Free Final Flight by Stephen Coonts Page B

window.
    “Your help on my next project would be worth
one million dollars,” Qazi said when the
burning tip of Sakol’s cigarette had almost
reached the filter. “Half in advance.”
    “The agency and the Mossad are after us both. They
want us dead. Ding dong dead. Blown away.
    “Indeed! What did you expect? Why do you think
we paid you so much money?”
    “I want two million, half in advance. You
Arabs always like to haggle.
    People eventually forget about stolen antiaircraft
missiles and kidnappings, but they won’t forget about
anything that smells of nuclear weapons. Not ever.
“One million real American dollars
in your numbered Swiss account, Sakol, and if you
are very lucky, you will live to spend it.”
    Sakol threw back his head and laughed harshly.
“You amaze me, Qazi.
    You could have killed me anytime, and only now you
threaten me. My sheep-fucking Arab friend, you can
kiss my ass. I’ve taken precautions.”
    “Ah, yes. The letters to be mailed in the event of
your death. The ones you gave your sister in Chicago,
which she keeps in a safe deposit box at the
State Street National Bank. Box number
One Five Oh Eight.”
    Sakol helped himself to another cigarette. He
struck a match and held it to the cigarette with
twisted and gnarled fingers without nails.
    The flame did not waver. He inhaled deeply,
then blew the match out with a cloud of smoke that
engulfed Oeaeaazi. “Two million. You know
damn well I’m not scared of you.”
    “One million, one hundred thousand. Half in
advance. The Americans will learn of your aid to our
cause.
    Henry Sakol laughed, a harsh guttural
laugh that filled the room. “You really know your
bastards, don’t you, Qazi? That’s
right! I want those arrogant, snot-nosed, Ivy
League pig fuckers to know I helped you screw
‘em. Right in their tight little cherry asses. He
slapped the bankbook on the arm of his chair, then
handed it over. “What’s the job?”
    “Has Jarvis seen you?”
    “No, he hasn’t. The guys you sent to help were
competent.”
    “Then I’ll explain.” Qazi talked while
Sakol chain-smoked. The sunbeam coming through the one
window crept up the wall and finally disappeared,
leaving the room in growing darkness.
    The phone rang. “Captain Grafton.”
    “Jake, this is the Admiral. I’m here in
Flag Ops with Captain James and Doctor
Hartman. Would you come over, please.”
    “I’ll be right there, sir.”
    Jake gave the message board to Airman
Smith to lock away and rooted in his desk drawer
for his baseball cap. He needed to be covered
to salute the admiral, and aboard ship everyone
routinely wore ball caps. He found his and
settled it on his thinning hair.
    In Flag Ops, the commanding officer of the United
States, Captain Laird James, was
discussing a mechanical problem in the forward
reactor with Admiral Parker when Jake arrived.
Laird James was in his late forties and tall and
lean, without an ounce of fat. In those few times
Jake had dined with him, James had only picked
at his food. His hair was shot through with gray and the
skin of his face was stretched tightly around a small
mouth. He never smiled, or at least he never had
in Jake’s presence.
    The doctor was looking over the shoulders of several
members of the watch team as they worked the displays on
the Navy Tactical Data System (Ntds)
computer. Jake stopped several steps short of the
admiral’s raised padded chair and waited. When
Parker nodded toward Jake, he stepped over and
saluted. The doctor joined them.
    “Doc Hartman wants to ground you,” Cowboy
Parker said without preliminaries. “He says that your
night vision is unacceptable.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Why don’t you want to be grounded?”
    “Admiral, we’ve got these flight crews
stretched as tight as rubber bands. We’re getting
all the flying out of them that anyone has a right
to expect. We lost one crew last
night. And no matter how careful we are, we may
lose another. These men all know that. I can’t