Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Let it go , Reza, and next time shoot them all down, or don’t come back .” She rolled away and pulled the covers up over her shoulders. They remained motionless in the dark, lying in the same bed, but emotionally separated by a sea of anger, his anger.

Damn Iranian women, Hariri thought. Even though Atosa usually proved herself to be easygoing and supportive, she was an Iranian woman first, and they were tough on their men. Hariri let out a breath. Since the excitement of yesterday, he had been an ass to his young wife. Nevertheless, she was not afraid to stand up to him.

Hariri placed his hand on the warm skin of her smooth hip. She flinched, and then allowed it to remain. Hariri wondered, Does Wilson have a wife next to him on that cursed ship three hundred kilometers away?

In his service dress blue uniform, eyes locked straight ahead, Wilson saluted from his position in front of the officers and chiefs. The rest of VFA-64 stood at attention behind him in Hangar Bay Two while the bugler played taps. As he listened to the haunting notes, he thought about other times he had stood at attention in ranks and saluted other fallen comrades over the years. How many? Nine? Ten? He figured it was too many, whatever it was. Most of those comrades had been lost to pilot error… and it appeared Prince was another. Even at this moment, Wilson’s mind continued to analyze the situation. Removing his mask at altitude wasn’t smart, and a probable pressurization leak made the poor decision deadly. Hariri’s missile destroyed Prince’s Hornet and may have killed him outright, but if he was not dead in the cockpit before impact he was minutes from it. Hypoxia or an air-to-air missile — both can kill.

For Wilson, the past 48 hours had been a blur: debriefings, investigative queries, written statements, SATCOM calls from TOPGUN staff officers, classified email messages, well wishes from air wing friends in the wardroom and passageways, department head meetings, memorial service planning meetings, and retelling the events of the shootdown and MiG-35 engagement. Added to that mix now was the necessity to avoid the media, which had sent a dozen reporters out to the ship the day after the shootdown. He was shocked at the speed they arrived onboard, with Navy support at every level.

The swarm diligently set about finding the pilot who was with Prince and who had fought the Iranian after Prince was shot down. In a display of unity, the air wing pilots removed their identifying squadron patches from their flight suits to throw off the snoopers, but try as he might to avoid the intruders, and despite the efforts of the ship’s public affairs officer to protect him, Wilson sensed they were closing in on him. Yesterday, a reporter with large glasses and a graying ponytail had stopped him on the way to the wardroom. “It’s you, isn’t it?” he asked with a smirk. Wilson gave him a blank look and continued on his way, but asked Weed to bring a plate of food to the stateroom that evening to avoid another confrontation. The word was out though. Just this morning he had passed two sailors in the hangar bay and overheard one whisper to the other, “ He’s the guy. ”

Most of the air wing aviators were at the memorial service and were seated in rows of folding chairs, with the admiral, CAG, and captain sitting in the front row. A Raven helmet and brown boots — signifying Prince’s body — had been placed on a pedestal near the speaker’s lectern. A sailor with a video camera recorded the proceedings for the family, catching, through the cavernous elevator opening, the characteristic hazy sky above the mirror-flat Gulf water, the bright morning sun glinting off its surface.

As the commanding officer, it was Cajun’s responsibility to preside over the ceremony. He had asked for a JO volunteer to give a eulogy of LT Ramer Howard, the person, and that task had fallen to Nttty, Prince’s bunkmate in the six-man Ranch . Nttty did a good job of relating the “PG” version of some fun times the two had shared: their days in flight school, how Nttty had marveled at the ease with which Prince made female friends in Virginia Beach, and a story or two of their madcap adventures with cab drivers while on liberty in Dubai. Nttty also told the audience that, in college, Prince was a lead vocalist in a cover band and once auditioned for American Idol , getting a trip to Hollywood but no more. Standing in ranks, Wilson reflected about how he had not known that about his dead squadronmate; he regretted he had learned it too late.

Cajun returned to the lectern head down, tight-lipped and somber under the visor of his combination cover. At this point in his career, a memorial service was a familiar ritual, yet one that was always difficult, and he had hoped to never speak at another one. Wilson knew Cajun would speak without notes, from his heart, and that the message would be powerful and consoling not only to those assembled in the hangar bay but to Prince’s family who would receive a videotape of the proceedings. After perfunctory acknowledgements of the senior officers present, he began:

“Ladies and gentlemen, take a moment, if you will, to look at the sea and sky though the elevator opening. This sea… flat, with its brownish tinge, sometimes with strange sea creatures on its surface… different from the familiar seas back home off our own coasts: the choppy waters of the Atlantic, the serene blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, and the long swells of the Pacific that crash so spectacularly into the shores of our west coast. This sky… typically a milky brown haze like today that does not change for days or weeks… different from the brilliant blue skies of our homes which are often dotted with puffy cumulus clouds and accompanied by dramatic lighting displays that bring life-giving rain to our land. This sea. This sky. They look different. They are different.

Lieutenant Ramer Howard volunteered to leave the safety of his home and country and come here , to these strange and oftentimes hostile surroundings, to defend freedom , not only for ourselves but millions of others he never met. He was a talented and gifted young man, a man of accomplishment and promise even before he decided to volunteer. That he volunteered was enough, but he chose to pursue a career as a carrier pilot, a profession that is fraught with danger even in peacetime, and he accepted the challenge, and excelled at it. Alone over the open ocean far from shore, or high above an enemy country, carrier flying is always demanding, and often unforgiving. He met and passed the test of combat, striking blows against those who would kill and maim civilians. His loss, known to enemies of freedom around the world, gives them pause. An American volunteered to come here and risk his life to oppose tyranny. Those who use terror may now think twice about any cracks in American resolve. In his short life, he made a difference.”

Wilson listened to the words of his skipper. While he knew Cajun was right, he could not grieve for Prince — and was ashamed by it. Wilson was the last person Prince had spoken to on earth, and Wilson had not felt a personal sense of loss. Had the specter of violent death so hardened him that he could no longer feel?

While Cajun finished his tribute to their fallen comrade, Wilson scanned the horizon through the open elevator door. He noticed the ship was turning, a routine occurrence in the confined waters of the Gulf. As the Chaplain closed the proceedings with the benediction, Wilson felt the ship vibrate underneath him and recognized the ship’s increasing speed through the water. Once the ceremony ended and the squadron was dismissed, the sailors dispersed to their work centers and berthing spaces. Wilson ambled to the deck edge, squinting his eyes toward the western horizon. The ship was moving fast now, and he watched one large bow wave after another radiate away from the hull. Weed joined him at the edge.