Dunn had warned him about DeLancey. He had been too proud. Now it was too late.
“Sit down, Killer,” said CAG Boyce. “Coffee black, no sugar, right?”
“Yes, sir.” DeLancey took a seat at the long, empty conference table. It was mid-morning, and both men were wearing the standard-issue G-1 fur-collared flight jackets over their khakis.
Boyce poured the coffee. Then he tilted back and sipped from the big porcelain mug with the air group insignia on one side and the title “CAG” emblazoned on the other.
As usual he clutched an unlit cigar, which he liked to gnaw on when he was doing business. He wished he could light the thing up like he used to in the old days. In the health-freakish New Navy, the environment Nazis turned you in to the EPA.
“We need an executive officer for your squadron, Killer.”
DeLancey nodded. “I figured we’d get one of the prospective COs just finishing requal training. I was thinking of Jake Kovacs. He could be out here in a couple of weeks—”
“I’ve already got someone in mind.”
A wary look passed over DeLancey’s face. “Who would that be?”
“Brick Maxwell.”
DeLancey’s coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth. His mouth twitched. “You gotta be joking.”
“Brick’s nearly the right seniority. He’s already proved he’s a damn good strike leader. And most important, he’s up to speed on the situation out here. If we wind up going to war and something happened to you, I wouldn’t want an inexperienced XO taking over the squadron.”
DeLancey was shaking his head adamantly. “No, it can’t be Maxwell.”
“What’s your problem with Maxwell? You know something I don’t?”
“Well, for one thing, he’s got orders. He’s on his way outa here.”
Boyce stared at him. “How can that be? He just got here three months ago. He’s not due for rotation.”
DeLancey’s mouth twitched again. “He’s been reassigned to the training command at Kingsville.”
Boyce picked up the unlit cigar and stared at it for a second. How did this get by him? Something was going on —
Ping! It came to him.
“Killer,” he said slowly. “Did you by any chance go over my head to get Maxwell transferred?”
“I was gonna tell you, Red. I was talking to Whit— Mr. Babcock — and he —”
“Babcock? That little peckerhead civilian who thinks he’s Lord Nelson? Don’t tell me you went to him with this.”
DeLancey swallowed hard and said, “I mentioned that I thought Maxwell might be leaking information to a female reporter. The Undersecretary said he’d take care of it. I was just as surprised as you when the orders came in.”
Boyce felt a tantrum coming on. “Goddammit! I oughta have you relieved and shipped outa here. Did anybody ever explain to you what chain of command means in the Navy?”
“Yes, sir. It was on my agenda to tell you about it.”
Boyce exploded. He stood and aimed the cigar like a weapon. “You listen to me, mister. You don’t tell me about capers like that. You come to me first! You understand that? You got a problem with your squadron, you talk to the air wing commander, not some dipshit civilian who you think will advance your illustrious career. One more stunt like that and I promise you won’t have a career. Do You Read Me?”
Killer nodded. “Yes, sir. But it’s already done.”
“The hell it is. Those orders are cancelled as of this minute.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think you ought to do that.”
“Why? Are you going to Babcock about me now?”
“Of course not. I just don’t think keeping Maxwell as XO is gonna work out.”
“It’s too late for this discussion. You had a chance to tell me what you thought, and you blew it. Now I’m telling you. You got a new XO, and it’s Maxwell.”
DeLancey nodded, showing no expression. “You’re the boss.”
Boyce and Maxwell leaned against the rail of the open deck and watched the crews below re-spotting aircraft for the next launch.
“He’s a goddamn hero.” said Boyce. “Everybody in the Navy Department, including that little prick Babcock, thinks he shits gold bricks. If I fired him, they’d hang me in effigy from the Pentagon flagpole.”
Maxwell wondered where Boyce was going with this. They both knew it was highly unusual — even improper — for an air wing commander to be so candid with a subordinate officer.
“DeLancey’s got four months to go as the Roadrunner skipper,” said Boyce. “Then he’ll be rotated stateside and become somebody else’s problem.” Boyce paused and looked directly at Maxwell. “In the meantime I want you to take over the executive officer’s job.”
Maxwell wasn’t sure he heard right. It was too unbelievable. “Sir? Executive officer? You know that I’ve only been in the squadron —”
“I know exactly how long you’ve been there, and I know where you came from. And I happen to be a pretty good judge of people. We’ve got a war coming up. I need someone I can trust to keep DeLancey from going off the deep end.”
“I’m flattered that you think I’m up to it, CAG. But there’s a problem. Killer wants me gone, out of his squadron.”
CAG just shrugged. “That’s his problem, not yours. He’ll have to accommodate. Anyway, there ain’t any law that says a skipper and his XO have to go steady. Well, will you take the job?”
For several seconds Maxwell didn’t answer. He reflected on how life kept changing. From the fleet to outer space, back to the fleet. His career was in the tank, or so he thought. For all he knew, it still might be.
“Yes, sir, I’d be honored to take the job.”
“I’ll make the announcement today.” Boyce paused and looked at Maxwell. By the way, are you going to tell me now why DeLancey hates your guts?”
For a moment Maxwell didn’t answer. What happened during the Gulf War — when Killer DeLancey had taken credit for another pilot’s downed MiG — was a story he had kept to himself all these years.
And so he still would. “You’ll have to ask Killer that question, CAG.”
“Do you think he’d tell me?”
“No,” said Maxwell. “I don’t think he’d tell anyone.”
Chapter Fifteen
Requiem
The rifles of the Marine honor guard crackled once, twice, three times. With each volley the crowd on the hangar deck jerked.
It was appropriate, Maxwell thought, that the service for Devo Davis would take place on such a day. The Gulf had turned choppy, and a ragged deck of clouds scudded low over the Reagan battle group. A warm breeze wafted through the space where the air wing officers were huddled.
The chaplain, a Lutheran minister with the rank of lieutenant commander, had delivered a brief eulogy capsulizing the forty-one years of Commander Steve “Devo” Davis’s life. He recounted the details — his mid-west origins, his graduation in the upper quarter of his Naval Academy class, his rise through the echelons of naval aviation. “God gives, and God takes away,” the chaplain said. Devo Davis, he assured them, was a man who loved God, his country, and the U.S. Navy.
On a linen-covered table lay a collage of objects — Devo’s gold aviator’s wings, a ceremonial naval officer’s sword, photographs of Devo as a midshipman, as a young nugget aviator, as a senior squadron officer. In one photo, a radiant Devo and his new bride passed under the crossed swords of his fellow officers as they emerged from a chapel.
On a little dais lay a triangularly folded American flag, which was supposed to be delivered to the next of kin. Seeing the flag, Maxwell wondered about Devo’s next of kin. He tried to imagine how Eileen had reacted when she learned that she was a widow. Saddened, probably. He guessed that she also felt relieved. Her inconvenient status as a naval officer’s wife was officially ended, without the messiness of a divorce.