“That raises the ante, putting two Yanks on the ground in China. They’ll have a field day if they catch you.”
“You mean, losing me is okay, but two of us is another matter?”
Boyce shrugged. “Since you put it that way, yes.”
“Whoever it is has to understand some Chinese.”
“Why?”
“Even if they made this Dong-jin a carbon copy of the Black Star, everything will be in Chinese. I’ll need help figuring out the instrumentation, the systems, the displays. I won’t even know how to start the thing without a translator.”
“Sounds like our choice is pretty clear, doesn’t it?”
Before Maxwell could reply, a rapping sound came from the door. Boyce opened the door. “Come on in, Major Bass,” he said. “We were just talking about you.”
Bass waited until Boyce finished with his proposal. “No fucking way,” he said. A second later he thought to add, “Sir.”
Boyce just smiled. “But you’re the right man for the job.”
“I don’t know shit about stealth jets, and that’s the way I want to keep it. I’m a fighter jock, not a test pilot.”
Boyce was perusing a manila file folder. “Your mother is Chinese, according to your records.” He studied him for a moment. “You don’t look Asian to me.”
“My father was Irish. I take after him.”
“But you speak Chinese fluently.”
“Not any more. I forgot it. Every word.”
Boyce sighed. “I’m seriously disappointed in you, Major. Don’t you Air Force people feel a sense of duty?”
“To the Air Force maybe. Not to the Navy. With all due respect, sir, you guys are crazy as loons. Can I leave now?”
“No.” Boyce looked again at the folder. “According to this file from General Buckner, you have a career path that looks like an earthquake.” Boyce made a show of leafing through the file. “I can’t believe some of this stuff. Can this be true? You really got caught in the Langley O-club parking lot with a colonel’s wife—”
“She assured me they were separated.”
“By approximately fifty yards, according to this. That was until her husband found you in the back seat of your Thunderbird. Which resulted in your transfer to Myrtle Beach, which was where you—”
“May I see that file, sir?”
“No.” Boyce flipped a page. “It says here that you buzzed a sailboat off the coast at Myrtle Beach with an F-16. A boat that happened to belong to—”
“The base commander.”
“Bass, you’re a one man train wreck. How did you ever make major?”
“By being the best fighter pilot in the Air Force, sir.”
Boyce shook his head. “And the best fighter pilot in the Air Force will be court-martialed because he’s too stupid to follow orders.” He put down the file. “As I see it, Major, it’s come down to this. You’ve got two career options left.”
He left this thought hanging in the air while he unwrapped a fresh cigar. Bass waited, watching him like a cat staring at a Rottweiler.
Half a minute passed.
“Uh, I believe you said something about options, Captain?”
Boyce gave the cigar an appreciative lookover, then wet the end of it. “Option one, I comply with the request of General Buckner, who — and I quote his exact words — now wants your sorry ass shipped back to Kadena so he can convene your court martial. He figures you’re good for five to ten in Leavenworth.”
Bass’s face was turning a shade of gray. “And the other option…”
“Volunteer for the mission to China with Commander Maxwell. If, by some rare happenstance, you actually live through the operation, I will intercede with the general and try to keep you from serving hard time.”
Bass stared at him. “That’s coercion.”
“Correct. Do you know what the inside of a six-by-eight cell looks like?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Then your decision is pretty easy.”
For a long moment Bass stood there, wrestling with his choice. He could visualize the interior of a prison yard at Leavenworth. He could also visualize what it might be like to be caught as a spy in China. Neither choice filled him with joy. His shoulders slumped. He wished he had never arrived on this damned boat.
“Okay,” he said in a low voice, “what do you want me to do?”
“You wanted to see me, Skipper?”
Maxwell looked up from his desk. Standing in the open door was Bullet Alexander, wearing a flight jacket over his khakis. Maxwell waved him in. “Close the door and take a seat.”
Alexander sat opposite Maxwell. He glanced around the room, his eyes stopping at the photograph on the desk. It was a snapshot of Maxwell and Claire. They were sitting on a motorcyle. In the background was a boat dock and a body of water. “That the chick who makes you slam doors and beat up punching bags?”
Maxwell glanced at the snapshot and nodded. “That’s the one. You can knock off the counseling. I’m over all that.”
Alexander kept looking at the photo. “Looks like a cool bike. A Harley?”
He nodded. “An old ninety-five Low Rider. I keep it in my dad’s garage in Fall’s Church. Claire and I used to ride on the weekends along the river, down to the Chesapeake.”
He lay the photo face down on the desk. He looked at Alexander. “What would you say if I told you I was turning the squadron over to you for a while?”
“I’d say you had a lot of trust in your XO. Or else you’re in some kind of deep trouble.”
“Maybe both. I’m going off for a few days on a special assignment.”
“One of those don’t ask, don’t tell jobs?”
“Something like that.” He watched Alexander for a reaction.
Alexander nodded, his expression not changing. “I see where this is going. You’re worried about whether I’m ready to run the outfit, right?”
“Should I be?”
“Hell, Boss, with a possible war starting with the ChiComs, leaving your outfit in the hands of some dude who just checked in, yeah, I can see how you might be worried.”
Maxwell gave it a second, choosing his words. “You may not realize it yet, Bullet, but not everyone in the squadron is crazy about you. There’s at least one guy who’d like to see you blow it and get shipped back where you came from.”
“My onboard warning system has already picked up hostile signals from Craze Manson.”
“Then you ought to know he’s telling all the junior officers that you’re a carpetbagger who hasn’t earned his credentials. He’s going to do everything he can to make you look bad.”
“That’s nothing new. I’ve been dealing with assholes like Manson ever since I got my wings and went to my first squadron.”
“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. CAG can get someone to step in and run things. I’ll make sure it doesn’t reflect on your fitness report.”
“Look, Brick, I don’t give a damn about Craze Manson. Tell me what you think. Do you want me to stay?”
“I picked you for this job. I haven’t changed my mind yet.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“What about Manson?”
Alexander smiled his toothy smile. “Leave Manson to me.”
<>
Boyce caught up with him on the way to the flight deck. Maxwell carried a duffel bag with his flying equipment, extra clothing and toilet gear. On the outside of his flight suit was his leather shoulder holster with the ancient Colt .45.
Boyce looked at the pistol. “Lot of good that’ll do you.”
“You never know. It saved me on the ground in Yemen, if you remember.”
“I remember. With your sterling marksmanship, you almost blew away B.J. Johnson.” Boyce paused, and his voice grew serious. “Look, Brick, this is a different kind of war. If it turns ugly, just get the hell out. I need you alive here and back here on the Reagan.”