With Hostile Intent

by Robert Gandt

  <>

  Don’t let the bastards see you cry.

  B. J. Johnson had to keep telling herself that. She was near the breaking point. She knew she should have expected something when she came into the ready room. She should have known by the way Undra Cheever and Hozer Miller were lurking in the front of the room, watching her like a couple of vultures.

  The dirty tricks were getting dirtier. One day last week when she suited up for flying, she discovered that her torso harness — a nylon outer garment with fittings that attached the pilot to the Hornet’s ejection seat — had a lacey push-up bra neatly sewn inside. She had forced a laugh and let it go. Frat boy stuff.

  Then a few days later she found her flight suit bristling with white objects. They were tampons, protruding like white pennants from the sleeve pockets. Again she ignored it. She knew that if she threw a tantrum about such things, the bastards would never let up.

  The anonymous phone calls — one less trap than you have launches — had stopped, but now she was getting these notes. They were the same stuff, nasty and anonymous. She hadn’t shown them to Maxwell as he had requested. It would just make it worse, she thought, having a senior officer spring to her defense like a white knight. She would be branded as another wimpy female who couldn’t take the heat.

  As usual, she had entered through the back door of the ready room and gone directly to her chair. The chairs were airline-style recliners with the name patch of a squadron pilot velcroed on the headrest. Beneath each chair was a drawer in which the pilot kept briefing sheets, kneeboards, personal gear. It was also a message drop.

  The ready room was filled this morning. Killer DeLancey was in the front of the room, on the phone with someone. Brick Maxwell was standing at a briefing table talking with Pearly Gates.

  B. J. had opened the drawer beneath her chair. Inside the drawer lay an unfamiliar object — a cloth bag with a note attached. Without thinking, she immediately opened the bag. She took out the objects inside.

  It was a pair of shiny steel balls.

  She could feel Cheever and Miller’s eyes riveted on her as she read the attached note.

  To the Alien,

  This is what you have been missing. The Navy forgot to issue them to you when they gave you wings. Wear these proudly.

  A deathly silence had fallen over the ready room. She could feel every pilot’s eyes on her. DeLancey was staring, a look of intense interest on his face. Maxwell had stopped what he was doing and was looking at her. B. J. wanted to hide. Cram the insulting note and the bag back inside the drawer. Slam it shut and get out of this hateful place.

  It was too late. Everyone had seen her open the bag and read the note. Cheever and Miller were cracking up, chortling like a pair of baboons. The other pilots were gawking like spectators at a wreck. They were waiting, she realized, for her to break down. They expected her to scream, sob, go on a world class crying jag. It would prove everything they held true about women pilots.

  The truth was, that was exactly what she felt like doing at this moment. Her lower lip trembled. She couldn’t deal with any more of this shit. Wear these proudly. All she wanted to do now was sit down and bury her face in her hands.

  But she couldn’t. Not here. Don’t let the bastards see you cry. That was her mantra these days.

  She looked around the room. Cheever and Miller were still cackling. Not much doubt about who the ball-donors were. Maxwell had figured it out too. His face was a dark mask, glowering at the two. If she didn’t do something, the white knight was going to come out.

  She did something. She held up the steel balls, letting everyone see them. Clacking them together in her right hand, she walked over to where Cheever and Miller were parked at the squadron duty desk. “Did you guys do this?”

  They stared back at her. Neither answered. Even Maxwell was peering at her with curiosity.

  She clacked the balls together again. Actually, she thought, she rather liked that hard, metallic feel of the spheres in her hand. Clacking them together like that seemed to embolden her. What the hell, it worked for Captain Queeg, didn’t it?

  As she turned to exit the ready room, she looked again at Cheever and Miller. They weren’t laughing. “Thanks, guys,” she said. “Now I have the balls, and you don’t.”

  <>

  No doubt about it, thought Whitney Babcock, studying his reflection in the mirror. He had that look about him, the look of a man destined to command.

  He was wearing his favorite shipboard outfit — starched military khakis with a web belt and a black name tag that bore a gold-embossed inscription:

  Whit Babcock

  Deputy Secretary of the Navy.

  He reminded himself to arrange some publicity photos in this outfit.

  He turned from the mirror and faced Killer DeLancey. “Maxwell? The ex-astronaut in your squadron?”

  “That’s him,” said DeLancey. “He busted out of NASA, then his father got him orders to my squadron. CAG overrode my request to get rid of him, and now he’s my operations officer.”

  “He’s a security problem? How long has this been going on?”

  “Quite a while, we think. We know he’s been seeing the Phillips woman since Dubai, but probably long before that.”

  “You think she’s pumping him for classified information?”

  “I’m almost certain,” said DeLancey. “But I don’t want to jump to conclusions. He’s still one of my officers. Rather than destroy his career with a scandal, I thought it would be best just to have him reassigned.”

  Babcock nodded. “Well, it’s commendable, Killer, being concerned about your people. But if we’ve got a security leak, we have to take measures.”

  “I thought, sir, that —”

  Babcock waved his hand. “Just call me Whit.”

  “Okay, Whit. I thought that a call from you might cut through all the red tape. We could get a quick security check on this reporter to find out what damage might have been done. And maybe Maxwell could just be quietly transferred.”

  “I have a conference call with the Secretary of the Navy and the White House this afternoon. When I’m finished, I’ll tell someone in the department to put a detailer on the Maxwell matter.”

  “I appreciate your help, Whit.”

  The two shook hands. Babcock waited until DeLancey left the office, then resumed studying his image in the mirror.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Basra

  USS Ronald Reagan

  0545, Monday, 19 May

  Wearing his starched khakis, Babcock strode to the podium and adjusted the microphone. He fixed a steely-eyed gaze at the flight-suited aviators filling the room.

  “I just got off the line with the President,” he said, letting the weight of the title settle over his audience. “He has given the go-ahead for a retaliatory strike against the Iraqi emplacements that downed our fighter yesterday.”

  Babcock paused and struck a pose that, everyone guessed, was intended to summon an image of Douglas MacArthur. Or Theodore Roosevelt. Or, some supposed, Michael Douglas.

  “This is a historic moment, ladies and gentlemen. Today it will be your privilege to strike a blow on behalf of civilized nations around the globe. The world will be watching. The President has faith in you, and so do I.”

  Babcock stood there for a moment, waiting for a reaction from his audience. No one applauded. The pilots stared back at Whitney Babcock in total silence.

  After a few seconds, he rallied and said in a booming voice, “Good hunting!” He gave them a Hollywood salute and left the ready room.

  An awkward silence fell over the group. CAG Boyce rose and walked to the podium. He glanced at the door, making sure Babcock was gone.

  “Okay, none of what I’m gonna say is to be repeated outside this room.” Boyce paused and looked over at Admiral Mellon, sitting in the front row. Mellon gave him a barely perceptible nod.

  Boyce went on. “Despite what you just heard, this ain’t Desert Storm. It’s n
ot even a concerted military strike. It’s a simple, one-shot, pissant punitive raid. A little message that our president wants to send to their president. Saddam is being told he better mind his manners, or we’ll take out what’s left of his crummy infrastructure.

  “But I want everybody to get this. These are not high-priority targets. I don’t intend to lose jets or pilots taking out one of those worthless bridges or chicken coops at Basra. I want you to keep it high, stay away from the hot spots, come home in one piece. I’d better see every one of your ugly faces back in here this afternoon for the debrief.”

  Boyce shoved a half-gnawed cigar into his mouth and returned to his seat.

  Spook Morse, the intelligence officer, came forward to give the latest target data. He talked about tankers, weather over the target area, transponder squawks, collateral damage avoidance, and all the nuances of a coordinated raid.

  As Boyce listened to Morse go on about SAM site updates, target area weather, he looked at his strike pilots. Some looked better than others. They had been yanked out of a full scale liberty session in Dubai. He knew for a fact that some of them had world class hangovers.

  He also knew it wouldn’t do any good to tell the most afflicted to take themselves off the flight schedule. He sure as hell wouldn’t, and neither would they. This was combat, and no self-respecting fighter pilot was going to stay behind if he could help it.

  Thank God, he thought, for resilient bodies and young reflexes.

  <>

  Devo Davis, perhaps the most hungover, sat in his usual place in the second row. He had only the vaguest recollection of how he left the hotel. Someone—Leroi Jones or Undra Cheever or some other JO—must have rolled him out of his room and shepherded him onto the liberty boat.

  Devo was on his third cup of gut-burning black coffee. He could tell by the ache in his skull that life was returning to his body. All he wanted was to get through this goddamned mission.

  Davis remained in his seat until the ready room had emptied. He was about to leave when Maxwell came up.

  “You okay, Devo?”

  “Superb. Haven’t felt so fucking terrific since I had scarlet fever. I want to thank you for sticking me on a HARM station.”

  “Wasn’t me. The skipper made the assignments.”

  “With Spam Parker of all people. A nugget on her first combat sortie. What am I, the designated spear catcher?”

  “Want me to try and change it?’

  Davis shook his head. “Can’t do that. If I’m gonna take over this squadron someday, I gotta be willing to fly with anybody.” He glanced around to make sure they were alone. “Even aliens.”

  <>

  “We’ll rendezvous overhead at seventeen thousand,” said Devo in the briefing booth.

  “Why?” demanded Spam Parker. “Why don’t we just join up on a tacan radial away from the ship?”

  Devo took a deep breath. “Because,” he said patiently, “that’s what the air wing tactical procedures require—an overhead rendezvous. Now, after the rendezvous, we switch —”

  “I still think it would be better if we joined on a tacan radial.”

  Devo felt his headache worsening. He told himself to stay cool. “Fine, Spam. Nice that you have an opinion. But today we’re gonna do it my way.”

  “Why? I mean, it just sounds so. . . pedantic.”

  Devo couldn’t believe this shit. “Here’s a reason,” he said, his voice rising an octave. “I’m the flight leader, you’re the wingman. Here’s another. I’m a commander, you’re a lieutenant. Or try this one: I’m a three-tour strike fighter pilot, you’re a nugget. We’re gonna do it my way. Understand?”

  Spam started to protest again, but she caught the look on Devo’s face. She crossed her arms and sat tapping her boot on the deck.

  Devo went on with his briefing. After their rendezvous, they would proceed to their battle station, where they would orbit, ready to fire their radar-seeking HARM missiles at any enemy SAM site that was tracking the strike group.

  Devo knew their chances of seeing action were almost nil. And he knew too that someone — DeLancey probably — was violating protocol by assigning the executive officer such a minor role in the strike.

  But Devo wasn’t arguing about it. Not this time. He still wasn’t back to a hundred percent of his old self, and he had this freaking headache.

  Devo had no illusions about his ability. He was an average aviator who, on a good day, could turn in an above average performance. But lately the good days had been far between.

  Devo knew that he had lost something. Even though he was the squadron executive officer, the second-in-command, he no longer had credibility with the other officers. They neither feared nor respected him, as junior officers were supposed to do. He could sense it in the way they talked to him — that condescending, too-familiar manner. Devo Davis was no longer a force to be reckoned with.

  Well, he’d fix that problem. Today all he wanted was to get through this strike. Fly the mission, shoot the HARMs if necessary, get back aboard the ship.

  Plus, keep this mouthy nugget from killing them both.

  Devo finished the briefing. “Maintain a combat spread. Stay in position, out where I can see you.”

  Spam seemed bored. He couldn’t tell whether she was listening or not. “Any questions?” Devo asked.

  She shook her head.

  “See you on deck,” said Devo.

  <>

  Christ, it’s hot. Devo thought he would melt in the cockpit of his F/A-18. The Hornet’s air conditioner was good, but not effective in the hundred-degree heat of the flight deck.

  He emptied the water bottle that he had planned to drink en route to his battle station. He was desperate to get off the oven-like flight deck and into the cooler sky.

  What he needed was a shot of vodka. His head was pounding like a drum. In fact, he thought, he’d trade his gonads for a bloody Mary right now. Why the hell weren’t they getting this launch off?

  The carrier’s nose swung slowly into the wind. The jet blast deflector rose in front of Devo’s jet, and he saw the Hornet on catapult one go into tension. The thunder of its engines shook Devo’s jet. Devo grimaced inside his oxygen mask.

  The catapult fired with a bang, flinging the combat-loaded jet into the hazy sky over the Persian Gulf. Devo winced as a searing pain coursed through his head. Even the flow of pure oxygen through his mask wasn’t helping.

  The deflector came down. It was Devo’s turn.

  Following the yellow-shirt’s directions, he taxied up to the cat track, then lowered the launch bar fixed to the nose gear. Slowly, carefully, he eased forward, felt the clunk as the launch bar engaged the catapult shuttle. Obeying the cat officer’s signals, he released the brakes and throttled up to full power. He wiped out the flight controls, scanned the engine instruments, then looked at the cat officer.

  It was Dog Balls, the new shooter the pilots liked to pick on. Be gentle, brother. Dog Balls was peering back at him, waiting for Devo’s salute.

  Devo saluted. He tensed for the cat shot.

  WHAM! The catapult fired.

  The Hornet hurtled down the track. Devo felt himself slammed back against the seat. The pain of his hangover became a white-hot spear somewhere behind his eyes.

  The heavy fighter cleared the deck and began to climb. The pain in Devo’s skull receded to a dull throb.

  <>

  He could see the bomb bursts as the strikers hit their targets in the Basra delta complex. They were in their assigned orbit at 28,000 feet, 30 miles southeast of the target area. The strike seemed to be going as briefed.

  Devo scanned his HARM display. He had seen no sign of electronic activity from inside Iraq. No SAM sites, no gun tracking radar. The Iraqis were laying low. They had been through this before. All they had to do was stay hunkered down until the bombs quit falling. Within a couple of months they’d have their sites back up and running. It was part of the game.

  Devo was feeling better. The p
ure oxygen helped, even if he still had that dull throb in his skull. He was thirsty as hell. It helped that things were quiet on the electronic warfare front.

  He turned onto the inbound leg, pointing back toward Basra. He saw columns of smoke rising from the three main target areas. There were no new bomb bursts. The last striker called off target.

  Devo looked over at his wingman. Spam was out of position. Anyone else he would order to dress it up, and it would be done. With Spam, it would be a goddamn airborne debate. She’d insist she wasn’t really out of position.

  It wasn’t worth it. His head ached too much for an argument and —

  He saw a missile.

  One of Spam’s HARMs was streaking from beneath her wing toward Basra. Devo watched in disbelief as the anti-radiation missile arced away in a smooth flight path.

  “Magnum, magnum,” came Spam’s voice over the strike common frequency. “Nail 42, magnum—Burner 3, Basra.”

  She was announcing that she had launched a radar-seeking missile against a SAM threat.

  For a moment the strike frequency was silent. Then bedlam. Everyone wanted to know what the hell was going on.

  “Say type and direction of threat!”

  “Who’s being targeted?”

  “Burner three where? Anyone got a visual?”

  Devo was checking his own HARM display. It was blank. No indication of an enemy radar. He reset the RF gains and looked again. Nothing. He was getting a bad feeling.

  On the back radio he said, “Spam, tell me what kind of threat you saw.”

  “I had an SA-3 on the HARM display,” she answered. “The box was there and it showed active tracking. So I took the shot. They were probably tracking the last of the strike group.”

  “What do you mean, a box? An SA-3 displays as a triangle. What the hell did you shoot at?”