Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Shooting Sanders a sharp look, Meyerkopf pursed his lips. Enough for today, he thought. Point made . Operated by aviators the whole time, Coral Sea was less than ten years old and, in his view, showed signs of premature aging. It was good, he reflected, that the Navy occasionally assigned a submariner who “grew up” around nuclear power to oversee a carrier strike group and ensure the sound material condition of its vital flagship for future operations.

After Sanders’ come-around was complete, the meeting adjourned with no discussion of the air wing flying operations other than the previous days’ sortie count and expected weather for today. Meyerkopf seemed uncomfortable — or disinterested — in what the aviators were doing, even in support of the significant muscle movements involved in Assured Promise , drug interdiction ops, or unmanned helicopter test operations. As they left the room and entered the passageway, Sanders’ eyes met those of CAG Matson, and they both grinned knowingly.

“I guess bad press is better than no press, huh?” Sanders said under his breath.

“Yep, are there airplanes on this ship? Wish I could take some of the heat off,” the Air Wing Commander answered his friend.

“Thanks,” Sanders chuckled. “I’m off to go help my engineering department find a within-limits-and-holding-for-years radiation leak. You have a great day.”

“You, too.” Matson clapped Sanders’ back in encouragement.

As the little political drama played out in the flag spaces of Coral Sea , Wilson had just completed his flight briefing with Macho in Ready Room 5. Test pilot Lieutenant Commander Meadows was also scheduled to fly during this event, and Wilson wanted to know what he was up to with one of his jets.

“Mongo, what kind of testing are you doing today?” he asked.

“Interoperability tests with a Fire Scout , sir. We want to see how this unmanned aerial vehicle performs data-link transfer with a fleet aircraft.”

“Great, why don’t we rendezvous overhead the ship at recovery time?”

Without taking his eyes off Wilson, Mongo refused. “No can do, Commander. I may need to stay out if the tests go long or if the bird can’t get airborne in time.”

Wilson was taken aback. Nobody called him Commander, especially in his own ready room. It was either Skipper or sir . While Mongo wasn’t officially a Firebird pilot, even the “guest” aviators, as a sign of respect, referred to Wilson as Skipper. Mongo’s stiff demeanor was different from the other pilots of his rank, most of whom were easygoing and completely respectful. Mongo gave Wilson the impression that he was holding Mongo up from something more important. He took another approach.

“Fine, if you get back to the ship when we do, then join up and you’ll be Number Three as we enter the landing pattern. Where are you operating?”

“In the vicinity of the ship, sir.”

Puzzled by this answer, Wilson was beginning to lose his patience. “We are operating in the vicinity , too, and so that we can deconflict our airspace, I want to know what sector you plan to be in. We are going to operate south if we can find a clear area.”

“That will be fine, sir.”

Mongo’s robotic answer irritated Wilson. He was “giving the keys” to one of his jets to this guy and he was… weird , weird compared to anyone he had ever met wearing a flight suit. Mongo was Weed’s guy, though, a Jedi Knight Weed had called him. And if the test community sent a detachment down here and needed one of Wilson’s jets each day to test a new unmanned helicopter, he had to defer. He was thankful that chasing a drone and collecting data-link numbers was Mongo’s job instead of his on this glorious day.

Peering over her oxygen mask at the yellow shirted flight deck director, Macho released the brakes and added power as she pulled out of her parking spot on Elevator 2. She tapped the brakes once to check them and continued forward, goosing the throttles to advance no faster than a man could walk. Macho kept her eyes locked on the director, using the rudder pedals and nose-wheel steering, she made slight turns under his direction. He taxied her past other parked aircraft, all “turning” with jet engines at idle and awaiting yellow shirt directions to taxi. Outside the cocoon of Macho’s cockpit, the flight deck was a high-pitched whine of screaming machinery. Hundreds of sailors in multicolored jerseys and “float-coat” life vests wore dark visors on their cranial helmets to shield eyes from the brilliant sun overhead. Puffy white build-ups, radiant in the dazzling midday light, towered above the ship as it slowly turned to a launch heading.

Coral Sea was preparing to launch fifteen aircraft on the first scheduled event of the day, a short 45-minute “cycle” that the Hornet squadrons used for their fuel-consuming air combat training. Though fuel management was always foremost in their thoughts, the pilots could breathe a little easier on a shortened cycle than they could on their typical hour and thirty minute cycle. Operating 200 miles southeast of Jamaica, with the South American landmass over 200 miles further southeast, Coral Sea was right in the middle of the Caribbean and working “Blue Water.” This meant that low-fuel aircraft would have to “plug” from an orbiting Super Hornet tanker to take on fuel in order to remain airborne and attempt a carrier landing. Varsity for sure, but even nuggets like Macho, with only 70 carrier landings under her belt, were confident and excited to get airborne in this tropical playground.

The director turned Macho left, and she crept past the parked Seahawk helicopters next to the island. She could see she was in line for one of the waist catapults as the yellow shirt stopped her. With a delay until launch time — the ship was still in a turn — she set the parking brake and waited.

Macho used the time to enter some navigational waypoints in her computer and fiddled with the brightness of her multifunction display. On the horizon, she saw a nondescript merchant ship heading north, and, in the distance, the familiar lines of a white-hulled cruise ship. She smiled when she thought that she was getting paid to be here, and that nothing on the “fun-ship” was as much fun as she was going to experience in ten minutes.

She lifted her head to the island and blinked in surprise. From the “Vultures’ Row” catwalk, Wonder Woman waved at her wildly. Next to her, on either side, were two air wing pilots from the Raiders , smiling down at Macho with smug grins. Well, it didn’t take the air wing studs long to roll in on Wonder Woman. Oblivious to their motives, Shane was waving and beaming like a schoolgirl, even more ridiculous in her “Mickey Mouse” sound attenuators. She was causing a scene.

In an effort to get her to stop, Macho lifted her hand in response. Shane blew her a kiss and shouted something to one of the men next to her and pointed at Macho. Macho gratefully found a reason to look away to the catapults on her right. How can a chick be so smokin’ hot and so uncool at the same time? she thought. Macho knew the air wings guys thought she was a girl just this side of “Peppermint Patti,” and she had no desire to date one of them. Still, she was becoming slightly jealous of the attention Shane, the friggin’ intel weenie , was receiving from her peer group. Macho made a mental note to have a talk with Shane after she got back and explain how to act on the ship.