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Authors: John Schettler
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Caspian? Alright, so you’ve got your private line there
and the Government leans on you from time to time for special favors. I understand.
You’ve called in a number of favors yourself in your day, or why else is Iron
Duke out there watching our backside, eh? What’s the big secret this time?
You want me to send those men out there in after this Anatoly Alexandrov ?
Why? Has the government gotten wind of something? What’s itching the Prime
Minister’s backside this time?”
She
smiled. “No, it isn’t that,” she said skirting the edge of the hidden truth again.
“It’s not the government. Neither Whitehall nor Ten Downing Street has anything
to do with it.”
“What
then? Will you at least give me that much before I give the order. Can we hit this
operation? Yes we can, but we’ll likely lose good men if we do this, not to
mention the X-3s. Tell me why Fairchild Inc. needs to get in on this bar fight,
Elena? You tell me that and I’ll move heaven and earth for you. You know I
will, but I’ve been mucking about in the dark all these years, carrying on behind
these Captain’s stripes. Ours is not to reason why…You know the drill. I’d give
you the world if I could hold it in my arms, but you’re a damn hard woman to
love…”
My
god, he thought. I’ve said it.
And
she heard it at once, heard what she had been longing to tell him for years.
She did something that surprised him now, though it seemed a natural thing to
do in the situation, reaching up and touching the side of his face, her hand
soft on his cheek, a longing in her eyes, and the beginning of tears. “Gordon
MacRae,” she started.
Words
came to him, in the old tongue he still loved and knew so well: “ Tá sé níos fearr
chun iarracht a dhéanamh ná mar a súil,” he said. “It’s better to try than
to hope.” Then he did something that surprised himself even more, and he leaned
down and kissed her…
* * *
Captain MacRae got his answer, though
he sat for a good long hour trying to understand what it meant. Lieutenant Ryan
with the X-3 Helo contingent got his orders soon after. He was out on the tarmac
at Buzachi airfield north of Fort Shevchenko, watching as the air crews finished
up the refueling operation and were rolling the tanker truck away. It wasn’t
much of an airfield, just a single hanger and fuel station and a simple asphalt
runway. A thin, dull brown road led west toward the Caspian coast and the oil
worker’s settlement. His three sleek X-3s sat like birds of prey on the landing
strip, the only aircraft there that day, and though he knew he had one of his
men over in the number three bird watching radar returns, he still found himself
looking north with apprehension.
The
Russians, he thought…They let loose on the company and put Princess Irene on the bottom of the sea. I hope to God we gave them a bloody nose for that one.
Word is they have a reinforced rifle division up on the Kazakh border ready to
roll on a moment’s notice. If they do move, that will mean they’ll have air
cover up as well, and they know exactly where every airfield in the region is
now. The longer he sat there on the tarmac the more vulnerable he felt, and he
was itching to get his men aboard the X-3s and heading home—until the call came
in from Captain MacRae on Argos Fire.
“Well
now,” he said, his Irish blood riled. “A bar fight, Tommy.” His co-pilot Tom Wicks
was checking one of the twin turbo-prop engines on the nearest X-3. “Looks like
somebody got her skirts ruffled over that incident in the Black Sea.”
“What
skirts?” said Wicks. “She’s got a pair of legs on her, no question about that, but
her ladyship never gives us a look at them. Always prancing about in those pants
suits and all.”
“You
have it in for the CEO, Tommy?”
“Me?
I’ll have it in anywhere I get a welcome,” he smiled. “What’s this all about, Lieutenant?”
“I
can’t say as I know,” said Ryan. “Just like us
and the Government leans on you from time to time for special favors. I understand.
You’ve called in a number of favors yourself in your day, or why else is Iron
Duke out there watching our backside, eh? What’s the big secret this time?
You want me to send those men out there in after this Anatoly Alexandrov ?
Why? Has the government gotten wind of something? What’s itching the Prime
Minister’s backside this time?”
She
smiled. “No, it isn’t that,” she said skirting the edge of the hidden truth again.
“It’s not the government. Neither Whitehall nor Ten Downing Street has anything
to do with it.”
“What
then? Will you at least give me that much before I give the order. Can we hit this
operation? Yes we can, but we’ll likely lose good men if we do this, not to
mention the X-3s. Tell me why Fairchild Inc. needs to get in on this bar fight,
Elena? You tell me that and I’ll move heaven and earth for you. You know I
will, but I’ve been mucking about in the dark all these years, carrying on behind
these Captain’s stripes. Ours is not to reason why…You know the drill. I’d give
you the world if I could hold it in my arms, but you’re a damn hard woman to
love…”
My
god, he thought. I’ve said it.
And
she heard it at once, heard what she had been longing to tell him for years.
She did something that surprised him now, though it seemed a natural thing to
do in the situation, reaching up and touching the side of his face, her hand
soft on his cheek, a longing in her eyes, and the beginning of tears. “Gordon
MacRae,” she started.
Words
came to him, in the old tongue he still loved and knew so well: “ Tá sé níos fearr
chun iarracht a dhéanamh ná mar a súil,” he said. “It’s better to try than
to hope.” Then he did something that surprised himself even more, and he leaned
down and kissed her…
* * *
Captain MacRae got his answer, though
he sat for a good long hour trying to understand what it meant. Lieutenant Ryan
with the X-3 Helo contingent got his orders soon after. He was out on the tarmac
at Buzachi airfield north of Fort Shevchenko, watching as the air crews finished
up the refueling operation and were rolling the tanker truck away. It wasn’t
much of an airfield, just a single hanger and fuel station and a simple asphalt
runway. A thin, dull brown road led west toward the Caspian coast and the oil
worker’s settlement. His three sleek X-3s sat like birds of prey on the landing
strip, the only aircraft there that day, and though he knew he had one of his
men over in the number three bird watching radar returns, he still found himself
looking north with apprehension.
The
Russians, he thought…They let loose on the company and put Princess Irene on the bottom of the sea. I hope to God we gave them a bloody nose for that one.
Word is they have a reinforced rifle division up on the Kazakh border ready to
roll on a moment’s notice. If they do move, that will mean they’ll have air
cover up as well, and they know exactly where every airfield in the region is
now. The longer he sat there on the tarmac the more vulnerable he felt, and he
was itching to get his men aboard the X-3s and heading home—until the call came
in from Captain MacRae on Argos Fire.
“Well
now,” he said, his Irish blood riled. “A bar fight, Tommy.” His co-pilot Tom Wicks
was checking one of the twin turbo-prop engines on the nearest X-3. “Looks like
somebody got her skirts ruffled over that incident in the Black Sea.”
“What
skirts?” said Wicks. “She’s got a pair of legs on her, no question about that, but
her ladyship never gives us a look at them. Always prancing about in those pants
suits and all.”
“You
have it in for the CEO, Tommy?”
“Me?
I’ll have it in anywhere I get a welcome,” he smiled. “What’s this all about, Lieutenant?”
“I
can’t say as I know,” said Ryan. “Just like us
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