Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Yes, sir,” Wilson said meekly, his eyes locked on Saint.

“Very well,” Saint replied, the fire gone from his face as fast as it had appeared. Drawing a deep breath, he then launched into a new subject.

“You are leaving the squadron soon. Why don’t you have orders?”

“I’m still working with the detailer, sir.”

“What does he tell you?” Saint asked, with a hint of a smile.

“Washington, War College, Joint staff duty — the usual career path.” Wilson lowered his defenses a bit.

“The CO tells me you are dragging your heels. What do you want?”

Wilson realized his answer had to be the truth.

“I’d like to stay in the Norfolk area. My family needs a break.”

“Yes, the family. Isn’t it always so… You have four kids?”

“Two, sir.”

“Two. Are they young?”

“They are,” Wilson responded, his defenses going back up. To know the answers to these questions, Saint only needed to take a basic interest in his people.

Saint looked off at the bulkhead in thought. He turned back to Wilson. “Are you going to resign?”

Wilson fought to remain calm. “No, sir.” The answer was technically true, but he had been giving the idea a lot of thought lately.

“Mr. Wilson, despite your many years of service and family sacrifice, the Navy needs fine young black officers like you to stay for a career.”

So there it is, thought Wilson, Saint’s motivation for this talk. Officer retention figures, especially minority officer retention figures, drew great scrutiny in Washington. Wilson saw right through it… Saint doesn’t care about me as a person. I am just one of his statistics. Can’t have a minority officer resign under his watch .

“XO, does the Navy want me, an officer who happens to be black, to command a squadron, or an air wing… or a ship?”

Saint hesitated for a second and looked down, then recovered. “Yes, of course, but you won’t get there if you continue to underperform or if you fail to meet established squadron goals. You can’t do that to get to the next level. In addition, you must obtain every possible qualification. There are lots of officers with records like yours who didn’t screen for command last year. You can’t just coast along, depending on…”

“On what, sir?” Wilson asked, feigning ignorance.

Saint knew he was losing control. “To screen these days you have to go the extra yard.”

“XO, I have every qualification available to me in this squadron — from functional check flight pilot to Strike Fighter Tactics Instructor. In fact, I have more qualifications than you and the CO, sir. There’s no syllabus training hop I can’t instruct, much less fly. What further qualifications do I lack?”

“We’ve established that your ground job performance needs significant improvement, that you are not meeting squadron goals.” Saint was beginning to lose his temper.

“Yes, sir, I’ve not met the personal goal you set for the squadron, and I’ll address that by encouraging my sailors to contribute something. I will do everything short of compelling them to contribute to the Navy Relief Society. Will do, sir. But I would still like to know…. Is there a Navy-wide performance standard I’m not meeting? One that directly affects the combat readiness of this deployed strike fighter squadron?”

“Mr. Wilson, I will remind you to watch your tone.”

“A little too uppity, sir?”

“Dammit, Wilson!” Saint thundered, as he rose to his feet. “Get the hell out!”

Wilson, also enraged, sprang to his feet and took a step toward the senior pilot, who flinched ever so slightly. “XO, I’m a naval officer and Hornet pilot who happens to be black. Nobody gave my wings to me. I earned them myself. The airplane does not care who’s flying it, male, female, black or white. The Navy does not need quotas. It needs warriors to stay for command, and I am a warrior. If I do resign, this meeting will feature prominently in my letter.”

“DISMISSED!” Saint roared back, inches from Wilson’s nose. Wilson stepped to the door, and as he passed through, Saint added, “And take that chip on your shoulder with you!”

Wilson closed the door with a firm grip. When he turned to head forward, he met the eyes of the Spartan’s XO who had opened his door half expecting to break up a fight. Trembling with anger, Wilson passed Dutch without acknowledging he was there. “Hey, Flip,” said Dutch and stopped to watch his department head bound forward. Finally, Wilson realized someone had addressed him. He stopped and turned to see a bewildered Dutch about five frames back. He then saw Saint appear from his athwartship passageway. Their eyes met, and Wilson spun for his stateroom. Dutch looked at Wilson and then at his XO. What just happened? he wondered.

Wilson burst into his stateroom to find Weed typing on a laptop. “Kimo sabe,” Weed greeted him, without taking his eyes off the screen. When Wilson answered only by yanking open a drawer, Weed knew something was wrong. “What happened?”

Wilson unzipped his flight suit and worked open the laces of his boots. “Oh, just a come-around with the XO. Seems my department’s Navy Relief numbers are short of the squadron goal.”

“Bummer. Should we call a stand-down to address the problem?”

“Yes, we should,” Wilson answered. “Your department is only at 77 percent, but the OPS department is making you look good. We’re last at 50. Admin is at 100 and the one-person Safety Department is also at 100. We’re both on his shit list, but at least you aren’t last.” Wilson slipped out of his flight suit and put on his black gym shorts.

“Thanks for the heads up and for making me look good. What else?”

Wilson bent over to tie one of his sneakers. “Well, we then had a counseling session. Seems the Navy needs black officers to stay, which it does. What I got from Saint, though, was that he doesn’t particularly care for black commanding officers, but he wants me to ‘please stay’ for the retention numbers.” Wilson pulled the laces tight.

Weed looked at Wilson as he worked the other shoe. “I may have overstepped,” Wilson added.

“Whad’ya mean? He throw you out of the room?”

“Yes.”

“Oh…”

“I will not be placed in a box!” Wilson continued, still furious. “I’m a Navy fighter pilot. I am not a black Navy fighter pilot. I’ve only had to deal with two guys in my whole career who judged me for my color. You know, one guy in flight school, and now the XO.”

“Master Chief Morgan?” Weed added.

“Oh, yeah, okay. Three guys in 13 years.”

“Not a bad track record.”

“Concur! The Navy’s been great to me every step of the way, and I’ve had it a lot easier than my dad did in his day, with the race riots and everything else. At least here you get promoted on merit. You work hard, play by the rules, and compete. I love that.”

“Why don’t more African Americans come through the front door?”

“ Hell if I know! I’m tellin’ ‘em all the time! I go to friggin’ Norfolk State, family gatherings. I’m spreadin’ the word, tellin’ the homeboys they got nothin’ on my posse. Brothers are joining and they have bright futures, but not many go air.”

“Why’re you so fuckin’ pissed off?”

Wilson stopped and looked at Weed, who was giving him a wry smile. Weed is right. I am furious — but why? Wilson already knew, everyone knew, the XO was an arrogant bastard… and he had still let him get under his skin, especially with the “chip on your shoulder” crack. Was he angry that Saint treated him like a number, a quota, instead of a key member of the squadron, even a person? Did that surprise him? Was he angry that it did? Was he angry with the Navy and the sacrifices it demanded of Mary? He looked forward to his run so he could think.