Magruder frowned for a moment, then shook his head. “I appreciate the advice, Coyote. I really do. But I’ll take my chances on this one. If I have to look at an officer’s gender or color or sexual preferences before I can hand down discipline I might as well just pack it in. If Madam Secretary Reed wants my head, she can have it… but she can’t make me screw up this unit in the name of political correctness.”
Coyote grinned and shook his head. “You always did have a bad attitude, Stoney. Head hard as a rock. Not exactly good for the career track, but-“
“Screw the career track,” Tombstone said. “If they take this job away from me, maybe I can go back to flying airplanes!”
“Now you’re talking!”
CHAPTER 10
Saturday, 31 October
1227 hours (Zulu +3)
Dirty Shirt Wardroom, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
“Mind if I join you, Skipper?”
Batman Wayne looked up. It was Brewer Conway, his XO, standing beside The table with a tray in her hands. He hesitated a moment before replying, torn between a need for sympathetic company and a dread of having to go through another round of questions about the helicopter incident. Finally he shrugged. “It’s a free country. Drag up a seat.”
Brewer sat down across from him, looked at his plate, then looked at her own, making a face. Gingerly, she lifted one corner of her hamburger bun and peered uncertainly at the meat inside. “Well,” she said, “at least I know now why they call these things ‘sliders.’ There’s enough grease in here to clog every artery on board this bucket.”
“Hey, all the comforts of life ashore. You know how many fast-food burgers you have to eat to get the same cholesterol spike of one of these babies?”
“I’d hate to think.” She set the bun aside and began blotting at the meat with her napkin.
“Just drown it in ketchup. You’ll never taste the difference.”
“You mean I’ll never know what hit me.” She dropped the wadded-up napkin on her tray, then helped herself to the ketchup bottle. “Hey, Batman?”
“Yeah?”
“How long you think this deployment’s going to last?”
“What, our Black Sea cruise? Beats the hell out of me.”
“I mean, they cut our rotation Stateside pretty short. I was wondering if we’d be out for a full six-month deployment, or if they might rotate us back early.”
“You’re asking the wrong guy, Brewer. Nobody ever tells me a damned thing.”
“Nimitz was supposed to take this assignment, wasn’t she?”
“That’s the scuttlebutt,” he said. “That’s the way it goes, though. Too many commitments, too few carriers. Maybe the Nimitz’ll relieve us after that mess in Africa gets resolved. On the other hand, maybe by then there’ll be some new crisis and we’ll be stuck here for months.”
“You are cheerful today.”
“Yeah, well. Two bolters, a ‘fair’ for my recovery, and I get to paint a little silhouette of an American helicopter on the side of my plane. Kind of hard to top that, right?”
“Hey, the day’s just half over.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Conway was silent for a long moment, eating her hamburger and looking thoughtful.
“Okay, Commander,” he said. “Out with it.”
“Out with what?”
“You’ve got something churning between your ears, and it looks serious.
Want to talk?”
“Well…”
“Look, it can’t make my day any worse than it already is. Go ahead. Hit me.”
She sighed, then nodded. “Okay. Skipper, I think we’ve got a problem with the squadron, and I don’t know how to handle it.”
“Let me guess. You heard about Nightmare and Big D.”
She nodded. “That’s part of it. But a lot of the guys have been sidestepping me, not just those two. I can’t do my job if nobody will accept me.”
“I know.” Wayne frowned. He had seen this situation coming for a long time, another of the petty frustrations that were making it hard for him to get a handle on the squadron commander’s job. “Look, Brewer, you know every man in the Vipers respects you and the rest of the… women.” He stumbled over the word. It was so damned hard to choose words carefully to avoid giving unintended offense. You could refer to “guys” or even “boys” without a second thought, but never to “gals” or “girls.” Even after months serving together, the men and women of the Air Wing were finding it hard to keep the gender wars from flaring up over the most trivial excuses. “The Kola fight proved you’ve got what it takes to be aviators. But you’ve got to understand what it’s like for some of these guys. They’ve never had to deal with a female Exec before.”
“I didn’t ask for the job,” Brewer said.
“No, but you got it, courtesy of Directive 626. You get extra points for being a woman with combat experience, so you get pushed ahead of men of comparable rank. Nightmare Marinaro has been in the Vipers almost as long as I have. He flew with us in Korea and India and all those ops off Norway. And Dallas Sheridan has a lot more time in rank, even though his combat duty was limited to Norway and Russia.” He paused, then pushed on. “Look, you asked me, so I’m going to be blunt. Either one of them deserved a shot at the XO slot more than you. Hell, Malibu deserved it even more. He’s just not making a big thing out of it. But they are. Those two guys are ambitious. They know a shot at Exec will lead to bigger and better things down the road.”
“And if Malibu had it?”
Batman shrugged. “They’d both know he earned it,” he told her.
“And I didn’t.”
“Look, Brewer, this isn’t some male chauvinist thing. They don’t resent you because you’re a woman. Not anymore. You’re a naval aviator, one of the-” He stopped. He’d almost said “guys.” He took a deep breath and started over. “What I mean is, you’re an aviator like the rest of us. What they don’t like is the idea of someone getting special treatment that makes the work they’ve done all these years count for nothing. If you were a man and you were given a leg up because you were a minority, they’d feel the same way.” He shrugged. “So if Big D and Nightmare are a little sullen, can you really blame them?”
She looked away. “I guess not. But what about the others? Lieutenant Davis went behind my back to see you last week. So did Whitman. I didn’t take the Exec job away from them. They weren’t even in the running.”
Batman rubbed his forehead, his eyes closed. “Some of the men have trouble dealing with a female Exec,” he said at last. Before she could protest, he held up his hand. “Think about it, Brewer. One of the main jobs of the XO is to deal with the people problems in the squadron. All kinds of problems ― professional, personal, you name it. It isn’t easy for a guy to come to a woman and tell her that he’s, oh, having marital problems back home, say. Or… listen. Would you expect any of those guys to come talk to you because they’re worried about what kind of diseases they might have picked up when they were on liberty? There’s lots of stuff men don’t want to tell a woman, especially an attractive one, and even more especially one they have to work with in close quarters every day.”
“Male ego,” she said with a frown.
“Call it what you want, Brewer,” he told her. “But you can’t just dismiss it. Think about the personal things you wouldn’t have wanted to come to me with when I was the Exec. I know you and the other women held back a lot of complaints when you first came aboard. The harassment. Personal stuff that, well, people thought wasn’t any of my business. Remember Lobo and Striker?”
She nodded, her eyes sad. Christine “Lobo” Hanson and Steve Strickland ― Striker ― had developed an intense personal relationship in the first few weeks of the deployment. Lobo had been shot down over the Kola Peninsula and captured. Strickland had refused a recall order and circled the crash site, trying to provide covering fire, until his plane was shot down. Unlike Lobo, he hadn’t survived the crash.<
br />
“Striker came to me early on,” Batman went on. “He didn’t know how to handle the whole thing. I advised him to break it off, but he didn’t. Thing was, it wasn’t that hard for him to come to me man to man. I sure never saw Lobo. Either she never had any doubts-“
“She did,” Conway told him.
“Well, she may have confided in you, but not me. See what I mean?”
“Yeah. I hear you. But where does that leave us? Do we have to start appointing two Execs in every mixed squadron, one per sex?”
He shook his head. “All we can do is try to do our jobs. I’ll talk to Sheridan and Marinaro. They have a right to put in for transfers, but in the meantime they’re damn well going to treat you like this outfit’s Executive Officer. As for the rest… you can’t force a man, or a woman either, for that matter, to share confidences with somebody he or she isn’t comfortable with. But I’ll try to discourage them bringing their problems to me behind your back.”
“They’ll probably just stop coming for help at all,” she said. “That’ll screw up morale even worse.”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of the new, improved, politically correct Navy,” he said, and he didn’t bother hiding the bitterness he felt. “Where everyone is equal. Equally miserable.”
1342 hours (Zulu +4)
Flight Deck, U.S.S. Thomas jefferson
The C-2A Greyhound made a perfect trap, snagging the carrier’s third wire and rolling to a stop, its twin turboprop engines slowing as the pilot cut his throttles. The plane rolled backward, pulled by the tension of the steel cable it had snagged, until it dropped from the hook. Crewmen started forward, a Yellow Shirt to guide the transport to an open spot on the deck, and men in green shirts bearing black letters to check the arresting gear before the next plane started an approach. Watching the activity, Coyote Grant never failed to be amazed that the dance on the deck involving so many men, so many aircraft, and so little actual room for maneuver could proceed so smoothly.
The Greyhound rolled to a stop and shut down its engines. Unlike the planes of CVW-20, the transport aircraft was not permanently assigned to Jefferson. It was part of VR-20, a Fleet Logistic Support squadron based in Sicily. Planes from VR-20 and other support squadrons were a vital link in maintaining America’s carrier battle groups at sea. Though bulk supplies were transferred from Underway Replenishment ships, small cargo shipments, mail, and personnel were sent out by Carrier Onboard Delivery planes like this one.
Coyote advanced across the deck as the rear ramp was lowered slowly. A work party was already assembled to unload the plane’s cargo, but Grant was here to meet some of the passengers. The Air Wing had been shorthanded for weeks, and this COD flight was supposed to carry the personnel they needed to bring the various squadrons up to full strength.
Several officers appeared, walking with the usual stiff, exhausted gait of Greyhound passengers. The planes were built for cargo and passenger capacity, not comfort, and after a few hours cooped up in the windowless passenger compartment, jolted by every air pocket along the way, even the most enthusiastic flier was happy to feel a ship’s deck underfoot again.
“Listen up!” he shouted over the noise of the flight deck. “Replacements for CVW-20, follow me! The rest of you should see Master Chief Weston.” He pointed to the carrier’s Chief of the Boat, who was standing nearby waiting for newly arrived carrier crewmen to finish disembarking.
“Commander Grant! Good to see you again, sir!”
Coyote hadn’t been paying much attention to the new arrivals, but now he recognized the petite redheaded woman striding across the deck to meet him with a smile on her freckled face. Lieutenant Commander Joyce Flynn, “Tomboy,” had been part of the original female contingent with Viper Squadron during the Kola campaign. She’d flown as RIO with Magruder when the CAG had taken out a Tomcat during the last desperate fight over the Polyamyy sub pens. When their aircraft took a hit and the two bailed out, Flynn had wound up with a broken leg. After the two had been rescued, she had been put aboard a medevac flight for the States and an extended hospital stay. Now she was back, looking fit and ready to fly. “Well, Tomboy, looks like they couldn’t keep you away from our little luxury cruise ship,” he said. “What was it? The colorful ports? The ambience?”
She laughed. “Face it, Commander, you’re not getting rid of any of us Amazons.”
He chuckled. The female combat fliers had earned that nickname in the early days of the deployment, but it was hard for him to picture the petite Tomboy Flynn as a woman warrior. “Good to have you back,” he told her. “There’ve been a few changes, but you’ll still know your way around.”
“Great.” They started across the deck toward the island. “Oh, hey,” she said, catching his arm. “Thought you might like to know. You remember Lobo?”
“Of course!”
“I got a letter from her just before I left the States.”
“You don’t say!” Coyote’s eyes widened. “How’s she doing, anyway?”
Tomboy grinned. “Instructor’s slot, no less. At Top Gun!”
“Well! Good for her! That’s great!”
But the mention of her name raised a small shadow in the back of Coyote’s mind. There was a dark side to women serving in combat, a topic not often discussed or even acknowledged among the men or the women aboard the Jefferson, but always, always there. Rape.
Lieutenant Chris Hanson, running name “Lobo,” had been one of that first batch of female aviators aboard the Jefferson last March. Shot down over the Kola Peninsula, she’d been captured and gang-raped by ill-disciplined militia. Hours later, she’d been rescued by U.S. Marines; they’d found her on display in a Russian village, locked inside a wire cage, naked, bruised from a savage beating, and shivering with the onset of deep shock. While her physical wounds could be treated easily enough, there’d been considerable question about the deeper psychological trauma she’d suffered. Her medical report had openly questioned whether she would ever fly again… especially in a combat role where she would have to face the possibility of going through the same ordeal again.
“There was talk for a while there, while she was in the hospital, that maybe she’d have to resign her commission,” Tomboy explained.
“I heard something about that,” Coyote said. “I gather she fought it, huh?”
“She’s tough. Tough enough she was fighting to be placed back on combat status, last I heard.”
Coyote didn’t reply. From what he knew of the Navy establishment, it wasn’t likely that Lobo would see combat again. Back in World War II, five brothers had all died on the same day when the ship they were serving aboard together was sunk by the Japanese. As a result, the Navy had made as standard policy a rule against close relatives serving aboard the same vessel.
When Lobo had been captured in the Kola, the Navy had suffered a public relations defeat very nearly as severe as the one they’d faced with the death of the Sullivan brothers. She’d been featured in a Timeweek article, interviewed on ACN, and the entire nation had been outraged… and horrified that such things could happen to its fighting women. The Navy, Coyote was certain, would not allow Lieutenant Hanson to fly combat missions again, not unless they wanted a conservative backlash to reverse all of the gains women had made in the service in the past few decades.
And that was damned unlikely, because too many high-ranking careers at the Pentagon were already at stake over the issue of women aboard ships and in combat roles.
And maybe it was just as well. Coyote tried to imagine what it would be like to be abused the way Lobo had been… then have to climb back into a cockpit and go face the same people who’d done that to you the first time. He couldn’t picture it. In fact, the only reasons he could imagine for even wanting to do such a thing were either to prove something to yourself ― like getting back on the horse after it threw you ― or for revenge.
He didn’t like either thought at all. He thought of Mason, jumping the gun on that helo ID because he
was too eager to make his mark. A naval aviator needed to be a professional, to put aside love and hate, glory and fear.
There simply was no room for obsession in the cockpit of a Tomcat.
1508 hours (Zulu 4)
CAG Office, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
“Okay, Coyote, what else do you have for me?” Tombstone Magruder leaned back in his chair, feeling weary. Sometimes it seemed as if the paperwork and the endless details of running the Air Wing were far more difficult to cope with than the intensity of battle. He couldn’t remember being this tired after the hottest combat ops he’d been in, even during drawn-out situations that had tested him to the limits of physical endurance.
Flying a desk might not be as much of a strain on his body, but it certainly left him feeling tired, irritable, and thoroughly fed up with his lot in life. Tombstone was starting to hate the inside of the CAG office, the sight of stacks of paper and computer monitors and all the rest of the paraphernalia of bureaucracy. He was an aviator, by God, not a clerk, but lately it seemed like he never had time for even a quick flight to keep his cockpit hours current.
Coyote was sitting across from him this time, holding a clipboard and ticking off points with a pen. “COD flight’s in. We got eight officers all told. That’ll fill out the Vipers, the Death Dealers, and the Javelins, but we’ll still be two short in the Prowlers. I’ve assigned them quarters and given them their squadron postings. You’ll probably be getting a string of courtesy calls this afternoon.” Coyote paused, frowning.
“You’re holding something back, Will,” Magruder said. “Spill it.”
“One of ‘em’s Commander Flynn.”
Tombstone’s eyes widened. “Tomboy? She’s here?”
“Yup. Leg’s healed and she’s rarin’ to go.”
“You don’t seem pleased.”
“Oh, I was happy to see her. It’s just… well. “He slapped the palm of his hand on Tombstone’s desk. “Damn it, CAG. I keep wondering about the advisability of women in combat. She was telling me about Lieutenant Hanson. She’s doing fine, according to Tomboy. Trying to get put back in a combat assignment, of all silly dumb-ass things.”
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