Kevin Miller - Raven One

A smile slowly spread across Saint’s face, a wide beaming grin that showed his perfect white teeth. Wilson couldn’t let Saint win . Leaning in toward him with narrow eyes, Wilson simply whispered, “ Go. ” He let the word hang there between them, and turned to leave.

Saint chuckled. “Turning your back on a senior officer? More ammo.”

Wilson stopped and faced him. “There’s only one officer in this room, and it’s not you.”

Ready 7 was standing room only except for the two empty chairs in the front row that had belonged to Cajun and Saint. The officers were in their seats, the chiefs standing in the back or filling a few empty seats. The Ravens’ Command Master Chief opened the door to the ready room and barked, “Attention on deck !”

All hands jumped to their feet as CAG Swoboda strode to the front in his khaki uniform, DCAG behind him. “Seats, please, relax,” CAG commanded, and the assembled personnel complied. DCAG took Saint’s chair, but, out of respect, no one sat in Cajun’s seat.

Swoboda clasped his arms across his chest and began. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve called you here this evening to convey to you my admiration of and appreciation for your performance on this deployment, and particularly these past few weeks. During our recent combat operation, VFA-64 led the wing in sorties flown, ordnance expended and enemy aircraft shot down. That’s no surprise to me as the Ravens have always been my go-to warfighting squadron, a winning team I can depend on to deliver fused ordnance on target, on time. You in this room have lived up to the high standards set by your ancestors in Korea and Vietnam.

“You’ve had some tough breaks on this deployment, not the least of which is the loss of your fine CO, Cajun Lassiter, to enemy fire. Even after that devastating blow, you compartmentalized and never missed a beat during your subsequent combat hops over the beach. I thank you, your Navy thanks you, and our nation owes you a debt of gratitude.

“By your performance, from you guys in flight suits, the maintainers and admin personnel, all led by a superb chiefs’ mess, you’ve earned the best leadership the Navy can provide. As your immediate senior in command, I did not feel you had the leadership you deserve. No doubt you’ve heard that I relieved Commander Patrick of his duties, and he left the ship this afternoon for Oceana and reassignment. I offered him the opportunity to address you, and my understanding is he did not take it. This is a decision I did not come to hastily, and it was not one incident that caused me to act. I didn’t ask for ‘approval’ either. It is my decision who remains in command of my squadrons. Commander Patrick is to be afforded every courtesy befitting an officer of his rank, and I encourage you to reach out to him should you desire to do so.”

Wilson thought of the morning’s wardroom exchange, and found it ironic that CAG had just bestowed honor upon a wretched man who deserved none. Swoboda then motioned with his hand. “Lieutenant Commander Wilson, come on up here.”

Wilson rose, and standing next to CAG, faced his squadronmates. Swoboda put his hand on Wilson’s shoulder and said, “This is your new skipper.”

The room was now energized, but the muffled cheers and scattered applause showed that the Ravens were not sure if it was appropriate to unleash their joy in front of CAG. Wilson noted, though, big toothy grins from Dutch and Sponge, and Pyscho nodded with an approving smile. CAG continued.

“Flip Wilson is a proven warrior, and he has my complete trust and confidence. During our remaining time in this AOR, he’s the guy I want leading you, and he’ll bring you home in the coming weeks. The Commodore will get you a new CO, but, until then, Lieutenant Commander Wilson is your acting CO. Congratulations, Flip!”

As the room erupted into applause and cheering, Wilson accepted the small gold pin that signified command at sea. “Thanks, CAG,” he replied, shaking hands with a humble smile, still not knowing what to make of it.

“You’re the right man for the job, Skipper,” CAG said. “Well done.”

A call for “Attention on deck” rang out, and the Air Wing commander departed the way he had come. DCAG offered Wilson a handshake of congratulations, with a wink, before he followed CAG out of the ready room.

Wilson was mobbed as his squadronmates shook his hand and slapped his back. He was touched by the sincere well wishes from the chiefs. After the commotion died down, Dutch asked, “Skipper, what’s your first command?”

Wilson looked around. “Let’s get some music going in here.”

“QUOTH THE RAVEN!” boomed from inside Ready Room 7.

Before he left the ship, Saint Patrick took a last look at his empty stateroom. Not the sentimental type, he nevertheless knew he would never see the inside of another one, much less set foot on a warship again. His meticulously planned career had come to an end — here.

Wearing his grey slacks and blue polo shirt, Saint hoisted his bag and walked aft on the starboard passageway toward the Air Transport Office. He felt the stares at once… dozens of nameless sailors noticed he was out of uniform, in civilian clothes. Silently, they braced up against the bulkhead so he could pass, blank faces watching him leave while they stayed. Bitter bile formed in his mouth — in essence, they were tearing off his epaulets, seizing his sword and breaking it over a knee. These idiot sailors who know nothing, judging me, he thought. He then saw The Big Unit coming in the opposite direction, both uncomfortable to see each other. Averting his eyes until the last minute, Saint looked up in time to see the Buccaneer XO slow down to say something with an anguished face.

“Bill, I’m sor-”

Saint silenced him with a look as he trudged past. He’s one of them, he thought.

In the ATO shack, alone in his bitterness, he was surrounded by sailors and junior officers waiting, like him, to board the COD and return to staffs in Manama or Doha or travel home to the states. During the hour-long wait, his silent anger and sullenness was noted by everyone, and some sailors stood rather than sit next to him. After the scheduled event launch was complete, he heard the COD trap and listened to the hum of its engines as it taxied to its spot abeam the island.

Suddenly, the Air Transport Officer entered and said, “Okay, everyone, put on your cranials and float-coats.” Like a condemned man being led to the gallows, Saint stood and donned his cranial and life vest, and, befitting one so senior in rank, was the last person to board the aircraft. The ATO Chief cheerfully offered him one of two window seats, which he took without a word, ignoring the crewman’s brief as he cinched down the straps to his four-point release.

With the engines started, the cargo ramp slowly closed, swallowing up the flight deck scene in front of him. Saint then looked out the small window, only to see a Raven jet outside, prolonging the agony. He looked at the pilot, face covered by the visor and mask, elbows on the canopy sill and hands on the towel racks. He noticed the pilot looking in the small C-2 window, staring at him, as the Hornet waited for the next yellow-shirt command. Saint wondered who was in that cockpit, motionless, eerily judging him from across the flight deck. They never gave me a chance, he thought. His resolve stiffened. He would have his revenge.

Once in Bahrain, he bought some groceries at the commissary and went to his transient quarters for what became a five-day wait for his flight to the states, during which time he did not bathe or shave or step outside, but instead stared silently at the walls. He thought of his father, Vice Admiral William S. Patrick: Vietnam MiG-killer; carrier CO, fleet commander; life-of-the-party with a broad smile and deep laugh; a work-hard, play-hard flag officer. His father had been distant to William Jr. as a boy; being on deployment, putting in the extra hours to advance his career and cheating on his wife left little time for games of catch or helping his only child with homework.