Kevin Miller - Raven One

Saint looked at Wilson and bulged his eyes to convey his impatience to start. Wilson turned to the group and said, “Okay guys, attention to APM. Take your seats.” Wilson took stock of the room as he returned to his own seat. Satisfied, he faced forward, but sensed the XO was looking at him.

Wilson met his eyes, and Saint asked, “Do you have anything to pass on the schedule?”

“No, sir.”

Saint exhaled in apparent disgust and took the floor. He stood directly on top of the Raven emblem embedded in the deck tile, an act that violated an unwritten squadron rule.

“All right… I’ve called you here because we had a mishap last night, preventable like most mishaps are. I realize the CO is off the ship, but we have to talk about this now, while it’s fresh in our minds. We may not get another opportunity before transiting Hormuz. People, we are America’s first team right now. Next week we will be in combat over Iraq, and, in my view, it is likely we’ll be involved in combat with Iran at some time during this deployment. Pakistan is also heating up, as is Afghanistan — which we will probably see at some point during the cruise. We have got to be prepared for any contingency, and we must know the procedures for any tasking in the CENTCOM Area of Responsibility.”

Combat with Iran? Wilson thought and dismissed the XO’s dramatics.

All eyes were on Saint as he continued. “Last night VFA-64 lost a significant portion of the combat power we took with us from Norfolk, provided and entrusted to us by the taxpayers. Four-oh-six is a class Alpha mishap that may never fly again, but it was not shot down and it delivered nothing against the enemies of freedom. Right now, it just clutters up Hangar Bay 3, and it will become a daily reminder to CAG that the Ravens weren’t ready when it counted.”

Wilson could feel the tension building. He stole quick glance at Weed, who sat with his hands folded, his eyes focused on something on the tile floor.

“We had a full workup with which to train and to be on the step when we enter a combat situation. We cannot and will not regress now. Basics, people… from launch to recovery, they have got to become second nature, and they must be executed without flaw .”

The front door of the ready room burst open, and Gunner Humphries emerged from Maintenance Control wearing a float-coat, his cranial perched atop his head. Gunner froze as he realized he was interrupting an APM. For a second, no one moved, and Saint glared at him from a few feet away. Embarrassed and caught off guard — but sensing the tension in the room, Gunner, the squadron joker, blurted out a salty verse learned from his younger days:

As the room exploded into laughter, Gunner turned on his heels and exited the way he had entered. The deep, stress-releasing howling was welcome by everyone — except the XO.

“SILENCE!” he bellowed, now incensed.

The room went silent at once. The tension returned as fast as it had disappeared.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Saint began. He snapped his fingers at Nicky to place the Do-Not-Disturb sign on the door. “We can’t even get the room secure for a meeting!” His face was flushed with fury.

“Here it is, people. The Skipper is kicking my ass because of the lackadaisical attitude of this ready room. Sleeping all morning. Playing video games all night. Complacency in the brief. Bolters, like we had last night. Poor interval and not maintaining proper airspeed on the approach. Your job is to land the airplane safely, not to slam it into the deck. And when you get a wave-off, you do it now!”

With that, Sponge got up and exited through the back door. Saint shouted, “Sit down, Lieutenant!” but Sponge ignored him. The XO, seething, turned to Wilson.

“Mister Wilson, Lieutenant Jasper is in hack until further notice.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Wilson replied, eyes downcast.

“In his khakis and out of his rack.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Saint surveyed the room to assess the mood. The pilots were tight lipped and sullen. Few looked at him.

“This is nothing, people. We are in a dangerous business, and the slightest inattention to detail can be fatal. Our job is to execute the plan given to us by the admiral’s staff and by CAG. We do not question their actions.”

Wilson realized it was now his turn.

“When a decision is made by a senior officer responsible for any evolution, you do not question it. When we are airborne, the ship owns us. And when they need the advice of a squadron rep, they will ask.”

The pilots sat still, taking it, but they could not wait to leave. Wilson felt the eyes of the JOs, his JOs, watching him. He did not bolt out like Sponge, but he mentally condemned himself. Company man, that’s me .

“The CO is disappointed with our performance so far. My job is to ensure that the CO looks good and that VFA-64 is ready in every respect. So, let’s turn it around, now . Any questions?”

The room was silent. Nobody believed Cajun had chartered the XO to fix the ready room, much less confide in him. Nevertheless, Saint looked at every pilot to ensure his message was received.

“Good. Dismissed.”

The JOs got up and headed for the back door. Wilson wanted to follow them, but he knew he would not get the chance.

“Mister Wilson,” Saint motioned him over.

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand the pressure you must have been under in CATCC last night — with a low-state nugget pilot in the pattern. Commander Johnson spoke to me and said you did a good job working the situation. Receiving praise from an officer of his caliber is commendable, and mitigates the momentary lapse in judgment regarding your call to have him eject alongside. We’ll just call this a learning point in your department head training. As far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed.” To Wilson, Saint looked more compassionate and understanding than he had ever seen him.

“Yes, sir.”

“What happened last night is between us. No need for the CO to know.”

Between us and the entire air wing, Wilson thought. “Yes, sir,” he replied as he fought to keep emotion from his face. Wilson kept his eyes on the XO, but he sensed Nicky listening over Saint’s shoulder.

“That is all,” Saint said as he turned to his chair.

A few minutes later, Wilson was forward on the O-2 level. He knocked on the door of the JO’s bunkroom.

“Enter,” answered a voice. Wilson recognized it as Guido’s.

Wilson entered the six-man bunkroom. The furnishings consisted of three top and bottom metal racks behind blue curtains, six metal built-in desks, and sets of drawers along each bulkhead. Everything was painted gray. Two sinks and mirrors occupied the other bulkhead, and towels and robes hung on hooks nearby. Fluorescent desk lamps from two open desks provided some subdued lighting. A small TV was rigged in a corner of the overhead for viewing in what passed as the common area, a space little more than 8 by 8 feet. Guido and Sponge were seated, Sponge at his desk with his jaw set.

“Hey, Flip,” Guido said. Sponge remained motionless.

“ Guido ,” Wilson replied, and then added in a low tone, “How about taking a walk topside?”

“Yes, sir,” Guido replied, grabbed a pair of sunglasses from his desk, and exited the stateroom.

Sponge did not move as Wilson pulled up a chair. Sponge kept his eyes forward.

“I’ve never met anyone that flew a barricade pass,” Wilson began.