The Vulcan Disaster

This was getting complicated. And I had the feeling that those complications, if I responded to them, would only lead me farther and farther away from whatever goal it was that I was supposed to be pursuing.

One thing I did know. Whatever it was that had caused David Hawk to send me halfway around the world, it wasn’t the heroin traffic. It wasn’t that Hawk, and AXE, weren’t concerned about it. It was just that that wasn’t usually our slice of the pie.

But in the meantime, what was I to do about Phuong? Obviously the main thing, once we’d landed, would be to give her associates the slip. That was okay. I could make my way home from Hong Kong easily enough and perhaps look into the affairs of Mr. Meyer, the import-export man from Nathan Road in Kowloon, while the trail was still relatively warm. Perhaps I’d be able to pick up some sort of lead on the guys who had killed him.

Of course, I’d have to dump her and leave her to whatever sort of bargain she’d made with her old flame. And what bothered me was the fact that whatever bargain she’d made, it had probably saved my life. The gentleman in question wasn’t known for his generosity of spirit, or for his weak stomach. Before he’d moved from military to government status, he’d had a hand in a couple of massacres in the mountains. He wouldn’t have hesitated a moment over putting a bullet in me, passed out in the street. And could I just drop her back into his nasty operation and forget her?

My arm must have tightened around her just then. Just a reaction to what I was thinking. But at my touch she melted into my arms; her hands went around my body, pulled me to her. Then they went to my face and guided it to hers. I felt soft, hungry lips on mine, again and again. The little hands forced me down, pushing gently at my chest just above the bandage. Her hands were busy about her body in the dark and when I reached for her as she knelt there above me, I felt only skin — soft, velvety, exquisitely smooth skin. The beautiful body she’d shown me before, almost in contempt of me, she now wanted me to feel, there in the dark, with the roar of the great engines blotting out everything but the sound of her hoarse breathing, just above my face. Her hands guided mine up that slim, flat little belly of hers, to the delicious softly rounded breasts, tipped with rock-hard little nipples, fully aroused now. She guided my hands across these, pressed them to her hard, then moved my palms up to her neck. She shuddered in some private ecstasy of her own; then she climbed over me and slipped me — ready and willing — inside. Instantly another great shudder went through her body; her back arched; she ground her pelvis into mine; her body convulsed once more; she rode me pressing my not unwilling hands to her body all the while, moaning helplessly. And somehow, busted ribs and all. I found myself getting into the spirit of things. I took over the reins myself. She moaned again in that strange hoarse voice of hers; her body shook uncontrollably.

Outside the wind howled. The big engines roared and spat fire. Far behind us was a world in the last phases of a war decisively lost after thirty years’ bloodshed. I hadn’t any idea what lay ahead, and in the meantime, the present was wonderful.

Chapter Four

“How many of them are there up there?” I asked.

The door had swung open slightly; perhaps she hadn’t slammed it shut hard enough. There was a crack of light coming in from the compartment forward. I was sitting up, faying to struggle to my feet; she sat before me, buttoning up the black blouse. The dim light outlined her face for me, showing off those delicate bones, that almost European nose.

“My... employer,” she said. “The pilot. One other. A sort of bodyguard. Mr. Carter, do you think...?” The fine-boned face turned to me. “But no, no, I couldn’t ask you...”

I let her lead pass for now. “I take it this is an unscheduled flight?” I’d worked the knife back up into its chamois case inside my sleeve. I reached for my wallet and found it still there, much to my surprise, in my coat pocket. Good. They’d have accepted the ID inside, which identified me as Peter Cowles, a staff assistant to the senior senator from a state not far from Washington. That would have jibed nicely with the story she’d given them about me. The senator in question was one of the more loud-mouthed supporters of the war in Vietnam. He’d have been approachable, perhaps through his obliging, and grateful, staff assistant.

“Unscheduled?” she replied. “I... I’m sure it is. He... they had to bribe a lot of people to get permission to take off. Why?”