With Hostile Intent

by Robert Gandt

  Maxwell went over to her. “Hey, you. Trying to be invisible?”

  She gave him a wan smile. “Yeah, I can blend into the wallpaper.” She waited until he sat down in the chair facing her. “I wish I had been invisible yesterday, before I got whacked by that Saudi Eagle driver. That was dumb.”

  Maxwell nodded. “Maybe. Do you know why it happened?”

  B.J. chewed on a thumbnail. “Sure. I screwed up.”

  “That you did. But think about it. What did you do wrong?”

  “I guess I was out of position.”

  Maxwell spread a napkin out on the coffee table. “Look at this,” he said, and sketched four winged symbols. “This is a a four-ship combat spread. Look how each section supports the other. If you’re dash four, your job is to cover your section leader’s right flank.” He drew semi-circles around the symbols. “Look what happens if you get wider than about five thousand feet from your leader. An oncoming bogey can split your defense quadrants, and you lose mutual support.” He drew an arrow between two fighter symbols. “Zap! One of you is dead meat.”

  B.J. stared glumly at the napkin. “Me, in this case.”

  “That’s what training is all about. Nobody was really morted, and you learned a valuable lesson.”

  She nodded toward the bar where Undra Cheever and Hozer Miller were huddled. Cheever was cracking up at something Miller said, laughing in his trademark hyena laugh. “The worst part,” B.J. said, “is that those guys get to thump their chests and say they were right about dumb women pilots.”

  Maxwell looked at the two pilots. Cheever and Miller were the worst of the alien-haters. Each had gone out of his way to make life miserable for the women pilots. One was probably the phantom caller. “Don’t worry about them. I happen to know that each of those guys has made dumber mistakes. We all have. It’s part of learning to be a fighter pilot.

  “I know you’re trying to make me feel better. Thank you.”

  Maxwell folded the napkin and gave it to her. He rose to leave. “You’ll get another shot at it. You’re gonna do just fine, B.J. Believe it.”

  B.J. managed a smile. “Okay, Brick. I’ll try.”

  <>

  “So you kicked some butt over at Al-Kharj yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Maxwell. “And we took out all their fighter assets.”

  A broad grin split the face of Admiral Joshua Lawrence Dunn. He refilled both their wineglasses. “I love it,” he said. “The way they’re telling it at JTF, it was a damn turkey shoot. Both the ACE and the Fifth Fleet Commander were over there rubbing the Air Force’s noses in it. They say you suckered in those F-15s like ducks to a blind.” Dunn cracked up thinking about it.

  Josh Dunn was a gangling, six-foot-four former attack pilot who had flown 140 missions over North Vietnam. Having survived to command a squadron, an air wing, a carrier division, and, ultimately, the U.S. Navy’s Sixth Fleet, Dunn was in the twilight of his forty-year career.

  “I can’t wait to tell your old man about this,” he said. “Harlan Maxwell’s boy — leading the whole goddamn large force exercise, and kicking their asses from here to Riyadh. He’s gonna swell up like a toad.”

  “Probably not. Dad’s still mad because I left NASA to come back to the fleet.”

  Dunn nodded. “Well, that’s the way fathers are. He was so proud that his kid was an astronaut. When you walked away from the space shuttle program, it nearly broke his heart.”

  Maxwell remembered. It was almost a year ago now, but the phone call was still vivid in his mind. His father, a retired rear admiral, had been incredulous. “Sam, for Christ’s sake, think it over. Everything you’ve worked and studied for. I know you’ve suffered a loss, but trust me, son, you’ll get over it and . . .”

  Suffered a loss. Yes, recalled Maxwell, that he had. But his father had been wrong about one thing: He wouldn’t get over it. Some things you didn’t get over. What happened on the cape was burned into his memory. What he had lost was irreplaceable.

  He never wanted to fly into space again.

  Josh Dunn took a sip from his wineglass. “So tell me. How’s it going in your new squadron?”

  “Oh, pretty good,” Maxwell said carefully.

  “Getting along with the famous Killer DeLancey?”

  Maxwell couldn’t tell if Dunn was fishing or just making conversation. He took the cautious route. “More or less. Killer’s a pretty opinionated guy.” You didn’t spill your guts to a three star admiral, even if he was like your uncle.

  “Not what I hear. Back at OpNav the rumor is the MiG shoot last week put you and DeLancey in a major pissing contest.”

  “We had a disagreement about rules of engagement.”

  Dunn tilted back in his chair and looked around the room. A pair of crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a soft yellow light. The only other guests in the Dubai Hilton dining room were a half dozen Europeans having a quiet dinner and a couple of Arab businessmen huddled over coffee.

  “DeLancey served under me during the Kosovo operation,” said Dunn. “I was running CarGru Eight. I wanted to court-martial the sonofabitch for violating the ROE, but I got overruled. He had patrons high up in the Navy Department. Goddamn civilians who thought he wore a mask and a cape. So he got decorated and promoted instead.”

  Maxwell nodded. Some things never changed, he thought. “Sounds like Killer.”

  “All I’m saying is you better watch your six o’clock. A commanding officer like that will ruin your career. Don’t trust the sonofabitch.”

  Maxwell had to smile at that one. Don’t trust Killer DeLancey? The one thing you could trust about DeLancey was that you couldn’t trust him. “I’m watching my six o’clock.”

  The admiral regarded him for a moment, then leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Listen, Sam, I’ll deny I ever said this. But I can arrange for you to get orders to another squadron. It would solve everyone’s problem. DeLancey will give you an unsatisfactory fitness report and ruin your chances of getting your own command someday.”

  “No, sir.” Maxwell said it so quickly he surprised himself. “I appreciate what you want to do. I have to deal with Killer my way.”

  “What way is that?”

  Good question, thought Maxwell. He had no idea. But he couldn’t allow a high-ranking friend of his father’s to bail him out. “I’m going to do my job the best I can. I’ll let the system take care of the rest.”

  “Killer is the system. He’ll derail your career.”

  Maxwell shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, Admiral.”

  Dunn sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I knew you’d say that.” For several seconds he stared into his wineglass. “You know something? You’re just as pig-headed as your old man.”

  <>

  Claire Phillips waited at a cabana table, sipping a vodka tonic. She glanced at her watch again. How long had she been sitting here? Twenty minutes? Damn, she thought, a cigarette would taste wonderful. Never mind that she had given it up three months ago. Why was she nervous? Come on, girl, get a grip.

  It was past eight o’clock. She wondered if he had gotten the note she left with the concierge, who promised to deliver it to Commander Maxwell’s room.

  11 A.M., 16 May

  Dear Boy Astronaut,

  We have a date, remember? I’m in town to cover a press conference at the ambassador’s residence at seven. Then I’m free (for dinner, I mean). Let’s meet in the Hilton Cabana bar at eight.

  Love,

  Cub Reporter

  The press conference, just as she expected, was a godawful waste of time. The ambassador was a wealthy California automobile dealer and a political crony of the President. He was famous for convening these events for no other purpose than to have himself videotaped in the presence of visiting dignitaries. The dignitaries in this case amounted to a couple of admirals and their staffs, and that self-promoting twit, Whitney Babcock.

  But that was okay. As Claire well knew, out here in the G
ulf journalism and politics were intertwined. Someday she would be asking for the ambassador’s help with a breaking story, and she had a card to play. So she would see to it that the ambassador’s pointless news conference got coverage. She showed up at six-thirty with her producer and two cameramen. The conference amounted to a pronouncement by the ambassador about how the U.S. Navy intended to protect oil tankers, regardless of their flag, as they transited the Persian Gulf.

  Mercifully, the pronouncement had been brief. Claire interviewed the ambassador, making sure to mention the dignitaries, then capturing all their beaming faces on videotape. She thanked everyone and got the hell out.

  In the cabana bar, the white-jacketed waiter came by her table. She ordered another vodka tonic. The cabana was swathed in a yellow light from the array of Japanese lanterns strung in the palms. Half a dozen guests — three men and three women — were sitting at the long, curved bar. A lone musician in a safari shirt was producing a warbling electronic music with his keyboard.

  The drinks were beginning to settle her now. She’d finish this one, and if he didn’t show up, she’d pack it in. And that was a bizarre turn, she reflected. Her journalistic beat — the Middle East, Europe, Southeast Asia — was filled with men, many of whom were powerful and well known, who would kill to meet her, take her out, just be seen with her.

  Right, she thought. So why are you sitting here by yourself waiting for —

  He stepped into the cabana. She saw him pause for a moment, standing in the light of the lanterns, peering around. Claire’s heartbeat quickened. Sam Maxwell. Still the boy astronaut.

  Watching him, she wondered again, What was it about him? He wasn’t especially handsome, at least not in a conventional way. He had that craggy face, with high cheekbones and those riveting blue eyes. His lanky, narrow-waisted build made him look more like some kind of athlete — ski bum or a tennis pro — than a career naval officer.

  He spotted her. In long strides he came to her table. “Claire, I’m really sorry. I couldn’t make it any sooner.”

  “That’s okay,” she heard herself saying. “I just got here myself,”

  He flagged down the waiter, and they ordered more drinks. The moon, Maxwell pointed out, was just coming up over the eastern wall of the hotel courtyard. Why didn’t they stay right there for dinner? Through a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a dinner of calamari and grilled swordfish, they talked about the old days — Washington D. C., Patuxent River, the little bar they loved in Georgetown, the quaint way the fishermen spoke out on Tangier Island. And old friends they both knew.

  “Where’s Devo?” Claire asked. “I heard you two were in the same squadron again.”

  “Devo? Yes, he’s here. He — he said to say hello, but he’d had a long day. He probably hit the sack.”

  She noticed the hesitation. “Eileen? Are they still —”

  “Splitting up. Devo’s not handling it well.”

  She nodded. She gathered by his voice that he didn’t want to pursue the subject. Eileen Davis, she remembered, was a girl who demanded a lot of attention. It wasn’t surprising that she would be discontented with a husband who spent half his life at sea. Claire wondered again how it might have been if she and Sam had stayed together.

  She tried getting him to talk about the situation in Iraq. Maxwell artfully dodged the specifics of what the Reagan and its battle group might do. She kept trying.

  “Okay, Sam, just tell me one thing.”

  “Maybe. What?”

  “You were there that day your skipper shot down the MiG in the No Fly Zone?”

  “Yes. And?”

  “Why didn’t you shoot the other MiG?”

  <>

  Bogey!

  Possible target, not yet identified. Delancey was the only one who saw it.

  The Roadrunner BAG and GAG patrol was making an early return to base. The three — DeLancey, Miller, Cheever — had decided to cut their losses and head for the admin on the seventh floor. At least the booze was cheap, even if the women were nil. But DeLancey was still scanning for targets of opportunity.

  Crossing the Hilton lobby, DeLancey saw something interesting in the corner of the bar, like a distant target against the horizon. He said nothing, and kept it to himself.

  “Listen, guys,” he said. “Go up and put some music on. I gotta make a phone call, then I’ll be along.”

  He waited until the elevator door closed on Miller and Cheever. Then he retraced his route across the lobby, to the bar on the mezzanine. He saw a long, shiny blonde mane and a short skirt. He couldn’t see her face—her back was to him—but she was showing a considerable length of tan legs.

  He pressed on in. As he closed the distance, Delancey began to notice she looked very much like. . .but it couldn’t be. . .

  It was.

  Spam Parker was perched on one of the high stools at the bar, talking to some guy whom DeLancey vaguely recognized. He was a lieutenant commander from CAG staff, an NFO — Naval Flight Officer — who sometimes back-seated with the EA-6B squadron.

  DeLancey stood there for a few seconds sizing up the situation. It was trouble, he thought. He should just walk away, go back to the elevators, and up to the admin. A voice inside him reminded him that nothing good could come from this.

  But what the hell. It wouldn’t hurt to look.

  She turned and saw him. “Skipper! I was wondering where you were.”

  She was wearing a short black leather skirt—one of the tight minis that women were not allowed to exhibit in public in Arab countries, even in a liberal Muslim state like Dubai. She had on a thin white halter that showed she had no interest in a bra, which would have gotten her into even more trouble on the street.

  Christ, thought DeLancey. Who would have thought she looked like that outside of her baggy flight suit? The woman had the body of an amazon. And she was showing it off for the benefit of this google-eyed backseat puke. The guy was swilling his beer and looking at her like a kid having his first wet dream.

  She’d had a lot to drink, he could tell. Her tone had that breezy familiarity. Too breezy, too sexy for a junior officer to be using with her CO. But that was Parker’s style. Like the miniskirt and the halter.

  “Tom Batchelder,” said the NFO, extending his hand. He was a friendly young man, tall and slender with a brown crew cut, wearing an Izod sport shirt over Dockers khakis. “CAG staff.”

  DeLancey eyeballed him. He ignored the proffered handshake. “I’m Killer DeLancey,” he said. “Her commanding officer.” Intimidate, then liquidate, he always figured. Get the skirmishing over with.

  The NFO blinked, suddenly worried. His eyes darted up and down the bar. He was sensing clear and present danger, and it was time for a quick reassessment.

  “Uh-oh, look at the time.” He made an exaggerated study of his enormous wrist chronometer. “I’ve got to cut and run. I’m late to meet someone upstairs.” He slammed down the rest of his beer. “See ya, Spam. And, uh, it was really nice meeting you, Commander.”

  Spam waited until the NFO had made his retreat. “Wow! Do you always intimidate people that way?”

  “Just protecting you.”

  She giggled and took a sip of her drink. “Is that what a skipper is supposed to do? Protect his women pilots from horny CAG staff officers?”

  “A good skipper looks after his own.”

  She gave him a knowing look, then leaned forward a little. “You know something, Killer — it’s okay if I call you Killer, isn’t it? I have an enormous respect for you. And you’re such a clever and persuasive man. I’m so glad I’m in your squadron.”

  There it was again. She had just ratcheted the familiarity level up another notch. He knew she was stroking his ego, but he didn’t mind. She was just being female.

  Spam stirred her drink with her finger, then inserted the finger into her mouth. With her eyes locked on his, she withdrew her finger, leaving it against her pursed lips. She curled her fingers into a ball and rested her chin on it.


  DeLancey was getting a signal from his internal radar. He should just get the hell out here. But he was feeling a surge in his groin.

  “I don’t suppose it occurred to you,” he said, “that that’s a very sexy outfit you’re wearing.”

  “Really?” She batted her eyelashes again; looked down at the leather skirt. “This old thing?” She laughed and recrossed her legs. “Do you think it’s too. . .flashy?”

  “The locals might get upset. But that’s their problem.”

  “Does that mean you approve?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He made a show of examining her legs. They were bare and surprisingly tan. He eyeballed her tiny skirt, her thin cotton halter.

  “Yeah,” he said finally. “You pass the DeLancey test.”

  “That’s good.” She leaned forward again, giving him a view down the front of the halter. “Because I really want you to like me, Killer. And not just as an officer. You know what I mean?”

  DeLancey knew what she meant. And it definitely exceeded the rules of engagement. But there were times, he told himself, when you had to break the rules. No guts, no glory.

  DeLancey waved the bartender over and signed the tab. He and Spam exchanged looks. No words were needed. Her eyes, gray, half-closed, said it all.

  She nodded, and they rose together. Keeping a discreet distance between them, they made their way across the lobby, to the elevator. She waited primly while he pushed 6.

  The doors closed.

  They lunged at each other. For twenty-five seconds, while the elevator ascended to the sixth floor, they pulled at each other’s bodies. They kissed, groped, rubbed, fondled, stroked, until —

  Ding. The door opened on the sixth floor and the outside world reappeared. A middle-aged European couple stood there, regarding them curiously. Resuming their three-foot separation, Delancey and Spam made a wobbly but dignified exit from the elevator. They walked down the hallway in a stately promenade.

  To Room 612. DeLancey made a quick check in each direction. All clear.

  He unlocked the door and let them in.