Kevin Miller - Raven One

When he scanned the photos in this issue, he found the photo of an Army major. Age 35. His own age. He wondered if the major had a family at home. Chances are he did.

The photo next to the major was of a young man in his early 20s. Clean shaven and wearing cammies, he had big, dark eyes, a full mouth and a square jawline. Just under the cap Wilson could make out bushy eyebrows. Something caused Wilson to dwell on this soldier. He looked at the name: Spec. Donnie Anderson.

He studied the photo again. Anderson. Anderson. Andy, let’s go! Was Andy short for Anderson? Was this “Bowser” from Balad Ruz? He stared at the photo of the fallen soldier. No unit, no hometown. Specialist? What the hell is that? Are JTACs Specialists? Balad Ruz was three weeks ago — would the Times publish a photo so soon, even if he lost his life the day after we worked with him?

Driven by the need to know, Wilson got up and logged on to the classified computer at the back of the ready room. He would contact the Air Wing rep on the CAOC staff in Doha, a naval flight officer on temporary duty from the Spartans .

Subject: JTAC track down

Hey, Biscuit, Flip.

I was working with a JTAC around Balad Ruz on New Year’s Eve; his call sign is “Bowser.” We were Nail 41 flight that day. Don’t know what unit he’s with but he did a good job and other guys in the wing have talked about him. Said he’s from Hardeeville, South Carolina. He may have rotated home but I want to send him an attaboy through his CO. Can you ask the JTAC guys there to track him down; name, unit and contact info? Thanks man.

It’s dark out here, you aren’t missing anything. They have cold beer where you’re at?

Thanks again,

Flip

He hit send and went back to his seat to watch the recovery. An hour later, after the uneventful recoveries of his squadronmates, he returned to the computer to check for an answer from Biscuit. One was waiting for him.

Subject: RE: JTAC track down

Flip, we tracked him down but bad news. “Bowser” was hit and killed two days after your hop with him. He entered a booby-trapped house in Balad Ruz after some of his buddies were hit inside. The hajis waited for rescuers to enter before they set off the bigger charge.

Apparently “Bowser” was the first to go to their aid. The house collapsed and he was killed. The only one though… another guy lost a foot.

His name was Spec. Donnie Anderson and he was from Hardeeville, SC. He was 20. He was a good JTAC; had a great mission effectiveness record.

Sorry, Flip,

Biscuit

Wilson felt his body going numb as he stared at the screen. Bowser —Specialist Anderson — was 20 years old, just days from going home to watch the playoffs. He was so excited to be going home to watch football “live,” as well as to leave that hellhole town. Wilson thought of Bowser’s photo in Navy Times : the square jaw, the distinctive features. Such a good-looking guy. Did he have a wife or girlfriend? Did he ever get to experience the love of a woman? he wondered. Whatever he experienced, his life was too short. Wilson’s throat tightened, and he swallowed hard.

That night in his rack Wilson’s mind drifted back to Bowser in Balad Ruz. Just a kid. Twenty! Though they had never met, fate had brought them together at a moment in time to fight a common enemy. Wilson wondered, Why am I alive and why is Bowser dead? Why is any of that fair? So young, so much to live for…

In the darkness, he was surprised by a tear that escaped his left eye and dampened the pillow.

“Flip, XO wants to see you in his stateroom.”

Wilson looked up at Olive. She waited behind the duty desk, her face as expressionless as usual, for his acknowledgement. “Thanks. Did he say what it’s about?” Wilson asked.

“No, sir.”

Wilson placed the message board on his chair and walked to the sink with his coffee cup. He gave it a quick rinse it and hung it on the wooden peg above the sink that said “OPSO.” In place, the cup blended in with all the others emblazoned with Raven logos and individual call signs.

Stepping out of the ready room and into the starboard passageway, he strode toward the XO’s stateroom up forward. He made his way, as if on autopilot, past the knee-knockers and through the sailors inspecting damage control gear, his mind trying to figure out what the XO wanted. Halfway there he realized it was pointless.

Commander Patrick’s stateroom was aft of the Cat 1 jet blast deflector on the starboard side. Next to him was the stateroom of the Spartan’s XO. Commanders bunked alone in individual staterooms on the O-3 level, but Wilson disliked this part of the ship. The XOs lived on a very public passageway and right under the deafening catapult. During launch operations, conversation in the staterooms was impossible. Quiet is a relative term on a carrier, of course, but he liked his O-2 level quarters. He would certainly miss them if he stayed in and was promoted to squadron command.

Unlike other squadron stateroom doors, the XO’s door was bare — except for a placard that read KNOCK TWICE THEN ENTER. Wilson rapped twice, paused, and opened the door. He stepped inside and said, “Yes, sir.”

Saint sat sideways at his desk, scribbling in an open notebook on his lap. He wore his usual khaki uniform with full ribbons, the only officer aboard to do so. Without looking up, he motioned to the couch and said, “Mister Wilson, good morning. Please have a seat.” Wilson did as he was told and took a place in the middle of the couch with both feet on the floor, hands folded.

Saint pored over the notebook and said nothing, his familiar and unnerving tactic. Wilson looked around the room for anything new, any window into the soul of his executive officer. The room was not only immaculate, but devoid of personal effects, as if he had just moved in yesterday. The television displayed the Ship’s Inertial Navigation System (SINS) screen, a series of numbers showing the ship’s position, course and speed. His desk held nothing but a plain coffee cup that stored pens and pencils. On a hook near the sink hung the XO’s blue bathrobe, emblazoned with a gold naval academy crest. The robe was the only item of sentiment Wilson could find.

“Mister Wilson, I’m looking at the Navy Relief Society contributions by department. The Administrative and Safety Departments are at 100 percent, Maintenance is 77 percent, and the Operations Department is 50 percent. The squadron goal I set last fall was 100 percent for all departments. Do you recall my discussion on this at an AOM?” The XO’s voice was calm and measured.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why is the Operations Department so deficient in meeting this squadron goal?” For the first time Saint lifted his eyes to look directly at Wilson. He waited for an answer.

Wilson kept his eyes on his executive officer. “Sir, may I ask who has not contributed yet?” He regretted adding the word yet .

“Certainly, and I like your modifier ‘yet.’ Let’s see… Airman Ayala and Petty Officer First Class Johnson. Your other two sailors made modest contributions.”

He once again waited for Wilson to answer.

“I have no excuses, sir. I will ask Ayala and YN1 Johnson about it.”

“Very well… I look forward to your answer after lunch.” Saint made a mark on the notebook spreadsheet.

“Sir, Ayala is on night check and doesn’t report ‘til 1830. I’ll…”

Saint jerked his head up, eyes wide under his thin eyebrows. With his mouth slightly open, he held Wilson’s gaze for several seconds. “I look forward … to your answer after lunch,” he responded with a cold stare, struggling to keep his fury in check.