Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Will do, PR1. Thanks,” Wilson answered and exited the space with a confident grin.

Wilson stepped into the starboard passageway and began his familiar trek to the bow, trudging over knee-knockers and through open hatches to the “point” area of the flight deck some 700 feet away. I wonder if they’re going to turn this off, Wilson thought, imagining the mixture of disappointment and relief he would feel should Washington decide not to launch the operation.

While lost in his thoughts, a sailor traveling aft passed him and muttered, “Good flight, sir.”

Startled for a moment, Wilson turned and responded, “Thanks!” The nameless sailor was one of hundreds of teenagers aboard.

When he had almost reached the wardroom, he turned outboard, passed underneath the Catapult 1 trough, and stopped in front of a hatch leading to the catwalk. He lowered his visor and pulled his gooseneck flashlight from his survival vest. Opening the door, he stepped into a black vestibule and flicked on the flashlight. His watch read 2110. Fifty minutes to go. Wilson reached down and grasped the bar to undog the hatch, and yanked it up.

A torrent of salt air, wind, and turboprop noise bombarded his senses as he stepped outside onto a small steel platform and dogged the hatch behind him. Lightening holes in the deckplate allowed him a view of the froth generated by the bow wave on the dark water 50 feet below.

Wilson grabbed the railing and stepped up the ladder and into the catwalk. He kept his head down and swept his flashlight ahead to locate any fuel hoses or electrical cables that might snake along his path. As he crouched low and steadied himself against the wind, he stepped up another small ladder onto the flight deck. The illumination provided by sodium vapor lights high on the island gave everything an eerie yellow tint. He directed his light on the tail of the Hornet next to him and read the side number: 403 .

Airman Muriel Rodriguez greeted him at the ladder with a salute, her big eyes visible through the cranial goggles even in the low light. A slight girl of only 19, she had entered the country from Mexico at age 10. Without any knowledge of English, she worked hard to learn the language and graduated from high school with honors. She had joined the Navy last year, and this was her first deployment.

Wilson returned her salute and ascended the ladder to stow his gear inside the cockpit while maintaining a precarious balance on the LEX with one hand, holding the flashlight as he did so. He returned to the deck and did his usual preflight inspection. Working his way around the nose and aft, he inspected the aircraft panels and circuit breakers and then ducked into a wheel well and checked the tires and struts. He paid particular attention to the JDAM on the parent stations.

Two of the red-shirted aviation ordnancemen lingered near the JDAM hanging on the right wing. “Sir, do you have a message for those fucks that killed our guys?” one of them asked, handing Wilson a black magic marker.

Wilson smiled, took the pen, and thought for a moment. Hmmm . The Navy’s politically correct leadership frowned on such messages, but they looked the other way as long as one of the media’s cameras didn’t pick it up. Not wanting to disappoint the young sailors, Wilson asked one of them to point his flashlight on the weapon as he wrote:

LIGHTS OUT, ASSHOLES — YOU PICKED

THE WRONG NAVY

“There you go, guys,” Wilson said as he finished.

“All right, sir!” The ordies nodded in approval.

“Thanks for loading these up for us. Don’t expect you’ll have to download,” Wilson replied.

“Thanks, sir, have a good flight,” the sailors answered and moved to the next bird in line. Wilson continued with his preflight, the familiar nerves returning. He wondered if they were due to Bandar Abbas or the cat shot. He could see some stars overhead through the broken clouds. Although he’d seen blacker nights than this, it was still very dark. On the horizon he noted the running lights of a ship, one of the escorts. He forced his mind to concentrate as he folded himself under a wheel-well door to check the APU accumulator pressure, strut pressures, and landing gear links.

Wilson ascended the ladder with nimble steps and, after checking the ejection seat, slid in and began to hook up his fittings. Airman Rodriguez was right behind him, hooking up the oxygen and comm cords and helping Wilson with his Koch fittings. “Sir, are you going to attack Iran?”

Wilson nodded as he slammed a fitting home. “Yep, looks like. They attacked our ship in international waters and killed sailors. We’re going to prevent them from doing that again.”

“Sir, look!” Rodriguez called out, pointing to port.

On the distant horizon a slow-moving light lifted off the water like a faraway sparkler. It then picked up speed and moved in a northerly direction. Another missile burst from its vertical launch tube amid the fiery smoke generated by its rocket booster and lit up the superstructure of the guided missile cruiser on the horizon. It followed the path of the first missile north to an unknown target.

“Are we under attack, sir?”

“No, those are Tomahawk cruise missiles. We’re attacking them .” As he watched the two small lights climb away and pick up speed, Wilson realized that the United States had just crossed the Rubicon. There was no turning back. Valley Forge aircraft would soon deliver the main strike power against Iran. Holy shit. We’re really doing it, Wilson thought. He looked directly at the young plane captain. “Rodriguez, you are part of history tonight.”

She returned his look, slightly uneasy. “Have a good flight, sir,” she said as she descended the ladder.

“Thanks, Rodriguez! See you soon!” Wilson said. With a reassuring smile over his left shoulder, he added, “We’ll be okay.”

The plane captain lifted her head, and Wilson could detect a faint smile through the darkness before she disappeared under the LEX.

Wilson’s thoughts returned to Bandar Abbas, and as he set up the cockpit for launch, he noted a third Tomahawk arc away from its launch vessel. He noticed his deep breathing as he checked that the circuit breakers were stowed and the rudder pedals were set to his liking, only two among the dozens of little cockpit checks he had to perform. Then, with a start, he froze as he looked at his left knee. His kneeboard was attached to it. With his mind on autopilot, he had attached his kneeboard around his left leg, something he had never done before in nearly 13 years of flying. It shocked Wilson to see it there, and after a moment, he unhooked it and placed it on his right knee where it belonged. The nerves were returning, and Wilson fought them as he continued the rest of his checks. Calm down, buddy. Step by step.

The E-2 was now in tension on Cat 3, its big turboprops digging into the air with a deep hum heard throughout the ship. The pilot illuminated the aircraft’s external lights, signifying readiness for launch. Moments after the catapult officer touched the deck, the aircraft shot forward as the shuttle hurtled it down the angle to obtain precious flying speed. Knight 600 whizzed past the bow with a WHOOOOMM as the pilot set the climb attitude.

With the E-2 gone, the flight deck became quiet again, save for the wind that whipped through the aircraft stacked on the bow. Finished with his checks, Wilson savored the quiet, but his eyes scanned through the cockpit again and again. Nerves , he thought. He sat in the cockpit and glanced at Cajun finishing his checks in the Hornet next to him. Olive, in her cockpit on the other side, sat motionless with her head back, as if asleep. Rodriguez stood at parade rest and watched him from her position on deck. He watched dozens of ordies and maintenance technicians behind her as they milled about in preparation for engine starts. He looked up at the stars and sensed the ship in a turn. Thirty minutes to go.