With Hostile Intent

Chapter Twenty-Five Deliverance

Through the window on the admiral’s bridge, Maxwell could see the flat brown shoreline of Bahrain. A jagged row of modern hotels and office buildings rose above the ancient dwellings along the seafront. The Reagan had dropped anchor off Bahrain exactly twenty-five minutes ago.

Admiral Mellon, CAG Boyce, and the Reagan’s captain, Roger Stickney, sat across from Maxwell. They were listening to the tape player in the middle of the table. They heard the voice of Killer DeLancey.

“Eeeeasssy with it.”

A couple of seconds later, “Don’t go high, don’t go high!”

It was easy to imagine Spam Parker’s jet descending through the darkened sky toward the deck.

“Easy with it,” they heard DeLancey say again. “Right for line up.”

“That was a bogus line up call,” said Maxwell, “just to get her to drop the nose and go lower on the glide slope.”

A steady aural tone sounded on the tape.

“What’s that?” asked Stickney.

“He’s holding the transmit button down,” Maxwell said. “It’s blocking out the LSO’s calls on the other radio. Right now the LSO is yelling for her to add power, to wave off, but it sounds garbled to her because she’s hearing both radios transmit at once.”

Click. The tape abruptly ended. “The tape is time-stamped,” said Maxwell. “That’s exactly when Parker hit the ramp.”

For a while no one spoke.

Finally, Admiral Mellon said, “I don’t know what to say. This is just too hard to believe. Her own commanding officer killed her.”

“And then tried to kill his executive officer,” said Boyce. “You all saw Brick’s HUD tape. Killer fired a Sidewinder at him, and Brick took him out with the gun.” Boyce banged his fist on the table. “I wish I’d had the chance to shoot the sonofabitch myself.”

Stickney was shaking his head. “Killing a woman pilot, then a deliberate blue-on-blue engagement in a war zone. All based aboard America’s newest and most expensive aircraft carrier. This is going to look great on the evening news. It’s gonna make Tailhook look like a taffy pull.”

“What about Congress?” said Boyce. “Wait till that woman senator finds out how the Navy treated one of her precious female pilots.”

No one wanted to touch that one.

Admiral Mellon seemed not to be listening. He rose from the table and stood gazing toward the Bahrain shoreline, his hands clasped behind his back.

He said in a low voice, “Thirty-four years.” He continued looking out the window. “I’ve seen it all — Vietnam, the Gulf, Tailhook, the Balkans, downsizing, rebuilding, downsizing again.”

None of the officers spoke. Maxwell thought that the admiral looked old and tired. His shoulders seemed hunched, his thinning hair whiter than before.

“Enough is enough,” Mellon said, speaking to no one in particular. “I’m not going to give them another sword to use against us.”

He turned to the officers at the table. “Okay, gentlemen, get this straight. Here’s the way it’s going down. Commander John DeLancey will get a memorial service with full honors and a posthumous Navy Cross.”

The three men at the table stared at him. Boyce could not restrain himself. “But, Admiral, the sonofabitch —”

“Listen carefully, all of you. During yesterday’s strike DeLancey shot down another enemy aircraft, becoming the first active-duty ace since the Vietnam war. He is a national hero. Regardless of what else he did, we won’t take that away from him.”

Boyce shook his head. “Admiral, that still doesn’t account for what he did to Spam Parker. And it doesn’t explain how he happened to get killed.”

“DeLancey was killed in action. We don’t know how. He was the last jet out of the target area. Whether it was a SAM or a MiG or a lucky AA hit, we’ll never know.”

“What about the AWACS controllers? Don’t they have an idea what happened?”

“I’ll call Joe Penwell, the Joint Task Force Commander. He doesn’t want this to explode in our faces any more than we do.”

“What about the tapes?” said Stickney. “Brick’s HUD tape and that audio tape we just heard prove that DeLancey was a murderer.”

Mellon didn’t reply. He walked over to the VCR and extracted the HUD cassette. Then he picked up the audio tape player and ejected the tape. Ignoring the curious stares of the three men at the table, Mellon pulled a metal gun case from his desk drawer. He slipped the two cassettes into the case.

He shoved open the door to the outside catwalk. Using a sidearm swing, he hurled the case in a high arcing path, over the rail and out to sea. He watched the gun case disappear in the murky water.

Admiral Mellon strode back into the flag bridge. “What tapes?”

No one answered.

He dusted his hands off and said, “That, gentleman, was probably the last significant act of my naval career.”

“Sir?” said Stickney. “You don’t mean you’re —”

The admiral picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “My orders came in on the fax this morning. I’m being relieved.”

The three officers stared at him, surprised.

“In two weeks I turn over command of the Reagan battle group. I’m taking mandatory retirement, by directive of the Undersecretary of the Navy.”

Stickney was aghast. “That doesn’t make sense, Admiral.” said Stickney. “Is it because of the alpha strike? Did anybody look at the intel photos? Don’t they realize the attack on Latifiyah was a total success?”

Boyce spoke up. “Admiral, if I may say so, sir, you and your staff ran the most effective coordinated strike I’ve ever participated in.”

“No,” said Mellon. “It’s Mr. Whitney Babcock who gets the credit for the strike. And he did it despite the interference of me and my bungling staff. At least that’s the way it’s being reported in Washington. Babcock’s at the White House this very minute accepting congratulations from the President. The word is that he’s going to be promoted to the National Security Council.”

Boyce jumped to his feet. “That’s bullshit!” he exploded. “Damn it, sir. Somebody in this Navy has to stand up to that little prick. We’ll set the record straight.”

Mellon shook his head. “It’s the system, Red. Civilians oversee the military, not us old squareheads. It’s the way the founding fathers set it up. It may be a flawed system, but it’s the one we have taken oaths to support.”

The admiral paused and gazed out the window again. “It’s time for me to exit. I’ve had a great career, with damn few regrets.” He looked pointedly at the empty tape player on the table. “And that includes what I just did here today.”

An awkward silence settled over the room.

“There’s just one other item,” said Mellon, “and that concerns you, Commander Maxwell.”

“Sir?” Maxwell rose from his chair, not sure what was going on.

“Your new orders.”

Here it comes, thought Maxwell. I’m the next to retire. “Orders to where, Admiral?”

“CAG needs a new skipper for VFA-36.” Mellon shuffled through another set of papers from a tray on his desk. “For once Red and I agreed on something.”

Mellon found the papers. “Let me be the first to congratulate you, Brick. You’re the new commanding officer of Strike Fighter Squadron Thirty Six. You’ll be a great skipper.”

Maxwell shook Mellon’s hand, then accepted handshakes and backslaps from Boyce and Stickney.

He felt as if he were dreaming. So much had happened in the past two days, most of it bad. He had been attacked by both enemy and friendly fighters. He had shot down one of each. He had almost flamed out over a hostile country.

Strangest of all, he had killed his own commanding officer. In the United States Navy that was not considered a great career move. But here he was, back aboard the Reagan. Instead of court martialing him, they were giving him the best job in the world.

There was only one explanation, Maxwell figured. Someone was looking out for him.

General Joe Penwell had worked himself into a red-faced fury. “You two are under house arrest,” he roared.

First Lieutenant Tracey Barnett, United States Air Force, and Lieutenant Commander Butch Kissick, United States Navy, exchanged glances and kept their silence. They were still wearing their flight gear from the AWACS mission.

Penwell was pacing behind his desk, slamming a fist into his palm. Across the room, standing next to the wall-sized Middle East chart, was Commodore Ashby, bespectacled and dour-looking.

“How dare you usurp the theatre commander’s authority. That’s my authority, mister!” Penwell demanded. “Ordering that tanker in country was a clear violation of the rules of engagement.”

“We saved a Hornet pilot’s ass,” offered Kissick.

Penwell ignored him. “You’re going to get a court-martial out of this, Kissick. And I promise you, you’re not going to get special protection from any candy ass Navy lawyers. This is Air Force country, and your butts are road kill out here.”

“Sir,” interjected Tracey, “with all due respect, you have to understand something. We saw an occurrence out there —”

Penwell turned on her. “No, you understand something. I am a lieutenant general in the United States Air Force and you are a one-bar woman officer. Do not presume to lecture me.”

At this, Tracey Barnett’s eyes flashed. She locked gazes with the general. Then she glanced at Kissick. He gave her a nod. “Okay, General, we understand about the tanker. Can we knock off the bullshit and talk about what really happened?”

Penwell stared at her. “What did you say? Knock off what?”

Tracey gulped and thought, What the hell? They were going to get court-martialed anyway. “With all due respect, General, Commander Kissick is the best ACE in theater. The best I’ve ever seen. I stand by his decision to send the tanker in and save that fighter. But there’s more, sir. It’s clear to us that you’re deliberately avoiding the real issue here.”

“Lieutenant, I hope you have a good lawyer, because you’re going to need one.”

“You didn’t haul us in here to talk about why we diverted the tanker, did you?”

Penwell placed his hands on his desk and thrust his head forward. “Why else would I bring you here? To pin a damn medal on you?”

“Because you know what we saw on our display during Chevy Flight’s egress. We saw a blue-on-blue engagement in country, and now we want an explanation for what we saw.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“We saw Chevy One in a furball with Chevy Five. We had clear indications of an engagement, and then —”

Hrrrrruumph. From across the room, Ashby was making a great show of clearing his throat. “If I may,” he said in his monotone voice. He walked over to Penwell’s desk and whispered in the JTF Commander’s ear. He turned back to the AWACS crew. “Perhaps it should be explained to Lieutenant Barnes and Lieutenant Commander Kissick that what they think they saw may not have been what they, in fact, saw.”

Tracey looked at each of them. Ashby wasn’t making a bit of sense. Neither of them was. “Excuse me?”

“What the commodore means,” said Penwell, “is that in the confusion of the strike egress, you may have seen something in your display that didn’t happen. Or you missed something that did happen.”

Tracey nodded. She was beginning to see where this was going. “What we saw was pretty plain, General. There weren’t any bandits anywhere near Chevy One and Five—”

“Of course there were bandits. They weren’t all shot down.”

Tracey had to think for a second. That much was true. They had painted five Fulcrums in the air at Latifiyah. Only four were reported shot down. The survivor, presumably, had experienced some kind of near-death epiphany and bugged out for the north country.

Penwell continued. His voice was less strident now. “Let’s say the bandit stayed low, did a visual vertical attack on Chevy One, emitting no radar signal, then went back for the deck. With all that was going on, isn’t it possible that you might not have spotted it?”

Now Tracey knew for sure where it was going. She looked again at Butch. He just shrugged. “Well, sir, I guess it would be possible. We definitely lost the last Fulcrum. It might have been him.”

Penwell clasped his hands together. “Without question, it was the Fulcrum. The Fulcrum took out Chevy One. A damned shame, too, but in the thick of battle unavoidable things happen.” Penwell paused, then looked at both of them. “Is that not the way you saw it, Captain Barnett? And you, Commander Kissick?”

“Captain? I’m a first lieutenant —”

“Let me be the first to congratulate you,” said Penwell. “You’ve both just received field promotions.”

Tracey was too surprised to answer. She looked over at Butch. He was grinning and nodding with the new understanding of what they had seen. It meant, Tracey guessed, that they were no longer under arrest.

The coxswain barked an order. The boatswain’s mate heaved the bow line to the sailor on the landing. The big gray utility boat bumped gently against the piling, and the crew snubbed the lines fast.

Maxwell stepped ashore. The air was dry and warm with a light breeze from the sea. He was wearing civvies — khaki trousers, a knit polo shirt, deck shoes. In one hand he carried his blue overnight duffel bag.

He stood there on the fleet landing for a moment. He set the bag down while he looked around. He didn’t see anyone except the shore patrol detail and a row of taxis waiting for the flood of sailors that would soon arrive from the Reagan.

She didn’t come.

Why should she? he asked himself. Not after the time in Bahrain. Not after he let himself get swept up in all that paranoia about reporters pumping Navy officers for information. Claire was a journalist, not a spy, which he had known all along. But he had let his brain go dead when he spotted her with the guy in the bar that night. He had insulted her, then compounded his stupidity by not owning up to it and apologizing.

After all these years, Maxwell realized, he still hadn’t learned zip about women. Nada. Probably never would. But he knew when he’d blown it.

Still, he had hoped she might be there. He picked up the duffel bag and headed toward the row of taxis. She didn’t come. Okay, another place, another life —

He saw her.

She was standing in the shade beneath a towering palm. She was wearing a sleeveless summer dress, the same kind she used to wear when they went out on the Chesapeake. She had the scarf around her neck…the one he had given her in Dubai.

She stood there watching him. For a moment Maxwell had the thought that she was there to meet someone else, and he just happened to show up.

Stupid thought, he told himself. No more stupid thoughts.

For what seemed to Maxwell like an hour, but in fact was only five seconds, they regarded each other. Neither spoke. Claire’s face was expressionless, her somber blue eyes fixed on him. Maxwell tried to read her thoughts. He couldn’t.

Finally, she smiled.

He went to her and put his arms around her.

“Sam Maxwell,” she said, “boy astronaut.”

“Claire Phillips, girl reporter.”

He didn’t know what to say after that, so he kissed her.

They stood that way for a while, their arms around each other, neither speaking. It was a beginning, thought Maxwell. After all the false starts, it was another beginning. This time, he promised himself, he would get it right.

In the gathering dusk, the temperature was dropping rapidly. The sun lay low over the high western ridge. At this elevation, nearly two thousand meters above sea level, the vegetation was reduced to scrub brush and a few patches of scrawny weeds.

The convoy clattered over the last rise, then began the long descent to the border. Each of the six trucks hauled a load of crude oil in the tank welded to its frame. Over each tank flapped a ragged tarpaulin.

All in all, it had been a routine journey. The convoy had begun with nine vehicles. Two had broken down with engine problems, and one was stolen at gunpoint by Kurdish tribesmen. It was the cost of doing business.

“Look,” said the driver of the lead truck. He nudged his passenger who had dozed off again. “Ahead. You see? They are waiting for us.”

The passenger blinked and looked through the dirt-encrusted windshield. Ahead lay a check point. He saw jeeps and soldiers in red berets.

“The border,” said the driver. “We have arrived.”

The passenger was awake now, even though he had not truly slept for two days. A stubble of beard covered his face, and his arm was aching again. With his good hand, he adjusted the sling that kept the broken wrist bound to his side. Soon he would receive medical attention and the broken limb could be set.

An officer came to the passenger’s window. He was very polite. He asked their identities.

The passenger didn’t reply at first. He peered up at the sign that covered the border entrance. It read WELCOME TO TURKEY.

“I am Colonel Tariq Jabbar,” he said. “Formerly of the Iraqi Air Force.” A broad smile spread over his face. Hayat jaeeda, he thought. Life is good.