Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Wilson gave her a slight smile. “My apologies, Mary Martha—”

Now spurned, her eyes flashed as she cut him off. “Okay, darlin’ Jim . Wifey should be proud of you.” She then quickly softened her tone.

“If you change your mind, I’ll be here tomorrow morning, sunning myself, wearing three band-aids and some fishin’ line… You need to get a good look. Everyone else does. Bye .” She turned and walked slowly across the pool deck to Marvin, who, along with the other men, watched her approach with approval. Billy appeared next to Wilson, and the two of them witnessed the beaming middle-aged men envelop Mysty within seconds.

“Wow. That is a bundle of fun. And you were talking to her.”

“Yep.”

“Now that you are returning to earth, care to hobnob with the heavies? But before we do, can I buy you a drink? After that performance you’ve earned it.”

Wilson nodded. “Yep. The night is young .”

When the reception began to wind down, and before the heavies left, the aviators jumped in a rental car and headed to the squadron admin at Breezy Cay, a thirty-minute drive through the darkened two-lane roads. Several of the squadrons had admins nearby. They served as bases of operations as the squadron officers explored Saint Thomas. A portion of each squadron also had officers standing duty aboard Coral Maru. They would get a chance at liberty tomorrow when the first wave returned back to the ship to relieve them.

Wilson sat in the back seat with Billy and the CO of the Rustlers , one of the helicopter squadrons. Looking across the water at the shadowy island of Saint John, Wilson’s mind wandered. Once this port visit ended they would get underway for the western Caribbean, south of Cuba and east of Belize. Belize? A nuclear-powered aircraft carrier was going to conduct exercises with Central American navies from Honduras and Belize, which consisted of little more than harbor patrol boats and Jet Ranger helicopters? Carriers hadn’t operated in these waters since the mid-80s when Nicaragua was a communist base that fomented revolution throughout the region. Then, later in the decade, Panama under the Noriega regime had drawn U.S. interest for a while. But, when the fleet could no longer train at Vieques, there was no reason to come to the Caribbean at all. Carriers were needed in the Indian Ocean, and Afghanistan combat was where the action was. But that was all changing, and the Navy was signaling that new deployment cycles to “new” locations were in the offing. Coral Sea was the first of many more planned carrier deployments here.

As they drove through Red Hook, Wilson’s mind continued to wander as he watched the locals gather in restaurants and walk along the road, enjoying the warm evening. To the east a gibbous moon burst out of the Caribbean, illuminating the clouds and lush islands. He thought again of Mary Martha’s smoldering sexuality and her lonely existence, then of his own Mary. They passed a lighted billboard for Red Stripe beer. Yes, a Red Stripe on the balcony overlooking the Caribbean would be good right now .

Ten minutes later they pulled up to the Breezy Cay resort, where the advance party of Firebird JOs had set up “shop” in one of the suites. One of his senior lieutenants, Mike “Dusty” Rhodes, clad in shorts and a tank top, beer in hand, happened to pass by as Wilson got out of the car with his overnight bag.

“Hey, Skipper! Welcome to paradise!” Dusty greeted him.

“Yeah, I’ll say. You guys broken in the admin to an acceptable degree?”

“Yes, sir, we are fully qualified — since about noon today! Cold beer, warm water, island tunes. Fully qualled, sir!”

Wilson smiled as Dusty led him up a series of concrete steps. Their suite, located in a complex of buildings, was situated along a hill and surrounded by island flora. The moon had risen higher into the night, above the soft cumulus build-ups that floated over the island. A beautiful scene that Wilson wished “his” Mary could experience.

Thumping club music grew louder and louder as Wilson followed Dusty down a breezeway to a door at the far end. On the door was a VFA-16 sticker, a “zapper” to indicate this room belonged to the Firebirds of VFA-16. “Welcome aboard, sir,” Dusty said as he opened the door for his CO.

Wilson was met with the blast of an Outkast favorite, a gaggle of his pilots in swim trunks and sandals, all with a beer in hand and big smiles on their faces. Teetering on a chair next to the balcony railing was Lieutenant Mark “Trench” James. He wielded a 3-wood and was about to propel a golf ball placed on another chair into the Caribbean night — either that or ricochet it off the railing and back into the living room at high speed.

“Skipper!” a drunken Trench exclaimed as Wilson entered. “ Watch this! ”

“ No! ” Wilson warned as he raised his hand and shook his head smiling, knowing how this story was going to end.

“Oh, c’mon, Skipper! Coach bet I couldn’t hit the ocean from here, but I can. I mean, it’s right there! I don’t even need a driver!”

“Now, Trench,” Wilson, still dressed in his white uniform, admonished him as he good-naturedly approached him through the laughing JOs. “If you put the club down and get off that chair, we won’t have to convene a mishap board tonight.”

With mock indignation, the JOs roared their disapproval. They had wanted either to witness the spectacle of Trench lofting one into the sea or lofting himself over the railing and into the bay tree branches that brushed the balcony.

Smiling, a wobbly Trench stepped down from the chair. “Okay, Skipper. But I could’ve done it, Coach! ” he bragged, generating derisive hoots from his squadronmates.

“If you hadn’t screwed around so much before the CO got here, you could have at least taken one swing!” Lieutenant John “Coach” Madden answered with a broad smile. Like Trench and Dusty, Coach was another senior lieutenant. This trio formed the nucleus of the Firebird JO pilots, whom Wilson could depend on tactically and whom he needed to show leadership to the nugget aviators.

As he surveyed the room, Wilson’s eyes met those of the only woman there — Lieutenant Commander Kristin “Olive” Teel. Before Wilson entered the room, she had been the senior officer present. Olive looked back at her CO with an awkward smile.

“Well,” Wilson said as he approached Olive. “Everything is well in hand… the Safety Officer is present!”

Olive knew she should have put a stop to Trench’s antics before Wilson arrived. “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t resist seeing it for myself!” Wilson nodded with a smile. Then, so only she could hear, he added, “This is not like you, Safety Officer.”

Olive was now mortified at her lapse in judgment. “Yes, sir, I’m sorry… It’s just that they already think I’m a stick-in-the-mud. Bad decision. Won’t happen again, sir.”

“I know it won’t,” Wilson said. “It can be lonely at the top, especially in that middle place.”

“Sir?” Olive asked.

Wilson smiled at her. “There are old fudds and young studs. Then there are lieutenant commanders.”

“Yes, sir,” Olive answered with a sheepish grin. She didn’t know what else to say as she reflected on the meaning of his message. Olive, you aren’t the boss, but you aren’t an irresponsible kid anymore either… not that you ever were.

“Forgotten. Where can I change?”

Lieutenant Mark James led the junior officers from the admin and down the hill. At six-foot-three and 225 pounds, “Trench” was the ringleader of the Firebird JOs, a role he enjoyed immensely. Nowhere did he shine more than when leading them on liberty. Their destination was the beachside cabana where pilots from Billy’s squadron, the Hunters , and the lone FA-18F Super Hornet squadron, the VFA-23 Blue Lancers had already gathered. A bonfire was raging and spirited aviators in aloha shirts were having fun sipping on their beers and telling sea stories.