Kevin Miller - Raven One

Before going to lunch, Wilson opened the rear door of the ready room. His eyes immediately focused on the back of the XO’s head in his front-row seat. The room was quiet now as most of the pilots were at lunch up forward. The squadron colors were blue and black, and each chair had a blue cover with black trim. The design depicted the squadron emblem — a black raven silhouette, wings outstretched as if swooping in for the kill. The image was simple, yet menacing, and a familiar tradition in carrier aviation over four major wars. Behind their backs, however, many in Carrier Air Wing Four and the fleet sarcastically referred to VFA-64 as the Crows .

Here it comes, Wilson thought. He grabbed a cup of water and made his way between the two groups of high-backed leather chairs to his own front-row seat.

“Hey, Olive,” he said to the duty officer. Lieutenant Kristen “Olive” Teel wore khakis and sat at the duty officer console. Behind her was a status board with the day’s flight schedule, each pilot’s name written in grease pencil in bold capital letters.

Olive was nearly six feet tall, her slender body bordering on anorexia. The combination of her close-set eyes and long, dark hair pulled back into a tight bun made her a dead ringer for Popeye’s girlfriend Olive Oyl, but without the squeaky voice. A no-nonsense woman of few words and fewer emotions, she participated on the periphery of any ready room hijinks only when avoiding it would call attention to herself. “Morning, sir,” she replied to her department head, as she kept her eyes down and made a notation on the status board.

Wilson sat down in his chair in the front row, next to the Skipper’s. He checked for something in the large drawer under his chair. He then sat back with his legs outstretched, took a breath, and waited. His wait lasted only a few seconds.

“Mister Wilson, I see you’ve not initialed the message board today,” Saint said from across the aisle. He did not bother to look up.

“No, sir.”

“An oversight?”

“No, sir. Haven’t read them yet,” Wilson said. He stood up and took a few steps, eyes locked on his XO.

Still looking down, Saint continued. “Do you know Strike-Fight Wing took all of our 2,000-pound practice bombs for noncombat expenditure and gave them to Air Wing Eight?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s right here,” Saint replied, lifting the message board a few inches toward Wilson. Wilson noticed that a gaggle of JOs had arrived. Oh, great! Wilson thought. The XO continued with his quiz.

“Why did you not know? Actually, the more important question is, why did they take them?”

“The Wing did not contact me, sir. I’ll e-mail them and find out.” The JOs had stopped next to Wilson. Aware that he was in a serious exchange with his XO, they didn’t dare interrupt. Saint noticed them, too… and liked having an audience.

“You’re the OPSO of this squadron — for the next several months — and you’re supposed to know these things before they happen. Had you reviewed this message board first thing this morning instead of rolling in here at 1030, you would have known about this before I did. You would have also had the chance to call the Wing and leave a message to find out what the fuck. And you could have had them e-mail you back to give the CO a full report. There could have been an answer in your mailbox right now .” For the first time, he raised his eyes to stare at Wilson. He couldn’t have planned the moment for greater effect.

The JOs kept their eyes downcast, embarrassed to be part of the public dressing down of a senior officer and too discomfited to leave. From her perch on the SDO desk, Olive feigned inattention, but she was listening. Wilson’s countenance remained rock steady.

“No excuse, sir. I’ll find out.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson. That will be all.” Saint returned his attention to the message board, oblivious to the fact that the East Coast would not arrive at work to respond to Wilson’s query for several hours.

“Yes, sir.” Wilson responded. He managed to maintain control and repress his rage as he took his seat. Company man, he thought, scolding himself as he felt the JOs’ eyes on him.

An hour later, Wilson’s roommate, Lieutenant Commander Mike “Weed” Hopper, entered their stateroom. He found Wilson at the computer in PT gear. Weed took the measure of his roommate.

“Hey, man.”

“Hmm,” Wilson grunted without turning his head.

Weed clicked the light on above his desk. “Olive told me what happened.”

“Hmm.”

Hopper was the squadron Maintenance Officer, one place below Wilson in the Raven pecking order. Tall, with red hair, he possessed a big smile that matched his sense of humor. The Ravens were fortunate that these two department heads were friends, as they both had to work together to make the squadron flight schedule work.

“Five more months, my friend,” Weed said with frown.

“Roger that,” Wilson replied, and then added, “I can stand on my head for five months.”

“He grabbed me earlier, too. Said there were too many boot marks on four-oh-two and the troops needed to be more careful. Imagine that— too many boot marks on a deployed fleet Hornet .”

“Where is the skipper?” Wilson asked.

“He went to the wardroom with some JOs. C’mon man, let’s do the same.”

Wilson donned his flight suit and began to lace his boots. Five more months . He took stock of his situation. One thousand miles north kids were getting their legs blown off with IEDs on a daily basis. And that didn’t even take into account the misery of living day-to-day in the 110-degree talcum-sand hell of Anbar Province… for a full year.

Compared to that, putting up with humiliation from known prick “Saint Patrick” is a small sacrifice. The bigger one is being away from Mary and the kids. Combat flying over Iraq would be a relief, and short of that, the routine flight schedule offered an almost daily respite from the XO. Wilson knew if he wanted to be a squadron CO, he would have to take it. All he had to do was take it for the remainder of this cruise. The question was whether or not his pride and vanity would let him.

Maybe I don’t want it, he thought as he pulled tight on the laces.

In her stateroom that evening, Olive wound down from a long day at the duty desk. She forced herself to e-mail her mother a birthday greeting full of the emoticon hearts and flowers her mother loved. The head cheerleader at Vanderbilt in the late 1970’s, her mother was a Knoxville socialite, still stunning at age fifty. The hair, the teeth, the heels — Camille Bennett had it all. She also attended every important community event. Junior League. Democratic Party fundraisers. Garden Club tea parties. With one son in Vanderbilt medical school, and the other as Sigma Nu president at Ole Miss, no one could match her.

Olive’s mother left her father, Ted Teel, when Olive was a small child — probably because she couldn’t stand to hear “Camille Teel!” from her squealing sorority sisters one more day. She didn’t mind Ted’s six-figure salary at the prestigious downtown law firm of Smith, Teel and Martin, but that was adequate only until 50ish investment banker Mike Bennett came into her life with seven figures. Her mother was pregnant within a year, and Olive suddenly had a distant middle-aged stepfather to go along with her absent father.

From the time Olive was born, Camille wanted to use her as a dress-up doll, a role Olive fought for as long as she could remember. Olive could play the piano and had learned about white gloves and party manners at the cotillion. She could even navigate the make-up counter at Lord and Taylor, and her statuesque height and athletic prowess caught everyone’s attention. But Olive knew how to draw boundaries; for example, she eschewed the cheerleader culture.