Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Lie down here, sir. You’ll be OK,” the first sailor said.

Sponge got in the stretcher and the medical department sailors strapped him in. Now on his back, Sponge faced the rain and had to squint his eyes to shield them from the raindrops. He heard the sound of helicopter rotor blades getting louder and louder. Is that guy going to land on top of me? The straps were cinched down to keep him in place, and he couldn’t move his arms. White smoke was still pouring from underneath 406 , the Air Boss was yelling orders over the 5MC he didn’t understand, and rain was pelting his face. Sponge couldn’t see well and that scared him. A sailor, or maybe the old medical guy, stood over him and talked into a portable phone. “Pull down my visor!” he yelled, but no one heard him over the din. Then someone bumped the stretcher, which sent a sharp pain into his left thigh.

Sponge snapped. The tension of the past five hours — beginning with the XO’s bullshit brief, followed by launching in awful weather, dodging the embedded thunderstorms during the hop, marshaling in the clag, and finally ending with his night-in-the-barrel foul decks, sour tankers, jinking ships and a pitching deck barricade — turned to rage in an instant. Everyone on this ship really is trying to kill me! he thought.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Robert K. Jasper, United States Navy, drenched and immobile, had had enough. He took a deep breath, tensed his body and exploded with a roar he was certain could be heard by the plane guard destroyer across the waves.

“Get me outta here! Now! RIGHT Fucking NOW!!”

From the desk chair in his stateroom, Wilson watched the E-2 grow larger in the PLAT crosshairs. When it touched down and rolled out on centerline, the nose gear tires, in a blur, rushed up and over the embedded flight deck camera.

With his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands folded on his lap, Wilson sat alone in the stateroom to escape, for a moment, the pressure-filled aftermath of the barricade. Cajun and Olive had diverted with most of the older Hornets to Thumrait to be out of the way while the crash crew removed 406 from the angle and swept the deck for debris. Making the deck ready for recovery took almost an hour, and Wilson was surprised that the ship then recovered the remainder of those airborne, the Rhinos and big-wing aircraft. At least the deck had settled down and the wind had subsided.

Valley Forge had lucked out. A busted Hornet and a bunch of jets on the beach was a small price to pay for the decision to fly tonight. And it was a foregone conclusion that the Captain was going to recover what he could after clearing off the deck. The conditions had improved and everyone got aboard with no fodded engines — as far as he knew.

As he watched the Hummer fold its wings and taxi to its parking spot abeam the island, Wilson realized the night’s ordeal was basically over. But for Wilson, it was just beginning.

And everyone’s okay. Nerves may be shot, but everyone has all their fingers and toes, and we’re all breathing. Amazing. Wilson tilted his head back and yawned as he fought the urge to crawl into his rack and forget this night had even happened. This is going to be a long deployment.

The squadron, VFA-64, however, was not okay. Sponge’s plane, 406 was likely down for the cruise, and might never fly again. Sponge Bob was in sick bay for who knew how long, and no one knew what kind of pilot would emerge when he was discharged. Would he bounce back, or would he lose the confidence the squadron had spent the past year building into him?

Word of Wilson’s exchange with the XO was, no doubt, a major topic right now at midnight rations, or midrats. Summarily relieved of CATCC watch. Wilson replayed the image of Saint’s face as he relieved him. His own face, as well as his ears, flushed with blood as he fought to contain the flood of emotions that spread through his whole body — a mixture of rage, humiliation, and fear for Sponge’s life.

Should I have gotten up and left? No , he thought. I did the right thing. Leaving CATCC — with the eyes of all those witnesses on him under the crushing silence of embarrassment — would have been an act of capitulation. It had been bad enough just sitting there. He knew that issue was also being dissected at midrats, and he could imagine the discourse. “Man, if it were me, I would have said, ‘I stand relieved,’ and shoved the book in his gut on the way out.” Wilson slouched low in his chair staring at the gray locker in front of him, lost in his thoughts. Can I get through the next five months?

The door opened and Weed entered. He had just returned from the flight deck where he had accompanied the Maintenance Master Chief and airframe mechanics to assess the damage to 406 . The Air Department had placed it, slumped over as it was on one wing, out of the way on the starboard shelf. Still wearing his float-coat, Weed dropped his cranial on his chair and began to rummage through a drawer.

“Hey, man.”

“Hey,” Wilson replied. “What’s the verdict?”

“Class Alpha mishap, no question. Right motor is toast, right wingtip launcher all but torn off, leading and trailing edge flaps worn down, right wingfold mechanism AFU. Of course, the right main is shot and the nose gear probably stressed, and foam covers the aircraft, including everything inside the cockpit. Nothing a year in the depot can’t fix. And Station 8 is ground down with big divots in the deck. You seen Sponge?”

“Yeah, about 30 minutes ago in sick bay. A different Sponge— pissed like I’ve never seen him. They took him down there and made him remain on his back while they cut away his gear and flight suit. They then pronounced him fit to pee in the bottle and said they are going to keep him overnight.”

“Does he get a shot of medicinal brandy?” Weed said, as he continued digging through the drawer.

“Not sure if Doc goes for that.”

“You mean he’s a gin guy?” Weed found the package of AA batteries. “Well, the boys in the Ranch will hook him up before long.”

“Yeah,” Wilson mumbled, his stare steady on the locker as his thoughts returned to his role as Operations Officer. “All of Sponge’s gear is gone. Do the PRs have enough to outfit him?”

Weed placed the fresh batteries inside his utility flashlight. “I’m sure, between us and brand X, we can throw something together.”

“I want to fly him within 48 hours. Thinking tomorrow we can get the MIR and human factors investigations well underway.”

“Who’s gonna do the human factors board for the XO?”

Wilson shot a glance at Weed, then looked back to the locker.

“You okay, OPSO?”

“Yeah, just need to sulk for another 20 minutes.”

Weed looked at his exhausted and humiliated roommate. He knew what had happened in CATCC and knew Wilson knew that he knew. There were few secrets in the air wing, and a scene like what happened in CATCC tonight flew through the ship. He asked the question anyway to get Wilson to unload. “What happened?”

Wilson pursed his lips and said nothing.

“Just tell me, for crying out loud.”

Wilson opened his mouth but couldn’t vocalize anything. How does an experienced aviator like him, a prideful man like him talk about the disgrace , the shame of being relieved of CATCC watch? Finally, he was able to get it out.

“After Sponge nicked the top loading strap with fumes remaining, I’m thinking, ‘Fuck it! Punch out now — and live! Break the chain.’ I made a recommendation and Saint goes ballistic, adding no value.” Wilson felt like he was whining.