“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.