It was strange, Maxwell thought, how fate kept throwing him and Devo together. During flight training, when Devo had been his instructor in the T-2 Buckeye, the two had become tight friends. Later, when Maxwell reported to his second fleet squadron aboard the USS George Washington after the Gulf War, there was Davis again, this time as a squadron department head. When Maxwell went to NAS Patuxent River as a test pilot, Devo was just up the road at the Pentagon. They partied together on weekends, went on double dates on the Chesapeake, served as best man at each other’s wedding. Now they were together again. Same ship, same squadron.
On Davis’s steel desk stood a half dozen framed photographs. One was of a pretty girl with long blonde hair, sitting on a porch swing. She was wearing a white halter, and even in the cropped photo Maxwell could see her terrific figure.
“What do you hear from Eileen?”
Davis went to the safe at his desk and twiddled the dial. “How about a drink?”
Maxwell knew what he had smelled. Davis was a vodka drinker.
“No, thanks.” There was no point in lecturing Devo about the long-standing ban on alcohol aboard Navy vessels. Everyone knew a certain amount of clandestine off-duty drinking went on aboard a carrier. Too much temperance, pilots liked to say, took away their edge. Anyway, Devo was the XO.
Davis poured a tumbler full of vodka, and then sloshed a dollop of lime juice into it. He didn’t bother with ice. He held the glass up and said, “Skol, ol’ buddy.”
Maxwell was still looking at the photograph on the desk. Davis reached over and turned the photo around, facing it backward. “Eileen filed for divorce. Two weeks ago, but she just got around to e-mailing me the news.”
Maxwell nodded. So that was it. He had known Devo and Eileen for — how long? Going on fifteen years. It was no surprise, really. He had heard the rumors about Eileen back in Virginia Beach, that she was seeing someone. Maybe more than one.
“I don’t have to tell you about how it feels to lose someone,” said Davis.
Maxwell didn’t reply for a moment. “No,” he said in a quiet voice.
“But you’re different from me, Brick. You’re one of those guys who can deal with it. You think like a machine.” Davis’s voice cracked. “But, man, I can’t handle it…I love her so much. I’ve never loved anything as much as I love Eileen. I’d do anything to …” His words trailed off, and he began to cry.
Maxwell didn’t know what to say. Brick and Devo, Debbie and Eileen. The world they had known back there in Patuxent and Washington was history. Debbie was gone, and Maxwell had the gut feeling that Eileen was now lost from Devo’s life.
Davis snuffled and turned away while he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “Sorry. Fighter pilots don’t cry, right?”
“You’re human, Devo. You got clobbered from behind.”
“No. I saw it coming. But I thought we were gonna get through it.”
Davis was weeping shamelessly. Maxwell wanted to leave, but something told him to stay. Davis was a man on the verge of a breakdown.
“You talked to anybody about this?”
Davis looked at him. “C’mon, who would I talk to? The chaplain? You know better than that. DeLancey? I’m supposed to take command of the squadron in four months. You think I’d give him the ammo to ruin my career?”
Maxwell wondered if Davis knew his career was already in trouble. DeLancey had taken to making open jokes about his executive officer and his drinking problem. As far as the chaplain, well, he understood that, too. Fighter pilots didn’t confide in shrinks or chaplains. That was an option for the terminally ill and teenage sailors worried about their sexuality.
“How about Knuckles?” Maxwell said. Knuckles Ball was the air wing flight surgeon. “He’s a good guy. He can keep a secret.”
“I already told him I had a touch of flu. He’s got me grounded for a few days.”
“Maybe you oughta take some leave. Go back stateside, talk it out with Eileen.”
“No way. That would give Delancey an excuse to shitcan me. I gotta hang in here and cover my six o’clock. Besides, if I leave, there’s no one to stand between Killer and you, Brick. He’d love to shitcan you even more than he would me.”
At this, Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”
Davis poured himself another drink. “It’s true. Some kind of bad chemistry between you and DeLancey. He started running you down even before you checked in. He’s never passed up a chance to dump on you.”
Maxwell shook his head. “It’s a personal thing. He and I were in Desert Storm together.”
“Yeah? How come you never told me that?”
“It was no big deal. We just never got along, that’s all.”
Devo took a drink and shook his head. “It’s gotta be more than that. You’re one of the best naval officers I’ve ever known. The best student I had in three years as a flight instructor. The top lieutenant in the squadron when we were in VFA-83, and then you got the test pilot slot to prove it. You could’ve had any assignment you wanted. Never mind what happened at NASA, the frigging operational Navy is damned lucky to have a guy like you.”
Maxwell wanted to change the subject. “All right, tell me something. What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you take over the squadron?”
“Ask for you as my XO.”
“Seriously.”
“I am serious. You were born for this job. All I have to do is keep Killer from screwing you out of it. And believe me, he’s gonna try.”
Maxwell shook his head. “Nah, not even Killer would do that.”
“I’d bet my badge on it. He already has his favorite JOs badmouthing you, disrespecting you behind your back. By the way, that’s the next thing I’m gonna do — straighten some of those little shits out.”
Maxwell didn’t reply, but he knew Devo was right. He already knew how Killer treated Devo, and it didn’t surprise him that Killer was doing the same to him behind his back.
Davis was pouring another drink, this time straight vodka.
“Hey, Devo, what do you say we go to the fo’c’s’le and work out.”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m going to have a couple drinks, then I’m going to write Eileen, tell her…” His voice began to crack.
“The booze isn’t going to make it better. It’s just gonna —”
Davis’s face darkened and he turned on Maxwell. “Do not presume to lecture a senior officer. You can either join me in a drink, sir, or kindly get the fuck out of my quarters.”
Davis was going to tie one on. Maxwell knew it wouldn’t do any good to warn him that if he was observed by anyone — enlisted man, ship’s officer, even some do-gooding teetotaler from another squadron — he would be toast. In the New Navy they made examples of officers who flouted the no-drinking rule.
Maxwell got up. “Have it your way. Just stay in your room and don’t answer the phone, okay?”
He took the passageway up to the hangar deck, then made his way toward the ready room. At the far end of the hangar deck, next to a parked Hornet fighter, he saw the cluster of sailors, the bright lights and the camera crew. He walked over to the periphery of the set.
DeLancey and Whitney Babcock were each shaking hands with a slender, auburn-haired woman. She was gathering her notepad and attaché case when Maxwell came up.
She looked up. “Sam?”
Maxwell felt an electric charge course through him. No one had called him ‘Sam’ for years. No one but his father and —
“Sam,” she said. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
She wore her hair short now, in a pixie cut. She had the same willowy build, the graceful swan-like neck. Still stunning, he thought.
“Claire Phillips, cub reporter?”
She laughed. “Sam Maxwell, boy astronaut.”