by David Liscio
Carrington wrapped his arms around her but she didn’t respond. Her arms remained limp, her eyes closed.
Carrington took a step back. He looked defeated. “I’ve got to get moving if I’m going to meet them on time.”
“How are you getting to Tinian?”
“Local helicopter service. Blue Pacific Aviation. The company has a bird parked at the airport.”
“Do you want me to come along?”
“Not enough room, especially if Decker and the sniper are lugging gear. Besides, I need you to meet them with the rental car at a landing zone about four miles from here.”
“Right. They can’t land at the airport. No passports, not to mention the rifles and whatever else they’re packing.”
“Don’t worry, when I get to Tinian, I’m not going to say, ‘Hey, Decker, good to see you, and by the way, Hannah and I are sleeping together.’ I get the feeling that news wouldn’t go over very well.”
Hannah flopped back onto the bed, rolled over on her stomach and covered her head with a pillow. She growled, but it was muffled. A moment later she turned and gazed at Carrington with a look of disappointment on her face. “Let’s keep what you and I have just between us. At least for now.”
“Fine by me. I’ll go sleep on the beach when Decker gets here and expects to crawl into bed with you. I don’t think I could listen to that.”
“Oh, fuck off, William. You’re not exactly in the position to make any demands.”
“Understood. We keep to the mission.”
“By the way, you never told me Decker’s side of the story, at least whatever it was he confided in you.”
“He told me you were too good for him, that he could never live up to your expectations.”
“He actually said that?”
“He did. Whatever happened to him in Lebanon did some real damage, but he’ll never admit it. And as for Selena Delgado, well, I think they were two lost souls who came together for comfort, nothing more. I don’t think he was in love with her, in case that’s what you’re wondering.”
25
Three’s a Crowd
Saipan
Northern Mariana Islands
April 1990
The Navy MH-60 Seahawk assault helicopter landed on one of the two-mile-long runways built on Tinian Island during World War II to accommodate B-29 Super Fortress bombers like the Enola Gay, which on August 6, 1945 dropped its atomic payload on the Japanese city of Hiroshima.
The Navy crew chief opened the side door to the powerful, 65-foot, twin-engine aircraft that was built to carry up to four passengers in addition to its three-man crew. The rotor blades were still churning but no longer at full thrust. The crew chief tossed a green duffel bag to the sun-bleached runway and signaled Reb to exit.
Reb leaped the three foot distance, not losing his balance despite the padded rifle case slung over his right shoulder and a pump shotgun over his left. He did a double take at the cattle and goats placidly grazing along the sides of the runway. The animals didn’t seem fazed by the helicopter. Reb’s commanding officer had given him the option of returning to a SEAL team or embarking on a top-secret CIA mission somewhere in the western Pacific, never thinking the battle-weary soldier would choose the latter.
Decker instinctively scanned the terrain from the helicopter’s side door before flinging his gear toward where the other duffel had landed. He handed his sniper rifle to Reb before jumping out.
Within seconds the Seahawk was airborne, returning to its berth aboard an aircraft carrier from the U.S. Seventh Fleet, one of many warships deployed to protect Taiwan from China and thwart regional aggression by North Korea.
Carrington casually strolled toward the two men who were hunkered as they moved out from beneath the rotor wash. He extended a bro handshake. “Welcome to Micronesia, the asshole of the Pacific. Glad you could make it,” he said, falsely smiling at Decker as though he was a long lost brother. “Let me take your duffel.”
“Why’d we land here?”
“Didn’t want to attract a lot of attention on Saipan, especially at the airport. The locals don’t exactly appreciate law-enforcement intervention, particularly by the Feebies and the government prosecutors. Frankly they don’t seem to like any Statesiders, which is one of the nicer names they have for us.”
Reb put out a hand and Carrington grasped it bro-style, locking eyes with the stranger. “Any friend of Decker’s is a friend of ours. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Carrington cocked his head toward a beer-bellied man wearing tattered jeans, a soiled Ozzy Osbourne t-shirt, Nike sneakers and a Boston Red Sox ballcap. He guessed they were about the same age, but the pilot leaning against an aging, blue-and-white, five-passenger, Bell 206 JetRanger helicopter obviously was going to seed at a far faster rate.
The pilot had adopted Whirly Man as his aviation call sign and personal nickname. He was puffing nervously on a cigarette. The light-utility helicopter, with its wraparound glass windshield and generous side windows, was a fragile baby bird compared to the Seahawk. Its fuselage paint was chipped and scratched, the body dented in several places, the windshield glass showed hairline cracks and the spindly landing skids were out of alignment. The aircraft did not inspire trust and confidence. It was emblazoned with the name Blue Pacific Aviation.
Carrington shot a wry look at Decker and Reb, knowing they must be wondering why he’d arranged transport in a deathtrap. “We’ll be flying with him. Only ride in town. He’ll let both of you off at an LZ before he and I continue on to the airport. Hannah will meet you with a car when you touch down.”
As Decker and Carrington approached, the pilot snuffed out his cigarette on the white coral. “If you guys don’t mind, we’ll skip the formalities. I’d like to get this bird off the ground and back home as quickly as possible.”
Carrington handed the pilot Decker’s duffel bag and the padded rifle case so that he could properly distribute the weight in the small helicopter.
Decker held onto his rifle as he squeezed through the rear door to the cramped passenger compartment. Reb folded himself beside Decker and gave him a hip check as he plunked down on the three-man bench seat. “This is cozy.”
Carrington thrust the second duffel and a long, dun-colored Pelican case onto Reb’s lap. “Plenty of room,” he said, chuckling.
The rear passenger compartment was separated from the pilot and co-pilot seats by a steel mesh screen, installed because Whirly Man occasionally transported prisoners for the CNMI police.
Carrington climbed in next to the pilot who pretended to be fiddling with the controls. Whirly Man shook his head at the sight of the weapons as though they were bound for trouble. Without any pre-check, he fired up the engine and the helicopter jerkily lifted off.
Peering out the window, Reb marveled at the sight of the coral-dot islands, the low-slung atolls surrounded by reef-toothed lagoons amid an endless turquoise sea. Even while wearing headphones, it was difficult to talk inside the small chopper, so he simply tried to relax after the long hours of travel from Kuwait. He’d just about nodded off when he heard the pilot’s panicked voice.
“We’re taking ground fire!”
Whirly Man pushed the cyclic control, keyed his radio to signal the radar station at the airport, and shouted into his microphone. “I think some of the rounds have hit near the tail.”
Decker chuckled to himself, wondering if he would ever see Hannah again or simply die in a helicopter crash. If this were the end, his death shockingly would not occur on some Taliban-infested jagged mountain peak in Afghanistan but on a magazine-cover tropical island. People who didn’t know him would undoubtedly assume he died while having a whole lot of fun in a beautiful place, like a tourist in a helicopter that crashes while viewing the fiery innards of some Hawaiian volcano.
The voice from the radar station, which was a wooden shack near the airport terminal building, urged the pilot to veer off and change course.
“Already bearing east. Th
e ground fire is coming from the fields near Tanapag. Small arms at this point, but I don’t want to hang around to see if whoever is doing the shooting has something bigger in their arsenal.”
“Copy that, Whirly Man. We have Blue Pacific Aviation changing course and heading east to avoid suspected weapons ground fire near Tanapag.”
“Not suspected, you asshole. I’ve got bullet holes in my helicopter.”
“Message received, Whirly Man. Please maintain radio protocol. Saipan flight radio office standing by for any further change in your status. We will notify law enforcement.”
The pilot barked into his helmet-mounted microphone. “Fucking assholes!”
Carrington adjusted the microphone on his headset. In a calm voice, he asked the pilot, “Who’s shooting at us?”
“Pot growers. They think I’m flying the police to get a look at their fields. I get threats all the time. I’ve had voodoo dolls with pins stuck in their eyes left in the cab of my pickup.”
“Do you take on gigs flying the police?”
“At one time I did. It seemed like easy money. But I don’t want to get shot down. It’s not worth it. Happened twice in Nam and I’d prefer no repeat performances. Apparently whoever was shooting at me today didn’t get the message. You guys aren’t police, are you?”
Carrington grinned. “Far from it. Our concerns are business-related. And my friends here, well, they just like to go hunting.”
The pilot rolled his eyes as he set the bird down in a fallow field where Hannah was waiting in the rented Nissan sedan. The possibility that the helicopter had been hit by ground fire gave him the perfect excuse for an emergency landing at a site not listed in his flight plan, a document he filled out by habit but was not obligated to since Saipan Airport had no air traffic control tower. Whirly Man needed to lose the tired-looking mercenaries and their weapons before returning to the airport with Carrington.
Decker and Carrington lugged the duffel bags to the car. Reb slung the shotgun strap over his shoulder and grabbed the soft rifle case by its handle. Decker went back for the Pelican case and another unmarked equipment box.
Hannah had changed into a white summer dress and sandals, her hair tamed by a single French braid. She wanted to look good for Decker, still uncertain about where their relationship was headed. She waved to Decker while shielding her eyes from the brilliant sun.
Decker’s bearded and sun-darkened face was the color of molasses but his teeth were still gleamingly white as he smiled.
Hannah hugged him, feeling the estrangement. “Good to see you, Decker. And you’re all in one piece,” she said, jerkily releasing her embrace. “We had no idea you were coming this way. It’s a surprise.”
“You mean Ashwood didn’t mention it?”
“Not until this morning.”
“Well, I didn’t get much advance notice either. But damn, you look fantastic. Total island girl. You even have a tan all over, or at least the parts of you I can see. Where I just came from the women were wearing burqas.”
Hannah blushed. “Thanks, Decker. You know I’m usually the pale office flower. It’s nice to have a bit of color in my face.”
Carrington cleared his throat as a way of breaking into the conversation and giving Decker an opportunity to introduce Reb.
“You three should roll. Lots of eyes everywhere. Hannah, this is Reb and he has no idea who you are or why you’re here, but this is the ninety seconds when you get to say hello to each other and we’ll go from there. Start now.”
Reb thrust out a hand – warm and friendly. “Riley Turner. People just call me Reb. Glad to meet you, ma’am.”
Hannah’s eyebrows lifted. “Did you just call me ma’am, Mr. Reb?”
Reb blushed. “Sorry ma’am, or miss, or whatever. No offense. Where I come from, that’s what we call women we don’t know.”
“And where might that be?”
“Florida for the past twenty years, but by way of Alabama.”
“How charming,” she said, but immediately regretted her words because they sounded snarky when in fact she felt an instant spark of connection with the handsome, sweat-glossed soldier. For some reason, he reminded her of home.
Decker glared at them disapprovingly. “You two can talk southern culture later — pecan pie, NASCAR races, Gone With the Wind. Right now we’ve got to get moving. Let’s toss our gear in the trunk.”
“Yes sir,” said Hannah, giving Decker a mock salute.
Decker turned to Carrington. “Where are we headed?”
An awkward moment of silence followed. Carrington seemed uneasy. “We only have a single room at a hotel a few clicks from the town where most of the drug trafficking seems to be taking place, but now that there are four of us, we can make other arrangements.”
“Sounds fine,” said Decker. “I can crash just about anywhere. I haven’t slept in days.”
“I’m sure you were busy.”
“You could say that.”
“We know Iraq is massing its military forces near the Kuwait border. Looks like they’re preparing for an invasion.”
“At this point, you probably know more than I do. All I know for sure is that special-ops teams are inside Afghanistan taking out high-value targets, mostly rabble-rousers preaching revolution against the west. The whole country is a shit show since the Russians pulled out with their tails between their legs.”
“Well, we can talk more back at the hotel and I’ll fill you in on what’s going on here.”
The helicopter pilot was inspecting the aircraft for bullet damage. At least one round had pierced the tail but fortunately not struck anything mechanical.
Carrington signaled the pilot that he was ready for takeoff. He turned to the others with a forced smile. “I’ll see you all later. I’ve got to go with our man here to the airport so that it fits with our story. He was supposedly flying me to and from Tinian so that I could get a look at the island as a possible resort location for Hannah’s travel company in Argentina. I don’t know how much Ashworth told you, but that’s our cover and once again she’s Mariel Becker. I’m Jake Marson. I hope our pilot can keep his mouth shut. We told him your passports had expired but that we had an emergency and needed to get you both into Saipan. Believe me, we paid him well, but he’s a nervous fellow.”
“I can see why,” Reb said sympathetically.
Carrington knew he was prattling on, something he seldom did. If anything, he was a man of action and few words. But he knew once he stopped talking, Decker and Hannah would be off alone together and the thought of it was making him a little crazy.
“I suppose Ashwood could have arranged our transport by submarine and let the SEALs give us a ride to the beach in a RIB,” said Decker. “We figured they’d do as much since Reb here is a SEAL.”
Carrington grinned. “I guess the Navy chopper was cheaper on fuel than the nuke sub. Ashwood has to watch his budget at Langley.”
Decker chuckled. “You’re probably right. And speaking of Ashwood, he owes me some serious back pay.”
Hannah nestled herself into the sedan’s driver seat and watched the helicopter disappear in the distance. Reb twisted himself into the back and sprawled out, his legs stiffened by hours aboard planes and helicopters. Decker sat erect in the passenger seat and rolled down the window despite the fact that the air conditioner was struggling to cool the car’s sunbaked interior. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out the window.
Hannah coughed as she glanced over at Decker and rolled her eyes. “Well, what now? We can fight about whether to leave the air conditioner running or shut it off. Or we can discuss the dangers of second-hand smoke inhalation.”
Decker smirked. “What’s the temp here, about 80 degrees?”
“Every day, sometimes all day.”
“Well, my body is used to the Afghan desert where it was well over 100, every day, sometimes all day. I’ll have to get accustomed to this chilly island weather.”
Hannah switched off the AC a
nd opened her window to the warm sea breeze. “Sorry. Sometimes I get tired of the same weather every day. Makes me miss Boston with its whacky swings of hot and cold. If we were back in Boston, there’d be snow on the ground.”
Reb sensed the tension. “I’d love to see some snow. Never get any of that in Pensacola.”
Decker frowned. “Snow is one thing I don’t miss, especially in April.”
Hannah affectionately swatted his shoulder. “You don’t miss making snowmen? Skiing? You were always throwing snowballs at me.”
“That seems like a long time ago. Another lifetime.”
“So what life are we in now, Decker?”
“I guess we’ll have to see. Are we still friends?”
Hannah thrust her right hand toward Decker, keeping her left on the steering wheel to avoid the potholes. “Good friends.”
Decker, albeit sleepy-eyed, gallantly kissed the back of her hand. “Good friends.”
Reb wished he were invisible or could somehow vanish into the back seat. He had no desire to witness what seemed like a lover’s quarrel. Decker had mentioned Hannah on their flight to Saipan, describing her as special ops and a close friend from Boston, nothing more. Obviously there was more, maybe much more.
Reb closed his eyes and tried to erase the scent of possibility he’d detected the moment his eyes had met Hannah’s. For a nanosecond he had felt a connection, a spark, a tingle, but now, after overhearing their conversation, he was convinced his imagination had gotten the best of him. He was about to doze off when he heard Hannah’s perturbed voice.
“When did you start smoking again?”
Decker exhaled loudly, the plume whooshing out the car window. “A few months ago. Just needed something to take the edge off.”
“Was it bad in the desert?”
“Not every day.”
“That’s bad. I’m sorry Decker.”
“Don’t be sorry, Hannah. I chose the playlist so I’ll dance to the music.”