This near-culmination of his career should have been a matter of the utmost satisfaction to Maxwell, but instead his eyes fell upon the daily loss report from Yankee Station. Two A-7A Corsair light-attack bombers had been lost, and the notation said they were from the same ship and the same squadron.
‘What’s the story on this?’ Maxwell asked Rear Admiral Podulski.
‘I checked,’ Casimir replied. ‘Probably a midair. Anders was the element leader, his wingman, Robertson, was a new kid. Something went wrong but nobody saw what it was. No SAM call, and they were too high for flak.’
‘Chutes?’
‘No.’ Podulski shook his head. ‘The division leader saw the fireball. Just bits and pieces came out.’
‘What were they in after?’
Gas’s face said it all. ‘A suspected truck park. The rest of the strike went in, hit the target, good bomb patterns, but no secondaries.’
‘So the whole thing was a waste of time.’ Maxwell closed his eyes, wondering what had gone wrong with the two aircraft, with the mission assignment, with his career, with his Navy, with his whole country.
‘Not at all, Dutch. Somebody thought it was an important target.’
‘Cas, it’s too early in the morning for that, okay?’
‘Yes, sir. The CAG is investigating the incident and will probably take some token action. If you want an explanation, it’s probably that Robertson was a new kid, and he was nervous – second combat mission – and probably he thought he saw something, and probably he jinked too hard, but they were the trail element and nobody saw it. Hell, Dutch, we saw that sort of thing happen, too.’
Maxwell nodded. ‘What else?’
‘An A-6 got shredded north of Haiphong – SAM – but they got it back to the boat all right. Pilot and B/N both get DFCs for that,’ Podulski reported. ‘Otherwise a quiet day in the South China Sea. Nothing much in the Atlantic. Eastern Med, picking up some signs the Syrians are getting frisky with their new MiGs, but that’s not our problem yet. We have that meeting with Grumman tomorrow, and then it’s off to The Hill to talk with our worthy public servants about the F-14 program.’
‘How do you like the numbers on the new fighter?’
‘Part of me wishes we were young enough to qualify, Dutch.’ Cas managed a smile. ‘But, Jesus, we used to build carriers for what one of these things is going to cost.’
‘Progress, Cas.’
‘Yeah, we have so much of that.’ Podulski grunted. ‘One other thing. Got a call from Pax River. Your friend may be back home. His boat’s at the dock, anyway.’
‘You made me wait this long for it?’
‘No sense rushing it. He’s a civilian, right? Probably sleeps till nine or ten.’
Maxwell grunted. ‘That must be nice. I’ll have to try it sometime.’
CHAPTER 11
Fabrication
Five miles can be a long walk. It is always a long swim. It is a particularly long swim alone. It was an especially long swim alone and for the first time in weeks. That fact became clear to Kelly before the halfway point, but even though the water east of his island was shallow enough that he could stand in many places, he didn’t stop, didn’t allow himself to slacken off. He altered his stroke to punish his left side all the more, welcoming the pain as the messenger of progress. The water temperature was just about right, he told himself, cool enough that be didn’t overheat, and warm enough that it didn’t drain the energy from his body. Half a mile out from the island his pace began to slow, but he summoned the inner reservoir of whatever it was that a man drew on and gutted it out, building the pace up again until, when he touched the mud that marked the eastern side of Battery Island, he could barely move. Instantly his muscles began to tighten up, and Kelly had to force himself to stand and walk. It was then that he saw the helicopter. He’d heard one twice during his swim, but made no note of it. He had long experience with helicopters, and hearing them was as natural as the buzz of an insect. But having one land on his sandbar was not all that common, and he walked over towards it until a voice called him back towards the bunkers.
‘Over here, Chief’
Kelly turned. The voice was familiar, and on rubbing his eyes he saw the undress whites of a very senior naval officer – that fact made clear by the golden shoulder boards that sparkled in the late-morning sun.
‘Admiral Maxwell!’ Kelly was glad for the company, especially this man, but his lower legs were covered in mud from the walk out of the water. ‘I wish you’d called ahead, sir.’
‘I tried, Kelly.’ Maxwell came up to him and took his hand. ‘We’ve been calling here for a couple of days. Where the hell were you? Out on a job?’ The Admiral was surprised at the instant change in the boy’s face.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Why don’t you go get washed off? I’ll go looking for a soda.’ It was then that Maxwell saw the recent scars on Kelly’s back and neck. Jesus!
Their first meeting had been aboard USS Kitty Hawk, three years earlier, he as AirPac, Kelly as a very sick Bosun’s Mate First Class. It wasn’t the sort of thing a man in Maxwell’s position could forget. Kelly had gone in to rescue the flight crew of Nova One One, whose pilot had been Lieutenant, junior grade, Winslow Holland Maxwell III, USN. Two days of crawling about in an area that was just too hot for a rescue helicopter to go trolling, and he’d come out with Dutch 3rd, injured but alive, but Kelly had caught a vicious infection from the putrid water. And how, Maxwell still asked himself, how did you thank a man for saving your only son? So young he’d looked in the hospital bed, so much like his son, the same sort of defiant pride and shy intelligence. In a just world Kelly would have received the Medal of Honor for his solo mission up that brown river, but Maxwell hadn’t even wasted the paper. Sorry, Dutch, CINCPAC would have said, I’d like to go to bat for you on this, but it’s a waste of effort, just would look too, well, suspicious. And so he’d done what he could.
‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘Kelly, sir, John ?., bosun’s mate first -‘
‘No.’ Maxwell had interrupted him with a shake of the head. ‘No, I think you look more like a Chief Bosun’s Mate to me.’
Maxwell had stayed on Kitty Hawk for three more days, ostensibly to conduct a personal inspection of flight operations, but really to keep an eye on his wounded son and the young SEAL who’d rescued him. He’d been with Kelly for the telegram announcing the death of his father, a firefighter who’d had a heart attack on the job. And now, he realized, he’d arrived just after something else.
Kelly returned from his shower in a T-shirt and shorts, dragging a little physically, but with something tough and strong in his eyes.
‘How far was that swim, John?’
‘Just under five miles, sir.’
‘Good workout,’ Maxwell observed, handing over a Coca-Cola for his host. ‘You better cool down some.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘What happened to you? That mess on your shoulder is new.’ Kelly told his story briefly, in the way of one warrior to another, for despite the difference in age and station they were of a kind, and for the second time Dutch Maxwell sat and listened like the surrogate father he had become.
‘That’s a hard hit, John,’ the Admiral observed quietly.
‘Yes, sir.’ Kelly didn’t know what else he was supposed to say, and looked down for a moment. ‘I never thanked you for the card … when Tish died. That was good of you, sir. How’s your son doing?’
‘Flying a 727 for Delta. I’m going to be a grandfather any day now,’ the Admiral said with satisfaction, then he realized how cruel the addition might have seemed to this young, lonely man.
‘Great!’ Kelly managed a smile, grateful to hear something good, that something he’d done had come to a successful conclusion. ‘So what brings you out here, sir?’
‘I want to go over something with you.’ Maxwell opened his portfolio and unfolded the first of several maps on Kelly’s coffee table.
The younger man grunted. ‘Oh, yeah, I remember this place.’ His eyes lingered on some symbols that were hand-sketched in. ‘Classified information here, sir.’
‘Chief, what we’re going to talk about is very sensitive.’
Kelly turned to look around. Admirals always traveled around with aides, usually a shiny young lieutenant who would carry the official briefcase, show his boss where the head was, fuss over where the car was parked, and generally do the things beneath the dignity of a hard-working chief petty officer. Suddenly he realized that although the helicopter had its flight crew, now wandering around outside, Vice Admiral Maxwell was otherwise alone, and that was most unusual.