Kevin Miller - Raven One

She liked the guys — but wanted to be around them on her terms, not as an arm piece — or piece of anything. Her mother cried when Olive was accepted into the Naval Academy and rarely visited. When she did visit on the yard, radiant in her navy-colored suit and stilettos, she would scoff under her breath and say, “Kristin, must you wear those mannish Oxfords?” Then she would spy a boy and whisper, “There’s a cute one! Unbutton a few buttons and go up to him. Go on.” Olive shook her head at the thought of it.

Camille cried again when Olive was accepted to flight school. “You marry a pilot, not become one!” Olive was a huge disappointment to her mother, and always had been. The calluses of emotional defense she had developed from childhood were the foundation of the reserved personality she still maintained. Even now, whenever one of her Junior League friends asked about Olive, her mother politely said, “Kristin flies for the Air Force,” and quickly changed the subject. Camille could not have identified an FA-18 Hornet to save her life.

Just as Olive hit “send” on the e-mail, her roommate, “Psycho,” burst through the door.

“Hey, how was duty?” Psycho asked. Without bothering to listen to Olive’s answer, she undid her hair and began peeling off her flight suit.

“Fine. How was midrats?”

“Awesome! Sat with a bunch of Moonshadows . You know Lester and Crunch? They crack me up every time! Smoke was there… Dutch… Sponge…. good time.” Lifting her t-shirt over her head, she added, “You should go up there. They are probably still there.”

“No thanks. Writing my mother on her birthday.”

“Awww… Happy Birthday, Mrs. Teel!”

Olive waved off the reference to Mrs. Teel — Psycho didn’t know and never listened — and then admired her roommate’s shape for just a moment as she changed. Psycho had curves —curves Olive wished she had. She had had boyfriends in the past, but with her insecurities made it a point to catch them eyeing a full sweater or tight pair of jeans on other girls and then blew up at them. Because she had been hurt before, she now dismissed all men (boys) as incorrigible pigs — a belief she had thrown up to act as another layer of defense.

However, she was alone — and didn’t like it.

With her pajama bottoms on, Psycho maneuvered into her top and began buttoning the buttons.

“Hey, what do you have tomorrow?”

“A night intercept hop with the skipper,” Olive replied. “How about you?”

“A day dick-around with Smoke.”

Olive glanced over and saw a flash of Psycho’s perfect breast before the last button was buttoned. I may need to get me some of those , she thought.

Psycho flung on a robe, stepped into her flip flops, and opened the door to visit the female head down the passageway. “B-R-B!” she called out airily as she left.

Olive smiled to herself. Psycho, she thought, if Mom could overlook the fact you “fly for the Air Force,” she would love to have you as her daughter.

The ethos of fighter squadron life is competition. Against other squadrons and outside groups, between squadronmates, and even against oneself. The competition is daily and relentless, and, once at sea, there is no escape from it. Landing grades, boarding rate, interval timing, bombing accuracy, air-to-air training engagements won, aircraft system test scores, flight hours per month, career night vision goggle hours, career traps, night traps per month (high and low), squadron flight qualifications, ground jobs held (high and low), combat sorties, combat drops, strike/flight Air Medals, and squadron competitive ranking… In fact, practically every area of their lives — including beers consumed on liberty, facial hair quality, stock portfolio knowledge, video game victories, coolness of car, and hotness of girlfriend — become legitimate areas of competition for the aviators in a fleet carrier squadron.

For a pilot, and for some more than others, each flight is one big pass/fail test. However, each flight also includes dozens of little tests, some institutionalized but many self-administered. These tests allow the pilot to measure his performance against others but most importantly against himself in order to do one thing — get better. The pilots live with a constant undercurrent of anxiety; in no way do they want to embarrass the squadron or themselves. It is not surprising that the overwhelming majority are first-born perfectionists.

Even killing time in the ready room turns into evaluation and critique sessions as they watch their air wing buddies on the closed-circuit flight deck TV, called the Pilot Landing Aid Television or PLAT. The eyes of every pilot of every experience level are drawn to the PLAT whenever it is on. The pilots check the weather outside or how the aircraft are parked on the deck or “spotted,” but more often than not, they just want to watch the minute-by-minute drama of carrier aviation. At night, the PLAT is genuine entertainment in its own right, depending on the weather conditions, with the ready room “cowboys” able to monitor the side numbers and recognize the voices — and voice inflections — of their fellow air wing pilots and naval flight officers as they struggle to make their approaches. Like everything else, the landings always create an environment for stiff competition between squadrons and individuals. A missed trap bolter for “the girls next door” is almost always good; a bolter for a trusted squadronmate is the source of feelings of sympathy, or even of personal disappointment — however, for a rival squadronmate, not so much.

Despite the fact most of it is healthy, competition is ever present in a fighter squadron, and it is magnified by the hours spent going over every aspect of a flight in an effort to improve — to attain perfection. To this end, constructive criticism is a daily occurrence for a pilot of any rank, and every flaw — personal and professional — is identified. Most can handle the feedback, but those who can’t are easy targets of ready room mockery until they succumb to a certain amount of humility. And if they refuse, squadron life is brutal for these loners. With so many healthy, if not huge, egos in close quarters, the near constant competition acts as a control mechanism to keep the egos of certain ones in check. Therefore, since no one can be number one in everything with so many overachievers looking over one’s shoulder, the competitive atmosphere allows everyone to stake a claim someplace.

As the sun set the following evening the ship began to pick up some appreciable movement from the long Indian Ocean swell. Wilson noted this as unusual in the IO. These waters off the Arabian Peninsula were often calm and sunny throughout the year. If seas were heavy at any time, it was during the winter months, when squall lines with heavy thunderstorms and occasional sand storms were not uncommon.

From his stateroom desk, Wilson checked the flight schedule: the XO and Sponge Bob were on the “pinky” recovery, followed by the Skipper leading a practice intercept hop with Olive. Glad I’m not out there tonight , he thought. Night carrier aviation was difficult enough without a pitching deck. He surmised the weather was deteriorating, and realized he had not been outside the whole day.

He clicked on the PLAT… the ceiling was down from earlier and the deck was slick from a passing rain cloud. The Hornets on the bow were preparing to launch and the camera showed one taxiing out of its Cat 2 parking spot. Wilson watched it taxi aft past the bow jet blast deflectors, take a 45-degree right turn to clear the aircraft parked amidships, and then turn left down the angle to the “waist” cats. The camera showed a close-up of the aircraft… side number 406 . Wilson clicked up two channels for the air ops status board: 406 was Sponge Bob’s aircraft, and the XO was in 402 . He clicked again and checked the weather. Low broken-variable-overcast clouds, three miles visibility in rain, with occasional lowering to 500 feet overcast and one mile with lightning, freezing level at 14,000 feet and high gusty winds.