Lilith

by Toby Tate

  “Well, don’t worry, this crew has logged plenty of flight time, so you’re in good hands.”

  Hunter nodded and smiled at the young woman when he felt a pinch on his arm. He turned and saw Lisa staring at him through her goggles. He mouthed the word what? at her, then turned back and watched as the sailor made her way back up to her seat.

  Hunter reached down and grabbed Lisa’s hand, interlacing his fingers in hers. She had nothing to worry about. Lisa was more beautiful to him than any other woman could ever be.

  As the plane began to taxi down the runway of Naval Station Norfolk, Hunter found himself suddenly glad they had no window. Soon the plane was airborne. Hunter gritted his teeth like he was about to receive a painful shot in the arm. He gripped Lisa’s hand a little too hard and she shook it loose.

  Half an hour into the flight, Hunter was surprised that the plane ride was no worse than riding in a bus. While Lisa spent the time sleeping, he spent the bulk of the hour flight staring at the back of the seat in front of him and wishing he’d brought a book along. The heat from the engines and the summer sun did its best to turn the plane into a pressure cooker. The air conditioning on the plane worked well—so well, in fact, that towards the end of the flight, Hunter could see the steam from his own breath wafting out like a tiny cloud.

  When they began their descent, Hunter’s guts clenched and he began to pray they would survive the landing.

  One of the crew made a circular motion above his head, which was the signal for the passengers to cross their arms over their chests in preparation for either landing or crashing. Seconds later, the wheels hit the deck of the Ford and Hunter felt as if a hundred invisible hands were suddenly pushing him into his seat. He found himself wondering what kind of injuries he would sustain if he hadn’t been strapped in, a human projectile shooting through the fuselage at the speed of sound.

  As the engines idled down and the Greyhound taxied to its place on the flight deck, Hunter vowed that he would never again leave the ground in anything scarier than an elevator.

  CHAPTER 3

  The familiar odors of fresh paint, mop water and fuel oil assaulted Hunter’s senses as the media group, led by one of the ship’s crew, stepped through the first doorway to the ship’s interior. Compared to the heat on the flight deck, it was like walking into a giant refrigerator. Hunter noted that the inside of the Ford didn’t look much different than the inside of the ships he had served on in the Navy. The passageways were cramped, there were people everywhere and you had to constantly watch your head and footing. Most everything was painted gray according to Navy regulations, and the paint looked fresh.

  The public relations officer who was leading them, Lieutenant Michele Delgado, a burly redhead in her mid-thirties, obviously knew her way around the ship, and Hunter, who was right behind her, made sure he paid attention to which door she went through and which ladder she went up. The last thing he wanted to do was make a fool of himself by getting lost. Following Hunter, Lisa and the other eight members of the media team, or “VIPs” as the Navy called them, were making record time, and some were getting winded just trying to keep up.

  They finally came to a row of colorful doors all on the same side of the passageway; one yellow, one blue, one red, one green and one black. Hunter didn’t know why they were color coded, but knowing the Navy, they probably thought it would help dumb civilians remember which rooms they were in.

  “These are your staterooms,” Delgado said. “There will be two of you to a room.” As she spoke, the lieutenant handed each of the group members a card key.

  After handing out the last card, she said, “I’ll be back after you’ve had a chance to drop off your stuff and get situated.”

  Delgado turned and disappeared in a flash, leaving the group to stand and stare at each other. Hunter noticed to his dismay that there were eight males and two females, meaning he and Lisa would not be sleeping together as planned. She gave Hunter a shrug and a frown, then eyed the other female, Julia Lambert, a gorgeous, petite blonde in tight black jeans and dark sunglasses.

  “Well, looks like it’s you and me,” Lisa said. “I hope you don’t snore.”

  “I don’t. In fact, I really don’t sleep that much.”

  Hunter couldn’t quite see Julia’s eyes through the sunglasses, but he could have sworn she had winked at him. He watched as his wife checked the number on her key then the number on the stateroom door directly in front of her. The door was green, Lisa’s favorite color, so Hunter figured at least it had something going for it.

  She unlocked the door, turned, smiled at Hunter and waved goodbye. He waved back, feeling like a sad puppy as she disappeared through the door with Julia in tow.

  CHAPTER 4

  Everyone else in the group stumbled around the passageway with backpacks, camera gear and laptops, eventually pairing up and matching a door to their card key. Hunter ended up with the red door next to Lisa’s room and immediately upon entering the stateroom, grabbed the bottom bunk. He knew from experience that the bottom bunk was the place to be during flight ops and during any inclement weather—if you fell out of your rack you weren’t too far from the deck.

  He piled his gear on the bunk to stake his claim, then checked out the stateroom. He thought about the years he had slept in the crew’s berthing areas and how much of an improvement this was. There was a sink and mirror, two gunmetal gray desks attached to the wall with lots of drawers, and plenty of closet space. On another wall was a wide screen TV and next to that was a phone. Overhead were lights, bundles of cables and water pipes with red “direction of flow” arrows painted on them. If it wasn’t for the fact they were directly below the flight deck, this would have been ideal.

  The door suddenly swung open and there stood a figure with a grin on his face and a bag in each hand. Thick, fiery red hair topped the man’s head and his eyes were framed by black Buddy Holly glasses.

  The nerd introduced himself as Charles Blakely, though Hunter would have guessed Poindexter. Charles stood in the doorway grinning, waiting to be invited into the room.

  “Hi, I’m Hunter. Hunter Singleton.” He offered his hand. “Come on in.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Blakely said, limply shaking Hunter’s hand, then picking up his bags and wading into the stateroom.

  Blakely stood looking at the bunk beds, first one, then the other, as if he had never seen such a thing.

  “Well, I guess the top one’s mine, huh? That’s okay. I sleep like a rock. I once slept through a tornado, believe it or not.”

  The guy had a definite North Carolina accent, Hunter thought, like the people back home in River City.

  Charles turned and set a black laptop computer case on a desk chair, then plopped the bigger bag on the floor. He put his hands on his hips and took in the room, like a commanding officer preparing for inspection. Hunter remained silent, watching with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment.

  “Well, this is pretty nice. Of course, we’re right under the flight deck, so I expect it to be noisy. They should quit around 11 p.m. or so. Like I said, though, I sleep like a rock.”

  He looked up at the TV on the wall. “I don’t suppose we get any good TV out here.”

  “It’s satellite TV. Probably gets over two hundred channels. Something special you want to watch?”

  Blakely shook his head. “No, I’m sure we’ll all be too busy for any kind of entertainment.”

  Hunter grunted in agreement, then turned and opened the bag on his bed, pulled out his clothes, shaving kit, shower shoes and several books, and started shoving things into drawers or hanging things in closets.

  Blakely began to open up the case on the desk chair and pulled out a laptop. “By the way, you can call me Charlie, just don’t call me Chuck.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “You ever been on one of these ships before?” Blakely asked.

  “Yeah, I have. Only as a visitor, though. I was in the Navy at one ti
me and had a friend stationed on the Eisenhower.”

  “I guess you won’t get seasick, then.”

  “Hopefully not. But it has been a while.”

  “If I start turning green, run and get me a bucket, will you?”

  They both laughed as Hunter turned and picked up his laptop bag, opened it up and pulled out a computer.

  “Nice MacBook,” Blakely said.

  “Yeah, I like it. It definitely gets the job done.”

  Blakely laid his own laptop bag on a desk and opened the bag. Hunter watched with envy as he realized Blakely had one-upped him.

  “Is that a MacBook Pro?” Hunter asked.

  “Yeah. I’m somewhat of a computer geek and kind of put myself in debt buying this, but it was worth it. You could just about launch a satellite with this thing. I even added a few little extras of my own.”

  Hunter was intrigued. “Like what?”

  “I’ll never tell,” Blakely said and closed the laptop.

  “Where did you say you worked?” Hunter asked.

  “I’m with a magazine called ‘Military Aircraft.’ We’re doing a story on the F/A-18 Super Hornets and their pilots. How about you?”

  “I’m a newspaper reporter from North Carolina—just here observing the planes for a story I’m working on. I brought a photographer along, too. Actually, she’s my wife.”

  “Your wife? Too bad you didn’t get to share a room. I guess you’re a little disappointed at sharing with another guy.”

  “No, you’re okay. It would have been awkward otherwise. Somebody would have had to share a room with Julia.”

  Blakely snickered like a mischievous school boy. “I would have volunteered for that duty.”

  Hunter agreed, but said nothing.

  “Well, I guess we just need to hook up with our liaison,” Hunter said, heading for the door, “and get this party started.”

  CHAPTER 5

  CIA Headquarters, McLean, Virginia

  George Saunders stared at a computer monitor, reading an e-mail from one of his operatives in the field. His eyes burned from the strain of long hours and he rubbed them with his knuckles. It was about time he’d gotten some good news—it looked as if the direction of this latest op might finally be starting to go their way. He sure as hell hoped so.

  As the retired commander of a U.S. Navy SEAL team, Saunders had seen more combat in two years in the shitholes of Afghanistan and Iraq than most veterans had seen in a career, and had the scars to prove it. Saunders had been shot in the leg once by an ambitious member of Al-Qaeda and almost blown up at least a dozen times. The heat and cold, the insects and blowing sand that got into everything, especially your weapons, and the constant, gnawing anxiety of not knowing exactly what the enemy looked like or where they would strike could really screw with your mind if you let it. You could never drop your guard, never believe that you were out of danger, because the minute that happened, things could literally explode in your face.

  The commander had killed more than his share of enemy combatants, some with his bare hands. But he had also saved countless lives, pulling civilians out of hostage situations or captured soldiers out of detention cells, getting them back to their families in one piece.

  That had made it all worthwhile.

  Saunders was a decorated hero with dozens of medals and ribbons, including two Purple Hearts and the Medal of Honor, presented at a ceremony personally by President George W. Bush on the deck of the USS Saipan. But even the recognition didn’t make his job any easier and he decided that twenty years was enough. It was time to do something else, to go back home to the farm, to build that house he had always wanted to build and marry his childhood sweetheart. He would start a family and live the dream life he had craved.

  It didn’t last long. After realizing he hated farming, which is why he joined the Navy in the first place, George applied to the CIA and got himself into the intelligence business. Turned out he was not only good at it, he also loved it. It was challenging, it was interesting and what’s more, it paid very well. Saunders had worked his way up from an operative to a team leader and then to the director of the Special Activities Division, a team of professionals who performed what the intelligence community liked to call “special operations.” As one of his old commanders liked to say, they did the shit no one else wanted to do.

  He turned and grabbed the phone from his desk, hit speed dial on the secured line and waited. The man at the other end picked up on the third ring, surprising Saunders, since there was usually no one in the office when he called.

  There was irritation in the man’s voice. “What is it?”

  Saunders took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, wondering if he had called at a bad time. “Sir, I just received an encrypted e-mail from our operative in the field. It looks like he’s in place. The operation is a go.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Members of the media group began pouring out of their staterooms and assembling in the passageway, like cattle ready to be herded into a pasture. Lisa was fiddling with her camera equipment when Julia Lambert caught Hunter’s attention. Powder-blue eyes focused on him as the ghost of a smile played on her lips. Lieutenant Delgado suddenly made another appearance out of thin air, breaking the contact.

  “Well, I hope everyone found the accommodations to your liking,” Delgado said. “If you’re all ready, we’ll go to the media room and you can get together with your individual liaisons. We can come back later and pick up anything you need like cameras or laptops.”

  Delgado turned and took off like a shot and Hunter mentally cursed under his breath as he ran to keep up, the rest tagging close behind.

  * * *

  A virtual floating fortress, the USS Gerald R. Ford, which replaced the decommissioned USS Enterprise, is home ported at the Naval Station Norfolk in Virginia. As long as the Empire State Building is tall, the behemoth stretches two-hundred and fifty-six feet at its widest point and stands twenty stories from the water line to the mast, displacing some one-hundred-thousand tons of water when fully loaded. Known as a supercarrier, and the first of its class, it is the twelfth nuclear-powered aircraft carrier to be commissioned by the U.S. Navy. Its twin nuclear reactors fuel the steam turbines that power electric generators and motors to turn four twenty-one-foot screws, propelling the ship at speeds of over thirty knots. When on deployment, the Ford will carry more than ninety tactical and support aircraft, including the F-35 Lightning, F/A-18 Hornets and Super Hornets and over five thousand crew members. For self-defense, the ship also employs NATO Sea Sparrow missiles, several .50 caliber machine guns and a Phalanx close-in weapons system that reminded Hunter of R2D2 from Star Wars, capable of firing over four thousand rounds per minute.

  Hunter was impressed with the Ford and her crew, but by lunchtime he was so dog tired and his legs so sore that he felt like he had just run a marathon.

  Hunter sat on the officer’s mess deck with Lisa, four people from the media group, and Delgado, while the others sat together at a nearby table. He couldn’t help but notice some of the officers looking his way—or Lisa’s way. There were some pretty buff looking guys in flight suits that would’ve made Hunter feel insecure if there were any doubt about Lisa’s affections—but there were no doubts. Lisa was fiercely loyal. He felt a little manly pride at the looks he was getting and slyly slipped his hand into hers as they sat side by side. Lisa’s kinky black hair, dark, Asian eyes and gymnast’s body usually made the male of the species sit up and take notice. But her fourth-degree black belt in Kung Fu and “back off” attitude also made quite an impression. She could easily put most of these men in the hospital.

  But to Hunter, Lisa was the embodiment of his fantasy woman, the one person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, sharing countless nights in each other’s arms, enjoying each other’s bodies, sharing their most intimate secrets. He inhaled the fresh coconut scent of her skin and felt the warmth of her touch course through his body like an electric current.

 
“I don’t know about you, but that meal really hit the spot. How about some dessert?”

  Lisa picked up on Hunter’s double entendre and silently shook her head as she smiled back at him.

  A guy named Hendricks, who was busy wolfing down ice cream covered with caramel, snorted in between bites.

  “This food isn’t that great,” he said without looking up.

  Hunter stared at the top of Hendricks’s shaved head. It reminded him of a bowling ball.

  “Actually, the food on a carrier is pretty good, considering,” Hunter said.

  Hendricks looked up from his ice cream, a smear of caramel on his lower lip.

  “Considering what?”

  “Considering how many people they have to feed—about eighteen-thousand a day.”

  “What are you, like a Navy encyclopedia?”

  Hunter smirked. “What are you, like an asshole?”

  A collective gasp rose from the women at the table as they turned towards him from whatever they were eating. Hunter imagined executing a well-placed punch to the throat as he saw a flash of rage behind the bald man’s eyes that disappeared as quickly as it came.

  “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean anything.” Hendricks looked away and finished his ice cream.

  Lisa turned to Hunter and squeezed his hand, hoping to stifle the exchange of testosterone. Hunter playfully furrowed his brow at her, but he’d already decided he probably wasn’t going to like Hendricks.

  Delgado cleared her throat. “So, Mr. Singleton…”

  “Please, call me Hunter.”

  “Hunter, what was your job in the Navy?”

  “I was an A-Ganger.”

  Hunter explained that the “A-Gang” spent most of its time fixing any broken-down piece of machinery aboard ship, from air conditioning equipment and washing machines to flight deck elevators and even the CO’s lawnmower. Heads at the table turned from one side to the other like spectators in a Ping Pong tournament as the pair went back and forth about their mutual experiences in the Navy.