by Robert Gandt
“Jesus Fucking Christ!” roared Joe Penwell, the Air Force three-star who was responsible for all the United States forces in the Middle East. Penwell was a barrel-shaped ex-SAC pilot. He was famous for his volcanic eruptions of temper. “Just what we need. The Saudis already having shit fits over the sanctions on Iraq, starving the poor Iraqi school children. Now a goddamn shootdown!”
Penwell’s Vice Commander was a bespectacled Navy commodore named Ashby. “Maybe it really was hostile intent,” he said in his monotone voice. “We don’t have the intel debrief yet,”
“Maybe it was some Navy jock full of testosterone who wanted a notch in his belt.” Penwell was on his feet, storming around his desk. “Tell the Hornet flight leader to divert his flight to Riyadh. I’m gonna debrief those clowns personally.”
Ashby compressed his lips and waited a full five seconds, which was what he always did when Penwell went ballistic. “Let’s give it a second, Joe. That would implicate the Saudis, bringing the Hornets directly to Riyadh after the engagement. You know where that could go.”
Penwell fumed for a moment. He knew goddamned well where it could go. Ashby, the bureaucratic piss ant, was right. That’s why Ashby was Vice Commander: to keep him from making such mistakes. Or, in this case, exacerbating a mistake some trigger-happy fighter pilot had already made.
Penwell had another problem. He knew with an absolute certainty that within the next hour he would receive a call from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Or the Secretary of Defense. Or even the President. When the call came, Penwell wanted to say, Yes, sir, I have the facts. A court martial is already in session.
But the Saudis were his first worry. To draw them into a belligerent action against fellow Arabs could unhinge the already fragile allied coalition. No telling where that could go.
“Okay,” said Penwell. “Send the Hornets back to the Reagan. But shoot off a personal-for to the Battle Group Commander. I want all his debriefing intel — and a damn good action report — ASAP.”
Penwell thought again about the Navy fighter pilots. They were crazy bastards. But what did you expect from people who landed airplanes on boats?
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“Hornet ball, nine-point-three.”
“Roger, ball,” answered the Landing Signal Officer.
That was the ritual: Rolling into the groove, approaching the carrier deck, you announced your aircraft type, that you had the “ball” — the optical glide path reference, then your fuel quantity. The LSO replied with a “roger ball.” It was the verbal contract that acknowledged the LSO’s control of the pilot’s approach to the ship.
Maxwell recognized the LSO’s voice. It was Pearly Gates, a young lieutenant in Maxwell’s squadron, VFA-36.
Maxwell concentrated on the Fresnel Lens at the left edge of the landing area. The illuminated amber “ball” was in the center of the lens, indicating that he was on the correct glide path to the deck. If the ball went high on the lens, it signaled that the jet was high. Unless the pilot corrected, he would overshoot the arresting wires. A low ball was worse. It meant that the jet was settling dangerously close to the blunt aft ramp of the flight deck.
The ball was drifting upward. With his left hand, Maxwell nudged the throttles back an increment. A tiny bit. . . now put a little back on. . .
Maxwell’s hands were making infinitesimal corrections with the stick and throttle, nudging, adjusting, keeping his F/A-18 on a precise path to the deck. In his windshield the gray mass of the aircraft carrier swelled like an expanding apparition.
Landing a jet aboard a ship at sea was the most demanding feat in aviation. Since he’d been back to the fleet, Maxwell had added another forty-three traps — arrested landings — giving him a total of 522. Not a lot these days, at least for someone with the rank of commander. But pretty good, he thought, for a guy who’d spent half his career on the beach.
Until six months ago, Maxwell expected that he would never see another aircraft carrier. He had departed the normal fighter pilot’s career path back when he was a lieutenant, still in his first squadron tour. Maxwell was selected for the Navy’s test pilot school at Patuxent River, Maryland. He then spent a tour of duty testing the new F/A-18 Super Hornet, which was just rolling off the Boeing assembly lines.
Then Maxwell was selected for what he considered the ultimate flying job in the universe: the space shuttle. He checked in to NASA’s Johnson Space Center and commenced training as an astronaut. It took two years. Finally, on a splendid autumn afternoon, he lifted off from the Cape’s Pad 39-B aboard the orbital vehicle Atlantis on his first space shuttle mission.
He didn’t know that it would be his last.
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Whitney Babcock hung up the secure phone that linked him by satellite to the Pentagon. A broad grin spread across his face. Just as he expected, the Secretary was delighted.
An air battle over Iraq. It was glorious! Like a gift from Allah. And he, of course, would now ensure the media reported that Whitney T. Babcock III was not only on the scene, but he had been directly involved with the control and execution of the mission.
It was what the Secretary of the Navy had sent him out to the Reagan to do: Look for an “opportunity.”
At first Babcock hadn’t understood.
“It used to be called ‘gunboat diplomacy,’” the Secretary explained before Babcock departed Washington. “When Reagan needed some credit, what did he do? He blasted the shit out of Gaddhafi. Over what? A little terrorist bombing. A pin prick, really. But Bush got the big prize. He got to send half a million troops after Saddam. Why? Because America wanted to keep cheap gas. Hell, this President deserves as much.”
“You mean, sir, we — the President, that is — needs, ah. . . “
“A distraction, Whit. That’s all. Just a little side show. The public loves it, and it makes everybody look good, especially the President. Shows he really does have balls, despite what that hooker said about him in the Enquirer.
Babcock understood. The President’s personal problems had overshadowed every accomplishment, real or otherwise, that he had scored during his term in the White House. And like every staffer in this administration, Whitney Babcock understood the primary commandment of political life: Thou shalt make the boss look good. Or, at least in the case of this boss, thou shalt make the boss look not as bad as he really was.
For three weeks Babcock had been stuck out here aboard this great steel barge. He knew that the senior officers, especially the battle group commander, Admiral Mellon, held a barely disguised contempt for him. The old mossback had made it clear when Babcock arrived that he regarded him as a guest aboard his ship. Look but don’t touch. Ask questions, but don’t expect detailed answers. As though he, a presidentially appointed senior official of the Department of the Navy, was some kind of outsider aboard the Navy’s newest carrier. Well, the admiral didn’t know it yet, but he was at the end of his run. Babcock had already tagged him for an early retirement.
During his rise through the labyrinthine agencies and secretariats of Washington, one shining truth had guided Whitney Babcock. He was of the governing class. With his rarified lineage and education and breeding — Exeter, Yale, Georgetown Law, a succession of State and Defense Department positions — he, more than any of these military-trained blockheads, was destined to command the affairs of the United States military establishment. Unlike these career officers, he understood the subtle nuances of geopolitics. He possessed the innate ability to see beyond the simple deployment of weaponry and assets. By background and birthright, he could think strategically.
And now, into his lap, had fallen this — a matter of strategic importance. What would the Iraqis do next? What would the other Arab states say? What should the response be from the United States forces gathered here in the Gulf? Point, counter point. Babcock had a chance to show his own true brilliance.
From his padded chair on the flag bridge, he gazed down on the aft flight deck. The four Hornets that had engaged the MiGs
were landing back aboard the Reagan. Soon the pilots would be down below, debriefing in CVIC. The admiral and his intelligence staff would be there. And so would Whitney Babcock III.
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Commander Devo Davis, executive officer of the VFA-36 Roadrunners, watched Maxwell’s jet slam onto the deck. Over the bulkhead speaker he heard the voice of Pearly Gates, the LSO — “Ooooohh-kay!” — as the jet’s tailhook engaged the number two wire. Of the three arresting wires stretched across Reagan’s deck, number two was the target.
The LSO normally didn’t hand out compliments on the radio, but Pearly Gates was the type who liked to reward a perfect pass when he saw it. “Okay,” with no qualifying comment, was as good as it got.
As the jet lurched to a stop on the landing deck, Davis donned his gear — the float coat survival vest and the hard-shelled cranial protector that everyone had to wear on the flight deck — and headed down the ladder.
Maxwell was still in the cockpit when Davis arrived. The plane captain, a nineteen-year-old sailor named Ruiz, was helping him with his straps and navigation bag. Maxwell saw Davis and waved down to him.
Of the few men in the Navy whom Davis could count as genuine friends, Brick Maxwell was the best. Maxwell and Davis went all the way back to Kingsville, Texas, when Davis was a freshly minted flight instructor and Lieutenant Junior Grade Sam Maxwell was his first student. And, as it turned out, his best. It was Davis, at least indirectly, who tagged Maxwell with his call sign — the moniker that soon or later is attached to the name of every Navy fighter pilot.
It happened the day the training squadron skipper stopped Davis on the ramp. “How’s your student doing?” asked the commander. “Is he worth a damn?”
“Maxwell? Solid as a brick, sir.”
A smile flickered over the skipper’s face. He scribbled something in his notepad, and that was it. Solid-as-a-brick Maxwell had a call sign.
Over fifteen years had passed since that day. Now, watching Brick Maxwell descend from the cockpit, Davis felt a flash of envy. Here he was, fighting the same old battle against his thickening waistline and vanishing hair, while Maxwell seemed to be exempt from such problems. He had the same lanky build — six feet tall, his weight unchanged since his light heavyweight boxing days as an ROTC midshipman at Rensselaer. He even wore the same old Tom Selleck-style mustache, without any sign of graying in his dark brown hair. Life was goddamned unfair, thought Davis.
Maxwell stepped onto the deck. Davis shook his hand and pointed to the empty missile rail on the wing tip. “Shit hot, pal. Looks like you got yourself got a MiG.”
“Not me,” said Maxwell. He nodded across the flight deck to DeLancey’s jet. “The skipper.”
A crowd was gathering around DeLancey’s Hornet. He was shaking hands with the deck crewmen and officers, signing autographs, posing for the photographers who had come from the ship’s public affairs office. He had removed his helmet, flaunting the rule against unprotected heads on the flight deck. DeLancey’s curly black hair was ruffling in the wind over the deck. He flashed his white-toothed grin for the photographers, giving them a good shot of his handsome profile.
“Look at that sonofabitch,” said Davis. “Strutting around like some kind of movie star.”
“You know Killer. He’s on stage now.”
“He’s gonna be on another stage in a minute. The admiral sent me down here with a message for all four of you. He says to get your asses to CVIC immediately. Don’t go to the ready room, don’t stop to pee.”
“That bad, huh?”
Davis nodded. “Never saw the old man so worked up. I hope you guys have a a hell of a good story for what happened out there.”
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“Sit down,” said Admiral Mellon. It was an order, not an invitation.
Maxwell, DeLancey, and their two wingmen, Leroi Jones and Hozer Miller, all took seats at a conference table. Each was still wearing his torso harness, carrying his helmet and navigation bag. Their flight suits were damp, stained with sweat.
CVIC — Carrier Intelligence Center — was a spacious room on the second deck. It had a projection screen on one bulkhead, charts of the Persian Gulf and Iraq on another, and the long table in the middle.
Admiral Mellon was already seated. Beside him sat Red Boyce, the Air Wing Commander, gnawing on an unlit cigar. Sitting in a corner chair was a civilian, a sandy-haired man in his thirties. He was wearing Navy khakis without insignia.
The admiral didn’t waste time. “What the hell went on out there, Killer?”
“The MiG we were vectored to intercept turned nose hot on us, Admiral,” said DeLancey. “The guy made an aggressive turn into me and my wingman. He was entering the NFZ. I didn’t have any choice except to shoot.”
Mellon’s eyes narrowed. He turned to Hozer Miller, DeLancey’s wingman. “Let’s hear it from you, Lieutenant.”
Miller pulled on his ear lobe and glanced at DeLancey. DeLancey nodded. “Uh, just like the skipper said, sir. It was definitely hostile intent. The MiG went nose hot on us.”
“Anybody get a radar tape of the engagement?”
“My tape was set on the HUD,” said DeLancey. “No radar tape.”
“Me neither,” said Miller.
Admiral Mellon had been a strike fighter pilot. He knew that the Hornet’s tape recorder could be switched from the HUD — Head Up Display in the windscreen — to any of several other cockpit monitors, including the radar.
“Sorry, I didn’t get it,” said Leroi Jones.
DeLancey crossed his arms over his chest and tilted back in his chair. A pleased grin spread over his face.
“Damn it,” said the admiral. “Everybody from the Pentagon to the Joint Task Force command is screaming for the video of the engagement. Somebody should have taped the fight on his radar.”
“Somebody did.”
Every pair of eyes in the room swung to Brick Maxwell.
Maxwell reached into the pocket of his G-suit and produced a tape cassette. He set it on the table in front of him.
The grin melted from DeLancey’s face. His voice took on a hard edge. “What the hell did you do that for? You weren’t even part of the engagement.”
“Leroi and I were assigned to cover you. I switched the tape to radar when you called a lock.”
DeLancey put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “If you were supposed to be covering me, why didn’t you take out the lead MiG?” His face was reddening. “The sonofabitch turned nose hot and you had a shot at him.”
“Because there wasn’t any need to shoot. The MiG was bugging out. There was no hostile intent.”
“The hell there wasn’t! He was hostile and you lost your guts.”
Maxwell and DeLancey locked gazes. Maxwell slid the tape cassette across the table. “There’s the tape. Let it show whether the MiG was hostile or not.”
DeLancey stood and aimed his finger at Maxwell. “Listen, mister. I don’t give a shit what’s on that tape. I’ve shot down more enemy aircraft than all the pilots in this air wing combined. All the pilots in this whole goddamn fleet, for that matter. Don’t you tell me about —”
Boyce cut it off. “Sit down, Killer,” he ordered. “Everybody chill out for a minute. I know you’re still tensed up from the engagement. You heard Admiral Mellon. He wants to see that tape.”
DeLancey was still on his feet. “Listen, CAG, I was the first on the scene. I know what I saw.”
“That’s why we have the tape. So we can all know what you saw.”
“Sir, I can tell you that —”
“Never mind what’s on the tape.” The voice came from across the room.
Every head swung to the man in the corner.
Whitney Babcock walked over to the table. “Commander DeLancey did exactly the right thing.”
“Mister Secretary,” said the admiral, “with all due respect, this is an intelligence matter.”
“It’s a lot more than that, Admiral. It’s a national security matter.”
“Just call me Whit,” said Babcock. He went directly to Killer DeLancey and extended his hand. “Commander, let me be the first to congratulate you.”
“Sir?” A quizzical grin spread over DeLancey’s face.
“For your brilliant victory today.” Babcock turned to the admiral. “I think our country owes a tremendous debt to a warrior like Commander DeLancey. He deserves a decoration for this accomplishment. At least a Silver Star. Don’t you agree, Admiral?”
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Jones and Maxwell walked along the passageway that led back to the squadron ready room.
“Whooee!” said Jones. “I’ve never seen the skipper so pissed. Did you see his face when you pulled that tape out? He looked like he wanted to kill you and me.”
“Not you, just me,” said Maxwell. “In case you haven’t noticed, the skipper and I aren’t exactly soul mates.”
Jones nodded. It would be damned hard not to notice, he thought. DeLancey had already told everyone that he considered Maxwell a carpetbagger who didn’t belong in his squadron.
Lieutenant Leroi Jones was the only black pilot in the squadron and one of only four in the Reagan’s air wing. He had not joined the clique of DeLancey devotees, like Hozer Miller and Undra Cheever and half a dozen others. He thought their behind-the-back contempt for Brick Maxwell was bullshit. Jones liked Maxwell and enjoyed flying with him.
Jones said, “I take it you and the skipper know each other from somewhere?”
“Another squadron, another war.”
“It must have been real bad. Killer acts like he hates your guts.”
Maxwell kept his eyes straight ahead. “What makes you think it’s an act?”
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It was already dark out on the catwalk. Maxwell made his way, one foot in front of the other, hanging on to the steel rail. The catwalk was suspended beneath the port edge of the flight deck. A ten-knot breeze blew over the deck, and eighty feet below he could hear the carrier’s bow slicing through the choppy sea. Off in the distance, lights were twinkling on the western shore. Bahrain? Qatar? Some Saudi coastal port with a name he couldn’t pronounce?
