Chapter Ten
Liberty Call
It sounded like incoming artillery. Heavy metal, drums, electronic strings. The noise was coming from somewhere down the hallway, in the next wing — the same ear-blasting rock music the JOs liked to play nonstop in the Buttwang. Maxwell tried to remember the name of the group. Korn? Pearl Jam? One of those godawful rock groups favored by the younger pilots. They would be deaf before they hit thirty-five.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon of the Reagan’s first day in port. After three weeks on station in the Persian Gulf, the crew of the warship was on liberty.
Maxwell followed the clamor down the hallway of the Dubai Hilton, around a corner to the end of the wing. Inside the half-opened door to a suite he came to the source. Suite 748 had been established as the official site of VFA-36’s Admin Ashore — their private party and recreation headquarters.
Maxwell glanced around the suite. Hozer Miller was stationed behind the bar, mixing drinks from the private stock of booze that had arrived in a gray metal sea locker labeled “VFA-36 Admin Supplies.” Flash Gordon, wearing his standard liberty uniform of jeans, polo shirt, and deck shoes, was locked in a conversation with a brunette in a tight sun dress. Leroi Jones and Pearly Gates, both in shorts and squadron T shirts, were in an animated argument about fighter tactics, using their hands as airplanes. Neither could hear the other over the din of music.
Maxwell made a head count. “Where’s the skipper?” he yelled to Hozer Miller.
“Patrolling,” Hozer yelled back, and gave Maxwell a knowing wink. “He locked up a pair of British Air girls down by the pool.”
Maxwell understood. The Dubai Hilton was renowned as a hunting ground for airline flight attendants. Killer DeLancey was the undisputed king of the hunters. He was famous not only for destroying enemy aircraft, but even more for his relentless pursuit of women when the carrier sailed into port.
On a couch, looking glassy-eyed and disheveled, sat Devo Davis. He clutched a drained cocktail glass in both hands.
Maxwell went over to him. “Hey, Devo, how about a refill?”
Davis stared at him blearily. He held out his glass. His lips moved, but no words came out.
Maxwell took Davis’s glass to the bar.
“Lots of water for the XO, light on the scotch,” he said to Hozer Miller.
“Roger that,” said Hozer. “He was like that when he came in. You ask me, the guy’s got a problem.” Hozer sloshed a dollop of scotch into a tumbler of water and handed it to Maxwell. “By the way, this came for you a little while ago. Some admiral, a three-star named Dunn, wants you to meet him at six o’clock.” He handed Maxwell a pink Post-it. “What’s up, Brick? You getting a decoration or a court-martial?”
Maxwell glanced at the note and stuffed it in his pocket. He and Hozer went through the pretense of being friends. Since the MiG shoot down, the rift between Maxwell and DeLancey had widened. The junior officers had divided themselves into DeLancey supporters and Maxwell backers.
Maxwell knew without a doubt what side Hozer was on. It was well known in the squadron that he was DeLancey’s number one snitch.
“Both, maybe. Admiral Dunn is a troubleshooter at OpNav.” OpNav was the office of the Chief of Naval Operations.
A perplexed look passed over Hozer’s face.
Maxwell could have explained to Hozer that Admiral Josh Dunn was an old shipmate of Maxwell’s father. He had known Brick Maxwell since before he could walk. When he was on the road, Dunn never passed up the chance to spend an evening with Harlan Maxwell’s kid.
Hozer, Maxwell knew, would report the information to DeLancey. Let him stew over it, he thought.
Another CD was playing, this one even more metallic and ear-breaking. Flash Gordon was closing the gap between him and the brunette, who had a decidedly British accent, which meant she was either a BAG or a GAG. She was giggling at something he told her. Jones and Gates were still arguing and flying their hands in a simulated dogfight, oblivious to the racket around them.
Maxwell delivered Devo Davis’s drink. “How’s it going, chum?”
Davis took several seconds to recognize Maxwell’s face. Then he said, “He’s gonna do it.”
“Who’s gonna do what?”
“DeLancey.”
Davis was having trouble forming the words. “He’s gonna get rid of us.”
“What do you mean?” said Maxwell, knowing exactly what he meant.
“DeLancey hates our guts. He’s gonna get rid of us.”
Maxwell glanced around. This wasn’t a good place for such a discussion. Davis was shit-faced. “Cool it, Devo. Let’s just chill out and have a good time. Okay?”
Davis blinked while his sloshed brain processed the suggestion. He took a slurp from his fresh drink and shrugged. “Yeah, shit, whatever.”
Maxwell went over to draw another beer from the keg. He umpired the hand-flying disagreement between Leroi Jones and Pearly Gates, declaring that neither was correct in his analysis of high alpha tactics. Flash Gordon was dancing with the cute brunette, who had been positively identified as a New Zealander and a GAG on a thirty-six-hour layover. For Flash, life was good.
The music was getting to Maxwell. He needed to take a walk. Admiral Dunn’s note asked that he meet him at six. It was now five-thirty.
“Listen, guys,” he said to Jones and Gates. “Keep an eye on the XO. Make sure he gets to his room okay.”
“No problem,” said Pearly. “We’ve got the old guy covered.”
Maxwell was almost to the door when he noticed for the first time the slight figure in the corner lounge chair. B.J. Johnson sat by herself nursing a Coors Light. She was wearing jeans and a T shirt that bore the likeness of Eric Clapton.
Maxwell went over to her. “Hey, you. Trying to be invisible?”
She gave him a wan smile. “Yeah, I can blend into the wallpaper.” She waited until he sat down in the chair facing her. “I wish I had been invisible yesterday, before I got whacked by that Saudi Eagle driver. That was dumb.”
Maxwell nodded. “Maybe. Do you know why it happened?”
B.J. chewed on a thumbnail. “Sure. I screwed up.”
“That you did. But think about it. What did you do wrong?”
“I guess I was out of position.”
Maxwell spread a napkin out on the coffee table. “Look at this,” he said, and sketched four winged symbols. “This is a a four-ship combat spread. Look how each section supports the other. If you’re dash four, your job is to cover your section leader’s right flank.” He drew semi-circles around the symbols. “Look what happens if you get wider than about five thousand feet from your leader. An oncoming bogey can split your defense quadrants, and you lose mutual support.” He drew an arrow between two fighter symbols. “Zap! One of you is dead meat.”
B.J. stared glumly at the napkin. “Me, in this case.”
“That’s what training is all about. Nobody was really morted, and you learned a valuable lesson.”
She nodded toward the bar where Undra Cheever and Hozer Miller were huddled. Cheever was cracking up at something Miller said, laughing in his trademark hyena laugh. “The worst part,” B.J. said, “is that those guys get to thump their chests and say they were right about dumb women pilots.”
Maxwell looked at the two pilots. Cheever and Miller were the worst of the alien-haters. Each had gone out of his way to make life miserable for the women pilots. One was probably the phantom caller. “Don’t worry about them. I happen to know that each of those guys has made dumber mistakes. We all have. It’s part of learning to be a fighter pilot.