Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Paddles graded it an OK, little right wing down to land— crash ,” Sponge hissed. Wilson did not recognize the junior officer before him. The old Sponge Bob was gone. He needed to get him back.

“That was a night pitching deck barricade,” Wilson continued, “…on fumes, after essentially a day pattern in varsity conditions. Damn impressive flying.”

“The jet’s trashed.”

“Screw the jet,” Wilson responded, with a casual wave. “They’ll send us another one.”

Sponge didn’t answer. Wilson kept his eyes on him and began.

“You’ve now been in this squadron one year. You’ve made the entire workup: Fallon, the Key West det, probably 250 hours of hard-core tactical flying — everything the Navy says a Hornet pilot needs to go on cruise a full-up round. Now we’re on cruise, and in two days, we’re going through Hormuz and will enter the Gulf. Two days after that, you will probably be in an aircraft with green bombs under the wings on your way up to Baghdad.”

Sponge’s eyes remained down.

Wilson continued, “There are Marines and soldiers down there who are going to need us — that are going to need you . You know any Marines in the box these days?”

“My college suitemate… He’s an infantry Marine in Anbar,” Sponge replied.

“Well, you never know, he may need you one day. And it doesn’t matter, really, if it’s him, does it? Whoever calls us in wants fused ordnance on target, and you and I have to deliver it — on target, on time. That’s our job. That’s what we’ve been trained to do. You ready to go up there?”

Wilson saw Sponge’s jaw tighten.

“Sponge, you are a hell of a pilot, and you did good last night. I doubt anyone else on this ship has flown a barricade, much less night pitching deck. When the pressure was on, you came through.”

Sponge looked at Wilson. “I just crashed a jet, my flight gear is literally in tatters, the squadron XO blames me in public and puts me in hack when I refuse to ‘sit down’ for more humiliation. I’ve got to write my statements for the mishap board, the JAG investigation, the human factors board, and who knows what else. Oh, yeah, my girlfriend knows — already, knows it’s me! I just got an e-mail from her. Which one of my air wing buds sent that news home? She’s freakin’ that I didn’t let her know — not that I’ve had a spare minute the past thirteen and a half hours.”

“Should’a married her,” Wilson deadpanned, “and, as a wife, she’d get an official call. And at least a chance at $400 grand in life insurance.”

Sponge shot him a look at first and then sensed the humor. A wan smile crossed his face in response to Wilson’s barb.

“Sponge, you’ll be ready to go soon. We’ll scrounge up some flight gear, hack will end, and you’ll be on the flight schedule before you know it. Take today to do your statements, write to your girlfriend and your family, and blow off some steam with the guys. Guido and them will bring you food. In 48 hours, though, we’re in the Gulf. We’re gonna need your game face.”

Sponge held Wilson’s gaze. “You’ve got it, Flip.”

“Good man.”

“One thing though,” Sponge added.

“Go.”

“I don’t want to fly with the XO again this cruise.”

Wilson listened to his words and thought for a few seconds.

“I mean it. I flew with him a lot on workups; he’s my fighter section lead. He gives a shitty brief, and then he shits on you in the debrief when things go bad — which they often do. Know what we did last night? We were supposed to do 2v2 intercepts with the Bucs . XO calls their Skipper before the brief and bags out with some BS excuse about the weather and my training requirements. So we brief breakup and rendezvous training for me, like I’m back in flight school. We did six of ‘em — him in the lead the whole time and me chewing up my gas. There was no discussion of the weather, the diverts, pitching deck procedures, how many incoming and off-going tankers airborne. Flip, I should be the lead for him . No more. I’m done.”

Leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees, Wilson stroked his chin. “That’s a tall order. I can minimize your time together, but it’s a long cruise. Once we draft it, the CO can still tweak the sked, and you could be paired with Saint.”

“Flip, I need a break from the XO.” Sponge looked almost desperate.

“I’ll keep you apart in the short term — no promises about the entire cruise.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What are you going to do first?”

“Honestly, sleep. Too keyed up last night.”

“Good. We’ll find you some flight gear and bring it down for fit later. Don’t expect to fly tomorrow or the next day, so do the admin stuff you need.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks, Flip.”

“No worries,” Wilson replied as he got up to leave.

“He did what? ” Cajun exploded, both angry and dumbfounded. His eyes narrowed on Wilson.

“Yes, sir, he called it early this morning.” Giving up the XO gave Wilson the perverse pleasure he had wanted all day.

“What did he say?” Cajun asked with disgust, as he got ready to study the flight schedule. With the JOs at dinner up forward and Nicky out of earshot at the duty desk, the ready room was more or less deserted.

“He said we’re entering a combat zone, and we’ve got to be at the top of our game. Need to look good around the ship, brief everything, and fly the brief.” Cajun knew Wilson was telling the truth, but sensed there was more. The fact that Saint had called the APM was transgression enough, but Cajun wanted to know if he had done anything else over the line.

“Flip… everything.”

Wilson drew a breath. “Sir, he said you’ve been kicking his ass about the ‘lackadaisical attitude’ of the ready room. Sleeping till lunch, the video games. He also implied that Sponge gooned the approach, and that’s what led to the foul-deck wave-off and the low-fuel barricade. Sponge got up and bolted out the back with the XO shouting for him to stop. When he didn’t, XO put Sponge in hack. I visited Sponge a few hours ago and he’s pissed — no longer the happy-go-lucky Sponge. Skipper, Sponge flew a night barricade in varsity conditions. The jet’s broke, but he did well.”

Cajun looked away with his jaw clenched. “What happened in CATCC last night?” he asked. Wilson told him. As the CO stared at the bulkhead, his jaw tightened even more.

In his mind, Cajun summed up the results of the past 24 hours. Raven 406 in a heap below with such catastrophic damage she would probably never fly again. One of his nugget pilots banished to his stateroom with who-knows-what damage to his confidence. His Operations Officer and, by extension, VFA-64 publicly humiliated in front of the senior pilots in the Wing. His own authority usurped by the XO. He could hardly comprehend it all. Less than one month into the deployment, and just days before commencing the combat operations they trained all year for, the Ravens were in the shitter as the scuttlebutt topic of Valley Forge, and soon the Atlantic Fleet — once the e-mails started flying, which they surely had. He would visit Sponge, free him, and put him back on the flight schedule. Beginning the process of rehabilitating him as an aviator was all important. Get back on the horse. He would also need to have a “come-to-Jesus” with Saint and visit CAG. But first, he needed to repair the damage to Wilson.

“Flip, I believe you handled the situation in CATCC well,” he said softly. “It takes two years to build a jet, but 25 to place a ‘Sponge’ in a squadron. You made a call, a recommendation , and your logic was sound. I want you to know I’m always confident when you’re in CATCC.” Wilson knew the CO was much too professional to bad-mouth his XO in front of a subordinate, but the message was clear.