Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Are you going to talk to the admiral?”

“After the fact… not gonna ask. When in command, command, right?”

They again sat in silence, thinking about the next difficult step.

“How are you going to do it?”

“Not going to humiliate or shame him. I’ll bring him in tonight at 2100. Want you here, too. Let him pack his trash and manifest him on the COD tomorrow. If he wants to address the squadron, fine. In the meantime, we will keep it quiet that he’s leaving so he can do so with as much dignity as he can. Forgive him… but he’s done.”

“Roger,” Allen said. As he rose to leave, he added, “Tough business.”

“Yeah… but there are tougher things. Oh, by the way, call Flip yourself, and have him report here at 2130.”

“Yes, sir.”

At reveille, Wilson rolled out of the rack after a night of fitful sleep. Saint Patrick had been relieved for cause — and CAG had informed him that he would be the acting CO. He was sworn to secrecy until tonight after the humiliated officer was off the ship.

For months he had hated Saint: hated the dressing downs, the incivility to the troops, the bullshit busywork, the incompetence masquerading as effective leadership. Saint was an anomaly. Nobody liked him, and he had no friends among his peers. Not long after returning from the Yaz Kernoum strike, Wilson had learned about the flare going off in the ready room. How that scene had played out in front of CAG was amazing, even for Saint. Since then, the JOs had treated Saint with thinly veiled contempt— Coward— and Wilson had known it would be just a matter of time before CAG acted.

How had Saint gotten this far? The Navy that had promoted warriors like Cajun, CAG, and the Big Unit had also promoted Saint. How could the system have gotten this one so wrong? Somebody along the way had liked his abilities, but was Cajun — and now CAG — the first to see through him?

Restless, and knowing he would be alone at this early hour, Wilson donned his flight suit and went up to the wardroom for breakfast. He grabbed a tray, poured himself some coffee, and went through the speed line for bacon and eggs, oatmeal and juice. Sitting down at the deserted Raven table, Wilson picked up the ship’s “newspaper” and began reading a wire story about the NCAA Final Four. Someone placed a tray down opposite him. When he looked up from his reading, he jolted back in surprise. Saint, impeccable in his khaki uniform, stood in front of him.

“May I join you , Skipper?”

Wilson didn’t move.

Saint waited for an answer and, when none came, proceeded to take a seat. Wilson kept his eyes on Saint as he arranged his silverware, poured cream in his coffee, and stirred it in silence, eyes down. After a long pause, Saint poked at his eggs, looked up, and spoke.

“You know, Skipper— or are you the CO yet? I’m told there’s a big change of command ceremony in the ready room tonight.”

Wilson held his gaze. A sailor was wiping down an adjacent table, but they were essentially alone.

“I won’t be attending, of course, since I’m on the COD this afternoon. But congratulations just the same,” Saint said between mouthfuls of eggs. He stopped and looked at Wilson as a question formed on his mouth. “Jim… may I call you Jim? Did you ever see reruns of the show Branded ? If you haven’t, it was a show in the 60s about an Old West cavalry officer unjustly accused of cowardice. His reputation precedes him wherever he goes, and he has to prove himself at every stop. You may be familiar with the opening… the accused humiliated in public, epaulets ripped off, buttons pulled off, sword broken in two, then drummed out of the fort, never to return. Are you familiar with that show?”

Wilson nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Thought you might be,” Saint replied, and started humming the theme song. “Branded… scorned as the one who ran. What do you do when you’re branded, and you know you’re a man?”

Wilson pushed back from the table.

“Won’t you stay , Lieutenant Commander Wilson? Or are you, yourself, a coward?”

Baited by Saint’s insinuation, Wilson remained seated. He watched Saint closely, certain he was witnessing a breakdown.

Patrick took another bite of his food.

“That will be me this afternoon… walking down the passageway in my civilian slacks and collared shirt, carrying my sea-bag, 5,000 pairs of eyes judging me, condemning me, banished from this ship forever, but, unlike the guy in the TV show, without a word. What do you do when you’re branded?”

“Sir, when you get home, I hope you get…”

“Oh, spare me , please! You don’t give a fuck about me, Jim. I hear they are putting you in for a medal for leading my strike. Bravo Zulu, Commander! Here, take my command, while you’re at it.”

“You would have failed. You know it. I know it.”

“Perhaps so. Flying was never my strongest suit, you know. But one thing I am good at is working the system . Yes, and I cannot wait to work it, Mister Wilson. I mean, Skipper , sir, to put doubt in a promotion board’s mind about you , your crybaby whining and insubordination, how you left Howard to the wolves, how you undercut me, ignoring regulations and essentially lying to CAG because you had a sexual relationship with Hinton, Mister ‘Family Man.’”

With that, Wilson stood up, eyes narrowed. Saint began to laugh.

“My, the dramatics, and look at that balled fist! A fistfight in the wardroom, Mister Wilson, on your first day in command? The other side of the story will be told when I get home, professionally, of course, not to besmirch the sterling reputation of a war hero such as yourself. Despite what I say, you’ll probably do fine. After all, you do have your skin color to hide behind.”

“You pathetic racist sonofabitch.”

“Do I get under your skin , Jim? Hey, no pun intended. Play that race card, Jim. Press charges! You see I have nothing to lose. I’ll deny it of course; it’s basically us here, alone at this early hour, hours before your precious lieutenants wake up. Did anyone ever tell you that when you wrestle with a pig, both get dirty — and the pig likes it! I will like getting dirt on you, Mister TOPGUN Golden Boy.”

“You are going down , Commander, and I will lead the witnesses at your mast hearing.”

“Are you going to take me to mast , Skipper? Can I go down anymore than I already am? Heh. You know I always wanted to tell a CO to go to hell. Fuck you, Wilson. Fuck you. Fuck you .” Saint spit the words out under his breath, seething as he also rose to his feet. From across the room, two shocked sailors watched, wondering what was going on between the pilots.

Wilson kept his eyes on Saint as he walked around the table toward him, wondering what he would do when he got there. Saint stood his ground, smiling at him and whispering, “C’mon and hit me, Jim. Hit me. You’ve been waiting for this moment. Do it .” Wilson stopped, nose to nose with Saint, fury barely in check, hating him. Saint smirked back at him with satisfaction.

“ You pussy ,” Saint spewed, his face suddenly contorted in contempt.

Wilson inhaled deeply through his nose. He could go to CAG immediately and make several charges: threats, racist comments, conduct unbecoming. How he wanted to shove Saint through the bulkhead, to show him , to exact revenge for the months of public humiliation and derision. Flashbacks of the knotholes Saint had dragged everyone through, the pain and embarrassment he had caused the squadron, exploded in his memory as he stared him down.