Kevin Miller - Raven One

“I’da done the same.” Weed said.

“Well, better not, or you’ll be relieved, too.”

“Saint isn’t qualified to carry your helmet bag.”

Both pilots knew about Saint Patrick’s carrier bona fides. As a junior officer, he had made one deployment, and, as a department head, was in a squadron that had a long turnaround between deployments. Saint had rotated out before they went across the pond.

Weed shook his head and resumed, “Three hundred and ten career traps. Smoke has more than that. And XO has never been CATCC watch on cruise in his life, not even this cruise. Hey, why don’t you schedule him for one?”

Wilson allowed a faint smile. “Because I care about you guys.”

Unfazed, Weed continued. “Saint knows paperwork though! That’s the way to command. Admiral’s aide, staff weenie, War College, Pentagon Joint Staff. Punch tickets and visit a cockpit once in a while, a long while. Having the right last name helps, too.”

Wilson appreciated the comments of his indignant roommate. If he wouldn’t — or couldn’t — unburden himself, Weed would do it for him.

“And then a middle-management job as XO/CO… Let’s send Saint to the Ravens. They are due to be brutalized. I mean, how much damage can one incompetent commander do in one tour?”

“ The horror, the horror. ”

“Yep. Where do we get such men indeed?” Weed got up and clapped his hands to end the bull session. “Been to the ready room?”

“Uhhmm… to help Prince with the initial mishap report. XO made the call to Norfolk.”

“C’mon, man. Let’s go to the ready room and help Dutch write up the follow-on message. Then we can go to midrats and get a slider.”

Wilson lifted himself up in the chair and exhaled. “Those things can kill you, ya know.”

“Yep, but since we are surrounded by machinery, tons of ordnance and jet fuel below us, teenagers everywhere, homicidal maniac XOs, the raging sea outside and hostile countries over the horizon, I’ll take my chances. And I’ll have mine with cheese.”

“You forgot the nuclear water we drink.”

“Which makes great bug juice and mixes well with scotch… or so I’m told.”

Riiinnnngggg.

Wilson jerked his head up from the pillow and stumbled toward the phone. He glanced at the LED digits of his clock: 7:12 . He had been asleep five hours. Light from the passageway filtered into the stateroom from under the door and through a grate on the bulkhead.

He cleared his throat and picked up the receiver. “Lieutenant Commander Wilson, sir.”

“Flip, Nicky at the duty desk… XO just called an APM.”

Wilson stood motionless as he let the message sink in. An APM? Called by the XO?

“Flip,” Nicky continued, “it’s for zero-seven-thirty.”

Wilson exhaled. “Roger, we’re on our way,” he said and hung up the phone. “Get up… APM,” he said to his roommate in a frustrated undertone.

Weed groaned into his pillow, but he began to stir. “What the fuck?”

“XO called an APM. Fifteen minutes.”

The Maintenance Officer tossed his covers off and rolled his body over the bunk. He braced himself with one foot on the frame of the lower bunk and eased to the floor in one familiar motion. Wilson turned on the water and filled the sink to shave.

“Any idea what this is about?” Weed asked.

“No… and the CO’s not here. Not good.”

“When are they coming back?” Weed asked as he put on a fresh, black squadron t-shirt.

“Around 1500,” Wilson said as he lathered. “Just one recovery today for the Thumrait birds. Then a RAS.”

“So, with Cajun gone, the XO can play Skipper for a day.” Weed pulled on his flight suit.

“Yep… not good.”

At a hurried pace, the two pilots finished dressing, laced their boots and brushed their teeth. Wilson quickly checked his e-mail and saw a note from Mary. It would have to wait.

With only five minutes to go before the meeting, they headed toward the ready room. Most of that time was spent navigating 700 feet of ladders, passageways, hatches, and knee-knockers. They ascended a ladder in quick steps, pulling themselves up with their arms. At the top, they swung their legs into the passageway and darted left, crouching low under the Cat 2 track, and then onto the portside O-3 level “main drag” passageway.

Wilson acknowledged passing sailors with a nod and reflexively lifted his boots high over the knee-knockers. He was lost in his thoughts, and his thoughts were gloomy. Why is the XO calling an APM? And why now , rousting everyone with only 20 minutes notice?

Aviators, who were night owls by nature, ignored reveille and rarely went to breakfast. Their days were, therefore, skewed between a midmorning wake-up to a bedtime where they hit the rack long after midnight. These 16- to 17-hour days included one hop, maybe two (with hours of briefs and debriefs), all manner of meetings, assigned duties, and myriad admin functions relating to the pilot’s “ground job.” For Wilson, this meant a late night every night as he and Nttty, the Schedules Officer, wrote and refined the flight schedule for the following day. Although they could also find time for movies, exercise, video games, and e-mail home, everyone was always at and available for “work.”

Wilson continued aft as the ship swayed back and forth on the swells. It was rare for an XO to call an All Pilots Meeting. The overall squadron leadership of pilots and flight policy was the unquestioned province of the Skipper, while the XO was charged with admin duties relating to personnel and work spaces. Depending on his message, what Saint is doing — with the CO off the ship and after the night the squadron just experienced — could be insubordinate. And, with the hours we keep, such short notice certainly shows contempt toward us , he thought.

Wilson recalled the first time he had met Saint, last year at the O-Club while Saint was still in refresher training. Cajun had introduced them. Without making eye contact with Wilson, Saint had given him a tight-lipped, perfunctory nod and a quick handshake. Saint then took a sip of beer and turned his attention back to Cajun. Wilson received the message loud and clear: You are an underling, nothing more. Since that meeting, Wilson had found that Saint’s ignoring him had not been personal. Commander Patrick treated the whole squadron that way.

Weed and Wilson got to the ready room with three minutes to spare. Wilson was surprised to hear music blaring from the stereo. The bleary-eyed JOs were either seated or getting a cup of coffee, and all but Nicky were in flight suits. Bubbly Psycho bebopped between the chairs, mouthing the words to the song: “Shake it like a po-la-roid pic-cha.”

Wilson poured a cup and strode up the aisle to his chair in the front row. “Anything from the beach?” he asked Nicky.

“No, sir, but both jets reported safe-on-deck last night.”

Wilson glanced at the status board; LASSITER and TEEL were the only Raven sorties listed, their mission a fly-on at 1500.

As the 1MC sounded the first of seven bells signifying 0730, the XO walked in. He entered from the front door that connected to Maintenance Control. Dressed in his khaki uniform with full ribbons, he placed his notebook inside his footstool and turned to Nicky. “Turn that shit off. What if CAG comes in?”

“Yes, sir!” Nicky wheeled in his chair to comply. As the ready room became quiet, the remaining pilots started to move to their seats. Wilson spotted Sponge Bob as he entered from the back door and took the seat nearest to the door. It was obvious he did not want to call attention to himself. He was also dressed in khakis and stoically acknowledged the nods and smiles many of his squadronmates sent his way.