Precipice

By Dan Pollock

Logistics expert Jane Malcolm got her training under fire literallyin the Gulf War, where movement of supplies and equipment meant the difference between life and death. Eight years later, shes running her own logistics consulting firm. But as shestands on the brink of her greatest victory, she will be swept into a new, high-stakesgame with an opponent she may not even recognizeuntil its too late.Poised to close a multi-national deal, Jane learns that a plane crash has claimed the life of her father, Royal Akers, head of a faltering superstore chain. Determined to restoreher fathers legacy, she races against time to find ways around the Akers dynastyswoes and undercover their source. For it rapidly becomes clear that these are not random mishaps, but corporate sabotage. International trading partners suffer the fallout, ratcheting the stakes even higher. Economic disaster threatens to topple a fragile govern-ment. If Jane makes one false move, it could be her last. Tense, taut, Precipice is an edge-of-the-seat thriller, creating an all-too-plausible nightmare scenario.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 7, 2001
• ISBN: 9781475923841

Dan Pollock

Born into a family of writers in New York, Daniel Pollock extended his family’s literary legacy by writing such thrillers as Lair of the Fox, Duel of Assassins, Pursuit into Darkness, and now, Precipice. Mr. Pollock lives in California with his wife, Constance and their two children.

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Precipice

Copyright © 1997, 2001 by Daniel Pollock

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Originally published by Council of Logistics Management

ISBN: 978-0-5951-7208-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2384-1 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 04/27/2015

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

DAY 1

DAY 2

DAY 3

DAY 4

DAY 5

DAY 6

DAY 7

DAY 8

DAY 9

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

From concept to final manuscript, this novel has been a collaborative project. The primary triad consisted of Elaine M. Winter, director of communications and research for the Council of Logistics Management; Joel L. Sutherland, vice president of logistics, Con Agra/Monfort and chairperson of the Logistics Novel Project Committee for the Council of Logistics Management; and Toby Stein, project and book editor. I owe a debt to all three for their guidance and forbearance. In the book’s creation, Toby Stein’s involvement was passionate and unstinting, her contributions immeasurable. Many of my favorite parts of the book are hers.

I wish to thank the Council of Logistics Management’s 1994-97 Executive Committee members; Mark Garvey, editor of Writer’s Market, who helped determine the feasibility of the logistics novel project; and the Logistics Novel Project Committee: Kenneth B. Ackerman, President, K. B. Ackerman Company; Cheryl S. Byrne, President/Owner, Marketpower; Robert Lorin Cook, Professor of Marketing and Logistics, Central Michigan University; Craig M. Gustin, Principal, CGR Management Consultants; and Donna K. Richmond, President, Richmond Group.

And special thanks to Council members who responded to repeated queries and solicitations for war stories and intriguing supply chain problems and solutions, as well as to my experts and guides: Joseph E. Angle, Manager of Warehousing and Transportation, Joico Laboratories, Inc.; Rosemary Coates, Senior Manager, KPMG Peat Marwick LLP; John S. Dillon, Facility Manager, Montgomery Ward West Coast Combined Distribution Facility; James J. Gill, Vice President, California Cartage Company; Christopher Hamm, Assistant Manager, Ralph’s Grocery Company; Franklyn C. Hathaway, Vice President Customer Operations, Avery-Dennison Corporation-Office Products; Andrea L. Manning, Communications Coordinator, Council of Logistics Management; Charles E. Marr, Group Supply Chain Manager, Hewlett-Packard Company; C. Roy Martin, Director, Customer Partnership and Service, Avery-Dennison Corporation; Ken Mason, Director Technology Group, United Parcel Service-Worldwide Logistics; William C. McCaughey, Director of Logistics Services, Joico Laboratories, Inc.; Robert Michel, Technical Coordinator, Newscom, Los Angeles Times; Masao Nishi, Vice President, Sabre Decision Technologies; Larry Pryor, Professor of Journalism, University of Southern California and Director of the Annenberg Center for Online Publishing; Mike Self, Corporate Director of Scheduling, Con Agra/Monfort; Richard C. S. Scott, Vice President, International Transportation Service; Colonel Harry G. Summers, Distinguished Fellow, Army War College; Joe Tomasone, Digital Radio Officer, Suffolk County NY; Steve Whitney, President, Friends of Meigs Field (Chicago); Jack R. Wiley, Manager of Transportation, Hunt Wesson, Inc.; Guy L. Wilks, Community Relations-Southeast California District, United Parcel Service; and Philip Worwa, San Diego Regional Sales Manager, Club Demonstration Services.

PROLOGUE

DH AH R AN, SAUDI ARABIA

FEBRUARY 25, 1 991

With air raid sirens wailing all over Dhahran, Captain Jane Akers gunned her Humvee toward the harbor district, gripping the wheel tightly enough to turn her knuckles white. The real threat of the nightly Scud attacks, she decided, was not the missiles themselves. They either broke up in-flight or were knocked down by Patriot antimissiles. Far more dangerous was the ground war being fought by Saudi motorists. In their flowing robes and gas masks, they looked like giant hooded insects—and drove like madmen, totally ignoring oncoming vehicles as they scanned the skies for ballistic fireworks. Of course, if one of the vehicles she was battling for the road decided to hit her head-on, her own helmet might prove useful. Her gas mask, on the other hand, would probably be imbedded in her face. A death mask.

No. If she was going to die in the service of her country, it wouldn’t be three hundred miles from the real action. Besides, if her life was to be aborted by a berserk motorist—Jane swerved out of the path of a careening truck—it ought to happen in Paris or Rome, where she would at least have eaten a decent last meal.

The truth was, on this Day Three of the ground offensive against Saddam Hussein’s forces, Dhahranian drivers were not the only reason she wanted to be closer to Kuwait or southern Iraq. There she might be of some use.

Don’t get left in the dust, General Schwarzkopf had instructed his logistics chief, Lieutenant General William G.

Gus Pagonis, in the early days of Desert Shield. And ever since Jane’s arrival in Saudi Arabia six months ago, she and her colleagues in Pagonis’s 22nd Support Command had worked eigh-teen-hour days to ensure that their supply lines could keep pace with any assault. In some cases they were actually able to outpace an assault by setting up huge supply depots near the Iraqi border before the ground war was launched.

Right now, in her mind’s eye, she could see an armada of Chinook transport helicopters crossing hundreds of miles of battlefront, to provide fuel, water, food, and ammunition for the fighting advance. Backing up the Chinooks would be truck convoys crisscrossing the rocky desert with ammunition crates, boxed rations, tankloads of water, medical supplies, pallets of Pepsi, portable showers, latrines—even Abrams battle tanks.

In recent weeks Jane’s log team had spent time working on the logistical problems posed by POWs. Now that Saddam’s soldiers were surrendering by the battalion, hundreds of emptied trucks and buses would be filled for their return from the front with live cargo—captured Iraqis. Each of them would have to be cleaned and clothed, housed and fed, and given urgent medical attention.

Urgent—the word that accurately described all her assignments up to now. Every single day she’d felt useful in a way life had denied her previously. No doubt what she was in Dhahran to accomplish would also prove useful, but the assignment to mesh timetables with the logistics officer of the 14th Quartermaster Detachment, whose job would be to enter Kuwait as soon as the fighting stopped and set up large water-purification units … well, it felt bland compared to what she’d been doing.

But this was the army, and you did what they gave you to do.

Right, Captain. Jane saluted herself mentally, and refocused. Her meeting, just up ahead in a converted-warehouse barracks in Khobar City, might not seem urgent right now, but Jane knew that if any segment of the war’s logistics was out of sync with another, it would eventually create a problem.

Right now, just getting to her meeting, not three miles from the military air base, was becoming a problem Jane saw as she was yanked back to the street scene by several cars lane jumping to get to the side of the road. She slowed the Hummer to watch as their drivers got out, all eyes raised toward an incoming Scud. The air raid sirens kept up their frenzied whoop, as though there were actual danger. The next sounds would be the mighty kettledrum roar of a Patriot antimissile battery, then the sonic boom, followed by the midair interception of the Scud.

No roar. No boom. What in hell—

It wasn’t possible! Jane peered up through the windshield, blinked at a fire streak racing across the desert night. Damn! The Scud was coming right toward her!

Behind the Hummer, tires screeched, metal crumpled. Jane veered sharply and pulled off the road. There was a lot of shouting in Arabic by robed figures running into the night. With an unfamiliar sense of helplessness, Jane followed the flaming trajectory as it slammed to earth beyond the other side of the road in a blinding orange flash. Her wide-wheelbased vehicle rocked in the blast wave, so it was impossible to tell if her body was shaking of its own accord. Then came a roar and a rain of sparks and shrapnel across the Humvee’s roof and hood. She opened her eyes to see fiery debris falling onto a panel truck, which skidded across the road, then slammed into a parked taxi.

You can’t just sit here, soldier! Jane wrenched open the door, scrambled out. People were scattering in all directions. A young man dodged across six lanes of highway to a chain-link fence already fringed with spectators. Beyond were red-and-yellow flames—in precisely the area of Khobar City where Jane was supposed to report. Darting through gaps in the chaotic traffic, she, too, raced across the road and joined the crowd at the fence. Where the A1 Khobar warehouse-barracks had stood, she beheld an inferno.

At this hour a hundred people could easily have been inside. Suddenly she was in the belly of the war, and it was terrifying. Jane backed away from the fence, her body moving of its own accord, her mind having shut down rather than take in the incredible tragedy.

Think! Her assignment voided, plainly what she had to do was get back in the Hummer and get the hell out of there. Make room for others—qualified others—who would be converging on the disaster scene. They’d be arriving soon—emergency crews, MPs and Saudi police, firefighters, medics. People trained for nightmare duty. She wasn’t! She’d only be in the way.

She was starting back toward the Hummer when shouting off to her right commanded her attention. Several men were crowding through a gap in the chain-link fence, forcing it wider, beckoning others to follow them.

They didn’t mean her; they weren’t even looking her way. She turned and kept walking. Stopped. You’re going through that hole and do what you can to help, soldier. Her face clenched, Jane hurried to join the group squeezing through the opening in the fence. Her gas mask hood caught and tore, rendering it useless. She yanked it off and was assaulted by a sulfurous stench. Conventional explosive. Hope to God the warhead was, too. Without the mask goggles she could see better. She wasn’t at all sure that qualified as a blessing.

She made her way through the dark field to a narrow road—and stopped. Beyond the road, the blaze held dominion. Through coiling flames and showering sparks was visible a twisted skeleton of steel girders. The warehouse roof and walls were gone, evaporated in the explosion.

In a moment her fear likewise evaporated, and Jane advanced into the searing heat, through a maze of parked trucks and paralyzed onlookers. A muscular black man, wearing only his dog tag and underwear, stumbled against her, swiping at blood on his chest. Jane shouted at him, asking how she could help. The man pointed to his ear, shook his head, lurched on. Two more men staggered past her, one naked, both wounded and screaming. Other dazed survivors, men and women, sagged against rescuers now streaming out of the barracks beside the leveled warehouse.

A gas-masked soldier dashed toward the blaze, stopped short, backpedaled—yelling, Gunfire! Jane heard it, too, over the crackle—a sound like M-16 rifle bursts. But more likely stored ammunition, she told herself, exploding in the flames. Which didn’t make it any less deadly.

She looked in vain for ambulances, helicopters, paramedics. It didn’t make sense just to be part of a swarming crowd. But what could she do? The answer came hopping toward her through swirling smoke—a fire-grimed GI, propelled on one bare foot, nothing showing below the bloodied cuff fringe of his other pants leg. He fell just out of Jane’s reach. Instinctively she stepped forward and levered him up onto his good leg, bracing him with her shoulder and arm, then screamed for help.

A tall, long-jawed man in T-shirt and blue jeans came out of nowhere. You hang on, he told the GI. We’re gonna get you help. I can carry him, Captain. You just tell me where.

But Jane had no idea where. And there was no time to plan this one out. The badly wounded youth, now cradled in the big stranger’s arms, could bleed to death in minutes. She scanned the rubble-strewn, vehicle-clogged street. Beyond an overturned pickup was a school bus, dented by shrapnel, its yellow sides charred, the windows blown out—but at least it was resting on its wheels. If they could just get it going, she thought, it could bulldoze all the other wreckage out of its way.

The bus! she yelled. The nearest hospital is just north of the airport—five minutes from here!

The bus’s rear exit door was off its hinges. Jane jumped in and swept shattered glass from the nearest bench seat, not even feeling the sliver that ended up in the side of her hand. Her helper eased the young man down, then charged forward.

No keys, Captain! he called back. But I think I can hot-wire it.

Do it! Jane yelled. But first give me your T-shirt so I can bandage this boy’s foot. She had no time to entertain her panic as she wrapped a pressure bandage around the young soldier’s ankle stump.

He’d be okay for a little while. She glanced outside at the teeming street. A young woman in a bloody bathrobe, arm pressed against her chest, was staring blankly straight ahead of her. Be right back! Jane shouted.

She scrambled off the bus. You hit?

Flying glass, the woman said, eyes returning to that awful place. Couldn’t pull it out to stop the bleeding.

Come on—inside—we’ll get you to the hospital.

Settling her beside the injured soldier, Jane said, Keep his leg elevated and keep talking to him. We’ll get you both to the hospital as fast as we can.

She rushed forward. Her helper was on his back, wedged under the steering wheel, probing with a flashlight and swearing nonstop.

Never waste transportation space. Logistics 101. How much time till you get this thing going? she shouted. There’s a lot of people out there who could use a ride to the hospital.

It’ll take a few more minutes to get the son of a bitch rolling, he growled back. You round up some of those folks.

Instituting a one-quick-glance triage system, Jane moved quickly and, with more strength than she had ever been called on to test, herded sixteen more injured people on board. Those who seemed less injured she enlisted to help her get others aboard. Several were in worse shape than the young man who’d lost his foot, but all looked as if getting to a hospital soon might save them.

There were still no emergency crews. Across the street others were hoisting survivors onto a flatbed truck.

The tall, shirtless man was in the driver’s seat now, bent forward, peering beneath the dash.

Jane glanced around. One soldier was weeping from his excruciating pain; a luckier one had passed out. "We gotta go now, she yelled in the ersatz mechanic’s ear. Or move everyone to that flatbed."

The reply was a sizzling spark and a long spasm of grinding while he tromped on the gas pedal. Then the engine rumbled to life, the entire bus frame shuddering as they pulled into traffic. She’s raring to go, Captain.

Get us through that. She pointed at the abandoned vehicles jamming the street ahead.

Right. Tell everybody to hang on.

A few minutes later, as they careened back onto Ahd Dhahran Street, nearing the hospital, Jane heard the distant thrash of choppers. Finally.

It was over weak coffee in the canteen, only after they’d turned over their busload of injured to the hospital staff, that Jane found out the name of her volunteer bus thief—Cheval Johnson: Chevy since the day I found out that cheval is horse in French and decided I’d rather be a car.

And what did you decide to be after that?

Chevy laughed. A pilot. Getting around, one way or the other, that’s my motto.

He filled in a few details. A commercial pilot and major in the air force reserve, he was currently flying C-141s for the Military Airlift Command and had been billeted next door to the destroyed barracks.

Nice job of hot-wiring, she said, sipping from the steaming cup of coffee.

My misspent youth finally paid off.

Sorry about commandeering your T-shirt, she said, laughing as she pointed at the hospital gown he had put on in its place. Despite his skewed, youthful smile, Jane guessed that Chevy Johnson had ten or twelve years on her twenty-five. But this was no day to bank on a guess. Hadn’t her own face, caught in a hospital rest room mirror, shocked her? What she’d just witnessed seemed scrawled all over it.

Bodies were still arriving at the hospital, more going to the morgue now than Emergency. All those she and Chevy had helped evacuate were still alive on arrival, although one young man was burned so badly, the doctor upstairs told them his chances of pulling through were not good.

What are you gonna do when all this is over? Chevy asked. Make a career of the service?

Don’t think so. But I’m going to stick with logistics—what I’m doing here—definitely. That’s my thing, like getting around is yours. She smiled. Working here has been an extraordinary experience, but I don’t want to spend the next ten years waiting for another that comes close. So I’ll probably be looking for a job with a private company.

Like?

It almost doesn’t matter, at least not right away. Every business has logistical parts to their operation—and plenty of them are fouled up. She grinned. I like finding out how things work, then figuring out ways to make them work better. Later on, if I can prove my stuff in a company, or a big consulting firm, I may want to go out on my own. How about you, flyboy?

I’ll go back to flying commercial. I like the life. And, heck, I’ve invested a lot of time perfecting my drawl.

Well, if I ever hear you over the intercom at thirty-seven thousand feet, I’ll knock on your flight deck door.

You do that, Captain Akers.

That sounded like good-bye to her. She stood. I’m going to check on some of our passengers.

I’ll come with you, he said. You always have so many thoughtful ideas in one day?

The badly burned young soldier was dead. Damn, Jane said. "Damndamn damn"

He held her until she got her tears in check.

Sorry, she said, moving away. She glanced at her watch. Chevy had said he was hitching a ride with a reporter back to the air base. Your ride must be waiting.

He’s probably still trying to get through to his editor.

Jane definitely wasn’t in any hurry. She was waiting to be picked up by an NCO in her group and find out whether the logistics officer of the 14th had made it. Someone else would retrieve her Humvee. Even if she could get back to the vehicle, she felt way too shaky to drive.

They walked together toward the nearest bank of elevators. Halfway there, Chevy stopped her and kissed her on the cheek.

What’s that for?

For you, he said. You’re quite a soldier, Jane. Just wanted to say that.

Back at you, she said.

And quite a lady, he said, a slight hoarseness in his voice.

She had to tilt her face up to look him in the eye. The corridor was dimly lighted, but that wasn’t why their eyes fastened hard. Jane waited, surprised but not shocked by the shudder of desire that ran through her or by her sudden certitude that they would spend what was left of this night together. Somewhere. If there was a better way to obliterate a little of what they’d seen and heard, she didn’t know it.

She reached up to touch his rough-stubbled jaw. Her hand was captured by his in midair, her knuckles kissed. Their eyes remained locked.

Oh, boy, Jane breathed huskily, dropping her head onto his shoulder.

I’ll get you back to base tomorrow.

Now who’s full of good— Her eyes registered a wedding band on Chevy’s left hand, just inches from her face. She stiffened slightly.

Tracking her glance, Chevy grimaced. Shoulda taken that off. No dice, right?

She shook her head. I just can’t, Chevy. I’m not making any judgments, it’s just that—

Hey, no explanations called for.

And hers would certainly not have erased the awkwardness as they said their good-byes. At the last moment, he kissed her. On the forehead. Not quite what her body had had in mind. In her last glimpse of him, Chevy still wore a rueful smile.

A quarter of an hour later, she was being driven away by the wrong man, angry for the thousandth time at her father. If he hadn’t…

It was all such a long time ago, but she could still remember how stupidly the sun was shining as he drove off to work after the horrendous fight with her mother over that woman. Jane was not—ever—going to be the other woman and risk tearing some other family apart.

She felt a sting and mindlessly rubbed the place on her palm. Ouch. She looked, found a sliver of glass. She had no idea where she’d acquired it. But it felt right. A little pain never hurt anyone.

PART ONE

I

She was en route to the taxi stand at Honolulu International when there he was, coming straight at her along the central concourse, a man she knew. Past tense—had known. But who? Dark blue flight blazer slung over one shoulder. Tall, lanky body, moving with the nonchalance of a man used to being admired. Joking with his Orient Air-uniformed crew mates. Then memory dealt its face card, that lopsided grin—topping another uniform, eight years and half a world away.

Just before they would have passed each other, she stepped in front of him.

Hello, Chevy, she said.

His grin turned quizzical. Why not? Last time he saw me, I had on a grimy uniform and a grimier face. Now here she was in a navy pinstriped pant suit, with a good haircut and a not naked face.

He’d changed a bit, too. Hair saltier than she recalled, the face just a little fleshier. His ring finger was bare.

At least give me a hint, he said.

Ever driven a school bus, Major?

Til be damned! Hey, guys, you’re looking at a genuine Gulf War hero. Chevy’s grin now split his face. Jane had the distinct impression that she was about to be vacuumed into a bear hug. Then she saw his focus flick to a willowy, redheaded flight attendant flanking him pretty closely His open-armed gesture stopped just short of an embrace. How could I ever forget?"

So what’s my name, Major?

Hold on! He furrowed his forehead. Then, triumphantly,

Captain Jane Akers, U.S. Army. How’s that?

Catch you later, Chevy. The redhead wheeled on by.

He tossed her a wave. The rest of the flight crew continued down the concourse in her wake.

I didn’t mean to break up your—

Halt right there, Cap’n. I’ve been cooped up with those mates for the last five hours. God, it’s great to see you! Here came that hug. Red must have turned the corner.

Jane, look, I’m off duty. Are you? Whatever counts as duty for you these days. Do you have time for a drink?

That would be lovely.

To pure blind luck! Chevy said, hoisting his glass of ginger ale and tapping hers.

Once, I thought I recognized your voice, and asked a flight attendant the pilot’s name. It was Czernowski or something.

He laughed. A long-lost cousin, no doubt. We do all sound alike, don’t we? But here I am, doing just about what I told you I’d be, flying a big old bus back and forth across the big water. And you—he indicated her attire—whatever branch that uniform represents, you’ve obviously moved up a rank. Is it still logistics? See, I do remember. The smile was warm and obviously genuine.

Still doing it, still loving it. Worked for other folks until last year, now I have my own little consulting business in San Francisco. Malcolm and Associates.

If it’s your shop, who’s Malcolm?

I am.

Oh.

Don’t look so crestfallen, it’s my mother’s maiden name.

I don’t follow.

Long story Not especially interesting.

But you’re not married?

Jane glanced at his hand. Given the fella’s globe-trotting joband charming ways, Jane-girl, that bare hand doesn’t mean a thing.

Chevy, following her eyes, laughed. "You’re right. Fair’s fair. Me first. Took me a while, but, yes, I am divorced."

I’m not. Jane managed not to smile—for about a second. I’m not married, Chevy. Been way too busy.

Being busy certainly agrees with you. You look…

Happy? Let you in on a secret. I’m about to land my first blockbuster contract—if tomorrow goes right.

I’d love to hear about it, Jane. Tell me all about it?

I’d really like that, but I’m meeting my associate at the Hilton for a strategy session in—Jane glanced at her watch—thirty-five minutes. Wish me luck tomorrow?

I doubt you’ll need it, but sure. Here’s to lavish luck for Cap’n Jane. They touched glasses again. How about dinner after your strategy powwow? Get your mind off the big game?

I thought you wanted to hear all about it?

I do, I do. Chevy grinned. Okay, I’ll help you prep. What do you say? That too much for my boyish heart to hope for?

You’re incorrigible.

Is that a yes?

You’re lucky I’m in the kind of mood I’m in.

" That’s a yes."

She laughed, and stood. Call me at the Hilton Hawaiian Village, the Alii Tower, with where and when—and if I need a hibiscus in my hair.

You’re going out—tonight!—with some guy you met in the airport? Mark Gibian, Jane’s associate, tried to keep his voice calm and failed.

"I met him in Dhahran eight years ago, if that’s pertinent. Look, we’re ready for any questions that might crop up tomorrow. If we weren’t, we’d keep at it."

You need a good night’s sleep.

Mark! Would you get out of here so I can change?

From anywhere in the Hanohano Room, the sunset sweep of Waikiki and Diamond Head was breathtaking. Like other diners in the Sheraton’s rooftop restaurant, they had been seated side by side, facing the windows. But Chevy had promptly switched so he faced Jane.

You’re missing the dazzling view, she said.

Don’t think so.

Jane had changed into a black silk sheath. You never knew where a client might want to have dinner. Thank you, she said.

To heck with mai tais or rum punches, let’s celebrate your deal right now. Chevy ordered a bottle of Cristal.

My word, Chevy. A world-class view, first-class champagne. The job’s not in my pocket yet.

Whatever else I may have blocked out, I haven’t forgotten your terrific efficiency. That job’s yours.

I’ll drink to that, she said, slipping into his mood. It wasn’t hard. The man’s charm quotient went off the chart.

She studied the bubbles in her champagne. "People ever ask you at parties—you know, the CNN warriors—if being there was even more exciting than watching the war on TV?"

Maybe once or twice. I’m not much of a party-goer.

Oh, right.

I skipped tonight’s party, Captain. And I’m all ears. Tell me about your meeting tomorrow.

You really want to hear this?

"I’d like to hear about everything you’ve been doing since I had to drive off with that reporter, but—"

You’ll settle for hearing about my deal. She laughed, and then she began to tell him about TranSonic Airex, which had been muscling FedEx and UPS among others for the U.S. package distribution market. They wanted to extend the challenge into the Asian air parcel business.

After a brief interruption while they gave their order, Janesaid, What’s the chuckle for?

Just that I’ve been flying around the Pacific long enough to remember when cargo was nothing more than an add-on to the passenger service. Now here we are, with Asia exploding as the brand-new frontier—the wild, wild East—and all the big boys are fighting over who gets to move the most brown boxes.

You’ve got the picture. Well, over the last few months, nearly a dozen contract logistics consulting outfits devised Asian strategies for TranSonic Airex. My firm was among the least-known players.

But you outfoxed them all?

Won’t know for sure till tomor—

I thought we settled that.

Right. If I did, it was equal parts creative thinking and sheer mental drudgery. Those marathon skull sessions we endured in the Gulf are second nature now.

So what did you come up with?

A good idea. You obviously know Asia. TSA—that’s what their people call it—wanted to enter the Asian market as a big integrator like FedEx and UPS. Meaning they would offer door-to-door package service across the region, with both airplanes and a ground network—and try to do it better than their rivals.

A tall order, Chevy said.

They were gung ho. By the time I entered the picture, they had about decided to build their own air cargo hub at the old Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines.

Chevy whistled. That’s practically on top of where FedEx has its hub. Subic Bay isn’t more than fifteen miles from Clark Field. In your face, FedEx, huh?

Exactly.

I’m no logistician, Chevy said, "but I’d vote against that pick. I had my doubts when I heard FedEx was going in there. Manila is—what?—more than an hour from any landmass.

Seven hundred miles from Hong Kong, forget Seoul or Singapore. How’m I doing so far? Maybe you should hire me."

Go on, make the case.

The arrival of their food gave Chevy a moment to think. He chewed a bite of his steak, then said, Well, if you were shipping overnight from Bangkok to Hong Kong, say, you’d have to travel the hell out of your way to reach a Philippines sortation hub. You’d end up flying twice as far. Which means a lot of extra time and a lot of fuel.

Bravo! So why did FedEx pick it? Great curry!

Good. Hey, don’t ask me. They’ve made gaffes before. That ZapMail idea? And didn’t they make heavy investments in the European package market, then end up pulling back?

Yes, but they do a lot of things very well. And there are actually a lot of advantages to the Philippines as a sortation center. Infrastructure’s already in place. Subic’s a designated economic development zone. There’s cheap, nonunion yet technically skilled labor with fluent English. Throw in twenty-four-hour customs clearance, good weath—

Enough already! He topped off her champagne flute. "So how’d you talk ‘em out of it? Fair warning, when you smile that way you destroy my concentration."

You want to hear about my little triumph or not?

Stop smiling, and I’ll listen with both ears. Deal?

Deal. Only it suddenly wasn’t easy not to smile. When was the last time a man had made her feel so pretty?

For someone who’s getting used to taking control of a situation…

Jane stopped smiling and picked up her story.

I used all the nifty arguments you mentioned, but my main point was that they shouldn’t go it alone. They need a partner, a company with an existing Asian infrastructure—air and ground network, landing rights, ocean connections.

Makes sense to me, Chevy said. "So where’d you pick?

Taipei might do nicely, but UPS is already there, right?"

Right. As for in your face, if you want to do business with China, locating your hub in Taiwan is not exactly the smartest strategic move. I advised TSA against it.

What about Hong Kong? Chevy asked.

Pretty good. Another consultant explored a Hong Kong airline, but couldn’t reach an agreement. One more guess.

Chevy was clearly concentrating now. Let’s see. Japan and Korea, too far north; Bangkok and Singapore, too far west—except for overnight deliveries to India. He sighed. I give up.

Hey, if you’d have come up with the answer just like that, how would I feel? This one wasn’t a snap, believe me.

Jane told him her idea. Chevy chewed on it meditatively, like someone tasting an unfamiliar dish. Then he smiled. Big. Know what, Cap’n? That’s good. Real good.

Now, if I can just close the deal tomorrow. But enough about world peace, she said. Tell me about you. Any plans beyond Orient Air?

Chevy grinned. Honestly? To do some serious sailing. I’ve begun saving my shekels for an early retirement—not real soon, but when I do quit, my sights are set on one of those round-the-world things. Take my time about it. Grow a beard. Read all the books I’ve been meaning to. Put into port here and there.

Don’t you need a boat?

Got one. A fifty-footer anchored in Lahaina. If you finish off that champagne, I’ll tell you her name. I’ve sailed her down to the Marquesas and Tahiti, and I’m thinking about maybe entering the Transpac this July, but first I’ve got to get her to L.A. Chevy shrugged. Disappointed I’m not planning to start my own airline or something equally ambitious?

Nope. I think your plan sounds fantastic. Are you talking about single-handed sailing?

I could do it, rig self-steering gear. But I’m no loner. I need a crew mate. I’m kind of on the lookout for one who can’t grow a beard. Interested?

Around the world? I’d have to check my Day-Timer.

Chevy leaned forward. Seriously. I’ve got some time off here. After you close your deal tomorrow, we could celebrate by sailing around some of the islands. There’s still time to catch the humpbacks off Maui, Jane. Maybe do some scuba diving, snorkeling, kayaking—you name it.

Suddenly Jane felt a shiver of desire awfully close to the one she’d felt that crazy night in Dhahran—and hadn’t felt for quite a while. Hell, recently she scarcely had time to think about a romantic life—let alone have one. Just when she’s closing in on her big breakthrough, along comes Chevy with his cowboy grin. Awful good timing, Major.

Jane tried to visualize them cruising the islands together. But when her mind had him bare chested and sweat slick, he was suddenly behind the wheel of that school bus, driving hell-bent-for-leather to the hospital.

Please don’t frown, he said. Sorry if I pushed. I guess I was thinking of all the time we’ve wasted.

Jane sipped the last of her champagne. I’d love to, she said.

You mean you will?

Let’s put it this way. If everybody signs on the dotted line tomorrow, and if I can find an appropriate swimsuit at the Hilton… why not? I’ll give you a call.

"Her name is Happy Days—my boat! I must have been looking into a crystal ball when I named her."

II

All the parties had shown up at the Sea Pearl hospitality suite of the Hilton’s Mid-Pacific Conference Center promptly at eight-thirty, but now they weren’t exactly mingling. The dark-suited, diminutive men from Macao were sipping tea in one corner of the suite, occasionally exchanging a quiet word or two. The head-higher delegates from Dallas were clustered around the TV in another corner, gulping coffee, devouring sweet rolls, and trading quips as they watched a scrolling stock ticker.

Jane took the situation in hand. We’d better do something to mix things up, she told Mark.

Pass, Mark said. "I don’t speak Mandarin or Texan."

You’ll do fine, Mark. Go!

They began to circulate, weaving their way through the two groups, smiling and bowing and shaking hands. Cross-pollination was the next step. TranSonic’s PR director, Regina Chellis, took the cue and began to escort several of her colleagues on similar social forays. It wasn’t ten minutes before Jane discerned a definite conversational buzz. She found herself rather relishing the clash of dialects—Chinese-inflected British versus Lone Star twang.

Suddenly the focus of her attention shifted from sound to sight with the rather tardy arrival of an older Chinese who was not on the list of attendees. His wispy silver hair and pouched eyes in no way diminished the considerable dignity the newcomer radiated. But what was even more noticeable was the deference shown by the members of the Eastern delegation as they lined up to greet him.

Tony Chan, Mark whispered in Jane’s ear. He left the late evening cocktail reception before you returned from your little outing with your old boyfriend.

Jane ignored the gibe. She’d made sure to get back in time to drop in on the reception. Turned out, few heavyweights from either side had bothered to attend.

She knew who Tony Chan was, of course, which made the extravagant courtesy being extended to him somewhat puzzling. For Chan, who owned several gaming casinos in Macao, was only a minority shareholder in South China Air, the Macao-based airline Jane had selected as TranSonic’s Asian partner.

She would have expected Chan to be deferential to the four nondescript representatives of China’s National Aviation Corporation, which actually controlled 51 percent of the airline. Special casino privileges weighing in?

Whatever the reason, with his arrival, the South China Air delegates began wending their way toward the adjoining conference room. The TSA team promptly joined the flow.

The countdown to signing was on!

Dave Ellsmere, the gangly, gravel-voiced chairman of TranSonic, welcomed everyone, then introduced his team, which included several high-ranking staff members as well as Jane and Mark. James Shen, South China Air’s chief executive, did the same for his side of the table. Two of the Chinese men relied on interpreters; all the rest spoke English. The process was deliberately unhurried, partly because some of these people were getting their first look at one another, but also because, as Jane reminded Dave, Asians liked to observe the amenities.

Having had contact with all the parties already, Jane stole this time to scan mentally, one more time, the basics that had been agreed upon in numerous earlier meetings: TranSonic Airex would finance and build a state-of-the-art package sorta-tion hub at the Macao International Airport—their engineers had already inspected the site. In addition to the location, South China Air would be providing landing rights and gates at other major Asian airports, plus ocean connections to the ports of Hong Kong, Yantian, Shanghai, and Taiwan’s Kao-hsiung. TSA would be supplying planes—mostly DC-8s, but also 727s, 757s, and 747s.

The deal would constitute a considerable leap forward for Macao, the former Portuguese colony across the Pearl River Estuary from Hong Kong. Macao’s airport was still only a few years old; before that the island’s air service had been restricted to seaplanes and helicopters. But South China Air had already carved out an impressive regional niche, opening the first direct air link between Taiwan and the People’s Republic, ending Hong Kong’s long dominance of Taiwanese transit travel to China.

That last fact had convinced Jane that Macao was the right choice to be TSA’s partner.

The hardest sell at TSA’s headquarters in Dallas had been Macao’s reversion to Chinese control. Doing business with what was essentially still an unknown quantity did