“Nobody’s blaming you,” said Maxwell. “You did your best.”
To his surprise, Maxwell’s name had appeared on the letter appointing the investigation board. As squadron executive officer, he wouldn’t normally sit on an investigation. But then he realized the board’s composition had been decided several weeks before the accident, when he was still the squadron operations officer.
The senior member was Commander Duke Zybrowski, executive officer of VFA-34. Also appointed to the board were Craze Manson and the flight surgeon, Knuckles Ball.
“Big Mac got it the worst,” Pearly told the assembled board. “He was the last into the net and he was on top. He got second-degree burns on his back.”
“You guys were lucky,” said Zybrowski. “The LSO platform was roasted. The Fresnel Lens was trashed. It was amazing that no one was killed.” Then he corrected himself. “Except Parker, of course.”
Pearly was still shaking his head. “It was so weird. Like… she was getting other instructions.”
“Other instructions?” asked Maxwell, puzzled. “What do you mean, other instructions?”
“I don’t know exactly. It was like she was doing the opposite of what I was telling her.”
“Did you hear anything else on the frequency?”
“No, sir. But I had this feeling that… I wasn’t getting through.”
Maxwell’s brain was still processing this information. It didn’t compute. Other instructions?
“Could she have been listening on another frequency?” he asked. “Her back radio?”
“I had good comm with her when she called the ball,” said Pearly. “But when I tried calling her that she was going low, it sounded like the frequency was jammed.”
Maxwell stared at the bulkhead for a moment, trying to reconstruct the scene. Something was nagging at him — a tiny, vague image lurking in the back of his brain.
The board called Killer DeLancey.
He flashed the trademark grin and said, “Okay, guys, fire away. What do you want to know?”
“We’re having a problem establishing Spam’s radio setup the night of the crash,” said Zybrowski. “You were her flight lead. We have the tape record of all transmissions on the number one radio between you and the ship’s controllers. But we can’t find a record of any dialogue between you and Spam on the number two radio.”
“Probably because there wasn’t any,” said DeLancey. “The mission went as briefed. Nothing needed to be discussed on the second radio.”
Maxwell found that peculiar. “You mean Spam didn’t argue or discuss anything while you were airborne? Wasn’t that a characteristic of hers, always making spurious radio calls?”
DeLancey shook his head. “Not anymore. I straightened her out on that. Her attitude had really turned around.”
Maxwell was dubious. From everything he knew, Spam Parker’s attitude, if anything, had gotten even more argumentative. “How about your number two radio? What were you using for a tactical frequency?”
DeLancey gave him a withering look. “What do you think? Squadron common, 295.7 megahertz, just like we’re supposed to.”
Maxwell held up a rectangular card. “This is your kneeboard card from the flight. You didn’t fill in the box with assigned frequency. But there’s a symbol jotted down here — ‘X-W.’ What does that mean?”
DeLancey peered at the card. “’X-W?’ No idea. Something I jotted down while we were briefing. Maybe it meant ‘crosswind.’ Spam was having trouble figuring out wind and drift in the marshal pattern, and I was helping her with it.”
The board members asked more questions about Spam Parker’s flying discipline — or lack of. DeLancey handled all the queries with an easy nonchalance.
The board had no more questions for DeLancey.
“It’s a damn shame,” he said as he rose from his chair. “Parker was turning into a good fighter pilot.”
The board members looked at each other. No one offered a comment.
After DeLancey left the room, Zybrowski asked the others, “Do you think he really believes that shit?”
Lieutenant Commander Big Mac MacFarquhar had a walrus mustache and a booming voice. “Yeah, that was me who flattened Pearly. I was the last one in the net.”
Maxwell winced. Big Mac weighed in at an easy two-fifty. Having an object the size of MacFarquhar land on you from twenty feet above could be lethal.
MacFarquhar peeled away his flight suit and showed Maxwell the bandages on his back. “The fire was already on us when I jumped. One more second and I would’ve been a crispy critter.”
They were in the Air Wing office, where MacFarquhar had his own cubicle with his name on it. Big Mac was the senior LSO aboard the Reagan, and it was his job to supervise all the other squadron LSOs.
Maxwell looked at the yellow pad on which he had jotted notes during the interview with Pearly Gates. “Pearly said it seemed to him as if Spam were getting ‘other instructions.’ What’s your take on that?”
“At first I thought so too. It was like one of the other LSOs had cut in and told her, ‘Easy with it,’ or something like that. But I checked the tapes. Nobody said squat.”
“Then what made her dump the jet onto the ramp?”
MacFarquhar shook his head. “Pilot error. Arrogance. Parker flew into the spud locker. Period.”
“Then why was she even allowed to be out there?”
“You guys tell me. She was your problem, not mine. I told Killer we oughta send her packing.”
“What did Killer say?”
“He said to keep her in the loop, don’t worry because she was getting better.”
“But she wasn’t getting better.”
“Yeah, and now she’s dead. And pardon me if I don’t get all remorseful about it. That dumb broad nearly killed me and all my LSOs.” MacFarquhar glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Good riddance, I say. Too bad it had to cost us a Hornet. I’ll tell you this much, I’ve got no stomach for any more fucking social experiments like Spam Parker.”
Maxwell let MacFarquhar rant for while. Big Mac was a good LSO, but Maxwell knew he was not an objective witness. He was still reliving the horror of the fireball on the flight deck.
Finally Maxwell thanked him and left the office. Walking down the passageway, he pondered again what little he had learned. Why did DeLancey, a fervent anti-feminist, not act when the LSOs told him they wanted Spam taken off flying status?
Why did Spam Parker, who wasn’t known to be crazy or suicidal, ignore the radio calls that would save her life?
It didn’t add up.
Petty Officer Third Class Jose Ruiz was still wearing his flight deck float coat. His cranial protector lay on the padded seat next to him. He scratched his head and said, “Well, sir, it was dark, and I wasn’t paying that much attention.”
They were sitting in the back of the ready room. Maxwell prompted him. “But you definitely saw Commander DeLancey remain in his cockpit after he landed and you had secured the tie-downs?”
“Yes, sir. When he raised the canopy, he told me he was going to reprogram the radio.”
Maxwell tried to visualize DeLancey reprogramming his radio. Something wasn’t making sense. “Why would he do that?”
Ruiz chuckled. “He said he screwed up and forgot to use the ‘crypto hold’ function that saves the frequencies.”
“Isn’t it your job to reprogram the radio when that happens?”
“Sure, but the skipper said he needed the practice. He’s a cool guy, Commander DeLancey. Most of the pilots just walk away and leave that stuff to us.”