With Hostile Intent

Chapter Fourteen Inquest

Where the hell is Devo?

Spam eased the nose up and started her climb back to ten thousand feet. She glanced around, left, then right. No Devo.

“Devo, you up?” she said on the number two radio.

No answer.

That was just like him, she thought. Take off and leave his wingman. Particularly if the wingman was a woman.

Leveling at 10,000 feet, she tried calling Devo again. Still no answer. She was getting a bad feeling about this. Something weird had happened back there over the freighter. Like a good wingman, she had stayed with him as they passed over the ship. She remembered looking down at the ship, and then when she looked back up — Devo’s jet wasn’t there.

He should have been more explicit in the briefing about what he wanted her to do. Instead, he had wasted time with all that picayune shit about where they would rendezvous. As though she needed lecturing from a… drunk.

He had probably hauled ass back to the Reagan and left her out here. That would be the typical move of your classic male chauvinist fighter pilot who thinks women ought to be darning their socks. She’d get his ass roasted on a spit when they got back to the ship. She’d tell Killer what a jerk his executive officer really was.

Now she had to get back to the ship by herself, and she wasn’t sure what the hell she was supposed to do. One more thing he didn’t cover in the briefing.

She could hear the other returning jets calling on the CATCC–Carrier Air Traffic Control Center — frequency. Spam checked in using her call sign: Stinger 42.

“Roger Stinger 42,” said the controller. “You got Stinger 41 with you?”

“Negative.”

Several seconds ticked past, then a different voice came over the frequency. “Stinger 42, this is the Captain. Look, we’re not painting Stinger 41’s transponder squawk, and we think he might be a nordo.” A “nordo” was an aircraft with lost radios. “Take a look around and see if your flight lead is with you, maybe on your wing.”

Spam took a quick glance to either side of her jet. Empty sky. No radioless jet flying on her wing. “Negative. He’s not here.”

Spam wondered what the hell was going on. The captain of the ship? They were worried about Devo. It didn’t occur to them that he had abandoned his wingman. She was getting a feeling that something had gone wrong, and she had learned by now how the male-biased Navy operated: The bastards were going to blame it on her.

Spam stopped thinking about Devo. It was time to land on the thing.

Her first pass was unstable, causing the LSO to give her a frantic wave off close to the ramp. Overcorrecting on the second pass, she missed all three arresting wires and boltered, back into the pattern.

Her third pass was within limits but ugly. High in the groove, settling at the ramp, with an urgent power call from Pearly, ending with a number one wire — the closest to the blunt unforgiving ramp of the deck.

Taxiing forward to where the director was signaling her to her parking spot, she began preparing herself for the debriefing. Already she could hear the accusations, and she would be ready with the answers. The LSO tried to make her look bad by yelling these hysterical commands on the radio.

And Devo. The man was a blatant sexist. He shouldn’t have been flying. His briefing was unprofessional and erratic. Whatever happened to Devo was his own fault.

CAG Boyce sighed and hung up the phone. He closed his eyes and massaged them with the tips of his fingers. This was the part of his job he hated most. In twenty-three years as a naval aviator, he had seen his share of mishaps. It never got any easier.

He swung around in his chair and faced the officers seated at his conference table. ”They found debris,” he said. “Five miles from the Iranian freighter.”

“Did the freighter fire on him?” asked Killer DeLancey.

“No, there wasn’t any indication of hostile action.”

“Any clue that he ejected?” asked Maxwell. “Locator beacon or…?”

Boyce shook his head. That would be wishful thinking, and they all knew it. No beacon, no raft, no floating survivor. When you hit the water at 300 knots, there wasn’t much left.

Losing a guy like Devo Davis was tough. Boyce and Devo went all the way back to the A-7 days together on the Kitty Hawk. Devo, for all his faults, was someone Boyce could count on to tell him how things really were.

Now he couldn’t shake this feeling that he had helped kill Devo.

He had heard the rumors about the drinking. As Air Wing Commander, he was also aware that Devo was having problems in the cockpit. But they had already had a private talk about all that, and Devo convinced him it was a passing thing. He was having trouble getting over the split with Eileen. Nothing serious. He was coming out of it.

Then, while the Reagan was in port in Dubai, Killer DeLancey had come to his office. He wanted Devo replaced and sent home. Killer thought that Devo was a drunk and a poor role model for the junior officers.

Boyce turned him down. Devo, he told DeLancey, would come out of it. Devo was a good executive officer, he would make a good commanding officer. Just cut him a little slack, and Devo would get a handle on his problems.

That, of course, was a lie. His real reason for keeping Devo Davis was more critical. He needed someone he could trust to watch Killer DeLancey.

The recovery team completed its sweep of the surface around the crash site. To no one’s surprise, they found only a few baskets of floating debris — nothing that would yield a reason for the crash of Devo’s Hornet.

The Aircraft Mishap Board convened the next morning in the air wing conference room. Boyce named Commander Spike Mannheim, of the VFA-34 Blue Tails, senior member of the board. Maxwell, as the Roadrunners operations officer, was assigned to the board, and so were Craze Manson, the maintenance officer, Bat Masters, the safety officer, and the air wing flight surgeon, Knuckles Ball.

Spam Parker was the first witness called. She sat at the end of the table facing the five board members. She wore her dress khakis, her blonde hair tied back in a bun.

Mannheim asked the first question. “Lieutenant Parker, please describe Commander Davis’s demeanor during the brief.”

“What do you mean?”

“Was he… alert? Upbeat? Perceptive?”

“He seemed irritable. He was probably hungover.”

“We’re not asking you to make judgments. Just tell us how he conducted the brief.”

“Very unprofessional, in my opinion.”

“Explain, please.”

“Devo kept making a big deal about this overhead rendezvous, like it was some sort of religious thing with him.”

Mannheim frowned. “You disagreed with your flight leader about the rendezvous?”

“It just made more sense to rendezvous on a tacan radial.”

Mannheim scribbled a note on his yellow pad. “Even though the air wing tactical procedures specifically call for an overhead rendezvous?”

Spam didn’t like the questioner’s tone. “You asked me to tell you about the briefing. I just told you.”

Mannheim studied her for a second. “Okay, let’s talk about the mission. Tell us what happened.”

Spam described the HARM patrol.

When she finished, Maxwell spoke up. “I’m curious, Spam. How did you happen to fire a HARM? Why didn’t Commander Davis take the shot?”

“I guess he wasn’t watching his display. He didn’t see the Burner-three indication.”

At this, Mannheim picked up a manila file folder. “We have reports here from both AWACS and Rivet Joint. They saw no Burner-three activity at all. It looks like the HARM you fired went inert, without tracking.”

Spam looked at each of them. She was receiving clear danger signals. They were on a fishing trip. “I just told you. I had an SA-3 site locked up on my HARM display. There was a definite SAM threat to the strike force, and I fired a missile.”

“Did Commander Davis say anything to you about your missile shot?”

“I don’t remember.”

Mannheim looked at his notes again. “Here is a transcription of your HUD tape. After you fired the HARM, you and Devo had a radio exchange. He said, ‘What do you mean, a box? An SA-3 displays as a triangle. What the hell did you shoot at?’” Mannheim looked at her. “Well, Lieutenant?”

Spam was sure now. They were trying to set her up. “Excuse me, but what has this got to do with Devo’s crash? Am I on trial here?”

“We’re trying to reconstruct the entire sortie,” said Mannheim.

“It seems to me you’re trying to blame me for something that has nothing to do with the accident.”

Mannheim glanced at his colleagues, then made a note on his pad. “Very well. We’ll come back to that later. Tell us about the Iranian freighter you and Devo overflew.”

Spam related how they received the call from Alpha Sierra to check out the unidentified ship.

“Did you observe any hostile activity?” Maxwell inquired. “Any sign of firing from the ship?”

“No. Nothing at all.”

“What were Devo’s instructions to you about tactical formation?”

Spam considered for a moment. They had the transcript from her HUD tape. They were trying to trip her up. “As I recall, he said to fly a mile abeam and higher.”

“And is that, in fact, what you did?”

“Of course.”

Maxwell thought for a second, then said, “So you saw Commander Davis’s jet hit the water?”

“Not exactly. I was… trying to get the name of the ship.”

“I don’t understand,” interjected Mannheim. “If he was overflying the ship, and you were a mile abeam, how could you also be getting the name of the ship?”

Spam’s anger was rising. The bastards were definitely trying to trap her. “That was our job, identify the ship. That’s what I was trying to do.”

Mannheim again consulted his file. “Alpha Sierra has told us that your two radar contacts were converging as you approached the freighter. At the time they lost Devo’s radar signature, the two of you were superimposed on the radar display.” Mannheim put down the file and looked at her. “As Commander Davis’s wingman, you were supposed to be a mile abeam. Can you explain why you did not have him in sight when he impacted the water?”

Spam knew for sure now where this was going. It was just as she expected. “What is this? An inquisition?” She shoved her chair back and stood up. “I don’t have to sit here and submit to this. Not without a lawyer.”

“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:

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.

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.”