A laundered set of khakis was hanging inside the door. Fresh towels lay on the steel cabinet. His stateroom had been unoccupied for the past three days while he was chasing the Black Star.
He dropped into the chair at the desk and powered up the notebook computer. While he waited, his eyes wandered to the photograph on his desk.
He and Claire on the Harley. They were smiling for all the world as if they were a couple in love. Which, once upon a time, they had been.
The computer booted up. The “mail waiting” icon was flashing.
He retrieved his backlog of mail — thirty-two messages, mostly junk mail, jokes forwarded to mailing lists, newsletters he never intended to read. There were several notes from old buddies in the fleet. A couple from his father wondering how he was doing.
Nothing else.
A feeling of gloom settled over him.
Well, he thought, what did you expect? Nearly a week had gone by since he’d jammed down on the SEND button and told the woman he loved to have a happy life. Stupidity is seldom rewarded with a second chance.
He shut down the computer.
Sitting in the desk chair, overwhelmed with fatigue, he felt the loneliness sweep over him like a winter chill. God, he was tired of this shit. Tired of flying home to an empty steel cell aboard a cold-blooded, hundred-thousand-ton barge.
He thought again about the reality of this life. You put your life on the line flying off the deck of these massive ships, and when it was over and you were still alive you went back down to the same steel room and confronted your loneliness. You lived without a real home, a family, even the comforts of cocktail hour, walks on the beach, nights at the movies with his girl. Hell, even the Air Force lived better than this, as Catfish Bass would remind him if he were still alive.
Get a grip, Maxwell. You knew all this when you took the job.
True. Nobody was kidding him when, as a young nugget naval aviator, he checked into his first squadron and found himself flung into the war with Iraq. He knew what he was getting into.
That was a decade and a half ago, and not a hell of a lot had changed. Not the loneliness, not the danger.
He looked again at the photograph. He remembered that day. It was one of those spring afternoons that sparkled like a field of jewels. He’d picked her up on his old Harley.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Somewhere romantic.” That was all he’d tell her.
They went for a ride along the Potomac, then stopped at a riverside restaurant. They’d had their picture taken by the waiter.
The couple in the photo smiled back at him. In the background was the water, a riverboat, a sky dotted with puffs of cumulus.
He lay the photograph face down on the desk. He was tired. Too much had happened that he couldn’t control. He could feel a gaping hole in his heart where the presence of Claire Phillips used to be.
All he knew was that he missed his girl and his home country and afternoon rides along the Potomac. He missed living a normal life. Hell, sometimes he even missed the old Harley.
He slept for five hours. That was enough. He was back aboard the Reagan, and he had a strike fighter squadron to command.
Walking down the passageway to the ready room, he wondered what he’d find. He’d been gone — how long? Only three days? It seemed like a month.
He opened the door to the ready room — and nearly ran into the banner draped over the entrance.
Cheers and applause spilled out of the room. Across the banner was the message: SIERRA HOTEL, SKIPPER. WELCOME HOME.
Sierra Hotel was phonetic code for “Shit Hot.” It was the highest unofficial accolade a fighter pilot could receive.
They were all there, almost every officer in the squadron. Bullet Alexander stood in the front row, wearing a grin that looked like a piano keyboard. Next to him was Sticks Stickney, applauding with the rest of them. CAG Boyce was gnawing a cigar, flashing a thumbs up.
Maxwell was too stunned to speak.
Boyce grabbed his arm and dragged him into the room. A linen-covered table was set up in the front of the room with a large cake and a coffee urn from the wardroom. “If we were ashore,” said Boyce, “we’d be having a proper celebration with booze for all the troops.” He glanced at Stickney. “On his tab, of course.”
Maxwell accepted handshakes and back claps and high fives from the assembled airmen. He felt as if he were dreaming. A few hours ago he had thought he might spend the rest of his life as a prisoner in China. Or be killed in the Black Star. Or be adrift in the South China Sea.
Instead, he was where he belonged — aboard USS Reagan, in the ready room of his own squadron. Somewhere in the depths of the ship, under a shroud and guarded by marines, was the Black Star. It would soon be on its way to the place of its conception — Groom Lake.
Boyce steered him toward the back of the ready room, away from the tumult around the coffee urn and the cake, now being devoured by the pilots.
“The good news is that I put you in for a decoration,” said Boyce.
“What’s the bad news?”
“You won’t get it. What you did never happened. CincPac says that we will all erase our memories about invisible Chinese airplanes.”
“I don’t want a medal. I just want to get back to running my squadron.”
“That might take a while. They want you back in the states for extensive debriefing.
Maxwell groaned. “CAG, my squadron needs—”
Boyce held his hands up. “It’s not me who’s calling the shots. Those orders come all way from the top of the mountain. I’m just the messenger.”
Damn it, thought Maxwell. Just when he thought he was returning to his real job. He glanced toward the front of the room. Bullet Alexander was talking to some of the junior officers, gesturing with his hands in the way fighter pilots were prone to do.
“How about Bullet?” he said, nodding toward the XO. “Did Manson give him a hard time?”
Boyce let out a snort. “Take a look at this.”
He walked over to the big cork board mounted on the bulkhead next to the LSO’s carrier landing records. Thumb tacked to the board was a grainy black-and-white photograph.
Maxwell peered at the photo. It was an enlarged shot taken from a HUD video tape. Superimposed in the reticules of the gunfight were the twin canted vertical stabilizers of an F/A-18 Hornet. It was a classic rear-quarter gun kill.
Then he saw the handwritten message at the bottom of the photo.
For Craze,
A little memento, so you won’t forget.
Fondly, Bullet
“He scheduled himself for a one-vee-one against Manson,” said Boyce. “Of course, everyone in the air wing wanted to watch, positive that Manson was going to carve him a new bunghole. Well, as soon as they merged, Bullet was all over Manson like a cheap suit. Craze hasn’t shown his face in the ready room since. Look over there. All the JOs think Bullet Alexander walks on water.”
Maxwell glanced up at the front of the room. It was true. The junior pilots were clustered around Bullet Alexander, hanging on his every word.
He smiled, remembering the way it had been when he was new to the squadron. They’d given him the same reception. The carpetbagger treatment.
It wasn’t fair, but that was the way the system worked. They wouldn’t let up until you’d proved yourself. They’d wouldn’t quit until you’d gone out there and kicked some ass.
CHAPTER 26 — ARMISTICE
Something was different.
As she walked down the underground passageway to the cabinet room, Charlotte Soong tried to put her finger on it. What was it? Something had changed.