Kevin Miller - Raven One

All this was a recipe for a poor boarding rate, which meant lengthy recoveries, stressed aircraft components, and tension with everyone involved with flight operations exacerbated by the fact that each plane had limited airborne fuel. USS Valley Forge just signed up for it.

The two sat down next to the Raven junior officers. Each squadron had staked out their own “unofficial” table where they — as the trained creatures of habit that they were — almost always gathered for a meal. The Raven table was all the way forward on the port side.

“Anyone care to go flying tonight?” Wilson asked the group as they joined them.

“No, thank you,” Psycho answered. Her voice carried throughout the room as she continued. “I flew last night and twice at night in the Red Sea. Think I’m covered for at least tonight.”

“JOs complaining about flying at night,” Weed said, shaking his head in feigned disgust. “Can we count on you for a full moon night? Waxing gibbous at least?”

“That would be nice — if you must fly me at night at all!” she giggled. Nugget pilot Lieutenant Melanie “Psycho” Hinton was an anomaly. The daughter of an admiral, she was blessed with California surfer-girl good looks. But she didn’t act like she knew it, and she could keep up with any of the guys. Her loud and obnoxious commentary — on any subject — earned her the call sign Psycho, which stood for “Please Shut Your Cake Hole.”

“It was clear and a million in the Red Sea, and last night was fairly pink, as I remember,” Wilson interjected. “You’ll just have to take it up with the schedules officer.”

“He gives you the schedule to sign!” Psycho cried, her eyes wide in mock indignation, enjoying the attention.

“I just sign what Nttty gives me,” Wilson said with a smirk as he reached for his salad plate, which slid to the left as the ship took a roll. “Nttty” was Lieutenant Junior Grade Josh Fagan, the Schedules Officer, who, after one memorable multiplane intercept hop, was christened with his call sign Nttty—”Not Time To Talk Yet.”

“So does the CO. Take it up with him,” Weed added.

Psycho also caught her plate in midslide and sighed. “Should have known the hinge-heads would band together in support of the front office. Next time I’ll just take it up with my good friend, Nttty. Thank you, sir.”

“Good answer,” Weed mumbled, through a mouthful of food.

SLAP!

A swell slammed hard against the bow and rattled the dishes. The group heard the water gurgle down the hull.

“It’s serious out there,” Guido muttered into his food as he took a big gulp of fried rice.

Smoke agreed. “Yeah, they’ve gotta be thinking about canceling the night events.”

Just then the loud WHOOOMMMmmm of a jet on a bolter filled the wardroom. The aviators exchanged knowing glances as the jet climbed back into the pattern. The first of many bolters this recovery , Wilson thought. He turned to Smoke, one of the squadron landing signal officers, and asked, “Were you guys working manual recoveries earlier?”

“NO!” Psycho howled and slammed her hand on the table. “I had a sweet OK going and then the deck pitched down — or came up — and I caught an ace on the fly. They gave me a “fair.” They said that was a gift because the ship did a little dance in close, but not so much that I couldn’t have made a better correction. I mean, it’s either a pitching deck OK or not! They should have rigged the MOVLAS, the bastards .”

Sensing an opening, Smoke chided her. “Was the deck down, or did it come up?”

Psycho’s eyes narrowed as she shook her head at him. “You A-holes stick together, don’t you? I thought squadron blood might be thicker than LSO water. Guess not.”

“Well,” Smoke said, and grinned at her. “We have two senior aviators here who are charged with advising the commanding officer as to proper procedure, given the operating conditions we face. So what was it? Up or down?” Smoke folded his hands in front of him and held her gaze.

“It was UP!” Psycho shot back, fire in her eyes. “As in ‘ Shut up! ’”

“All right! I’m sorry.” Smoke smiled and extended his hands in front of him. “Just wanted to get that straight!” His eyes remained on her as he mouthed “LSO water?” with a quizzical look.

“What did you get, Paddles?” Wilson asked Smoke, instantly wishing he hadn’t. Pausing for effect, the LSO suppressed a grin. “OK three, sir.”

“SEE!” Psycho exploded, her food barely staying in her mouth. “It’s good-old-boy collusion out there!”

Wilson saw the Skipper and Olive duck into the room carrying plates of food. It was an hour and ten minutes before their launch, just enough time to eat a rushed meal before man-up. Lassiter found a few spots at the table and placed his tray across from Wilson.

“Hey, Skipper.”

“Flip,” Lassiter greeted him over a WHOOOMMMmmm from above — the sound of another Hornet on a bolter.

“What’s the story on your event, sir?” Weed asked him.

Lassiter exhaled. “Nothing yet, we’ll walk on time. My guess is they will make a decision in the next hour. CAG is recovering on this event.”

Weed grinned. “Maybe that was him going around.”

“Hope not,” Lassiter said and smiled.

“I’m sure Paddles will no-count it for a pitching deck,” Psycho chimed in, as she shot Smoke a look.

“As they should,” Smoke retorted with a confident grin. “Paddles always does the right thing.” Psycho responded to that with her most feminine sniff.

Wilson watched the exchange and figured there might be something going on between Smoke and Psycho. Lassiter shoveled another spoonful of rice into his mouth. He kept his eyes down, as if lost in concentration about his upcoming flight, and acted oblivious to the flirting between his junior officers. Wilson knew, however, the skipper was paying attention and was probably on to them.

“Smoke” was the call sign of Lieutenant Zach Offenhausen, a blond pretty boy of supreme confidence who, in fact, was a California surfer and had been a motocross champion in his teen years. Now a second-cruise JO, he aspired to TOPGUN training once the deployment ended. Both Smoke and Psycho — despite the fact that she never shut up in social situations — were good officers and solid pilots. Fraternization was one way to destroy that good standing. Here they were, attractive young single adults, working and eating together day after day for months — and, from what it looked like, maybe even sleeping together.

Wilson got up from the table and said, “Excuse me, sir,” to the CO. Weed did the same, followed by Smoke and Psycho. Lassiter waved and nodded and swallowed a final mouthful. He and Olive picked up their trays, took them to deposit in the scullery, and hurried back to the ready room. They wanted to walk on time.

In the passageway, the JOs and Weed continued aft while Wilson ducked below to his stateroom to check for e-mail from home. The darkened room was illuminated only by the screen saver of his laptop. A note from Mary awaited him.

Dear James,

Derrick rode the bike this morning without training wheels! He did great! I just ran behind him a little and then he took off on his own. He went to the end of the cul-de-sac and turned around. I was praying he could do it. When he got back to the house though he crashed — into the Hopper’s car! Karen had just pulled up and we were standing by the car cheering him on as he rode toward us. He tried to turn away but hit the left front and fell off. He skinned his elbow and cried a little. No damage to the car, but Karen felt awful. Derrick was over it after a band-aid and a kiss. Just another day as a navy wife.