The Trojan Sea

by Richard Herman

  Turika exhaled loudly. “The ownership is a confused issue. My government wants nothing to do with it.”

  “But the CAA doesn’t know that,” Seagrave said. Turika fell silent, considering his options.

  “Gramps,” Eric said, “if the Gray Eagles get it, I can wash it and keep it clean. I got lots of friends who’ll help me.” A thought came to him. “You know what would be real neat?” He was so excited he couldn’t contain his twelve-year-old enthusiasm. “We can paint it with Saudi markings, just like when Prince Turika and Commander Seagrave flew it.”

  “I doubt if the Saudis would allow that,” Seagrave said. He looked at Turika. “But there would be a certain poetic justice, since your country has kept it alive.”

  Turika smiled at the boy, recalling when his sons had been the same age. But they had all grown up, and not one had followed in his footsteps. “Do you want to be a fighter pilot?” Eric nodded vigorously, a big grin on his face. Turika turned to Shanker. “You’re a very lucky man to have such a grandson. Let’s make something happen, for his sake.” He paused, remembering the past. “And for Muddy Waters and Jack Locke.” He looked at Seagrave. “Chalky, do you know anyone in your government who might be sympathetic?”

  “Miss Liz will help,” Eric blurted out. Just as quickly he added, “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes,” Seagrave murmured.

  “Sorry, Chalky,” Liz said, “but I don’t have the authority to do anything.” She gazed at the Lightning and recalled her short flight from the day before. “What a shame. It is a magnificent machine.”

  “What if we submitted a letter returning the Lightning to its rightful owner?” Seagrave asked.

  “I thought the RAF Cranthorpe Memorial Display owned it,” she replied.

  “It is my understanding,” Turika said, “that it is on loan from my government, along with all the equipment, tools, spare parts, and extra engines.”

  Liz understood exactly what the men were suggesting. “Well, if you submitted the letter through my office…”

  “And if you didn’t forward it for a week or so,” Seagrave added.

  “I had planned on taking leave starting tomorrow,” Liz said. “I’d be gone a week. It would be on my desk waiting for my return.”

  “And if I happened to take possession of the Lightning during that time,” Turika said.

  “Yes, I see,” Liz said. “You could move it at your discretion.” She warmed to the idea. “Actually, if it was out of the country, the problem goes away, for which I personally would be most grateful—in my official capacity, of course.”

  “What about an export license to clear customs?” Seagrave asked.

  “No license is required for exporting salvage,” Liz replied. “Just a declaration and estimate of value to pay customs.”

  Shanker shook his head. “It doesn’t look like salvage to me.”

  “What does salvage look like?” Eric asked.

  “I imagine that customs doesn’t really care what it looks like,” Turika said, “as long as it is declared salvage and they have an estimate of value.”

  “I can provide that,” Liz said.

  “We can’t ask you to do that, Liz,” Seagrave said. “You’re taking too much of a chance declaring it salvage, giving us an estimate, and then sitting on the letter while we abscond with the goods.”

  “Not to worry,” she replied. “Since when has one bureaucracy talked to another?” She gave them a radiant smile. “Cheated death again, yes?”

  The Pentagon

  Colonel Roger “Ramjet” Priestly was not a happy man as he reread the lengthy memo from the secretary of defense’s office. He was unhappy because his name was not on it and Lieutenant Colonel Michael E. Stuart’s name was. He threw down the memo in disgust and buzzed his secretary. “Peggy, I want Stuart in here on the double.” He didn’t wait for a reply before breaking the connection. He checked his watch. Exactly forty-five seconds later Stuart presented himself in Ramjet’s office. Peggy had warned him, and not even his glasses could hide his worry. Ramjet threw the memo at Stuart. “I suppose you’ve already seen this?”

  Stuart scanned the memo. “No, sir. This is all news to me.”

  Ramjet came out of his chair, his palms flat against his desk, his arms rigid, and leaned forward. “In a pig’s ass! This has got your pecker tracks all over it. Tell me a major initiative coming from the National Security Council and forwarded to me from the Sec Def, that directs”—he grabbed the memo and jabbed a forefinger at the opening paragraph to quote—“‘A comprehensive review of the Strategic Petroleum Reserve to include movement and distribution affecting defense commitments’ isn’t tied to your tail.” His face turned beet red.

  Stuart tried to be rational. “We do this type of thing all the time, sir. I don’t see the problem.”

  Ramjet fell back in his chair. “The problem is that I’m totally out of the loop. It looks like I was asleep at the switch. From now on you will back-brief me after every meeting you attend. Also you will submit nothing, and I mean nothing, without my signing off on it first.”

  Stuart tried to explain. “Any top-to-bottom review is going to involve the heavy hitters. I’m just one of the troops buried on some subcommittee doing the legwork.”

  “Remember who you work for and you won’t have a problem. Forget where your first loyalty is and I’ll be the one who buries you. Do you understand everything I’ve said?” Stuart nodded. “Good,” Ramjet said. “One more thing: I’ll hang you out to dry if you ever make an end run around me like this again. Dismissed.”

  Stuart decided that protesting his innocence was a waste of time, and he hurried out of the colonel’s office. Maybe Hurricane Andrea wasn’t so bad after all, he thought.

  Peggy Redman waved a blue memo slip, stopping him before he could escape. “First meeting this afternoon,” she told him.

  He skidded to a halt. “I was lucky to get out of there alive. He hates my guts, and I don’t know why.”

  “He hates himself,” Peggy replied. “He doesn’t need a reason.” She sighed. “I’ve seen it before. It’s very sad.”

  “Not when you’re the target,” Stuart groused. He read the memo and let out a groan. “The meeting’s at the NSC across the river. He’s not going to like this.” The NSC was the National Security Council, and across the river meant the other side of the Potomac and the Old Executive Office Building across the street from the White House. For Ramjet Priestly that was much too close to the president. Stuart had a distinct image of being sent up the river and not across it.

  “I’ll tell him,” Peggy said.

  He gave her his best grin. “Thanks. I owe you.”

  Peggy made a note and watched him go. She picked up the phone and dialed a friend in the NSC. “Gloria, it’s Peggy. Lieutenant Colonel Mike Stuart will be at the meeting. Put in a good word for him, okay?” She listened for a moment. “You’ll like him. He’s one of the good guys.”

  Stuart was the only uniform on the third floor of the Old Executive Office Building, and he felt like a fish out of water. But that was typical of the Turner administration with its deliberate muting of the armed services’ presence in the nation’s capital. Although the president, Madeline O’Keith Turner, preferred to keep the military in the background, she was not hostile to the Department of Defense and trusted her military advisers. It had been that way since the Okinawa crisis, when her own party had turned against her and only the generals had stood firmly behind their commander in chief. *

  Stuart found the conference room and walked in. The table was arranged with name cards and handouts at each seat, and flowers, the trademark of the Turner administration, were in the center. It all made him think of a formal banquet. Stuart glanced at the civilian sitting next to him and then his name card. General something, he couldn’t quite read the last name. He was gray-headed, hunch-shouldered, and totally nondescript. “Colonel Stuart,” the general said, “we’re
supposed to wear civvies on this side of the river.”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know. It won’t happen again.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Colonel Roger Priestly, the chief of ILSX.”

  “I’ll speak to him.”

  Stuart suppressed a groan. That was all he needed. He automatically stood with everyone else and at first couldn’t see who entered the room. He caught his breath when he saw Mazana Kamigami Hazelton, the national security adviser.

  “Please be seated,” the national security adviser said. She remained standing while the committee shuffled into their seats. It was the first time Stuart had seen her in person. She was petite, very short—less than five feet—and beautiful. Her delicate features reflected the best of her Hawaiian and Japanese heritages. Her exquisitely tailored business suit and diamond engagement ring with its matching wedding band shouted wealth, while her last name, Hazelton, signaled power and influence. Mazie, as she liked to be called by her friends, carefully cultivated her image as the administration’s Dragon Lady to tame Washington’s willful, and often obstinate, power brokers. In the rarefied air of the nation’s capital, she was recognized as Madeline Turner’s staunchest advocate and a force to be reckoned with. She could also be a very kind and supporting friend.

  “Thank you for coming,” Mazie began. “Before we start, why don’t we go around the room and everyone introduce themselves?” It was quickly done, and Stuart was shaken. Some of the most influential names in the capital were seated at the table, and he was a tadpole, a small fry, or something equally insignificant. He tried not to look uncomfortable.

  “President Turner,” Mazie said, “has asked for a complete review of the Strategic Petroleum Reserve and is very concerned about how it impacts on our war-fighting capability. I think you all know how the president works.” She stopped to let her words sink in, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  Stuart panicked. He didn’t have the slightest idea how Madeline Turner worked. He was way in over his head. Time to bail out, he thought. Cautiously, he raised his hand, half hoping the national security adviser wouldn’t see it. She did and gave him a little nod. The butterflies in his stomach turned into a swarm of bats in full flight. Very big bats. “Madam…” What was the proper form of address? “Ah…”

  For a moment Mazie was back in time and sitting in the same spot. A warm smile spread over her face. “In a meeting like this, Mike, I prefer Mazie. Or if that makes you uncomfortable, Mrs. Hazelton.”

  Stuart was so flustered that he missed her use of his first name. But the general sitting next to him didn’t. “Ah,” Stuart said, “I think I took a wrong turn somewhere. You really want my boss here, not me.” No answer from Mazie, just the same encouraging smile. Stuart shook his head. “I have no idea how the president works.”

  “Efficiently,” Mazie answered, “and she’s amazingly straightforward. In this case she wants a hard, honest, and complete evaluation without a political spin. If there’s bad news, she wants to hear it now, not later when it’s too late to do anything about it. Let me put it this way: She hates surprises. Mike, you’re here because I briefed her on the shortfalls in tanker availability you predicted. She was impressed. Now, if you’ll all turn to paragraph two of the cover letter in front of you, you’ll see she wants a total review of the SPR, to include all upstream, midstream, and downstream factors.”

  Stuart relaxed. The national security adviser was speaking the language he understood. “We need,” Mazie continued, “to cut across all departments and leave no stone unturned. Obviously this is a major initiative and will need an executive head to shepherd your work.” She looked at the general sitting next to Stuart. “I asked General Butler to chair this committee and he graciously consented. He’ll report directly to me. Bernie, it’s all yours.”

  Lieutenant General Franklin Bernard Butler stood up. “Thank you Mrs. Hazelton.” He rapidly outlined how the committee would work and what their first goals were. From the ready acceptance around the table, it was obvious Butler was an accomplished administrator and had worked with them before. “I’ll need help and would like an assistant to act as the main point of contact and coordination. We need a technician who can see the big picture, keep it all in perspective, and be responsible for all the paperwork. I believe he or she should be from this group.” He looked at Stuart, recalling Mazie’s comments. “If it’s acceptable, I would like Lieutenant Colonel Stuart to step in.”

  Stuart felt a compelling need to visit the men’s room.

  Mazie nodded graciously and looked around the table. “All agreed, then?” There were no objections. The meeting rapidly drew to a close, and Stuart escaped to the men’s room.

  General Butler was right behind him. He was friendly as they stood at the urinals. “Well, it looks like you’ve a sponsor,” he said.

  “Sir, it’s news to me if I do. Besides, I’m not qualified to do this and, and—”

  The general interrupted him. “You’re worried about Ramjet, right?”

  Stuart nodded dumbly. How did Butler know about Priestly?

  “I’ll explain it to him,” Butler said, zipping up his pants. “And, Mike, when the national security adviser calls you by your first name, you’re qualified.”

  Stuart had barely returned to his office in the Pentagon when his phone rang. It was Priestly. “Mike, I heard the meeting went very well. Say, if you’ve got a minute, I would like to see you. No hurry, though. Whenever you’re free.”

  Stuart said that he was free, broke the connection, and made record time down the short corridor to Priestly’s office. Peggy grinned at him when he skidded past her desk. “Go right in,” she said.

  Priestly stood up and smiled when Stuart reported in with a sharp salute. The colonel waved his fighter-pilot salute back. “Please, Mike. That’s not necessary.” He motioned Stuart to a chair at the conference table in front of his desk while he buzzed Peggy and told her to bring in tea. He came around his desk and joined him. They made small talk until Peggy arrived with the tea tray. She banged it down, not happy to be Priestly’s servant, and walked out. Priestly smiled again. “Secretaries. They think they own the place.” They discussed the meeting at the National Security Council for a few minutes, and Priestly related a funny incident that took place when he was a White House Fellow.

  Stuart decided he liked the old Ramjet better than the smooth-talking sycophant he was seeing now. An image of Jane meeting Priestly at a Washington cocktail party played out in his imagination. “General Butler had some good words about the impression you made on the national security adviser,” Priestly said. “When you look good, we all look good.”

  That’s why the change, Stuart decided. An urge to bolt swept over him. He was tired of the games they were playing.

  Priestly lowered his voice and spoke in confidence. “You didn’t tell me you knew the national security adviser.”

  Stuart couldn’t help himself. “You never asked.”

  It was after 9:00 P.M. when Stuart finally arrived home. His answering machine blinked a couple of messages at him. The first was from Jane. As always, she said little. “This is Jane, call me.” He grinned. She had gone over her allotted four words. The second message was from Jenny, his ex-wife. “Mike, you haven’t called. I have a personal problem and, and…well, please call.” The “I need money” voice—again.

  Two women in my life, and both their names start with J, he mused to himself. Why do I always go for the middle of the alphabet? But they couldn’t have been more different. Jenny was tall, willowy, and glamorous. Jane, anything but. He hit the speed dial, eager to hear Jane’s voice again.

  She came directly to the point. “Sorry, Mike. I can’t get a loan for the down payment on Temptress. I can list her with a broker or try to sell her privately.”

  Stuart thought for a moment. Did he still want to sell his boat? He made a decision not to make a decision. “Can you bring her up here? I can get a slip at A
nnapolis.”

  “Can do for expenses,” she replied. “Figure six hundred seventy-eight.” She had obviously thought about it.

  “I’ll send you a check,” he said, breaking the connection.

  Almost immediately the phone rang. This time it was Jenny. Her voice carried that same, breathless quality that always made him think of sex. “Mike,” she said, “why haven’t you called?”

  “I just came in. It’s been hectic at the office. What’s the problem?”

  “Oh, Mike. I’m in love.”

  Again? he moaned to himself.

  Dallas

  Professor Emil Steiner’s reputation preceded him into the corporate offices of RayTex Oil. As editor of the most prestigious scientific journal in Europe, a department chair at a respected French university, and twice a runner-up Nobel laureate, he had scientific credentials that were unimpeachable. He also had a reputation for thoroughness and maintaining the most rigid scientific standards. His private reputation was somewhat different. He was a womanizer with an extravagant lifestyle.

  What actually walked into Lloyd Marsten’s corner office was a short, sixty-four-year-old man with bright blue eyes, a flushed face, and tufts of closely trimmed white hair stuck on his balding head. His expensive suit draped artfully over his rotund body and hid most of his expanding waistline. He walked with quick, bouncing steps, and his incredibly small feet were never still, not even when he was sitting down.

  Marsten made the introductions as L.J. and Steiner shook hands. His left hand snaked out and snared her hand between both of his. “I have been looking forward to meeting you,” Steiner said, his voice free of any French accent. He didn’t let go of L.J.’s hand, and she had the distinct impression she was shaking hands with a trained seal.

  “My pleasure,” she said, extracting her hand with a little jerk. “I do hope you’re feeling better.” Steiner had arrived in Dallas four days earlier and pleaded jet lag, delaying the meeting. At last count, eleven call girls had cycled through his hotel suite at the Parke Royale to help him recover. Of course, all were billed to RayTex Oil. Steiner hated being alone.