Course of Action: Crossfire

by Lindsay McKenna;Merline Lovelace

  “Hey, Najjar!” He hailed one of the Omani PJs just entering the lounge. “Translate this headline for me, will you?”

  Najjar’s English was a whole lot better than Pete’s limited Arabic. He needed only a brief glance at the headline to reel off a quick translation.

  “‘By special invitation from Prince Malik al Said, internationally renowned opera star Riley Fairchild will perform tomorrow evening at the Royal Opera House.’”

  Christ! It was her.

  Riley Fairchild.

  Blonde, beautiful and a complete bitch.

  That last was according to her mother. Meredith Fairchild’s caustic commentary on her ungrateful offspring should have sent Pete running for cover when he’d encountered both mother and daughter at Josh and Aly’s wedding. God knew, he’d accumulated enough scars from his own marriage to a spoiled diva.

  Head cheerleader Nancy Sue Collins had starred in the wet dreams of just about every male attending high school in Rush Springs, Texas. As curvaceous as she was addicted to the adulation of her lovesick admirers, she’d picked Pete—the football team’s all-state cornerback—to be her chosen mate. She’d even strutted her stuff and told everyone how proud she was when Pete and his fellow Sidewinders all enlisted the day after graduation.

  Then came basic and twenty grueling months of Special Ops training. Didn’t take Nancy Sue long to discover the wife of a low-ranking trainee on a big, bustling military base was a small frog in a very large pond. She hightailed it back to Texas before Pete finished Phase One of PJ training. He got served with divorce papers halfway through Phase Two. Six months later, Nancy Sue married the wealthiest man in Rush Springs. The new-and-used car dealer was twice her age, a fact she dismissed with a defiant toss of her hair when she bumped into Pete at Josh and Aly’s reception.

  She’d shown up uninvited, he’d learned later. But since she’d been part of their crowd way back when, no one said anything. Pete would be the first to admit she’d looked as lush and sensual as ever. But her brittle smile and the champagne she’d guzzled nonstop suggested her second marriage wasn’t working out any better than the first.

  Which was probably why Pete had tried to ignore his ex-wife and zero in instead on the delectable Riley Fairchild. Despite her mother’s bitter comment, the gorgeous singer had a tumble of honey-blond hair and the serene, almost ethereal face of a Madonna. Ha! Some Madonna! She’d cut off Pete at the knees with an icy stare and about six well-chosen words. He was still licking his wounds when she got up to serenade the bride and groom at their reception.

  Pete wasn’t into opera. Didn’t know Puccini from Pink Floyd. And he didn’t find out until later that Riley Fairchild had made a phenomenally successful crossover into pop. At the time, all he knew was that her incredible rendition of “I Will Always Love You” brought tears to Aly’s eyes and a fist-sized lump to everyone else’s throat.

  Now she was here. In Oman. Performing tomorrow night at the Royal Opera House in Muscat. Helluva small world, Pete thought wryly as he departed the TOC.

  The desert heat hit him like a balled fist. He should be used to it after almost two weeks in Oman. He wasn’t. Squinting through his Ray-Ban sunglasses, he started across the compound. Originally an oil depot, Thumrait had been converted to a busy military base. Oman’s ruling sultan had allowed the US, UK and Allied air forces to stage out of Thumrait during Desert Shield, Desert Storm and the on-going global war on terror. In support of those operations, the US had established a major war reserve matériel depot here. Row after row of sand-colored storage facilities were filled to the rafters with medical supplies, munitions, fuels, vehicles, rations and a whole host of other consumables.

  Angling between two rows of rectangular warehouses, Pete made for the Containerized Housing Units that served as housing for transient personnel. The boxcar-like CHUs came equipped with air-conditioning, phone and data links, and hot and cold running water. All the comforts of home—if your home was a six-by-twenty-foot box. Rows of CHUs stretched almost to the razor-wire-topped fence protecting the perimeter. The fence kept out the locals but not the wind-driven sand. Mountains of it piled up every day, obscuring walkways and obstructing runways that had to be swept continuously by the army of locals employed at the base.

  Pete shared a two-man CHU with the ranking Omani noncom for the duration of their combined Special Operations exercise. Faisal was at the Tactical Ops Center, preparing for a night exercise, so Pete treated himself to a long, cool shower before padding naked to the minifridge and popping the top of an ice-cold beer. Although Oman was a Muslim country and alcohol forbidden to its natives, visitors were permitted to indulge in the privacy of their homes, hotel rooms or on-base quarters.

  The Heineken went a long way to washing the sand from his throat and gullet, but the call from the TOC some moments later almost made him choke on it.

  “Sergeant Winborne, we’re patching through a call for you.”

  “From?”

  “Prince Malik al Said. Hold, please.”

  Hell! Nothing like standing stark naked, beer in hand and taking a call from royalty. Trying to ignore the air-conditioning that was now shrinking certain parts of his anatomy to minuscule proportions, Pete set aside his beer.

  “I just received a report on the exercise this morning,” the prince said in flawless English when he came on line. Educated at the École Spéciale Militaire de Saint-Cyr in France, with follow-on flight training in the United States and Great Britain, Malik al Said was fluent in a half dozen languages. “I’m pleased, Pete. Very pleased.”

  “So am I, Your Highness. Our guys did good.”

  “But pararescue... Only the best of the best are worthy to become PJs.”

  Pete wouldn’t argue with that. Every PJ worth his salt trained every day to make their creed—That Others May Live—more than just a slogan. Like the air commandos before them, they would do whatever it took to rescue stranded troops or downed crew members. They could enter hostile territory by parachute, scuba, motorcycles, snowmobiles or skis. Climb up or rappel down sheer mountain precipices. Fight their way out of deadly ambushes and firefights. They were also fully qualified EMTs. Their brutal training regimen resulted in the highest washout rate among any of the military branches, including Army Rangers and Navy SEALs. Less than fifteen percent of all personnel who entered PJ school earned the right to wear the coveted maroon beret.

  “You must convey my congratulations to the men,” the prince continued.

  “I will, sir.”

  “And to celebrate, I’m ordering a two-day stand-down. Rest, my friend, and enjoy this well-deserved break.”

  “Thank you, I will. Or...”

  The idea that popped into Pete’s head was so crazy he decided later it had to have been the beer talking.

  “Yes?” the prince asked.

  “I saw in the papers that Riley Fairchild is performing in Muscat tomorrow evening. I met her once, back in the States. Briefly.”

  “Did you? Then you must come and hear her perform. I shall tell my people to have a ticket waiting for you at the box office. And,” the prince added after a brief pause, “I will have them arrange an appointment with my tailor. The event tomorrow evening is white-tie, as I’m sure you must know.”

  Hell, no, he didn’t know!

  “You cannot wear your dress uniform,” al Said cautioned. “Not in such a setting.”

  Translation: Not with Oman walking a delicate tightrope between East and West. There were sure to be high-powered diplomats there from both sides of the power struggle. No need to flash a US uniform loaded with combat badges and campaign ribbons in their faces.

  Pete started to tell the prince to forget the whole thing, but al Said didn’t give him a chance. “My people will attend to the details and call you,” he said briskly. “Go with God, my friend.”

  “Your Highness...”

  Too late. The prince had cut the connection.

  Smart, Winborne! Real smart! Talk yourself out
of a couple lazy-ass days and into a fancy dress function up in Muscat!

  Shaking his head, Pete finished his beer, tossed the can into the trash and stretched out on his rack. The mental and physical stress of the past few hours should have seeped out of his pores the way it always did, slowly and with a detailed, step-by-step review of each phase of the rescue operation just completed.

  Instead, he found himself prey to a different kind of tension. This one settled low in his belly and knotted just a little tighter each time his thoughts drifted to Riley Fairchild.

  What the hell! So she had the personality of a she-wolf with a thorn in her paw, she could still sing like nothing Pete had ever heard. It would almost be worth it to make the trip up to Muscat and gussy up in white tie and tails.

  Almost.

  * * *

  Thumrait Air Base was a little over 900 kilometers southwest of Oman’s capital city. Ten-plus hours by truck or four-wheel drive. Even longer if you climbed aboard a camel and followed the ancient frankincense trading route through the desert.

  Pete might have used the arduous journey as an excuse to bow out if a Royal Air Force C-130 Hercules didn’t made regular runs between the base and Muscat. So he hauled his butt aboard the cargo plane a little after eight the next morning and was in the capital by eleven.

  The ride in from the airport took him through the near blinding sunshine along spotless new highways. Muscat wasn’t as flashy as Dubai or Abu Dhabi, its glitzy neighbors to the north. No world’s tallest buildings or monster shopping malls with indoor ski slopes. Although modern and more progressive, Oman incorporated its past into its present.

  The capital city formed a crescent fronting the cobalt waters of the Arabian Sea. Red, barren mountains ringed its perimeter, holding the desert at bay. The old section of the city was a jumble of narrow streets and busy souks fronting the harbor, where dhows laden with silks and spices from all over the world once found anchorage. Oil tankers, cargo ships, the royal yachts and the occasional cruise ship now rode the turquoise waters.

  Muscat’s newer environs spread out from the old. The disciplined sprawl of gleaming white adobe structures constructed in Arabic style included the sultan’s palace, the Royal Opera House and the blue-domed Grand Mosque that could accommodate more than twenty thousand worshippers. International hotels catering to companies hoping to tap Oman’s rich oil reserves were low-rise and also conformed to traditional architecture. So did the embassies set amid compounds filled with palms and flowering bushes.

  The sights and scents of the city filled Pete’s senses at every turn. The souks, where men in traditional Omani embroidered skullcaps and flowing white robes sat cross-legged in stalls. The mud-and-adobe homes of old Arabia, their arched windows shaded by tall palms. The scent of spicy kebabs roasting on charcoal braziers.

  Pete caught the tantalizing aroma when he climbed out of the taxi at the address provided by one of the prince’s underlings. Before hitting the tailor’s shop, he claimed a rickety table at an outdoor café and treated himself to a traditional Omani meal. The barbecued lamb and grilled vegetable kebab was served over lemon rice with a side of succulent olives and dates. Suitably fortified, he entered the dim, musty tailor’s shop.

  He was greeted by a wizened gnome in a traditional white robe and skullcap. Wire-rimmed glasses sat on the tip of the man’s nose, measuring tape dangled around his neck.

  “As-salám aláykum.”

  “Peace be with you, too,” Pete replied in passable Omani.

  “I am Yassim,” the tailor said, switching to English. “And you must be the one the prince’s people told me would come.”

  His shrewd black eyes measured Pete’s body under the knit polo shirt and well-washed jeans he’d donned for the excursion to the capital.

  “They said you would be well-muscled. They did not lie, I see. Come, come.”

  He crooked a finger and led the way into a back room bursting with color. Bolts of fabric jammed shelves that reached from floor to ceiling. Giant spools spilled lengths of gold rope, silver tassels, sequined trim and metallic braid in a dozen different sizes and colors. Tailor’s dummies in various stages of dress stood like sentinels guarding these bright treasures.

  Pete was eyeing the tassels and sequins with serious doubt when Yassim whisked aside a curtain to display another tailor’s dummy. This one was dressed in Western attire. White tie, white shirt, low-cut white vest, black pants and black cutaway jacket. With tails, for God’s sake!

  “It was made for the English Ambassador,” Yassim explained, “but he does not return to Muscat until next month. He is a big man, as big as you in the upper body. The jacket and shirt will fit, I think, but I shall have to take in the pants. Please, try them on.”

  He gestured to a curtained area, where Pete traded his jeans and knit shirt for full dress regalia. The tailor had a good eye. The shirt, vest and cutaway jacket fit almost perfectly, but the pants were too large in the waist and a good inch too short.

  That didn’t seem to present much of a problem. Yassim produced a wedge of chalk from a pocket of his voluminous robe and made a few quick slashes.

  “There! This will be easy to fix, thanks be to God. I shall deliver them to your hotel by six.”

  Nodding, Pete changed back into his jeans and polo shirt. “How much do I owe you?”

  “There is no charge.”

  “Sure there is.”

  “Prince al Said’s man said all costs would taken care of. Now for shoes. My associate Faquir is but two shops over and he—”

  “I’ll pay for this,” Pete interjected politely but firmly. “How much?”

  Tonight would most likely be the only time he would ever rig himself out in white tie and tails. Once he rotated back to his home base in Florida, these fancy duds would gather dust in his closet. Right along with the service and mess dress uniforms he dragged out for those rare instances when PJs gathered for formal military functions. Still, he wasn’t about to abuse the prince’s friendship or violate Air Force regulations by accepting such an expensive gift.

  Shrugging, the tailor named a price. It was probably one tenth what Pete would pay for formal attire in the United States, but it still made him gulp. In normal circumstances he would have countered with a figure half that amount and enjoyed the subsequent bargaining. These circumstances were hardly normal.

  * * *

  As he reminded himself again while he mounted the steps to the Royal Opera House later that evening.

  Constructed in 2011, the white marble temple to the arts gleamed in the evening sun. Clean lines and soaring arches celebrated the best of traditional Omani architecture. Within its deceptively simple walls, the massive complex housed landscaped gardens, an upscale cultural market, luxury restaurants and separate auditoriums for orchestral, theatrical and operatic productions.

  Since this was a royal performance, guards checked Pete’s ID and performed a quick search of his taxi before allowing it to join the queue of other vehicles discharging elegantly dressed patrons. The chandelier-lit foyer was crammed with what looked like dozens of different nationalities. The Omani men wore black outer robes decorated with glittering gold ropes and tassels over their ankle-length, long-sleeved white robes. Instead of their everyday skullcaps, the bright colors and intricate designs of their turbans designated their tribe and rank. And each sported a curved dagger in jeweled sheaths tucked into their robe at the waist.

  Their spouses were almost as colorful. Omani women had more rights and freedom than women in some other Arab Gulf states. Many chose to follow strict Muslim dress codes and dressed in black from head to toe. But a good number of those present wore elaborately embroidered robes over loose-fitting trousers and jeweled slippers, although modesty dictated that they cover their hair with decorative shawls. As with the men, their bright plumage identified their tribe and area of origin.

  The locals mingled in the vast foyer with individuals in Western dress. The men sported the same ultraformal at
tire as Pete. The women were rigged out in every color of the spectrum while still attempting to respect local customs. Their shoulders and arms were discreetly covered. Some had draped filmy scarves over their hair.

  Pete collected the ticket he’d been told would be waiting for him at the box office and stood in line to get through security. It was decent, he noted with a critical eye, but not impenetrable. Guards were posted at regular intervals, their presence felt but not intrusive. He was making mental adjustments to their disposition as he followed the crowd through the lobby to the main auditorium. An attendant scanned his ticket and directed him up a half level. Another attendant escorted him to what he realized too late was the royal box.

  “I think this is a mistake.”

  “No, sir.” The attendant waved him to an ornate armchair padded in purple velvet. “Your seat is just here. The prince and his party will arrive shortly.”

  Okay. All right. So he’d be sitting one row behind the prince and directly under the Omani coat of arms. The best seats in the house, close enough to the stage to see the shimmer of gold thread woven into the red curtain. Pete just hoped to hell some enterprising newshound didn’t snap a picture of the box once the prince arrived. If the picture should hit the news media, his fellow Sidewinders would never let him live down being caught in a monkey suit, hobnobbing with royalty.

  When he took his seat, curious stares came zinging at him from all directions. He avoided them by burying his nose in the program. Printed in both Arabic and English, the playbill informed him that the Royal Opera House had opened with performances by Placido Domingo, Andrea Bocelli and world-renowned cellist Yo-Yo Ma.

  It also imparted the interesting information that tonight’s performance was the next to last in a series of concerts given by Riley Fairchild to benefit the United Nations Children’s Emergency Fund. All proceeds from the two-month, twelve-country concert tour, Pete read, went to UNICEF’s programs to alleviate starvation and reduce infant mortality in sub-Saharan Africa. He was trying to fit this information with the less-than-flattering mental construct he’d formed of the opera singer at Aly and Josh’s wedding when the prince and his party arrived.