by Robert Gandt
Maxwell thought about the plain-faced, plump enlisted woman, whose facial expression never seemed to change. He guessed that Diane Grotsky hadn’t had many boyfriends, at least of the sort who were likely to enhance her self-esteem. She had probably joined the Navy right out of high school, hoping to change her life. A romantic involvement with an officer and a pilot, even a tawdry shipboard affair, must have seemed like a fairy tale.
Maxwell asked, “Who else knows about it?”
“No one.”
“Are you sure?”
Hozer looked up at him. “I may be stupid, XO, but I’m not suicidal. I wouldn’t let anyone know that I was having an affair with an enlisted woman.”
“So you’re willing to tell a court-martial that you accept full responsibility for the affair? That the woman was not at fault?”
Hozer put his face in his hands and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Even though it will be the end of your career? At the very least, you’ll lose your commission and get a dishonorable discharge. Maybe worse.”
Hozer shuddered and said, “I’ll take whatever I’ve got coming.”
Maxwell regarded him carefully. For all his flaws, Hozer Miller was actually showing miniscule traces of being a decent human being.
“You made a stupid choice, Hozer. After Tailhook, the press loves this stuff. This will get the Navy back on Sixty Minutes.”
Hozer slumped farther into his chair, saying nothing.
“You put the careers of yourself and another person and the reputation of a whole squadron at risk.”
Hozer nodded miserably. “Where will they hold the court-martial?”
Maxwell didn’t answer right away. He looked around the room some more, seeing the photo of Miller’s wife and two children on the desk. On the wall was the photo of Hozer receiving his naval aviator’s wings.
Finally, Maxwell said, “This squadron needs fighter pilots. We have a war to fight, and a court-martial at this time will take up valuable resources.” He leveled his eyes at Hozer. “I want your word as an officer that the Grotsky affair is over.”
A look of pure astonishment passed over Hozer Miller. “You mean. . . I won’t lose my career?”
“I didn’t say that. Give me your word.”
“Yes, sir, you have my word it’s over. I promise you.”
Maxwell continued staring at him. Hozer Miller wore the look of a man who had gotten his first view of death row. “Good. I suggest you clean up this mess and get back to work.”
Outside, in the long starboard passageway, Maxwell stopped and considered what had just happened. He knew it was his responsibility, as a senior officer, to file charges against Miller. The affair would serve as a warning to anyone who considered violating the military’s sacred fraternization rule.
But, he reminded himself, he was the executive officer. It was his call, and in his judgment he had just achieved the best possible result. He had put an end to an illegal and potentially explosive situation. And he had scared the crap out of Hozer Miller.
<>
“Pow-werrrrr!”
Pearly Gates was using his sweetest LSO sugar talk. But it wasn’t working tonight. The Hornet in the groove was settling below the glide path, sinking toward the blunt killer ramp of the landing deck.
“Same damn thing,” he muttered to Chesney, the assistant LSO. “She’s outa here.” He hit the button on his pickle switch, causing the red lights on the Fresnel Lens to flash. “Wave off, wave off!” Pearly barked into his radio.
Twin tails of fire shot from the tailpipes of the Hornet as the engines went to full power and the afterburners ignited. The fighter’s nose pointed upward, back into the night sky.
“I hate this shit,” said Pearly, watching the lights of the jet pass overhead. It was the pilot’s third unsuccessful pass at the deck. Pearly knew he shouldn’t blame himself, but damn! It pissed him off when he couldn’t get one of his pilots aboard.
The sound-powered telephone rang. Pearly knew before he picked it up who it would be.
“Goddammit!” came the voice of CAG Boyce. “What’s the problem out there?”
Holding the handset away from his ear, Pearly gazed up at the red-lighted, glass-paned space in the carrier’s superstructure. He knew Boyce was up there gnawing on his cigar, glowering back at him. “Same as last night, CAG. She’s overcontrolling, not giving me power when I call for it.”
“Can you get her aboard, or do we bingo her?”
“Bingo” meant diverting the fighter to a shore-based airfield instead of landing back aboard the carrier. Sometimes that was safer than letting an unnerved pilot try again for the deck.
“Let me work her one more pass,” said Pearly. “I think I can get her down.”
CAG didn’t answer right away. Pearly knew that Boyce was peering at the Hornet out there in the pattern, thinking of all the consequences. “All right. One more pass. Make sure you take good notes, because if she doesn’t get her shit together, I’m gonna convene a FNAEB on her.”
Like everyone else, Boyce pronounced it “Fee-nab.” A FNAEB — Fleet Naval Aviator Evaluation Board — was appointed whenever a pilot’s flying was erratic or dangerous. The board’s task would be to determine whether the pilot should lose his — or her — wings.
The Hornet was back in the groove. “Hornet ball, Parker, nine-point-two.”
“Roger ball.”
Spam Parker’s Hornet started down the glide path. She had a decent pass going, observed Pearly. This time she was steady in the groove, flying a center ball. So far so good.
Then the Hornet started settling.
“A lii-itle pow-werrrr,” said Pearly, using his best sugar talk. “Just fine-tune it for me, Spam.”
Pearly saw the Hornet climb back up to the glide path. “Hold what you got.”
The lights of the Hornet drew nearer the ship. Pearly could make out the sleek silhouette of the approaching jet. It was settling again.
“Power! Fly the ball!”
He heard the engines power up. The Hornet rose back to the glide path.
“Don’t go high. Fly the ball.”
The Hornet leveled off, then plummeted toward the ramp.
Whump! The jet plunked down on the deck like a dropped bowling ball. With a shuddering roar, the Hornet lurched to a stop.
“One wire,” called out Chesney. Spam had again landed short of all four arresting cables. Pearly Gates shook his head in disgust. He realized his hand was soaking wet from perspiration. He turned away from the scene on the deck and gazed out to the blackened sea. Sometimes he hated this goddamn job.
<>
“A FNAEB?” Spam stared at him in disbelief. It was the worst thing that could happen to a pilot. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” said DeLancey in a level voice, “is your landing grade average.”
“No, it’s not.” Spam’s eyes flashed. “The problem is Pearly. He’s giving me lousy grades because I’m a woman. He wants me to look bad.”
“You make yourself look bad when you catch six one wires in a row. You got two wave offs and a bolter on top of that.”
“You sound just like Pearly,” she snapped. “I thought you were on my side.”
DeLancey looked exasperated. “I’m quoting the record. That’s why we keep a record, you know — to spot a trend. The LSOs think your trend is dangerous.”
“Are you going to support me or not?”
“I’m the commanding officer. I have to do what’s best for the squadron.”
Spam drew herself up to her full height so that she was peering down at DeLancey. Her voice rose to a crescendo. “You will put a stop to this. Do you understand? You can not convene a FNAEB on me.”
“What are you talking about? I’m the commanding—”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You won’t be the commanding officer of a garbage scow if I tell them about us.”
DeLancey’s eyes widened as if he’d just seen an apparition.
“Did you say what I thought you said?”
“If you allow this FNAEB, I’ll tell the world that the highly decorated Killer Delancey is having sex with one of his female pilots. How do you think that will play on Nightline?”
DeLancey was too stunned to answer. He stepped back and stared as if he were seeing her for the first time.
<>
Maxwell sat by himself at the end of the conference table while DeLancey convened the squadron department heads meeting. The safety officer, Lieutenant Commander Bat Masters, sat across from him. Lieutenant Commander Craze Manson, the maintenance officer, and Lieutenant Spoon Withers, the administrative officer, were ensconced along the far side of the big table.
Everyone knew DeLancey hated such meetings. His routine was to make a few brief announcements, then turn over the business of soliciting department head reports to the executive officer.
Today DeLancey seemed distracted. “As you know, CAG insisted that we get a new executive officer right away,” he told them. “For that reason Commander Maxwell has been named the new acting executive officer of the Roadrunners.”
Maxwell noted the “acting.” Really magnanimous of Killer to be so congratulatory. He nodded to the assembled officers while they gave him a smattering of applause.
Delancey glanced at his watch. “I’ve got an air wing staff meeting, so I’ll turn the meeting over to the XO. I know you guys are going to give Commander Maxwell the same kind of cooperation you gave Devo Davis.”
Maxwell noticed the smirks around the table. It was no secret that the other officers had generally ignored Devo. Now they planned to do the same with Maxwell. Okay, it was time for a change.
He waited until DeLancey was gone. “First item of business,” he said, “is a new operations officer. That’s going to be Bat Masters.”
They all looked surprised. Manson blurted, “What’s going on? I’m senior to Bat. I should get the ops job.”
“Bat already has experience in the ops department,” said Maxwell. “I need you in maintenance.”
Manson shook his head. “What’s the skipper say about that?”
“He said I’m the XO. He told me to make the call.”
“We’ll see about that,” Manson muttered. He tilted back in his chair and went into a sulk.
Maxwell ignored him and said, “Starting this afternoon, I’m going to visit each of your offices and go over your records and schedules.”
More surprised looks. Manson tilted forward in his chair and said, “What for?”
“To get a quick snapshot of the squadron. I want to know what’s going on in each of your departments.”
“Devo never did that.”
Maxwell ignored him again. “Admin is my first stop. I’ll be there at thirteen-hundred.”
“Yes, sir,” said Spoon Withers, jotting the time in his notepad.
“Maintenance department at fifteen-hundred,” Maxwell went on. “That a good time for you, Craze?”
“No,” said Manson. “I’ve got a suggestion. Why don’t you just chill out, Brick? Our departments ran fine without Devo getting involved. They’ll do fine without you poking around.” Manson looked around the group. “Isn’t that right, guys?”
No one answered. The other officers glanced at each other, unsure whose side to take. Bat Masters busied himself scribbling on his pad. Spoon Withers was studying the far bulkhead.
Manson stood up and made a show of consulting his pocket calendar. “Looks like I’ve got another appointment now. So long everyone.”
“It’ll have to wait,” said Maxwell. “We’re having a meeting.”
“Sorry. I’m busy.”
Manson left the room, letting the door slam with a clunk behind him.
Several seconds passed while no one spoke. Maxwell felt the other officers watching, waiting to see what he would do. He rose and said, “Nobody move. I’ll be right back.”
Manson was still in the passageway. “Craze, wait a minute,” Maxwell said. “I want to talk to you.”
“Yeah?”
Maxwell glanced around. The passageway was empty. Craze Manson was about his height, but pudgy and thicker at the waist.
He seized Manson by the collar and — Wham! — rammed him against the steel bulkhead.
Tightening his grip on Manson’s collar, he yanked his head forward. Craze Manson’s eyes bulged.
“What the hell? Are you crazy or —”
Wham! Maxwell slammed him back into the bulkhead. “Listen to me, Craze. If you ever utter a disrespectful word to a senior officer in this squadron, I will personally kick your ass up between your shoulder blades.”
Manson’s face was filled with disbelief. “Hey! I’m a lieutenant commander in the Navy. I don’t have to take this shit from —”
Wham! Manson’s head ricocheted off the steel bulkhead. His eyes were watering.
Maxwell tightened his grip even more, clamping down on Manson’s windpipe. “Do you understand what I’m telling you, Craze?”
Manson stared back at him.
He gave Manson a violent shake. “Do you understand me, Craze?”
“Yes,” Manson croaked. “Yes, sir.”
Maxwell released him. “That’s good. You know, as the new XO I really appreciate your cooperation, Craze. Now, don’t you agree that we ought to continue the department head meeting?”
Manson hesitated. Maxwell gave him a nudge forward. Manson straightened the collar of his uniform, then trudged back toward the conference room.
The squadron department head meeting continued without any further rancor. Maxwell made notes while he listened to each of the weekly reports. He assigned the upcoming duty watch periods, then thanked the officers for their support.
The meeting was ended. As Maxwell excused himself and left the room, he noticed that each of the officers rose and stood at attention. Even Craze Manson.
<>
Maxwell came into his room and went directly to the laptop on his desk. He clicked the power button, then while he waited for the computer to labor through its boot-up, he slid a Berliner Philharmonic CD — Mussorgky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition” — into the disc player.
When he finally got on line, he checked his mail box. It was empty.
No surprise, he thought.
He listened to the swelling symphonic music while he tried to compose an e-mail message. He could still see her face, the tears, the anger and disappointment. Damn you, Sam Maxwell. I love you. . .
After he had pecked out the message on the notebook keyboard, he re-read the note, then deleted it. He wrote another. And deleted it.
After the third try, he tilted back in the steel chair and stared at the screen.
Dear Claire,
You used to ask why my call sign was ‘Brick.’ Now you know. Describes how my brain works. I let you run away from me without telling you what I most of all needed to say: I WAS WRONG.
It was an unforgiveable, brickheaded mistake, and I’m sorry. It is too much to expect that I would get a second chance. I had that already. But if you should choose to see me again when the Reagan comes to port, I promise I will do better.
I love you.
Sam
He pushed the send button and logged off.
Chapter Nineteen
The Ramp
Persian Gulf
2130, Monday, 26 May
The blackness.
Spam hated it. She hated night flying in general, and in particular she hated launching and recovering on an aircraft carrier at night. Most of all she despised the inky, vile blackness that clung like a shroud over the Persian Gulf.
It was stupid. Why were they droning around in the dark up here on the CAP station? They called it Combat Air Patrol, but she knew that no one in the region, least of all the Iraqi Air Force, was crazy enough to venture out in this evil blackness.
Only the U.S. Navy. So typically stupid.
“Runner 405,” came the voice of Killer DeLancey, her flight lead. “Check
your position. You’re too far abeam.”
“I’m just where I want to be,” she answered. “What’s the problem?”
“Your station is supposed to be a mile abeam. Move it in.”
She felt like telling him to shove it. He could pull that world’s-greatest-fighter-pilot crap with everyone else, but not with her. She didn’t have to put up with it.
She knew why Killer was her flight lead on tonight’s sortie. He was checking on her. He wanted to see how she performed as a wingman. She was being evaluated.
On every sortie for the past week, Spam had found herself assigned to fly with a senior officer. And they never gave her anything meaningful to do. Nothing but these goddamn boring CAP assignments.
Yesterday she’d flown with Craze Manson, who was a jerk. And the day before with Maxwell, the ex-astronaut that DeLancey hated so much. To her surprise, Maxwell seemed like an okay guy, which made her wonder why DeLancey was always bad-mouthing him. Spam reminded herself to check that story out. You never knew when such a thing could be useful.
At least she’d heard no recent talk about a FNAEB. Killer had gotten the message loud and clear. The cocky little bastard had figured out that if he wanted to keep his job, he had best look out for the interests of Lieutenant Spam Parker.
Sleeping with the boss. It always worked. The best career insurance you could have.
“Runner 405, we’re leaving CAP for the marshal.”
“Roger that,” she replied.
It was too early. She had expected that they would remain on the CAP station another ten minutes. The marshal was a stack of holding patterns thirty miles behind the ship where the inbound aircraft positioned themselves for recovery aboard the carrier. Each pilot was supposed to time his turn in the marshal pattern so that he “pushed” — departed the stack — at a precise time that would keep him in sequence with the other jets.
She knew why they were going early. Killer was worried she would have trouble getting set up in the marshal pattern and screw up the approach sequence.
Like last night. She had gotten out of sequence during the push. But it wasn’t her fault, she remembered. It was those dumb shits in CATCC — Carrier Air Traffic Control — who kept issuing totally incomprehensible instructions to her. They had deliberately caused her to arrive late at the marshal pattern, which in turn caused her to push at the wrong time, which had forced a couple of other Hornets to wave off their approaches to the ship. Then they tried to blame it on her —
