Maxwell had skipped all that. While his contemporaries were serving in sea-going squadrons, he had gone to a cushy flight test job. And then to an even cushier astronaut billet. Now he was back in the fleet as a squadron operations officer, the third senior job in the squadron, and it was no secret that many of his fellow officers thought he hadn’t paid his dues. To them he would always be a carpetbagger.
Maxwell and B.J. took their places with the squadron officers. B.J. slipped into the back row. Maxwell stood with the senior officers, next to Devo Davis. He noticed that Davis looked red-eyed and haggard.
“You okay? You look like you’ve been on a three day bender.”
“Wish I had. This damned insomnia problem. Haven’t had a decent night’s sleep for a week.”
On signal from a flag staff officer at the podium, the band swung into “Under the Double Eagle.” As they hit the last passage, Whitney Babcock, wearing a fresh set of starched khakis, strutted to the podium. He glanced around, making sure the television crew was in place.
“With a singular act of valor, our own Commander John DeLancey has shown the world what the men and women of the United States Navy are made of. He has proven that Americans will not be daunted by acts of enemy aggression. In the finest traditions of the naval service, this fearless warrior confronted the enemy aircraft…”
Maxwell’s mind wandered. He found himself thinking about the Iraqi pilot DeLancey had shot. Who was he? Was the guy really hostile, or just inept? Did he have a family? Hopes, dreams, aspirations?
Did he deserve to die?
It occurred to Maxwell that these weren’t the thoughts you were supposed to have after combat. Not if you were a warrior. Maybe he wasn’t, he thought. At least not like DeLancey.
Babcock droned on for ten minutes. He compared DeLancey to John Paul Jones, David Farragut, and Butch O’Hare. Finally the moment came. He summoned DeLancey to the podium. “On behalf of the Secretary of the Navy, I confer upon you our nation’s third highest award, the Silver Star.”
Maxwell heard Davis groaning softly. He glanced over at him. Davis looked white. “You okay, Devo?”
“No. I’m gonna puke.” Davis abruptly stepped back and shuffled over to the below-decks ladder.
Claire Phillips surveyed the scene around her as she positioned her camera crew. A throng of curious sailors had clustered around the brilliantly lighted ten-foot square set. A pair of Super Hornet fighters were parked in the background. Seated in the middle of the set, grinning and flashing a toothy smile, was Commander DeLancey, the subject of her special shipboard interview. The session would be taped and broadcast to millions of television viewers.
Claire was still perplexed about the young woman who had stopped her in the passageway. She was a pilot, judging by the flight suit and leather patch with the wings. The woman was tall, maybe six feet or more. Her name tag read “Spam.”
“Ask him how he intends to treat women pilots in his squadron,” the young woman said.
The reporter’s instinct in Claire came out. “Why? Is there something going on we need to know about?”
The woman’s eyes flashed. “Sexism, that’s what’s going on. Despite all the crap they’re telling you, not a damned thing has changed since Tailhook.”
Claire nodded. This could turn into something. “Look, Lieutenant, this would make a great interview if you would —”
“No interview. I’ve still got a career to worry about.” She turned to leave. “Just ask the question. You might be surprised.”
Claire watched the young officer walk away. What a strange woman, she thought. Marching down the passageway with those long hammering strides. She looked less like a pilot than like a gladiator going to battle.
The camera crew was ready for the shoot. Claire took her seat on the stool in front of the Navy commander. Looking into the camera, she saw the red-lighted cue from her set director.
She began the interview with some easy questions about the action over Iraq. DeLancey surprised her. Most of her military subjects turned into monosyllabic lumps when they first peered into that big glass-eyed television camera. But not this guy. He was coming back with quick, glib answers, girnning, preening like a peacock.
Enough, she thought. Time for the hot button stuff.
She looked at him. “What did it feel like,” she asked in a hushed voice, “to kill another man?”
She knew it was a loaded question. But, hell, that was her job. Claire hadn’t earned her reputation for being a tough reporter by asking pussycat questions. It was her style to get to the gut issues. That was why her contract with the network had just been renewed at twice the old guarantee.
DeLancey seemed be considering. He turned his head so that his handsome, lean-faced profile was exposed to the camera. He was wearing his tailored flight suit with the VFA-36 Roadrunners patch and the leather name tag showing his gold-embossed wings.
“It was… difficult, Claire.” DeLancey seemed to chew on his lip, pained by the memory of what happened. “We were under attack by Iraqi fighters. It came down to a choice — kill or be killed. I had to defend myself and my wingman.”
Claire bored in. “But this wasn’t your first time, was it? Isn’t that how you earned your call sign — Killer?”
Another silence ensued as the camera zoomed in on DeLancey. He nodded his head and gave the camera a thoughtful look. “My job is to defend my country. I’ve gone up against an armed and deadly enemy four times now. I’m here to report that in each case, I won, they lost.” He nodded in the direction of the nearest F/A-18. The camera view switched to the jet, then zoomed in on the name beneath the cockpit: Commander Killer DeLancey, CO VFA-36.
Beneath the name were now four silhouettes of enemy fighters.
Grudgingly, Claire had to give him credit. The guy was taking control of the interview. Then she noticed that she had another distraction. That civilian from the Pentagon, Whitney Whoever. He was working his way over to DeLancey’s side, placing himself in view of the camera.
Time to switch to the real hot button topic. “Commander, I understand your squadron has the first two women fighter pilots to deploy on the USS Ronald Reagan.”
DeLancey nodded, his expression not changing.
“So, tell me, how do you personally feel about women in combat units?”
In the background she heard murmurs, throats clearing, whispered conversation. DeLancey gazed straight into the camera. “I’m glad you asked that question. I happen to think it’s the best thing that ever happened to the United States Navy. Women pilots are a terrific asset. In my squadron they will be treated just like any other aviators. No gender bias, no favoritism. No double standard.”
From the periphery came more murmurs, more whispers. Claire had to smile. This guy was too much. It was utter bullshit, but he had provided her with a great interview. Every armchair fighter pilot back in the states would be glued to his seat, cheering his new hero.
Time to wrap it up. “Commander John DeLancey, we thank you for your heroism, and I know your fellow Americans thank you.” She turned to the second camera. “This is Claire Phillips reporting from the USS Ronald Reagan in the Persian Gulf. Back to our studios…”
Maxwell rapped on the stateroom door
The latch inside rattled and the door cracked open. Devo Davis was wearing cotton work out shorts and a T-shirt. “That you, Brick? C’mon in.”
“What’s the matter, Devo? You sick?”
“Something I ate. Couldn’t sleep last night.”
Maxwell came in and took a look around. Davis looked awful. And he smelled worse.