As usual, she had entered through the back door of the ready room and gone directly to her chair. The chairs were airline-style recliners with the name patch of a squadron pilot velcroed on the headrest. Beneath each chair was a drawer in which the pilot kept briefing sheets, kneeboards, personal gear. It was also a message drop.
The ready room was filled this morning. Killer DeLancey was in the front of the room, on the phone with someone. Brick Maxwell was standing at a briefing table talking with Pearly Gates.
B. J. had opened the drawer beneath her chair. Inside the drawer lay an unfamiliar object — a cloth bag with a note attached. Without thinking, she immediately opened the bag. She took out the objects inside.
It was a pair of shiny steel balls.
She could feel Cheever and Miller’s eyes riveted on her as she read the attached note.
To the Alien,
This is what you have been missing. The Navy forgot to issue them to you when they gave you wings. Wear these proudly.
A deathly silence had fallen over the ready room. She could feel every pilot’s eyes on her. DeLancey was staring, a look of intense interest on his face. Maxwell had stopped what he was doing and was looking at her. B. J. wanted to hide. Cram the insulting note and the bag back inside the drawer. Slam it shut and get out of this hateful place.
It was too late. Everyone had seen her open the bag and read the note. Cheever and Miller were cracking up, chortling like a pair of baboons. The other pilots were gawking like spectators at a wreck. They were waiting, she realized, for her to break down. They expected her to scream, sob, go on a world class crying jag. It would prove everything they held true about women pilots.
The truth was, that was exactly what she felt like doing at this moment. Her lower lip trembled. She couldn’t deal with any more of this shit. Wear these proudly. All she wanted to do now was sit down and bury her face in her hands.
But she couldn’t. Not here. Don’t let the bastards see you cry. That was her mantra these days.
She looked around the room. Cheever and Miller were still cackling. Not much doubt about who the ball-donors were. Maxwell had figured it out too. His face was a dark mask, glowering at the two. If she didn’t do something, the white knight was going to come out.
She did something. She held up the steel balls, letting everyone see them. Clacking them together in her right hand, she walked over to where Cheever and Miller were parked at the squadron duty desk. “Did you guys do this?”
They stared back at her. Neither answered. Even Maxwell was peering at her with curiosity.
She clacked the balls together again. Actually, she thought, she rather liked that hard, metallic feel of the spheres in her hand. Clacking them together like that seemed to embolden her. What the hell, it worked for Captain Queeg, didn’t it?
As she turned to exit the ready room, she looked again at Cheever and Miller. They weren’t laughing. “Thanks, guys,” she said. “Now I have the balls, and you don’t.”
No doubt about it, thought Whitney Babcock, studying his reflection in the mirror. He had that look about him, the look of a man destined to command.
He was wearing his favorite shipboard outfit — starched military khakis with a web belt and a black name tag that bore a gold-embossed inscription:
Whit Babcock
Deputy Secretary of the Navy.
He reminded himself to arrange some publicity photos in this outfit.
He turned from the mirror and faced Killer DeLancey. “Maxwell? The ex-astronaut in your squadron?”
“That’s him,” said DeLancey. “He busted out of NASA, then his father got him orders to my squadron. CAG overrode my request to get rid of him, and now he’s my operations officer.”
“He’s a security problem? How long has this been going on?”
“Quite a while, we think. We know he’s been seeing the Phillips woman since Dubai, but probably long before that.”
“You think she’s pumping him for classified information?”
“I’m almost certain,” said DeLancey. “But I don’t want to jump to conclusions. He’s still one of my officers. Rather than destroy his career with a scandal, I thought it would be best just to have him reassigned.”
Babcock nodded. “Well, it’s commendable, Killer, being concerned about your people. But if we’ve got a security leak, we have to take measures.”
“I thought, sir, that —”
Babcock waved his hand. “Just call me Whit.”
“Okay, Whit. I thought that a call from you might cut through all the red tape. We could get a quick security check on this reporter to find out what damage might have been done. And maybe Maxwell could just be quietly transferred.”
“I have a conference call with the Secretary of the Navy and the White House this afternoon. When I’m finished, I’ll tell someone in the department to put a detailer on the Maxwell matter.”
“I appreciate your help, Whit.”
The two shook hands. Babcock waited until DeLancey left the office, then resumed studying his image in the mirror.
Chapter Thirteen
Basra
Wearing his starched khakis, Babcock strode to the podium and adjusted the microphone. He fixed a steely-eyed gaze at the flight-suited aviators filling the room.
“I just got off the line with the President,” he said, letting the weight of the title settle over his audience. “He has given the go-ahead for a retaliatory strike against the Iraqi emplacements that downed our fighter yesterday.”
Babcock paused and struck a pose that, everyone guessed, was intended to summon an image of Douglas MacArthur. Or Theodore Roosevelt. Or, some supposed, Michael Douglas.
“This is a historic moment, ladies and gentlemen. Today it will be your privilege to strike a blow on behalf of civilized nations around the globe. The world will be watching. The President has faith in you, and so do I.”
Babcock stood there for a moment, waiting for a reaction from his audience. No one applauded. The pilots stared back at Whitney Babcock in total silence.
After a few seconds, he rallied and said in a booming voice, “Good hunting!” He gave them a Hollywood salute and left the ready room.
An awkward silence fell over the group. CAG Boyce rose and walked to the podium. He glanced at the door, making sure Babcock was gone.
“Okay, none of what I’m gonna say is to be repeated outside this room.” Boyce paused and looked over at Admiral Mellon, sitting in the front row. Mellon gave him a barely perceptible nod.
Boyce went on. “Despite what you just heard, this ain’t Desert Storm. It’s not even a concerted military strike. It’s a simple, one-shot, pissant punitive raid. A little message that our president wants to send to their president. Saddam is being told he better mind his manners, or we’ll take out what’s left of his crummy infrastructure.
“But I want everybody to get this. These are not high-priority targets. I don’t intend to lose jets or pilots taking out one of those worthless bridges or chicken coops at Basra. I want you to keep it high, stay away from the hot spots, come home in one piece. I’d better see every one of your ugly faces back in here this afternoon for the debrief.”
Boyce shoved a half-gnawed cigar into his mouth and returned to his seat.
Spook Morse, the intelligence officer, came forward to give the latest target data. He talked about tankers, weather over the target area, transponder squawks, collateral damage avoidance, and all the nuances of a coordinated raid.