Kevin Miller - Raven One

Wilson slid into the hotel pool with Dutch and Nttty. They had all gone shopping that morning for polo shirts and CDs and now had a plan to relax in the company of friends. They headed toward the swim-up bar, ordered a Fosters and surveyed the scene. Several groups of air wing officers were lounging about, some playing full contact water basketball. The first wave of Ravens was back in the fight.

Wilson sipped on his beer at the shaded bar, truly enjoying the warm water that covered him from the waist down. He was seated next to two Buccaneer department heads, Gramps, their maintenance officer, and Rip, the administrative officer. The Filipino bartender eyed Wilson warily, but he ignored it.

“Wonder what the poor people are doing today,” Gramps thought out loud as the three lieutenant commanders surveyed the pool scene. Nttty had made his way to the other side of the pool to make friends with two bikini-clad flight attendants, while Dutch hung on the edge in an effort to be noticed by them.

“They have the duty bak sheep ,” Rip answered as he pulled on his beer.

Wilson had gotten used to the fact that when he was surrounded by pilots, the conversation always came back to flying. He hardly noticed that, even in this resort setting where they wanted to decompress from shipboard life, they couldn’t help talking about it.

“Been anyplace interesting lately?” Rip asked Wilson.

“Lots of stuff in Diyala and Salman Pak. Haven’t been to Mosul yet. How about you?”

“Had an interesting hop in Al-Amarrah the other night. We were working with a Shadow UAV along the river and found some guys planting an IED on the road north of town. The JTAC talked us on the target and we each dropped a LGB. We were watching them dig on our FLIRs… oblivious… diggin’ all the way till impact.” Rip shook his head in wonder. “Can’t believe they didn’t hear us.”

“I had a hilarious hop up around Mosul last week.” Gramps added, while looking at Wilson. “It involved your XO.”

“Oh, great!” Wilson exhaled in mock embarrassment. He looked forward to hearing the story, but he still cringed at the thought.

Keeping his voice low, the Buccaneer pilot began. “Me and Dog checked in with War Eagle , a JTAC we worked with a few weeks ago who was really good, so I was looking forward to workin’ with him again. We switched up the freq’ and I hear War Eagle talkin’ with Saint.

“‘ Shotgun flight, acknowledge nine-line.’

“‘Can you clarify the target?’ Saint asks.

“ War Eagle gives him the lat/long and says, ‘Target is open field west of the hamlet.’

“Saint says, ‘Still not clear on the target. All I see is a field.’

“ War Eagle wants a bomb to go off on the field because his colonel is telling the hajis that, as colonel, he can make one go boom on command. War Eagle imagines the Army colonel looking over his shoulder as he talks with the locals. ‘Now, I will summon fire from the heavens … uh, Sergeant, bomb… now!’

“Saint repeats, ‘There is nothing in the field.’

“ War Eagle says, ‘I need a bomb in the field NOW.’

“‘Where in the field? What quadrant?’

“ War Eagle is cool, and says, ‘Anywhere in the field you want. Go ahead. Just need a bomb in the field ASAP. You’re cleared hot. Come on in.’

“Saint, still pressing, asks, ‘What’s in the field? Troops in the open?’

“ War Eagle grabs the lifeline Saint has offered and says, ‘Yes, sir, troops in the open. Yeah, we’re in contact with a whole division of al-Qaeda. Cleared hot.’

“‘I don’t see any troops on my FLIR,’ Saint counters.

“ War Eagle , his ass now gettin’ ripped by his colonel, says, ‘ Shotgun , do you have the field west of the village, south of the tree line bordered by a north/south road to the west?’

“‘Affirm,’ Saint says.

“‘Roger, Shotgun , bomb that field with any weapon in any delivery. You are cleared hot.’

“I mean, I take a look at Dog on my wing and he’s got his mask off he’s cracking up so bad. I’ve never seen him laugh that hard.” Gramps was on a roll.

“‘Roger, War Eagle … What crop is in the field?’

“And War Eagle loses it! ‘SIR — just bomb the fuckin’ field! NOW!’”

Gramps realized his voice was carrying too far and too loud. He looked around him with a half-apology on his face as he reduced his howls to a snicker. Rip tried to suppress his laughter, but failed miserably, Wilson noticed the bartender looked at them with a disapproving frown. What’s his problem? he thought. Or is it just me?

“Saint is upset and says, ‘Hey, soldier, watch the language on the radio. Do you know who this is?’

“ War Eagle swallows it and says, ‘Sorry, sir, it’s a soybean field.’

“There’s a pause, and then this gruff voice comes on and says, ‘ Shotgun flight, this is Colonel Johnson of the 2nd battalion, 16th Infantry, 1 stDivision’ … I dunno … Royal Armored Fusiliers , whatever. ‘If you fast movers can put a weapon on the field we’ve requested, do it!’

“‘Roger, sir,’ says Saint.

“‘ Much obliged ,’ the colonel responds, his voice dripping with sarcasm.”

Rip was wracked by convulsive laughter, and his eyes were glassy slits. Wilson had to grab him to keep him from falling off his stool. Wilson had gamely smiled through the embarrassment his XO had caused the squadron, but, for the most part, he just looked down and shook his head.

Rip was still laughing. “Was he a radio colonel or full bird?”

“He sounded like the real deal to me — he sounded like fuckin’ Patton!” Gramps’ answer elicited another roar from Rip.

“There’s one thing I want to know. Did he ever hit the field?” Wilson asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Gramps said, as he finished the story. “He drops a LGB right in the middle of the field.”

“ War Eagle says, ‘Good hit, sir.’

“‘Roger, bomb impact assessment please?’ Saint asks, and War Eagle tells him 100 over 100, anything to get him out of there!”

“How do you paint a soybean field on the side of a jet?” Rip asked, with a chuckle. He was rewarded with a guffaw from Gramps.

Wilson groaned and looked across the pool. The flight attendants were now surrounded by a gaggle of Raven pilots who had tired of “basketball.” He was grateful Gramps hadn’t told the story with the JOs around, but by now, no doubt, the details of this flight had made it to the bunkroom. He made a mental note to find out who the wingman was for the flight when he got back to the ship.

“Your boys bagged a few over there,” Gramps said as he looked at the girls across the pool.

Wilson nodded. “In the process. Looks like it will be another big night at the Highlander.”

One week later, Wilson returned from a night hop, deposited his flight gear in the paraloft, and plopped down in his ready room seat to watch the PLAT recovery of the last event. The CO was flying with Blade on an intercept hop against the Spartans , and Weed was out doing a night sea surface search around the strike group. Guido was at the duty desk watching “The Office” on the ship’s closed-circuit TV.

A copy of Navy Times was on the skipper’s footstool. Wilson picked it up and thumbed through the pages: articles about pay raises, new uniform standards, the usual stuff. He then came across a familiar section highlighted with photos of American personnel who had lost their lives in recent weeks in Iraq and Afghanistan. Most of the time the photos were formal poses, but he often found a boot camp photo of a 19-year-old Marine in dress uniform or a candid shot of a soldier. On occasion he came across a photo of a young woman, a girl really, or a senior officer. They were almost always young — too young.