said. What’s your name, when you’re not ‘Pogo’?

Before she could reply, the headset crackled, Pogo Taxi from Sea Serpent, Red Bandits. Bearing from your position is zero-threezero. Twenty mikes, angels two-three-zero, descending.

Roger. Am I cleared to engage?

The mechanical sounding voice of the Air Operations Officer on the Aircraft Carrier fifty miles away in the Caribbean replied, Affirmative Pogo, but only if fired on.

David was slammed back into his seat, as the Harrier accelerated into a steep, climbing, left turn. He cleared his throat nervously.

Are we taking evasive action?

Negative. They’re between us and the carrier, and they’ll jump that wounded chopper for sure. I have to draw them off. They should be closing with us in a minute. Colonel, keep an eye at your eleven-o’clock and tell me if you see them first.

Kee-rist. Thought Blade to himself. I hope she’s as good as she sounds. He double-checked the tightness of his harness and the location of the ejection levers. He watched the altimeter numbers rising rapidly, then as the altimeter was moving across fifteen thousand feet, Ackerty shouted, There they are, at eleven-o’clock high. Damn, they’ve seen us, they’re turning into us

Blade heard some muffled thumps, then felt additional acceleration. He looked backward and down in the of the sound, and saw two external fuel tanks falling away on his side of the aircraft. Ackerty had jettisoned all four to obtain maximum speed and maneuverability.

David searched the sky on the left and found two dots that grew steadily, becoming Soviet MiG-21’s. He watched them as they hooked around in a slashing left-hand turn. They were moving into optimum firing position. He turned his head, following them as they flashed by, then lost sight of them behind and below his left shoulder. Then he realize that the nose of the Harrier was being brought up and over.

The blood rushed from Blade’s head as the Harrier went into a steep, right-hand, rolling maneuver. He felt the weight of his arms increase several-fold, as the G-forces began to affect his vision, due to not wearing a pressure suit. It was as if two black curtains were being drawn from opposite sides of his peripheral field of vision. The darkness crowded in, leaving him only a small, tubular visual field straight ahead. Then as the G-force increased, he became blind and disoriented, conscious all the while, in the grip of the visual blackout. Ackerty rolled out of her tight loop and Blade’s vision bounced back with startlingly vivid clarity, as the G-force fell away. He immediately caught sight of both MiGs, now in front and growing larger as the Harrier closed on them from behind. She’d done an ‘Immelman’ maneuver, an old, but effective tactic.

Blade’s headset came alive with the rattlesnake growl of a heat-seeking Sidewinder missile announcing its lock onto the exhaust of the nearest MiG. Shit. Ackerty swore. The number two man is breaking away. Keep an eye on him if you can. Blade watched the wingman pull away from his leader and into a climb. Pogo, Fox Two., Ackerty said into her microphone, as she fired the missile, advising her shipboard command that she had initiated offensive weaponry action.

The Sidewinder leapt from its mount and tore through the air, leaving a thin wisp of smoke in its wake. Blade couldn’t believe the sensation of speed he perceived as the missile closed on the rear of the MiG then merged into the tailpipe, instantly transforming the once-graceful aircraft into an expanding, incandescent, fireball.

Splash. Ackerty yelled into her mike, to her Chief of Air Operations, giving him the code for target destroyed, as she reversed her turn to pull away. She asked Blade, Do you see where the wingman is?

No, Blade said, as he rapidly swiveled his head right, then left with the chilling realization that at any moment they could also become a flaming, gaseous cloud.

Oh hell! Ackerty said, as she threw the Harrier into a steep, spiraling descent. Blade caught a glimpse of the MiG closing from above and behind as they began to nose over. He watched the altimeter speed madly around. At about ten-thousand feet, the needle received an additional impetus as the Harrier came out of the spiral. The fighter rolled into a wings-level attitude, in a forty-five degree dive, to produce maximum maneuvering velocity. The pilot started jinking her stick left and right, causing the Harrier to zig-zag slightly as she maintained her dive.

The MiG followed the Harrier’s descent, still closing the distance.

He’s got a radar lock on us . . . he’s launched! Ackerty said. She timed her vertical thrust maneuver, unique to Harriers, by counting outloud, One potato, two potato, it’s time to dance Colonel, hang on and pray! She grit her teeth, then hit the VTOL control and both chaff ejectors. Blade felt like he’d been kicked in the butt, as the Harrier jumped upward off its line of flight without a change of attitude, to a new flight level, to evade the missile attack.

The Russian pilot stared in disbelief, as the Harrier seemingly hopped straight up out of the missile’s path, which lost its lock-up and veered away harmlessly. Then the Harrier seemed to bounce up again, as it pulled out of its dive. The MiG Pilot was momentarily transfixed in astonishment, then recoiled with horror as he saw his altimeter needle plunge across the fifteen-hundred foot mark. He jerked back on the stick in panic. In a seven-hundred knot power-dive, he succeeded only in producing a high-speed stall, which culminated five seconds later in a spectacular explosion, as the MiG slammed into the floor of the jungle. The Harrier’s decoy dive had worked.

Splash two! Ackerty’s voice rang out. Sea Serpent, this is Pogo Taxi One. We are alone again and returning to course.

We copy you Pogo Taxi One, good shooting. Radar sweep indicates your area is clean, and Blackbird is out of Indian Country. Do you need refueling?

Negative, and not damaged.

Roger Pogo. Come on home.

Affirmative Sea Serpent, Pogo Taxi out.

Blade relaxed back into his seat again and thought that, whoever had first said that females were the most deadly sex of a species had been a very intuitive person. David watched as the emerald-green coastline disappeared behind them. The Harrier was now speeding flat-out over the Caribbean at Mach 1.3. That was some damned good flying. Where are we headed now? he asked.

The pilot answered, her voice now more relaxed. Thanks. In another seven minutes we’ll be landing on the U.S. Navy carrier Atlantis, our refueling stop. We’ll grab a bite to eat and after that I’ll be taking you on into Kingston. Are you all right, you’re not hit are you?

Blade grimaced. Oh no, but I’m sure I’ll have a colorful bruise. His ribcage under the right arm was throbbing. "I took a round in my Kevlar vest before you got to me. I might have a cracked rib. I’ll have the ship’s Doctor tape me up when we land.

I’ll radio ahead and get the doctor set up for you. And Colonel, to answer your question, when I’m not ‘Pogo’ or something else, my name is Lieutenant Ackerty.

Well, thanks for the ride, Lieutenant.

You’re welcome Colonel, sorry for the ahh, intensity.

David felt the Harrier’s wheels drop down for landing. The carrier’s deck looked tiny in front of the rapidly descending aircraft, especially to someone who had never experienced a carrier landing. Blade gripped the edges of his seat, white-knuckled, as the aircraft decended featherlike above the deck and touched down softly.

The Chief Medical Officer, Commander Brad Carey, met Blade at the flight line and personally escorted him to the ship’s Sick Bay. Doctor Carey performed a quick physical exam and took several x-rays which were developed and analyzed within fifteen minutes.

You’ll outlive us all, Colonel, the doctor said, as he slipped the x-rays into a large envelope and handed them to Blade. Your ribs are intact, although you probably don’t feel like it. You just have a serious bruise. Nothing that a little rest and a whirlpool bath won’t cure. Here’s a few tablets for the pain, one every four hours should help, but don’t drive when you take them. You’ll be fine in a week.

Blade thanked the doctor and followed his assigned enlisted escort to the Officer’s Mess. A well appointed table was set for him, with a credible meal delivered within two minutes of his arrival. Five minutes into his meal, a Junior Lieutenant delivered a garment bag containing business attire and a sealed envelope, requiring Blade’s signature for receipt. The envelope held a commercial airline ticket from Kingston to Gatwick Airport, and his passport.

Clipped to the passport was a note from his boss, Mr. Becker, to be on the next non-stop flight back to AEGIS headquarters. Damn, thought Blade, If Becker has another ‘hot one’ for me to go chasing off on, I’ll tell him where to stick it. I need a rest. The physical pain wasn’t so bad, but the mission had emotionally drained him.

Dixon would serve America much better as a dead hero than a live traitor. Even though Dixon needed killing, the cold manner in which it had been prescribed went against David’s grain. Blade had internalized the buildup to the kill. It was difficult to do a one cold-bloodedly, from hiding. It wasn’t like in the heat of battle, when kills were honorable. He was very good at hunting and killing, but that didn’t make it feel right. Each one caused him personal anxiety that he carried with him like his physical scars.

Blade had finished his meal, changed into civilian clothes, and was just finishing his coffee in the Officer’s Mess when Ackerty’s voice addressed him from behind. Up and at ‘em Colonel, Kingston next stop.

David turned to see Senior Lieutenant Janice Ackerty for the first time without her flight helmet. She was small but shapely, not more than five-foot-two, with close-cropped, ash-blond hair and freckles sprinkled liberally over her pert little nose and cheeks. Blade observed that her pressure suit fitted her in a manner that struck him as oddly sensual.

I’ll be right with you Lieutenant. David gulped down his coffee, then followed her up to the flight deck.

Blade was startled by the penache with which Janice punched the Harrier up and off the flight deck. Forty minutes later, they touched down in Kingston and taxied to the R.A.F. military apron.

As Blade observed Lieutenant Ackerty’s moves, he began to consider authorizing himself a brief respite in Kingston.

He waited just beyond the starboard wingtip of the Harrier, as Janice advised the R.A.F. ground maintenance crew of some items she wanted checked out in the aircraft. He hadn’t noticed her also giving him an inspection, albiet covertly.

David had watched her make a very thorough walk-around immediately upon shut-down. The woman is a perfectionist. Blade thought to himself. As he and all others who had ever piloted an aircraft knew, perfection was a virtue that was a necessity for anyone who made their livelyhood flying, and wanted to survive the experience.

Blade carried basic qualifications in fixed and rotary-wing, prop and jet, single-engined aircraft, as part of his field agent training. However, he flew only occasionally, and usually for recreation.

After Ackerty’s inspections, she joined him and they walked across the hot tarmac to the small Flight Operations Center. Ackerty sauntered over to the counter. She filed her flight plan, signed off on her fuel slip, and obtained weather information about her next flight leg, the destination being Orlando, Florida, U.S. Naval Air Station.

She turned away from the counter. Blade asked, How long is your turn here Lieutenant?

Janice looked at him and smiled. Twelve hours. You look like you need some good food and rest. Shall we see what Jamaica has to offer?

David hesitated. Well, I really should catch the next flight out, my people are expecting me.

She grabbed a handful of his jacket lapel and proceeded to lead him out the front door. After I risked my neck to get you here, can you have the audacity not to take a couple of hours of your precious time to break bread with the junior ranks?

I’m sorry, I have to catch the next flight to Gatwick.

Janice interrupted, I know they allow you time to eat. There’s a good restaurant where they have me billeted, and it’s only a few miles down the road. she said, as she pulled David over to the curbside to a waiting taxi, opened the rear door, and pushed him into the back seat.

Take us to the Castaways Beach Hotel, she said to the driver, as she piled in after Blade. Since we’re off duty now, I’d like you to call me Janice, that is if you don’t mind, Sir?

Blade settled back in the seat, wondering. Was she flirting with him? Well, aggressive, fighter pilot and all. He watched curiously, as Janice hefted her flight bag up from the floor where she’d tossed it. She rummaged around inside, took out sector charts and a calculator, then blurted, Ah-ha! She produced a small make-up kit and began performing her mysterious feminine rituals. Blade guessed her age to be mid twenties.

David asked, Janice, I was unaware that the U.S. Navy had changed their policy of not permitting female personnel to be directly involved in combat action. By the way, my rescuers usually call me David, he added, mixing business talk with introductions.

They haven’t, David. She managed somehow to display a small smile, without miscuing with the lipstick which she was applying deftly around her finely-shaped lips. She blotted them on a tissue and remarked, This wasn’t planned. I was the ferry pilot for the Harrier. Your mission pilot was waiting aboard Atlantis. An hour before I arrived, he fell on a wet deck and broke his forearm. There are only a handful of U.S. Navy pilots rated in Harriers in this Naval District who are also rated for carrier landings. I was the only other one on board. Anyway, air combat wasn’t really expected and there was no time to waste. Your own Brits would have handled it themselves, but they didn’t have the right hardware near enough that could do the job.

Wow. Blade said, realizing his life had depended on a noncombat rated, and un-blooded pilot.

What’s the matter? Janice asked.

Blade shrugged. Oh nothing, I was just thinking that this will look good in your record.

That’s for sure, that is if it ever gets in it, she said, frowning.

You know how straight-laced and self-protective the brass are, ‘Colonel’.

Blade smiled, noticing her pronounced use of his rank to punctuate the statement. Record of your action won’t see the light of day, but it will go into your shadow file.

What’s a shadow file?

David’s expression became serious. Let’s just say its unseen but not un-noted. He thought about his own file, most of which was highly classified, and deeply hidden in secret vaults.

She turned away with a vacant look in her eyes. I always dreamed that I’d see action. I was second in my flight school class at Pensacola, and I’ve logged over two hundred hours in the computerized combat simulator. She looked down and bit her lower lip. It was fun beating the computer, but this was . . . her voice trailed off.

David knew from experience that her adrenaline high was beginning to give way to more somber thoughts. He tried to keep her smiling. You’re a member of an elite club now. Air combat veterans.

Yeah. She laughed nervously, then became silent.

The Beachcomber restaurant was a pleasant surprise, boasting an excellent and varied menu as well as wines and a fine salad bar. David concentrated on his blood-rare sirloin as Janice picked at her Chef’s Salad. He noticed that she had hardly touched her food. She stopped eating altogether and gazed moodily off the verandah toward the beach. He finished his meal, leaving her to her thoughts. I’ll have a J&B on the rocks. David told the waiter. Janice, what would you like?

Nothing thanks, I’m fine. Janice said in a monotone.

What part of the country are you from? blade tried to get her talking, to distract her from her mood.

I’m from Kansas, she said, turning toward him.

Blade grinned. From Kansas to flying a Navy fighter jet. That’s a big change.

Her eyes meet his. My parents’ idea of success was for me to marry the local Dentist’s son right after high school.

I take it you didn’t?

She shook her head. Oh yes, I did it all right, It lasted a whole year.

What happened?

Well, some things just don’t work out. Enough said. She looked down as if hiding the rest.

David felt embarrassed and touched by her obviously painful memory. He reached across the table, took her chin gently