Then Maxwell was selected for what he considered the ultimate flying job in the universe: the space shuttle. He checked in to NASA’s Johnson Space Center and commenced training as an astronaut. It took two years. Finally, on a splendid autumn afternoon, he lifted off from the Cape’s Pad 39-B aboard the orbital vehicle Atlantis on his first space shuttle mission.
He didn’t know that it would be his last.
Whitney Babcock hung up the secure phone that linked him by satellite to the Pentagon. A broad grin spread across his face. Just as he expected, the Secretary was delighted.
An air battle over Iraq. It was glorious! Like a gift from Allah. And he, of course, would now ensure the media reported that Whitney T. Babcock III was not only on the scene, but he had been directly involved with the control and execution of the mission.
It was what the Secretary of the Navy had sent him out to the Reagan to do: Look for an “opportunity.”
At first Babcock hadn’t understood.
“It used to be called ‘gunboat diplomacy,’” the Secretary explained before Babcock departed Washington. “When Reagan needed some credit, what did he do? He blasted the shit out of Gaddhafi. Over what? A little terrorist bombing. A pin prick, really. But Bush got the big prize. He got to send half a million troops after Saddam. Why? Because America wanted to keep cheap gas. Hell, this President deserves as much.”
“You mean, sir, we — the President, that is — needs, ah… “
“A distraction, Whit. That’s all. Just a little side show. The public loves it, and it makes everybody look good, especially the President. Shows he really does have balls, despite what that hooker said about him in the Enquirer.
Babcock understood. The President’s personal problems had overshadowed every accomplishment, real or otherwise, that he had scored during his term in the White House. And like every staffer in this administration, Whitney Babcock understood the primary commandment of political life: Thou shalt make the boss look good. Or, at least in the case of this boss, thou shalt make the boss look not as bad as he really was.
For three weeks Babcock had been stuck out here aboard this great steel barge. He knew that the senior officers, especially the battle group commander, Admiral Mellon, held a barely disguised contempt for him. The old mossback had made it clear when Babcock arrived that he regarded him as a guest aboard his ship. Look but don’t touch. Ask questions, but don’t expect detailed answers. As though he, a presidentially appointed senior official of the Department of the Navy, was some kind of outsider aboard the Navy’s newest carrier. Well, the admiral didn’t know it yet, but he was at the end of his run. Babcock had already tagged him for an early retirement.
During his rise through the labyrinthine agencies and secretariats of Washington, one shining truth had guided Whitney Babcock. He was of the governing class. With his rarified lineage and education and breeding — Exeter, Yale, Georgetown Law, a succession of State and Defense Department positions — he, more than any of these military-trained blockheads, was destined to command the affairs of the United States military establishment. Unlike these career officers, he understood the subtle nuances of geopolitics. He possessed the innate ability to see beyond the simple deployment of weaponry and assets. By background and birthright, he could think strategically.
And now, into his lap, had fallen this — a matter of strategic importance. What would the Iraqis do next? What would the other Arab states say? What should the response be from the United States forces gathered here in the Gulf? Point, counter point. Babcock had a chance to show his own true brilliance.
From his padded chair on the flag bridge, he gazed down on the aft flight deck. The four Hornets that had engaged the MiGs were landing back aboard the Reagan. Soon the pilots would be down below, debriefing in CVIC. The admiral and his intelligence staff would be there. And so would Whitney Babcock III.
Commander Devo Davis, executive officer of the VFA-36 Roadrunners, watched Maxwell’s jet slam onto the deck. Over the bulkhead speaker he heard the voice of Pearly Gates, the LSO — “Ooooohh-kay!” — as the jet’s tailhook engaged the number two wire. Of the three arresting wires stretched across Reagan’s deck, number two was the target.
The LSO normally didn’t hand out compliments on the radio, but Pearly Gates was the type who liked to reward a perfect pass when he saw it. “Okay,” with no qualifying comment, was as good as it got.
As the jet lurched to a stop on the landing deck, Davis donned his gear — the float coat survival vest and the hard-shelled cranial protector that everyone had to wear on the flight deck — and headed down the ladder.
Maxwell was still in the cockpit when Davis arrived. The plane captain, a nineteen-year-old sailor named Ruiz, was helping him with his straps and navigation bag. Maxwell saw Davis and waved down to him.
Of the few men in the Navy whom Davis could count as genuine friends, Brick Maxwell was the best. Maxwell and Davis went all the way back to Kingsville, Texas, when Davis was a freshly minted flight instructor and Lieutenant Junior Grade Sam Maxwell was his first student. And, as it turned out, his best. It was Davis, at least indirectly, who tagged Maxwell with his call sign — the moniker that soon or later is attached to the name of every Navy fighter pilot.
It happened the day the training squadron skipper stopped Davis on the ramp. “How’s your student doing?” asked the commander. “Is he worth a damn?”
“Maxwell? Solid as a brick, sir.”
A smile flickered over the skipper’s face. He scribbled something in his notepad, and that was it. Solid-as-a-brick Maxwell had a call sign.
Over fifteen years had passed since that day. Now, watching Brick Maxwell descend from the cockpit, Davis felt a flash of envy. Here he was, fighting the same old battle against his thickening waistline and vanishing hair, while Maxwell seemed to be exempt from such problems. He had the same lanky build — six feet tall, his weight unchanged since his light heavyweight boxing days as an ROTC midshipman at Rensselaer. He even wore the same old Tom Selleck-style mustache, without any sign of graying in his dark brown hair. Life was goddamned unfair, thought Davis.
Maxwell stepped onto the deck. Davis shook his hand and pointed to the empty missile rail on the wing tip. “Shit hot, pal. Looks like you got yourself got a MiG.”
“Not me,” said Maxwell. He nodded across the flight deck to DeLancey’s jet. “The skipper.”
A crowd was gathering around DeLancey’s Hornet. He was shaking hands with the deck crewmen and officers, signing autographs, posing for the photographers who had come from the ship’s public affairs office. He had removed his helmet, flaunting the rule against unprotected heads on the flight deck. DeLancey’s curly black hair was ruffling in the wind over the deck. He flashed his white-toothed grin for the photographers, giving them a good shot of his handsome profile.
“Look at that sonofabitch,” said Davis. “Strutting around like some kind of movie star.”
“You know Killer. He’s on stage now.”
“He’s gonna be on another stage in a minute. The admiral sent me down here with a message for all four of you. He says to get your asses to CVIC immediately. Don’t go to the ready room, don’t stop to pee.”
“That bad, huh?”