After a minute of concentrated barfing, the officer turned from the rail and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. Weakly, he walked over to the marines, making a heroic effort not to look at the faceless corpse in civvies.
“Okay, what happened?”
The senior marine, a corporal, told him.
The officer shook his head, his stomach still roiling.
He looked at the other body, the one in the officer’s uniform. The dead man wore silver oak leaves on his collar. At least half a dozen rounds had been fired into him. He lay on his back, his eyes staring sightlessly out to sea.
The hangar deck officer recognized him from the wardroom. He was an intelligence officer, one of those prissy staff guys who never wasted his time conversing with the working stiffs. The guy was a mess.
Torpedoes, air strikes, now a shootout on his deck. It had been a hell of a day. “Fucking incredible,” said the hangar deck officer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
STRAIT OF HORMUZ
On the third ring, a voice answered. “Lieutenant Johnson.”
“It’s Claire Phillips. Would you be available for some conversation?”
A pause. Claire could sense the hostility over the phone. “The answer’s still no,” B. J. Johnson said. “No interview, no television exclusive of the amazing wounded girl pilot.”
“That’s not what it’s about.”
“What then?”
“Some girl talk. No business, no Navy stuff.”
“Look, Ms. Phillips, I have a lot to—”
“Call me Claire. And I promise I won’t keep you long.”
Another hesitation. “For a few minutes. Where do you want to meet?”
“Your call.”
“You know how to find the viewing gallery up behind the island? Vultures’ row, they call it.”
“I know it. See you in ten minutes.”
She’s very good looking, thought B.J., and the thought only made her angrier. Even in a shapeless jumpsuit and wearing minimal makeup, Claire Phillips was one of those women who could look like a fashion model even in a twenty-knot wind on the Reagan’s viewing deck.
“Okay,” said B.J., “what did you want to talk about?”
“Just some personal stuff. What it’s like being a woman in a man’s world.”
“I told you before, no interview.”
Claire held her hands up. “See? No notepad, no recorder. You have my word that whatever we talk about won’t go any farther.”
“I gather you don’t want me talking about what I saw this morning.”
Claire tilted her head, looking at her. “What did you see this morning?”
“You and Commander Maxwell, alone in his room.”
Claire nodded. “I think I’m getting the picture. And what do you think we were doing in his room?”
B.J. struggled to keep her voice neutral. “Seems obvious enough. I believe they call it shacking up.”
“Would it make any difference if I told you we weren’t doing that?”
For a moment, B.J. wasn’t sure how to answer. She folded her arms over her chest and turned to the rail. “I really don’t care, one way or the other.”
“Yes, you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so angry.”
“I am not angry,” she said, aware that the anger was spilling out of her like venom. “What you do together doesn’t interest me in the slightest.”
“Look, B.J., you can believe what you want. But you ought to know that Sam Maxwell has more personal integrity than you’re giving him credit for. He happens to care very much about his squadron and the example he sets for his officers.”
B.J gnawed on her lower lip while she digested this statement. Whether she believed Claire Phillips or not, she suspected that this part was true. Brick Maxwell might be a misguided buffoon whose taste in women was zip, but he was an ethical guy. Especially when it concerned his squadron.
Still, the fury was bubbling up in her. As much as she hated it, she knew why. She was jealous, damn it.
“Are we finished talking?”
Claire nodded. “Sure, if you want. I’m sorry if I upset you. I just thought that… since we have so much in common, it would be nice if we could talk.”
B.J. looked at her. “What is it we have in common?”
“Our jobs, for one thing. We both work in what is mostly a man’s profession, and they don’t like us for it. For every woman in a foreign press bureau, there are a hundred guys who think she ought to be home mending their socks. I know it’s the same for you. Look around this ship. How many of you are there?”
B.J. didn’t have to look around. Since the death of Spam Parker, she had been the only woman fighter pilot on the USS Reagan. Things might have gotten better lately, but she could still sense the same old women-aren’t-warriors resentment.
“You know what they call us?” B.J. said.
“What?”
“Aliens.” She had to smile as she said it. “It was supposed to be an insult, but I’ve gotten over that. I even had a picture of a little green extraterrestrial stenciled on my locker. Just to piss them off.”
At this, Claire had a good laugh. “I love it. You’re a trailblazer, and they don’t know how to deal with it.”
B.J. felt a tingle go through her. “Trailblazer?” She stared at Claire. “That’s what Brick once said about… his wife. Did you know her?”
“I met her once, when I was doing a story at the cape. Now that I think about it, she was a lot like you. Same features, same size. She was smart, good-looking, and tough.”
B.J. didn’t reply. Claire Phillips’s words were replaying in her mind. She was a lot like you. For a while she leaned against the rail, letting the warm sea wind blow through her hair. It explained a few things. Seven bullet holes, for example, in the body of the man who was holding the knife to her throat. Brick Maxwell was shooting the man who threatened his wife.
A lot like you.
She had come up here determined to dislike this woman. Claire Phillips was an adversary. One of those fluff-headed females whose looks and connections counted for more than talent and guts.
Wrong again.
“Look, Ms. Phillips, I ought to tell you—”
“Claire.”
“Claire.” B.J. cleared her throat and started over. “What I meant to say was… I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?”
“For being rude.” She knew she was blurting the words, but she wanted to get it over. “For behaving like a jerk. I apologize.”
There, she said it. Now she would get the hell out of there.
As she turned to leave, Claire touched her arm. “You’re not wearing your sling.”
“It wasn’t much of a wound. Just a nick, really.”
“I heard it was a close thing.”
B.J. had to grin, thinking about it. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Brick Maxwell — a great pilot, but a really lousy shot.”
The staccato beat of the whirling blades broke the morning stillness. The two helicopters — the AH-1W Whiskey Cobra in the lead, trailed by the UH-1N Super Huey — skimmed the floor of the canyon, pulling up over the natural bridge that spanned the canyon.
Before them spread the valley. On the western slope rose a high ridge.
In the raised aft seat of the Cobra, the pilot glanced at his GPS coordinates again, then turned toward the ridge. Beyond the crest, he saw what they were looking for. The hillside was littered with debris, torn metal, destroyed machinery. In several places the slope was splotched with the black residue of an intense blaze.