In normal circumstances the Buttwang — the term for the Junior Officers’Bunkroom — served as the sleeping quarters for the eight most junior officers in the squadron. It was a twelve-by-fourteen-foot space that contained four racks of two bunks each. Mounted to the deck was a pair of the ubiquitous Navy gray steel desks. Fixed against one bulkhead were eight storage lockers.
Tonight the Buttwang was the site of an impromptu meeting of the JOPA — Junior Officers’ Protective Association. Fourteen officers — two junior grade lieutenants and nine lieutenants— were sprawling atop bunks, squatting on the deck, leaning against bulkheads. The only junior officers not present were Lieutenant Bud Spencer, who was the squadron duty officer — and the two new pilots, Parker and Johnson.
The aliens had not been invited.
The litany went on. The women pilots had been in the squadron a total of three days, and already the list of grievances had grown as long as the Congressional Record.
Leroi Jones said, “I checked this Spam out with the replacement squadron training officer back in Oceana. He’s a classmate of mine, Ham Hoxe. Hoxe says she shouldn’t have made it through the Hornet transition program. Picked up three SODs, would have gotten an evaluation board but she started making threats about a sexual harassment case. They let her through.”
At this, the mood in the Buttwang grew uglier. Since the Tailhook scandal in 1991, nothing inflamed the collective anger of male naval aviators as much as the suspicion that women pilots were being judged by a different standard. There had already been several celebrated cases of women pilots who had failed fighter transition training, then returned to the cockpit only to fail again. Or worse, to join a fleet squadron, then proceed to scare the living hell out of their COs, their squadron mates, their LSOs, and sometimes even themselves.
“You guys who are section leads had better think about it,” said Flash Gordon, a senior lieutenant. Section leads were pilots qualified to lead a formation. “Those two are gonna be your new wingmen.”
“We gotta watch our asses,” said Hozer Miller. “Especially around the ship, and especially at night. Don’t let the aliens get you or your wingman killed.”
Undra Cheever spoke from atop a bunk. Cheever was a short, heavyset lieutenant with unruly dark hair that bristled like a cactus. “What about the short one, B.J. Johnson?”
Leroi Jones said, “Ham didn’t have anything on her. No SODs, all average grades. Didn’t scare anybody when she qualified on the boat.”
“Probably sucked up to the LSO.”
Undra Cheever cracked up at that. “That’s it! How do you think she got a call sign like ‘B.J.?’”
The dirty shirt wardroom was busy. Most of the tables were occupied by pilots and crew members. It was the only officers’ facility where pilots and crew members could dine informally, wearing their flight suits — dirty shirts — instead of the ship’s uniform of the day.
As usual, a cluster was gathered around the stainless steel ice cream vendor, called the dog machine.
Maxwell spotted B.J. Johnson. She was sitting alone at a table. He sat down across from her. “You mind company?”
“You better not sit there, sir,” she said. “You’ll catch what I have.”
“What do you have?”
“Something awful. So bad that not a single officer in the squadron has dared to initiate a conversation with me since I checked in. Except you.”
Brick looked around. “You want some ice cream? I’m going to the dog machine.”
She nodded. “Thanks. But here’s a stupid nugget question. Why do they call it the ‘dog machine?’”
Maxwell grinned and looked over at the machine. “Watch it while it’s dispensing ice cream.”
She looked over at the great shiny machine. A thick stream of soft chocolate ice cream was oozing from the spigot. She frowned, studying the machine. Suddenly it came to her. “Oh, yuck! That’s disgusting. Now that’s really a guy thing.”
Maxwell shrugged. “You had to ask.”
He came back with two cups of ice cream and sat down. He nodded his head in the direction of the junior officers across the room. “Give ‘em time to get used to you. It’ll get better.”
“It’s not getting better. It’s getting worse.”
“How so?”
“Some guy’s been calling our room.”
Maxwell scooped a bite of ice cream. “Who?”
“No idea. He goes to a lot of trouble to disguise his voice. Last night he said he had some advice for Spam and me.”
“What was that?”
“‘Quit while you can.’ So I asked him, ‘What if we don’t quit?’ The guy didn’t answer for a while, then he said, ‘You’re going to have one less trap than you have launches.’”
Maxwell listened quietly, not liking what he heard. One less trap than you have launches. Somebody wanted to scare them. Maybe scare them enough to make them give up. “Who do you think it was?”
“Any one of about thirty guys who hate our guts.”
“Did you report the phone call?”
She shook her head. “Who to? The skipper?” She forced a laugh. “You know better than that. I already know how the system works. As soon as a female complains about being hassled, she’s marked. From then on she’s just another troublemaker.”
“How did Spam handle it?”
B.J. laughed again. “She’s used to it. Spam’s a lightning rod. I’ve been getting the fallout from Spam Parker’s battles since we were plebes at the academy.”
Maxwell thought for a moment, trying to imagine who in the squadron would make such calls. Undra Cheever came to mind. Yes, it could be Cheever, who was famous for an obnoxious sense of humor. Or Hozer Miller, almost as bad. Whoever it was, it would be impossible to prove. “I wouldn’t make too much of this,” he said. “It’s just some jerk who still thinks women shouldn’t vote.”
“How many jerks are we gonna have to deal with before we’re accepted?”
He looked at her, trying to fathom what she was going through. “Listen, I want you to tell me whenever something like that happens again. I promise I’ll look into it. And keep a record of those phone calls.”
B.J. nodded glumly and poked at her ice cream. “I thought this would be fun. You know, a great adventure. But it’s not. It sucks.”
Pearly Gates came in the back door of the ready room, still wearing his LSO costume. He looked like a panhandler, wearing old fatigue pants, jersey, survival vest, and a black watch cap pulled down to his ears.
Pearly wasn’t superstitious, but he made a point of wearing the same tattered old costume when he was waving jets aboard a carrier. The turtleneck jersey and the ratty fatigue pants were the same that he’d had since he qualified as an LSO two cruises ago on the Roosevelt. Over the jersey he wore the float coat that everyone who worked on a carrier deck was required to wear. The float coat contained a flare pencil and had inflatable bladders in case you were swept off the deck into the ocean.
Pearly’s vest had his job title stenciled on the back: VFA-36 LSO. On the front he wore the special embroidered LSO patch — a view of the ramp of a carrier with the motto: RECTUM NON BUSTUS.
He took a quick scan of the Ready Room, then spotted Maxwell. “Hey, Brick, got a sec?” He led Maxwell through the back door, into the locker room.
“What’s up?” said Maxwell. “Did I scare you that bad with my last pass?”
“Not you.” Pearly glanced around, making sure they were alone. “Brick, you and the XO are pretty tight buds, aren’t you? I mean, don’t you two go way back?”
“Two or three centuries.” Maxwell liked Pearly Gates. He was the kind of officer Maxwell wished the Navy had more of. Though Pearly was only a junior lieutenant, his job out there on the platform entailed enormous responsibility, more than any other squadron assignment. Pearly not only liked the job, he was good at it.