“Sit down, Lieutenant,” said Mannheim. “This is a hearing, not a court of law. The purpose of all these questions is to learn the circumstances of the mishap flight.”
“No. Your real purpose is harassment of a female officer.”
Mannheim looked like he had been slapped. “Did you say —”
“Harassment. You know what that means, Commander.”
He exhaled a long breath and glanced at the other officers. “I know exactly what it means. Okay, Lieutenant Parker, we’re going to take a break. You’re excused for now.”
Spam executed a smart-about face and exited the conference room.
Closing the door behind her, she allowed herself a smile. She was right. They were trying to pin this whole thing on her. Blame the new female pilot so they could get rid of her. Well, she had put a stop to that — at least for now.
The H word. In the New Navy, it was the ultimate weapon.
DeLancey glanced each way down the empty passageway, then said, “You told them what?”
“It was just a warning,” Spam said. “To make them back off a little.”
“Harassment is a serious charge these days,” he said. “Whenever someone uses that word, it means the commanding officer is supposed to initiate a JAG investigation. Is that what you want?”
“They were hassling me about Devo. Trying to make everything my fault.”
“For example? What did they say was your fault?”
“The HARM I shot, for one. And then they’re saying that I wasn’t watching Devo’s jet when he flew into the water.”
Delancey froze for a second and looked at her. “You were watching your leader’s jet, weren’t you?”
“Don’t you start. You sound just like them.”
“I need to know,” said Delancey. He took another look down the passageway. “Were you in combat spread when Davis hit the water?”
“I don’t like these questions. You’re trying to intimidate me.”
“Answer the goddamn question.”
“This isn’t like you, Killer. If you’re going to act this way, I won’t talk to you.”
DeLancey was nearing his limit. He slammed the edge of his fist against the steel bulkhead. “Listen, damn it. They’re going to roast you in the mishap report if you go on letting them think you fucked up that overflight of the freighter. They’ll hang the accident on you.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Really?” DeLancey said. “And why not?”
“Because you won’t let them.”
DeLancey blinked, not comprehending. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You’re the commanding officer. You’ll have to do something.”
Delancey peered at her as if seeing her for the first time. Her gray eyes looked right back at him, unblinking.
Red Boyce finished reading the official Mishap Investigation Report. He slammed it down on his desk. “I don’t fucking believe this.”
“I knew you’d say that,” said Mannheim.
Boyce just shook his head. “That sonofabitch.”
Mannheim had personally delivered the 102-page report to Boyce’s office. In the report Mannheim and his fellow board members concluded that the MP — Mishap Pilot, in the report — lost situational awareness while overflying the Iranian merchant ship and permitted his aircraft to impact the surface.
In other words, Devo Davis accidentally flew into the water.
It was the board’s further conclusion that a contributing factor to the MP’s loss of situational awareness was his wingman’s failure to maintain a deconflicting flight path during the overflight of the freighter.
In other words, Spam Parker probably caused Devo to hit the water.
But then, as an attachment to the report, was the endorsement of the MP’s commanding officer, Commander DeLancey. While agreeing with the conclusion that Devo Davis had killed himself by flying into the water, DeLancey emphatically rejected the second conclusion:
“The conjecture that Lieutenant Parker did not take appropriate separation during the overflight of the freighter is not supported by fact or testimony. Lieutenant Parker was fully cognizant of her duties as Commander Davis’s wingman, and the evidence corroborates her statement that she executed her mission precisely as briefed. Nothing in this report should be construed as a reflection on Lieutenant Parker’s aeronautical or military ability.”
Boyce picked up the report and waved it at Mannheim. “What is this bullshit, Spike? Killer just neutralized your report. Goddammit, he knows just as well as we do what happened. What’s going on with him? Has he turned into some kind of closet feminist?”
Mannheim just shrugged. They both knew it was a rhetorical question. CAG didn’t expect him to disparage a fellow senior officer. Even a grandstanding egomaniac like DeLancey.
Hozer Miller had a smirk on his face. He handed the message board to Maxwell in the ready room and said, “Bye-bye time, Brick.”
Maxwell saw that Miller had been thoughtful enough to highlight the message with Maxwell’s name on it:
From: 0–5 Assignments Officer, Bureau of Personnel, Dept. of the Navy
To: Commander Samuel Joseph Maxwell, USN
Subj: Permanent change of station.
Within one week upon receipt of these orders, you are detached from your duties at Strike Fighter Squadron Thirty-Six, deployed aboard USS Ronald Reagan. Not later than 15 June, you will report to the commanding officer, Training Squadron Twenty, at Naval Air Station Kingsville, Texas, for duty involving operational and training flying.
Pearly Gates looked over Maxwell’s shoulder. “Training squadron? Man, that’s the end of the earth.”
Maxwell nodded. “No, it’s purgatory.” For a fighter pilot with the rank of commander, assignment to the training command was the terminus of a career. He could forget about ever flying fighters off a carrier deck again.
Maxwell copied a set of the orders on the ready room Xerox, then returned the message board to Hozer.
On his way to the wardroom, he tried to make sense of what had happened. Killer had done it, he was certain. But why did CAG Boyce go along with it? It didn’t compute. Boyce was a crotchety guy, famous for outbursts of temper, but he was a straight shooter.
The wardroom was busy, each of the long tables half-filled with officers having coffee or consuming ice cream dispensed by the big stainless steel machine in one corner. Maxwell poured a coffee, then sat by himself. He was going through the morning’s stack of mail and squadron read-and-initial messages when he sensed that he was being watched.
He was. They were standing at the other end of the wardroom, near the lunch buffet line. Whitney Babcock, looking like Chester Nimitz in his starched khakis, standard-issue web belt, and Navy flight jacket, was studying him. His head was nodding in agreement as DeLancey said something in his ear.
Maxwell gave them a wave of recognition. They averted their eyes and continued their conversation with their backs turned.
Looking at the two men, Maxwell suddenly understood. It had to be Killer and his new patron. DeLancey had persuaded Babcock to intervene directly with the assignments office and get him shipped out.
Maxwell considered his options. He could approach Babcock directly to explain his case. Then he quickly rejected that idea. Babcock had become such an admirer of DeLancey, he would disbelieve anything Maxwell said about DeLancey. He could go to CAG. But then CAG must have signed off with an endorsement. So much for Boyce being a straight shooter.
He felt a pang of regret, thinking back to the dinner in Dubai with Admiral Dunn. I can get you transferred to another squadron.