Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

Bill Satherwaite squirmed in his chair. Thinking about Bob Callum and his cancer was not something that he did on a voluntary basis-or ever, for that matter. Callum had made colonel, and the last that Satherwaite knew, he was still working as a ground instructor at the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs. He asked McCoy, "He still working?"

"He is. Same place. Give him a call."

"I will. Tough break." He thought a moment, then said, "You survive a war, you die of something worse."

"He may beat it."

"Yeah. And last but not least, my little shit of a wizo-how's Chip?"

"Couldn't reach him," McCoy replied. "Last letter I sent to him in California got returned with no forwarding address. Phone is disconnected, no info available."

"Just like Wiggins to forget to keep his paperwork up to date. I really had to work to keep that guy in line. Always had to remind him to do everything."

"Chip never changes."

"You can say that again."

McCoy thought about Chip Wiggins. The last time he'd spoken to him was April 15 of the previous year. Wiggins had taken flying lessons when he left the Air Force and was now a pilot, flying cargo for various small airlines. Everyone liked Chip Wiggins, but he was not good about attention to detail, such as change-of-address cards.

Jim McCoy, Terry Waycliff, and Paul Grey had shared the thought that Wiggins didn't keep in touch because he was a pilot now, but hadn't been a pilot back then. Also, he had been in Satherwaite's crew, and that was probably reason enough to be ambivalent about the past. Jim McCoy said, "I'll try to track him down. You know, I don't think Chip even knows about Willie yet."

Satherwaite took another drink of bourbon, glanced at the clock, then at the door. Regarding the late Colonel Hambrecht, he said, "Chip liked Willie. He should be told."

"Right. I'll do my best." McCoy didn't know what else to say, knowing that Bill Satherwaite wouldn't put a stamp on an envelope to keep the group in contact, and that the work of maintaining everyone's whereabouts had mostly been his and Terry's.

In fact, ever since he'd gotten the job as Director of the Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum, Jim McCoy had become the unofficial corresponding secretary of their little unofficial group. The guys found it convenient to use him as a rallying point-he had the office assets to keep in touch by telephone, mail, e-mail, and fax. Terry Waycliff was sort of their President, but his Pentagon job made him unavailable most of the time, and Jim McCoy never called him unless it was important. Soon, they'd all be old men and have plenty of time to stay in touch if they wanted to.

McCoy said to Satherwaite, "Did you say you have a charter?"

"Yeah. Guy's late."

"Bill, have you been drinking?"

"Are you crazy? Before a flight? I'm a pro, for God's sake."

"Okay…" McCoy thought that Bill was lying about drinking, so he hoped that Bill Satherwaite was also lying about having a customer. He took a moment to reflect on the old squadron-Steve Cox, killed in the Gulf; Willie Hambrecht, murdered in England; Terry Waycliff, completing a brilliant military career; Paul Grey, a successful civilian; Bob Callum, sick with cancer in Colorado; Chip Wiggins, missing in action, but presumed well; Bill Satherwaite, a ghost of his former self; and finally, himself, Jim McCoy, museum director-good job, bad pay. Out of eight men, two were dead, one was dying of cancer, one was dying of life, one was missing, and three were okay for the moment. He said to Bill Satherwaite in a soft tone of voice, "We should all fly out to see Bob. We shouldn't delay. I'll put it together. You've got to be there, Bill. Okay?"

Bill Satherwaite remained quiet for a few seconds, then said, "Okay. Can do. Can do."

"Take it easy, buddy."

"Yeah… you, too." Satherwaite put the phone down and rubbed his eyes, which were moist. He took another drink, then put the bottle in his overnight bag.

Bill Satherwaite stood and looked around his shabby office. On the far wall was a state of South Carolina flag and a Confederate flag that a lot of people found offensive, which was why he kept it there. The whole country had gone to hell, he thought, politically correct faggots were in charge, and even though Bill Satherwaite was from Indiana, he liked the South-except for the heat and the humidity-he liked their attitudes, and he liked his Confederate flag. "Fuck 'em."

On the side wall was a large aeronautical plotting chart, and beside the chart was an old poster, faded and wrinkled from the humidity. It was a photograph of Moammar Gadhafi with a big bull's-eye drawn around his head. Satherwaite picked up a dart from his cluttered desk and flung it at the poster. The dart hit the middle of Gadhafi's forehead, and Satherwaite yelled, "Yeah! Fuck you!"

Bill Satherwaite went to the window of his small office and looked out into the bright sunshine. "Nice day for flying." Out on the runway, one of his two aircraft, the Cherokee 140 trainer, was just lifting off, and in the afternoon heat and turbulence, the small airplane's wings wobbled as the student pilot strained to gain altitude.

He watched the Cherokee disappear as it continued its wobbly climb. He was glad he didn't have to be in the cockpit with this kid, who had no balls, no feel for aviation, and too much money. Back when he was an Air Force student pilot, they just axed out the dead wood. Now, he had to cater to them. And this kid would never see a minute of combat-he wanted to fly to impress his main hump. The country was going down the toilet, fast.

To make the day worse, his customer was some stupid foreigner, probably an illegal alien running drugs up to the hopheads in Philly, and the bastard was late. At least the guy wouldn't say anything if he smelled the bourbon. He'd probably think it was an American soft drink. He laughed.

He walked back to his desk and checked out a note he'd made. Alessandro Fanini. Sounded like a spic or a greaseball. "Yeah, a wop. That's not so bad. Better than some Pedro from south of the border."

"Good afternoon."

Satherwaite spun around and saw a tall man wearing dark sunglasses standing at the open door. The man said, "Alessandro Fanini. I apologize for my lateness."

Satherwaite wondered if the guy had heard him. He glanced at the wall clock and said, "Only half an hour. No problem."

The two men walked toward each other, and Satherwaite put out his hand. They shook, and Khalil said, "I was delayed at my last appointment in Charleston."

"No problem." Bill Satherwaite saw that the man carried a large black canvas bag and was dressed in a gray suit. He asked, "You got any other luggage?"

"I have left my luggage in my hotel in Charleston."

"Good. You don't mind my jeans and T-shirt, I hope."

"Not at all. Whatever is comfortable. But as I said, we will be staying overnight."

"Yeah. I got an overnight bag." He motioned to an Air Force bag on the dirty floor. He said, "My girlfriend will be here later to watch the store and lock up."

"Good. You should be back by midday tomorrow."

"Whatever."

"I have left my rental car near the main building. It will be safe there?"

"Sure." Satherwaite walked to a sagging bookshelf and scooped up a stack of rolled charts, then retrieved his overnight bag. "Ready?" He followed his customer's gaze, which was fixed on the poster of Gadhafi. Satherwaite grinned and said, "You know who that is?"

Asad Khalil replied, "Of course. My country has had many confrontations with that man."

"Yeah? You got into it with Mr Moammar Shithead Gadhafi?"

"Yes. He has threatened us many times."

"Yeah? Well, for your information I almost killed that bastard once."

"Yes?"

Satherwaite asked, "You're from Italy?"

"I am from Sicily."