“I know you’re trying to make me feel better. Thank you.”
Maxwell folded the napkin and gave it to her. He rose to leave. “You’ll get another shot at it. You’re gonna do just fine, B.J. Believe it.”
B.J. managed a smile. “Okay, Brick. I’ll try.”
“So you kicked some butt over at Al-Kharj yesterday.”
“Yes, sir,” said Maxwell. “And we took out all their fighter assets.”
A broad grin split the face of Admiral Joshua Lawrence Dunn. He refilled both their wineglasses. “I love it,” he said. “The way they’re telling it at JTF, it was a damn turkey shoot. Both the ACE and the Fifth Fleet Commander were over there rubbing the Air Force’s noses in it. They say you suckered in those F-15s like ducks to a blind.” Dunn cracked up thinking about it.
Josh Dunn was a gangling, six-foot-four former attack pilot who had flown 140 missions over North Vietnam. Having survived to command a squadron, an air wing, a carrier division, and, ultimately, the U.S. Navy’s Sixth Fleet, Dunn was in the twilight of his forty-year career.
“I can’t wait to tell your old man about this,” he said. “Harlan Maxwell’s boy — leading the whole goddamn large force exercise, and kicking their asses from here to Riyadh. He’s gonna swell up like a toad.”
“Probably not. Dad’s still mad because I left NASA to come back to the fleet.”
Dunn nodded. “Well, that’s the way fathers are. He was so proud that his kid was an astronaut. When you walked away from the space shuttle program, it nearly broke his heart.”
Maxwell remembered. It was almost a year ago now, but the phone call was still vivid in his mind. His father, a retired rear admiral, had been incredulous. “Sam, for Christ’s sake, think it over. Everything you’ve worked and studied for. I know you’ve suffered a loss, but trust me, son, you’ll get over it and …”
Suffered a loss. Yes, recalled Maxwell, that he had. But his father had been wrong about one thing: He wouldn’t get over it. Some things you didn’t get over. What happened on the cape was burned into his memory. What he had lost was irreplaceable.
He never wanted to fly into space again.
Josh Dunn took a sip from his wineglass. “So tell me. How’s it going in your new squadron?”
“Oh, pretty good,” Maxwell said carefully.
“Getting along with the famous Killer DeLancey?”
Maxwell couldn’t tell if Dunn was fishing or just making conversation. He took the cautious route. “More or less. Killer’s a pretty opinionated guy.” You didn’t spill your guts to a three star admiral, even if he was like your uncle.
“Not what I hear. Back at OpNav the rumor is the MiG shoot last week put you and DeLancey in a major pissing contest.”
“We had a disagreement about rules of engagement.”
Dunn tilted back in his chair and looked around the room. A pair of crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a soft yellow light. The only other guests in the Dubai Hilton dining room were a half dozen Europeans having a quiet dinner and a couple of Arab businessmen huddled over coffee.
“DeLancey served under me during the Kosovo operation,” said Dunn. “I was running CarGru Eight. I wanted to court-martial the sonofabitch for violating the ROE, but I got overruled. He had patrons high up in the Navy Department. Goddamn civilians who thought he wore a mask and a cape. So he got decorated and promoted instead.”
Maxwell nodded. Some things never changed, he thought. “Sounds like Killer.”
“All I’m saying is you better watch your six o’clock. A commanding officer like that will ruin your career. Don’t trust the sonofabitch.”
Maxwell had to smile at that one. Don’t trust Killer DeLancey? The one thing you could trust about DeLancey was that you couldn’t trust him. “I’m watching my six o’clock.”
The admiral regarded him for a moment, then leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Listen, Sam, I’ll deny I ever said this. But I can arrange for you to get orders to another squadron. It would solve everyone’s problem. DeLancey will give you an unsatisfactory fitness report and ruin your chances of getting your own command someday.”
“No, sir.” Maxwell said it so quickly he surprised himself. “I appreciate what you want to do. I have to deal with Killer my way.”
“What way is that?”
Good question, thought Maxwell. He had no idea. But he couldn’t allow a high-ranking friend of his father’s to bail him out. “I’m going to do my job the best I can. I’ll let the system take care of the rest.”
“Killer is the system. He’ll derail your career.”
Maxwell shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, Admiral.”
Dunn sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I knew you’d say that.” For several seconds he stared into his wineglass. “You know something? You’re just as pig-headed as your old man.”
Claire Phillips waited at a cabana table, sipping a vodka tonic. She glanced at her watch again. How long had she been sitting here? Twenty minutes? Damn, she thought, a cigarette would taste wonderful. Never mind that she had given it up three months ago. Why was she nervous? Come on, girl, get a grip.
It was past eight o’clock. She wondered if he had gotten the note she left with the concierge, who promised to deliver it to Commander Maxwell’s room.
11 A.M., 16 May
Dear Boy Astronaut,
We have a date, remember? I’m in town to cover a press conference at the ambassador’s residence at seven. Then I’m free (for dinner, I mean). Let’s meet in the Hilton Cabana bar at eight.
Love,
Cub Reporter
The press conference, just as she expected, was a godawful waste of time. The ambassador was a wealthy California automobile dealer and a political crony of the President. He was famous for convening these events for no other purpose than to have himself videotaped in the presence of visiting dignitaries. The dignitaries in this case amounted to a couple of admirals and their staffs, and that self-promoting twit, Whitney Babcock.
But that was okay. As Claire well knew, out here in the Gulf journalism and politics were intertwined. Someday she would be asking for the ambassador’s help with a breaking story, and she had a card to play. So she would see to it that the ambassador’s pointless news conference got coverage. She showed up at six-thirty with her producer and two cameramen. The conference amounted to a pronouncement by the ambassador about how the U.S. Navy intended to protect oil tankers, regardless of their flag, as they transited the Persian Gulf.
Mercifully, the pronouncement had been brief. Claire interviewed the ambassador, making sure to mention the dignitaries, then capturing all their beaming faces on videotape. She thanked everyone and got the hell out.
In the cabana bar, the white-jacketed waiter came by her table. She ordered another vodka tonic. The cabana was swathed in a yellow light from the array of Japanese lanterns strung in the palms. Half a dozen guests — three men and three women — were sitting at the long, curved bar. A lone musician in a safari shirt was producing a warbling electronic music with his keyboard.
The drinks were beginning to settle her now. She’d finish this one, and if he didn’t show up, she’d pack it in. And that was a bizarre turn, she reflected. Her journalistic beat — the Middle East, Europe, Southeast Asia — was filled with men, many of whom were powerful and well known, who would kill to meet her, take her out, just be seen with her.
Right, she thought. So why are you sitting here by yourself waiting for —
He stepped into the cabana. She saw him pause for a moment, standing in the light of the lanterns, peering around. Claire’s heartbeat quickened. Sam Maxwell. Still the boy astronaut.