The Trojan Sea (8 page)

Butler was even more impressed. “Which gives us a planning factor for the future.”

“Which can be revised at any time,” Stuart added. “It also gives another indicator. If the overall planned exploration rate by the companies is on a downward curve, then we can assume the oil companies are not worried about their current reserves.”

“Do it,” Butler said. He gathered up the blue briefing book and headed for his office. “You need a sponsor,” he said, almost to himself.

Roger “Ramjet” Priestly scanned the proposed survey and then the mailing list. Every oil company that did business in the United States was on the list, and he was worried that the survey would set off all sorts of alarm bells, not to mention phone calls to congressmen and lobbyists. It was exactly the sort of attention he did not want. He picked up the phone and punched at the number for Stuart’s cubicle. There was no answer, and he buzzed for his secretary to come in. “Peggy, where the hell is Stuart? Doesn’t he know Friday is a normal workday?”

“He signed out on leave for the day, sir. He’s going to pick up his son in Dover, Delaware.” She paused to let Ramjet’s blood pressure go up ten points. “You did approve it, sir.”

“Right,” he said, not really remembering. He threw the offending survey across his desk. “Put a hold on this until I can talk to him.” He almost told her to throw it in the trash can but thought better of it. “No, wait. Better yet, send it back.”

“Send it back,” Peggy murmured. “Will that be all?” Ramjet nodded, and she returned to her desk. “Send it back,” she told herself. “Now, what does that mean?” She answered her own question. “He must mean to General Butler’s office.” She glanced at the cover letter, which was duly signed by one Michael E. Stuart. She smiled to herself and dropped the survey in distribution to forward it to General Butler’s office. Then she picked up the phone and called Butler’s secretary. “Joannie, Ramjet told me to return the survey being sent to the oil companies back to your office for action. So will you send it out?” She listened for a few moments. “You’ve got that right, girl. Without us, nothing would ever get done.”

Dover Air Force Base, Delaware

Stuart drove slowly through base housing trying to find the house he had lived in as a teenager, when his father had been assigned to a staff job at the air base. It was one of William “Shanker” Stuart’s few assignments outside the tactical Air Force and away from fighters, and it had been a strange time, as his father had hated his job while his family had been most content and happy. In fact, Stuart remembered his three teenage years at Dover as among the best times in his life. It was even more ironic because Stuart had been born at Dover when his father was assigned there as a lieutenant before going to pilot training. But he didn’t remember that.

Three good years,
he thought.
That’s all I got. Eric deserves more. A lot more.

The wail of turbofan engines split the air, and Stuart instinctively looked up. A massive white transport aircraft, the sound of its four huge engines pounding his senses, flew over. Stuart stared in wonder and shook his head. It was an Antonov An-124, the Russian counterpart to the USAF’s C-5 Galaxy. How many times had he briefed pilots on that aircraft during the early years of his career in the Air Force as a young intelligence officer? But he had never seen one, and the actual sight was overpowering. He watched mesmerized as the giant plane seemed to defy gravity entering the landing pattern.

He drove across the main highway and through the gate, heading for the passenger terminal where he was to meet his son and father. He parked his car and wandered toward the terminal, fascinated by the sight of the An-124’s tail moving slowly behind the building. For Stuart’s first eight years in the Air Force, the plane had belonged to a potential enemy, the Soviet Union, and one of his jobs in the Defense Intelligence Agency as a captain had been to track the status of AeroFlot and Voyenno-Transportnaya Aviatsiya, the Soviet Air Force’s air-transport arm. A stand down by either was considered a “trip wire” indicating that the Soviet Union was moving to an attack footing. If both stood down, the United States military would have started to move up the DEFCON as it also prepared for war.

But things had changed. The Soviet Union no longer existed, and Russian Transport Aviation was reduced to hauling commercial cargo to earn money and landing at the bases of its former enemy. And that’s why he was there. His son was on the An-124.

Stuart groaned when he entered the terminal. His ex-mother-in-law was standing inside the door, her arms folded tightly across her breasts, her feet apart in a boxer’s stance. A man in a charcoal-gray suit holding a briefcase stood next to her.
Barbara Raye always leads with a lawyer,
he thought. He tried to manage a smile, anything to pull her fangs. “Where’s Jenny?” he asked, hoping his ex-wife was around.

Barbara Raye Wilson’s look turned even harder. “She couldn’t make it. She’s off with her current scumbag.” As a matter of family policy, Barbara Raye never approved of any man in her only child’s life, and Stuart had been another casualty in the long procession of men Jenny presented to her mother for sacrifice. Stuart assumed that it was a combination of money and a lone grandchild that kept the two women together. Barbara Raye had won the Powerball Lottery, and Jenny had Eric.

Stuart couldn’t help himself. “She did tell me she was in love.” The words were no sooner spoken than he realized he had made a bad mistake. Jenny and her mother were at each other’s throats again, locked in a deep love-hate battle for dominance, with money and access to Eric the weapons of choice. It escaped his understanding why they couldn’t break the tie that binds and go their separate ways, or at least declare a cease-fire in their on-again, off-again war.

Eric burst through the door leading from customs and ran up to his father. “Dad, you got to come out and see it!” Stuart assumed he was talking about the An-124.

“Mr. Stuart,” the lawyer said, “letting your child fly on that aircraft was the height of irresponsibility.”

“He and his grandfather were suppose to fly United.”

Eric couldn’t contain himself. “Gramps’s friend had a Lightning we had to get out of England to save it from being cut up and another friend’s got lots of money and he rented a plane to fly it here and we came with it.” He smiled as if that explained everything. “Come on. We can watch it unload.”

“Maybe we should wait here,” Stuart said, seeing the look of disapproval on Barbara Raye’s face.

Eric felt the tension between his father and grandmother and didn’t want any part of it. “Please, Dad. Gramps is at the airplane.”

“Well, let’s go howdy the folks,” Stuart said. Eric led them, half running, out to the parking ramp where a small crowd was watching the big aircraft discharge its cargo.

Eric ran up to the rope holding the crowd back. “Gramps!” he yelled, waving at his grandfather. Shanker waved back and motioned them to the entry-control point. “That’s Wing Commander Seagrave and Prince Turika with Gramps,” Eric explained. “You’ll like them.”

Shanker escorted the small group to the back of the aircraft to watch the unloading. He introduced them to Seagrave and Turika while four spare jet engines were offloaded. Three pallets of spare parts were rolled onto loaders, followed by a set of wings mounted on a wooden cradle. The last loader drove up, and two spare wings were rolled off, along with twelve tires. Finally the fuselage of the Lightning was rolled out the front of the aircraft, gleaming in the September sun like a wingless dart. “I sat in the cockpit,” Eric said. “It’s really neat and Commander Seagrave flew it when he shouldn’t have but he didn’t have a choice and that’s why he got in trouble and we had to save it.”

Stuart laughed. He had never seen his son so animated. “It sounds like you had a great time.”

“It’s time he was back in school,” Barbara Raye announced, taking charge. “You’re coming with me, young man.”

Stuart’s stomach took a twist. He could not remember Barbara Raye losing an argument to anyone other than Jenny. Tons of money gave her unlimited power and she wielded it like a deadly weapon. Still, he tried to delay the inevitable. “We need to talk to Jenny,” he said.

Barbara Raye gave him a cold look. “No we don’t. Eric is staying with me.”

“Dad,” Eric pleaded. His wonderful day had suddenly turned sour.

“Come,” Barbara Raye ordered. She reached for Eric’s hand, but Shanker knelt down beside the boy, blocking her.

“Where do you want to go?” Shanker asked.

Eric didn’t answer and only looked very unhappy. He fought back the tears and shook his head.

“He’s going with Mrs. Wilson,” the lawyer said.

Eric looked at his grandfather, who looked at Stuart. “Well?” Shanker asked. “You’re his father. Make a decision.”

Stuart didn’t know what to say.

“I want to stay with you or Dad,” Eric whispered to Shanker.

“He’s coming with me, and that’s final,” Barbara Raye said, pushing Shanker out of the way.

It was a mistake. Shanker stepped in front of her. “Ma’am, normally I don’t cotton to hittin’ women. But in your case I’ll make an exception.”

The lawyer intervened. “Stop right there, Mr. Stuart.”

Shanker whirled on the lawyer, fully engaged. “As I recall, Mike and Jenny have joint legal custody of Eric. Unless you’ve got a court order—”

The lawyer interrupted him. “In the absence of Jennifer Stuart, Mrs. Wilson is empowered to act in her place.”

Shanker leaned into the lawyer, his face inches away from the man’s nose, and exhaled. “You got a piece of paper from a judge saying that?”

“Don’t threaten me,” the lawyer said.

“I’m not threatening you, fuckface.”

The lawyer backed away, astounded at the pure aggression in the man. “There’s no need to get violent,” he said.

“When things go wrong, get aggressive,” Shanker said. “And you’re all wrong.”

“You can’t get away with threatening people,” the lawyer replied.

“I’m warning,” Shanker growled. “You as much as touch that boy without a court order and I’ll put you down. And I mean me personally, you personally.” He paused for effect as a wicked smile spread across his face. “Ain’t it fun being an advocate when people advocate back?”

Barbara Raye wasn’t having any of it. She reached down and pulled at Eric’s shirt. “We’re leaving.”

Shanker grabbed her hand that was holding Eric, but she wouldn’t let go. They stared at each other. Then, with one hand grasping her wrist, he pressed against the back of her knuckles with his other hand, forcing her clenched hand down and her fingers to open. He did it so easily it looked like a caress. He smiled at her. “I do hope you know how to get out of Dodge, ma’am.”

Barbara Raye’s eyes squinted at him in pure hate. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” she said, storming away. The lawyer followed her like a puppy dog.

“Nice seeing you again,” Shanker called. “Have a nice day.” He turned to Stuart and shook his head. The old hurt was back.
Thank God for Dwight,
Shanker told himself, thinking of his older son.

Miami

How many times have we been through this?
Luis Barrios moaned to himself. He picked up a brick of the gray explosive, working hard to conceal his exasperation. By now they all should have been able to assemble the bomb in less than five minutes. But it wasn’t happening and, if anything, Eduardo and Francisco were slower. At least Carita was nearing the goal. “Semtex is a plastique,” he told them. “Without an igniter it’s harmless. Don’t be afraid of it.” From the expression on their faces, they still didn’t believe him. “Look,” he said, desperate to make his point. He dropped the brick. Eduardo almost fainted.

Luis picked up the explosive and flicked open his knife. The blade was razor sharp, and he deftly peeled off a sliver of the explosive. He hated wasting even a few grams, but he had to make his point. He dropped the sliver into an ashtray and lit it with a cigarette lighter. The explosive was slow to ignite and, finally, it burst into flame before quickly consuming itself and burning out. An acrid stench filled the room.

Carita threw open a window. “It smells terrible,” she said. “Maybe something is wrong with it.”

Luis was puzzled. Nothing he had heard or read suggested that Semtex had such a pungent smell. But he had made his point. “See, it’s harmless. I even keep it under my bed.”

“Perhaps,” Eduardo ventured, “we need to test it. To see if Carita is right.”

Luis nodded. He
was
worried about the smell. What if they had been sold a fake? It was a common practice in their business, and even he had palmed off a few bad guns to raise money. But they had only six blocks of the explosive, and he didn’t want to waste any of them. Still, Eduardo’s suggestion made sense. He rationalized it would also be good training and give them confidence. He made his decision. “We’ll use two hundred grams to make a small bomb. But we’ll use it on a real target.”

Carita drove the car past the sign that announced RTX Farm Supplies. “You all have the map memorized,” Luis said, “and should know exactly where you are.” Three heads nodded in agreement. Luis had selected an isolated target on the outskirts of Miami that was easily scouted and not guarded. Then he deliberately put them on a short timetable to give them a sense of urgency. They had practiced until it was second nature, and now it was merely a matter of execution. To make things as easy as possible and build their confidence, he deliberately chose a Saturday night.

The car slowed, and Eduardo bailed out. He rolled behind a low bush and keyed his radio. Inside the car they heard the two clicks that meant he was in position as the lookout and all was clear. Luis answered with one click.

Francisco’s jaw worked, and he broke out in a sweat. His face turned pale, and his hands shook. “I can’t do it,” he moaned. The thought of actually penetrating the compound of the fertilizer-processing plant, planting the explosive, and retreating through the fence was too much for his fragile nerves.

Luis snorted in disgust.
“¡Cabrón!”

“Francisco es cagado,”
Carita said, calling him cowardly. Her contempt matched Luis’s. “I’ll do it. But you better drive. He may shit his pants in fear.” It was quickly arranged, and she stopped the car. Luis handed her the black bag that held the bomb and the wire cutters when she got out. He slipped behind the wheel and drove off to circle the compound. If their timing was right, they would both arrive back at the same spot at the same time. Then it would be a simple matter to pick up Eduardo and drive away.

Carita scrambled over the low ridge of earth surrounding the tank farm and quickly cut a hole in the wire fence to slip inside. Even in the darkness she had no trouble finding her way among the white tanks that made up the fertilizer-processing plant. She scrambled over the berm that formed a separate containment basin around the largest tank and slid down the inside. She crawled up against the tank that held a liquid fertilizer and placed the bag, bomb, and wire cutters against the main valve.

Like Francisco, she started to shake. Imagination is the curse of all terrorists, and the idea of half a million gallons of fertilizer exploding was overpowering. A dog barked, and she froze. She listened. The sound was coming closer. She reached inside the bag and hit the activate button. But in her haste to get away she didn’t depress it long enough to set fully. Instead of fifteen minutes’ delay, she had less than twenty seconds. She climbed the bank of the berm as the guard dog came around the side of the tank. It grabbed her pant leg and dragged her back down. She kicked to get free of the growling animal, and much to her surprise the dog let go and disappeared over the berm, barking loudly. The bomb went off.

Luis returned to the pickup point just as the bomb exploded. A bright flash lit the sky, and for a moment he was certain he was dead. But instead of a powerful explosion vaporizing him, there was only the sound of a crashing wave. He gunned the car and sped off as a wave of dark liquid surged over the secondary levee surrounding the tank farm. It engulfed the car and pushed it sideways. The car tilted up and teetered on the edge of a rollover. Then it dropped back onto its wheels, the force of the wave spent.

To Luis’s amazement, the engine started on the first try, and he raced down the road to pick up Eduardo. A dripping form emerged out of the shadows, and Luis slammed the car to a stop. Eduardo piled in, and they drove away. “What happened?” Eduardo asked.

“I don’t know,” Luis answered. “Maybe the tank only burst from overpressure.”

“What happened to Carita?”

“She’s got to be dead,” Luis said.

“What do we do now?” Francisco asked from the rear seat.

“Make the phone call,” Luis snapped. Francisco punched at his cell phone and called the
Miami Herald.
When he got the night editor, he announced that the Revolutionary Jihad had blown up the tank farm as a warning to American imperialists. He broke the connection and threw the cell phone out the window. He glanced at the clock in the car’s radio.
¡Mierda!
he raged to himself. They were too late to make the Sunday-morning edition. They should make the Monday-morning edition.

“I’m burning!” Eduardo shouted.

“It’s the fertilizer,” Luis said. He stopped the car beside a canal, and Eduardo dove in, desperate to wash it off.