Hawke

“That’s a big roger, sailor boy,” Vicky said. She climbed up onto the top of the cabin house, removed the linen top she’d been wearing over her bikini, and gracefully dove over the side into the crystalline blue water. Alex noticed she swam with long powerful strokes. She reached the shore in seconds and ran from the surf, sprinting across the hot sand.

She stretched out on the white sand in the shadow of the half-buried fishing boat and watched Alex wade ashore. He was struggling through the surf, trying to balance the wicker basket he held on his head.

“Come on, MacArthur, you can make it!” she shouted.

Alex emerged gri

“Would you mind unpacking everything?” he asked. “I want to go check on something.”

“Looking for Betty?”

“No, Betty will arrive as soon as she smells food. I’ll be right back.”

She opened the basket and pulled out a blue and white beach towel. There was a large H with a small crown above it embroidered on the towel. Spreading it on the sand, she began to unpack the basket. She pulled out a bottle of still-cold Montrachet, a baguette of French bread, and several kinds of cheese. She wasn’t very hungry following her night on the town, but the wine certainly looked good. Where was the corkscrew?

Alex walked along the shoreline until he spotted it. A lone blackened palm standing amidst the charred and scrubby vegetation. He walked inland and soon found the crater the surface-to-air missile had made when it crashed. It was about six feet across and three feet deep. He sifted through the sooty palm fronds and twisted shards of metal until he found what he was looking for.

A jagged piece of the missile with identifying marks. The piece was badly burned, but he could see something stamped into the metal. It wasn’t a Stinger after all. It was a Russian bloc SAM-7. The section in his hands looked as if it might have been one of the fins. With any luck, it might be enough for the “bomb baby-sitter,” as Tate had called the deputy secretary of defense, to help put the pieces of this puzzle together.

“Well, that was certainly mysterious,” Vicky said when he returned. “Marching off down the beach, clearly a man on a mission. What’s that?” she asked, looking at the piece of black metal in his hand.

“Piece of evidence,” he said.

“Really? Of what?”

“Attempted murder,” Alex said, and knelt down on the blanket. “I think he would have got me, too, if Betty hadn’t rattled him.”

“Betty rattled a murderer?”

“This piece of metal is all that’s left of a SAM missile a chap fired at me the other day. Betty knocked him down once, but he still managed to get a shot off.”

“Hold on. Someone actually tried to blow you out of the sky? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Vicky, I sometimes get involved in negotiations for a third party. As frequently happens, one party feels my demands are unreasonable. They’d like me out of the loop.”

“So, they tried to kill you? Alex, does this have anything to do with that briefcase?”

“That possibility is under investigation. Meanwhile, I thought it best we make Blackhawke our address for a week or two.”

“Keep us out of the loop,” Vicky said, looking at him evenly. “You said us.”

“It’s me they’re after. Would they try to get to me through you? I’d be less than honest if I said no.”

After considering this for a few moments, she smiled and kissed him on the cheek. Then she spread some Brie on a piece of the baguette and handed it to him. “Eat up. Wine?”

“Yes, please,” he said, eating the bread and holding out a wineglass.

She filled his glass with the cold white wine. It was wonderful with the bread and cheese. She’d already had two glasses herself. After feeling absolutely horrible all morning, she was now starting to feel pleasantly indolent and relaxed. The sun and salt were begi

It was the first time she’d seen Alex in a bathing suit. He looked good, she decided. Especially the legs. His body was hard and maybe too lean but for the bundled force gathered at his upper arms and shoulders. He caught her staring at him and brushed some sand off her cheek with his hand.

“You were a very naughty girl last night, Victoria.”

“I was not.”

“Yes, you were. And I’ve half a mind to give you a good sound spanking.”

“Only half?”

“Shh, here comes my savior! Betty! Over here! Get out the oranges. Those are her favorites.”

Vicky could hear the big pig meandering through the scrubby palms. The pig made loud snorting sounds as she emerged onto the beach and headed in their direction.

“She’s huge,” Vicky said, shrinking back from the beast. “And hairy. I thought pigs were soft and pink. And small.”

“Betty is a very well-fed animal. She has many admirers. Hold out an orange in your hand. She’ll take it from you.”

Vicky did, and Betty immediately gulped it down whole.

“Terrible ma

“She’s a pig, for heaven’s sake.” Hawke patted Betty’s snout affectionately. “A blind pig at that, aren’t you, Betty?”

“A blind pig who saved your life, apparently.”

“If not for Betty, I would now be, to use a favorite Americanism, toast,” Alex said while he patted and nuzzled the pig.

“I know you two are close, but is Betty going to be joining us for the entire picnic?”

“No. She just wanted to stop and say hello. Watch this.”

Hawke grabbed the sack of oranges and apples, got to his feet, and strode down to the edge of the surf. Betty followed him. Hawke threw all the oranges out beyond where the waves were forming, and all the apples, too. Betty trotted out through the surf, swimming just as a Labrador might, her nose leading her to the nearest oranges.

Hawke looked back and smiled, then sprinted through the sand and returned to Vicky.

“That ought to keep her busy for the better part of an hour,” Hawke said, dropping to the towel.

“More wine?” Vicky asked.

“No, thanks. Wine and sunshine make me sleepy.” He lay back on the towel and closed his eyes.

“Me, too,” Vicky said, lying down beside him. “It is a lovely little bay.”

“Isn’t it?” Alex said, yawning. “I call it the Bay of Pig.”

Vicky smiled. She rolled toward him, then propped her head up on her hand and stared at this man she’d come to love. He’d closed his eyes and there was a contented half-smile on his face. His thick black hair was wet and shining. His chest, beaded with salt water, was rising and falling rhythmically. What saved him, she thought, was that he had no idea how good-looking he was.

She sat up and unhooked the top half of her red bathing suit. Then she put her hand over his heart.

“Are you asleep?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t suppose you would mind terribly if I licked your shoulder?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Just a lick, lollipop. I love salt. I think I don’t get enough of it, the way I eat. It’s essential to the body’s fluid balance, you know. Sodium. Chloride. Yummy.”

“Lick away then, darling. Dine to your delightful sufficiency.”

“Thank you.”

“How am I?” he said, after a few moments of feeling her tongue dart about his neck and shoulders.

“Yummy,” she said. “Can’t get enough.”

“You could always pour some olive oil and vinegar into my hair and make a small side salad to go with the entree.”

“I’ll stick with the main course, thank you.”

“Suit yourself, then.”

She started with his shoulder but soon moved to his chest and then to his belly. She immediately noticed a marked increase in his breathing rate.

“Sorry to bother you. I wonder if you would mind pulling down your bathing suit?” she asked, brushing the tips of her white, coral-tipped breasts across the deeply ta