by Robert Gandt
“The conjecture that Lieutenant Parker did not take appropriate separation during the overflight of the freighter is not supported by fact or testimony. Lieutenant Parker was fully cognizant of her duties as Commander Davis’s wingman, and the evidence corroborates her statement that she executed her mission precisely as briefed. Nothing in this report should be construed as a reflection on Lieutenant Parker’s aeronautical or military ability.”
Boyce picked up the report and waved it at Mannheim. “What is this bullshit, Spike? Killer just neutralized your report. Goddammit, he knows just as well as we do what happened. What’s going on with him? Has he turned into some kind of closet feminist?”
Mannheim just shrugged. They both knew it was a rhetorical question. CAG didn’t expect him to disparage a fellow senior officer. Even a grandstanding egomaniac like DeLancey.
<>
Hozer Miller had a smirk on his face. He handed the message board to Maxwell in the ready room and said, “Bye-bye time, Brick.”
Maxwell saw that Miller had been thoughtful enough to highlight the message with Maxwell’s name on it:
From: 0-5 Assignments Officer, Bureau of Personnel, Dept. of the Navy
To: Commander Samuel Joseph Maxwell, USN
Subj: Permanent change of station.
Within one week upon receipt of these orders, you are detached from your duties at Strike Fighter Squadron Thirty-Six, deployed aboard USS Ronald Reagan. Not later than 15 June, you will report to the commanding officer, Training Squadron Twenty, at Naval Air Station Kingsville, Texas, for duty involving operational and training flying.
Pearly Gates looked over Maxwell’s shoulder. “Training squadron? Man, that’s the end of the earth.”
Maxwell nodded. “No, it’s purgatory.” For a fighter pilot with the rank of commander, assignment to the training command was the terminus of a career. He could forget about ever flying fighters off a carrier deck again.
Maxwell copied a set of the orders on the ready room Xerox, then returned the message board to Hozer.
On his way to the wardroom, he tried to make sense of what had happened. Killer had done it, he was certain. But why did CAG Boyce go along with it? It didn’t compute. Boyce was a crotchety guy, famous for outbursts of temper, but he was a straight shooter.
The wardroom was busy, each of the long tables half-filled with officers having coffee or consuming ice cream dispensed by the big stainless steel machine in one corner. Maxwell poured a coffee, then sat by himself. He was going through the morning’s stack of mail and squadron read-and-initial messages when he sensed that he was being watched.
He was. They were standing at the other end of the wardroom, near the lunch buffet line. Whitney Babcock, looking like Chester Nimitz in his starched khakis, standard-issue web belt, and Navy flight jacket, was studying him. His head was nodding in agreement as DeLancey said something in his ear.
Maxwell gave them a wave of recognition. They averted their eyes and continued their conversation with their backs turned.
Looking at the two men, Maxwell suddenly understood. It had to be Killer and his new patron. DeLancey had persuaded Babcock to intervene directly with the assignments office and get him shipped out.
Maxwell considered his options. He could approach Babcock directly to explain his case. Then he quickly rejected that idea. Babcock had become such an admirer of DeLancey, he would disbelieve anything Maxwell said about DeLancey. He could go to CAG. But then CAG must have signed off with an endorsement. So much for Boyce being a straight shooter.
He felt a pang of regret, thinking back to the dinner in Dubai with Admiral Dunn. I can get you transferred to another squadron.
Dunn had warned him about DeLancey. He had been too proud. Now it was too late.
<>
“Sit down, Killer,” said CAG Boyce. “Coffee black, no sugar, right?”
“Yes, sir.” DeLancey took a seat at the long, empty conference table. It was mid-morning, and both men were wearing the standard-issue G-1 fur-collared flight jackets over their khakis.
Boyce poured the coffee. Then he tilted back and sipped from the big porcelain mug with the air group insignia on one side and the title “CAG” emblazoned on the other.
As usual he clutched an unlit cigar, which he liked to gnaw on when he was doing business. He wished he could light the thing up like he used to in the old days. In the health-freakish New Navy, the environment Nazis turned you in to the EPA.
“We need an executive officer for your squadron, Killer.”
DeLancey nodded. “I figured we’d get one of the prospective COs just finishing requal training. I was thinking of Jake Kovacs. He could be out here in a couple of weeks—”
“I’ve already got someone in mind.”
A wary look passed over DeLancey’s face. “Who would that be?”
“Brick Maxwell.”
DeLancey’s coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth. His mouth twitched. “You gotta be joking.”
“Brick’s nearly the right seniority. He’s already proved he’s a damn good strike leader. And most important, he’s up to speed on the situation out here. If we wind up going to war and something happened to you, I wouldn’t want an inexperienced XO taking over the squadron.”
DeLancey was shaking his head adamantly. “No, it can’t be Maxwell.”
“What’s your problem with Maxwell? You know something I don’t?”
“Well, for one thing, he’s got orders. He’s on his way outa here.”
Boyce stared at him. “How can that be? He just got here three months ago. He’s not due for rotation.”
DeLancey’s mouth twitched again. “He’s been reassigned to the training command at Kingsville.”
Boyce picked up the unlit cigar and stared at it for a second. How did this get by him? Something was going on —
Ping! It came to him.
“Killer,” he said slowly. “Did you by any chance go over my head to get Maxwell transferred?”
“I was gonna tell you, Red. I was talking to Whit— Mr. Babcock — and he —”
“Babcock? That little peckerhead civilian who thinks he’s Lord Nelson? Don’t tell me you went to him with this.”
DeLancey swallowed hard and said, “I mentioned that I thought Maxwell might be leaking information to a female reporter. The Undersecretary said he’d take care of it. I was just as surprised as you when the orders came in.”
Boyce felt a tantrum coming on. “Goddammit! I oughta have you relieved and shipped outa here. Did anybody ever explain to you what chain of command means in the Navy?”
“Yes, sir. It was on my agenda to tell you about it.”
Boyce exploded. He stood and aimed the cigar like a weapon. “You listen to me, mister. You don’t tell me about capers like that. You come to me first! You understand that? You got a problem with your squadron, you talk to the air wing commander, not some dipshit civilian who you think will advance your illustrious career. One more stunt like that and I promise you won’t have a career. Do You Read Me?”
Killer nodded. “Yes, sir. But it’s already done.”
“The hell it is. Those orders are cancelled as of this minute.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think you ought to do that.”
“Why? Are you going to Babcock about me now?”
“Of course not. I just don’t think keeping Maxwell as XO is gonna work out.”
“It’s too late for this discussion. You had a chance to tell me what you thought, and you blew it. Now I’m telling you. You got a new XO, and it’s Maxwell.”
DeLancey nodded, showing no expression. “You’re the boss.”
<>
Boyce and Maxwell leaned against the rail of the open deck and watched the crews below re-spotting aircraft for the next launch.
“He’s a goddamn hero.” said Boyce. “Everybody in the Navy Department, including that little prick Babcock, thinks he shits gold bricks. If I fired him, they’d hang me in effigy from the Pentagon fla
gpole.”
Maxwell wondered where Boyce was going with this. They both knew it was highly unusual — even improper — for an air wing commander to be so candid with a subordinate officer.
“DeLancey’s got four months to go as the Roadrunner skipper,” said Boyce. “Then he’ll be rotated stateside and become somebody else’s problem.” Boyce paused and looked directly at Maxwell. “In the meantime I want you to take over the executive officer’s job.”
Maxwell wasn’t sure he heard right. It was too unbelievable. “Sir? Executive officer? You know that I’ve only been in the squadron —”
“I know exactly how long you’ve been there, and I know where you came from. And I happen to be a pretty good judge of people. We’ve got a war coming up. I need someone I can trust to keep DeLancey from going off the deep end.”
“I’m flattered that you think I’m up to it, CAG. But there’s a problem. Killer wants me gone, out of his squadron.”
CAG just shrugged. “That’s his problem, not yours. He’ll have to accommodate. Anyway, there ain’t any law that says a skipper and his XO have to go steady. Well, will you take the job?”
For several seconds Maxwell didn’t answer. He reflected on how life kept changing. From the fleet to outer space, back to the fleet. His career was in the tank, or so he thought. For all he knew, it still might be.
“Yes, sir, I’d be honored to take the job.”
“I’ll make the announcement today.” Boyce paused and looked at Maxwell. By the way, are you going to tell me now why DeLancey hates your guts?”
For a moment Maxwell didn’t answer. What happened during the Gulf War — when Killer DeLancey had taken credit for another pilot’s downed MiG — was a story he had kept to himself all these years.
And so he still would. “You’ll have to ask Killer that question, CAG.”
“Do you think he’d tell me?”
“No,” said Maxwell. “I don’t think he’d tell anyone.”
Chapter Fifteen
Requiem
USS Ronald Reagan
1050, Tuesday, 20 May
The rifles of the Marine honor guard crackled once, twice, three times. With each volley the crowd on the hangar deck jerked.
It was appropriate, Maxwell thought, that the service for Devo Davis would take place on such a day. The Gulf had turned choppy, and a ragged deck of clouds scudded low over the Reagan battle group. A warm breeze wafted through the space where the air wing officers were huddled.
The chaplain, a Lutheran minister with the rank of lieutenant commander, had delivered a brief eulogy capsulizing the forty-one years of Commander Steve “Devo” Davis’s life. He recounted the details — his mid-west origins, his graduation in the upper quarter of his Naval Academy class, his rise through the echelons of naval aviation. “God gives, and God takes away,” the chaplain said. Devo Davis, he assured them, was a man who loved God, his country, and the U.S. Navy.
On a linen-covered table lay a collage of objects — Devo’s gold aviator’s wings, a ceremonial naval officer’s sword, photographs of Devo as a midshipman, as a young nugget aviator, as a senior squadron officer. In one photo, a radiant Devo and his new bride passed under the crossed swords of his fellow officers as they emerged from a chapel.
On a little dais lay a triangularly folded American flag, which was supposed to be delivered to the next of kin. Seeing the flag, Maxwell wondered about Devo’s next of kin. He tried to imagine how Eileen had reacted when she learned that she was a widow. Saddened, probably. He guessed that she also felt relieved. Her inconvenient status as a naval officer’s wife was officially ended, without the messiness of a divorce.
The melancholy sound of taps reverberated across the hangar deck. Each mournful note of the bugle seemed to swell in the air, then vanish in the cold steel bulkheads.
The soul of Devo Davis was committed to the Almighty.
<>
Maxwell stopped outside DeLancey’s stateroom door. He rapped twice, then heard DeLancey’s voice: “Come in, it’s open.”
It was their first meeting since CAG had tapped him to be the squadron executive officer. Maxwell wished he could have seen DeLancey’s reaction.
Delancey sat at his desk shuffling through a pad of notes. He didn’t bother looking up. “Sit down.”
Maxwell sat on the steel chair and glanced around. It was a typical senior air wing officer’s quarters — single bunk on one bulkhead, a steel bureau with pull-out drawers, a couple of padded chairs. An oriental throw rug lay on the deck. On one bulkhead hung a framed portrait of Delancey standing beside his Hornet with the kill symbols beneath the cockpit. Next to it was a framed collage of DeLancey’s awards and decorations, including the new silver star.
Maxwell glimpsed his own name at the top of one of DeLancey’s note pages.
Finally DeLancey said, “Contrary to my expressed wishes as commanding officer, you are going to be the XO of my squadron.”
Maxwell said nothing.
“How did you pull that off? Was it your old man, the admiral?”
Maxwell ignored the question. “I’d like to say I look forward to working with you, John. Sounds like you don’t feel the same way.”
“Let’s get something straight. You may address me as ‘Skipper,’ or by my call sign. You and I will never be on a first-name basis.”
By tradition, squadron commanding officers and executive officers dropped military protocol and began a bonding process. So much for tradition, thought Maxwell. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re a temp. You may be the CAG’s golden boy, but you are by no means a permanent replacement as my XO.”
DeLancey picked up the sheaf of papers. “These are documented deficiencies in your performance. As a squadron department head you were a flop. As an aviator, I consider you average at best, and in my opinion your act of cowardice in combat is worthy of a court-martial. Besides all that, you were never a team player in this command. I’m going to write you a fitness report as operations officer that will end your career. Those orders to the Training Command were the only route you had to a graceful retirement.”
Maxwell did not respond. It was nonsense. Since he had arrived, the squadron’s scores had reached an all time high. With the exceptions of the late executive officer, and the recent problem with Spam Parker, all the pilots were trained and combat ready.
DeLancey went on. “I don’t care what CAG said about your strike lead into Al Kharj. As far as I’m concerned, it was a disaster. Right now he’s the only man standing between you and the brig. I have good reason to suspect your loyalty to your country. I’d like to pull your security clearance, given that you’ve been shacking up with that reporter —”
Maxwell felt a wave of anger pass over him.
“—but you can read all about it in your next fitness report,” DeLancey said.
Maxwell knew there was nothing he could do about his fitness report. Commanding officers could say anything they wanted.
DeLancey tilted back in his chair. “Here’s the bottom line. VFA-36 is my squadron. You will carry out my orders immediately and without question. You take no action without my approval. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Much as I hate to afford you the privilege, you’ll need to occupy the XO’s stateroom. You’ll conduct squadron business in there, and I don’t want it to look like there’s a rift between us.”
Delancey regarded Maxwell for a moment. “Don’t get too comfortable. As far as I’m concerned, your real job is in Kingsville, and my advice is that you should take it and run. CAG might think you’re here for the duration, but he doesn’t necessarily have the last word, either.”
Maxwell didn’t reply. The meeting with DeLancey had gone as he expected.
DeLancey kept his gaze on him. “First whiff I get you’re trying to stir something up with the CAG or the admiral, I’ll have you in front of a court-martial. Do you copy?”
> Maxwell didn’t answer right away. For a moment he was tempted to dredge up the past — the real reason DeLancey despised him. Maybe this was a good time for them to bury it. The MiG you claimed in Desert Storm? You can have it. It’s over.
He saw DeLancey’s narrowed, hate-filled eyes, and he realized the truth. It would never be over.
“I copy, Skipper.”
“Good. Get the hell out of my office.”
<>
Maxwell emptied the drawers in Devo’s locker, neatly folding and placing all the clothing in a wooden shipping container. On a yellow legal pad he listed each article that went into the container. Then he gathered the items from Devo’s desk — photographs of his wife, videocassettes that he guessed were tapes he exchanged with Eileen, and a stack of letters. He and Eileen were childless, which had been a frustration for Devo. Maxwell remembered that sometimes, when Devo was drinking and feeling contemplative, he would mention that Eileen had never wanted children.
In a desk drawer he found another stack of photos. In one of the shots he was startled to see the four of them — Devo and Eileen, Brick and Claire. It was taken on the Maryland seashore while Maxwell was still waiting for his assignment to NASA. The four faces smiled at him from the photograph. Maxwell felt an overwhelming sadness come over him. He sank into the desk chair. The face of Claire Phillips smiled at him from the photo.
He remembered that day, the breeze blowing in from the gulf, the seagulls and the sand crabs. Devo had been filled with himself, cocky and proud. He had his orders to a strike fighter squadron as a department head. Someday in the not-too-distant future he would be an executive officer and prospective commanding officer. The only thing better than being an astronaut, he gloated, was getting command of your own fighter squadron. To a fighter pilot like Devo Davis, that was the ultimate success: your own command. It didn’t get any better.
It didn’t happen. That was before Killer DeLancey, before Eileen announced that she was splitting. Before the Reagan and a bad day over the Persian Gulf.
