It had to be the media, he surmised. For all the platitudes to the military, they did not tell America the truth about much of anything. They seemed to just fill their programming with fluff. Contempt. That’s what Wilson and many of his shipmates had for the media, and maybe that contempt was shared by National Command Authority or the combatant commander to send them 2,000 miles to do “operational testing” and to “train” with the Colombian Air Force. At some point, that story would begin to crumble, and Wilson wondered what the next training evolution would involve.
He was at his stateroom desk going over work-center audit paperwork when there was a knock at his door. “Come in,” he called.
Weed opened the door and poked his head in. “Can we talk?”
Wilson motioned to his couch. “Yeah, c’mon in.”
Weed closed the door behind him and took a seat on the couch. At night, Wilson folded it out to make a bed.
“You fly today?” Wilson asked, knowing the answer.
“Yep, just got back.”
“Successful test?” Wilson asked.
Holding eye contact, Weed nodded. “Successful test.”
Wilson nodded back. “Good. What can I do for you?”
Weed gathered his thoughts. “Our friendship is important to me.”
“Me, too.”
“I have a job to do.”
“Doing it well from what I can see.”
As Weed hesitated, Wilson eyed him with disdain.
“I’m not sure why I came here, or what I was going to say, because…. Well, I’m here. And I want to…. How’s the squadron?”
“Fine,” Wilson answered. “Our new intel officer is the talk of the ship, and I can see the sharks circling. Stretch, Blade, and Olive are doing well. I’m concerned about one of my chiefs. The usual stuff.”
“I miss it,” Weed said.
“Then why did you leave it?” Wilson raged, surprising both of them with his intensity. “You were on track for command! You’d be here now with your own squadron, and don’t give me that bullshit guilt trip that it’s my fault!”
Weed shot back. “You tell me, Skipper. I wasn’t privy to the screen board results that selected you and not me. I went to operational test because I couldn’t get out of the damn Pentagon fast enough! Maybe that’s it. I got off the fucking career track because I couldn’t put up with the bullshit in the five-sided wind tunnel. Glad you could.”
“You think you’re making a difference?”
“I know I am.”
“At what cost? You’ve become an executioner.”
Weed shook his head. “Ha, and you aren’t? How about that truck you turned into Swiss cheese in Iraq? You didn’t give them a chance.”
Knowing Weed was right, Wilson didn’t have an answer.
“I thought so, Mister Holier-Than-Thou. You don’t want a fair fight. None of us do. The cartels don’t fight fair with uniforms and set-piece movements, but they’re fighting us and winning! How old is Derrick now? Ten? Eleven? Given the chance, they are going to poison him. And you are going to let them do that to your son because you follow fucked-up rules generated by lawyers. They don’t.”
“Are we a country of laws or not?” Wilson asked.
“Yes, and I am following them! Just because the news networks aren’t here doesn’t change that. You live by need-to-know, and they don’t need to fucking know! Hell yeah I’m following orders, valid orders delivered by National Command Authority, reviewed and blessed by the damn lawyers. You’re pissed because you’re missing out on the fun. Well, you’re the CO with a formal photo, twelve-piece band at your change of command, following your orders and tasking, a bright future in uniform ahead of you… you earned it so be happy with that. I’m happy with my lot…making a difference and protecting our kids.”
“You could have been a CO,” said Wilson.
Weed looked at him with a blank expression. “What makes you think that I’m not?”
Part II
Beloved: Where do the wars and where do the conflicts among you come from? Is it not from your passions that make war within your members? You covet but do not possess. You kill and envy but you cannot obtain; you fight and wage war.
CHAPTER 23
From 10,000 feet, Trench checked the time. He had almost 40 minutes to screw around.
His Hornet, 302, had needed a routine post-maintenance check flight for a new right trailing edge flap actuator. After Trench had “wrung it out,” he was satisfied the sailors in the airframe and aviation electronics shops had done their jobs well, as usual. He was now alone, 50 miles south of the ship, on yet another gorgeous blue day in the Caribbean. Chances were he could find a sailboat down there hoping for an impromptu air show. Trench was the perfect guy to deliver.
His radar was showing several blips to the southwest, and he reduced power to near idle to conserve his fuel so he could show off later. In an easy turn, the midafternoon sun moved left to right across the top of his canopy bow, and he opened the distance between him and Mother.
Alone — and free! Only the single-seat Hornet pilots could really be away from others at moments like this, free to roam over the open ocean in silence, alone with their thoughts. Away, even, from wingmen in formation, away from the ship controllers, airspace controllers, the CO and XO. Away from ball-busting Macho and all the crap back there aboard Coral Maru.
Yes, Macho, Little-Miss-Can’t-Be-Wrong… ugly freakin’ bitch. She was the reason for the come-around with the XO. Screw them, he thought. For an hour or so, away from the ship and the regimented military control of it, he could be free in his single-seat rocket ship. Want to whip the stick hard left and do an aileron roll? Go ahead. Want to cloud surf, rolling and pulling the jet along the nooks and fissures of the brilliant cumulus buildups that dotted the sea all around? Why not? The weather was perfect and such opportunities didn’t happen every day.
In another ingrained habit, he kept his head moving to search for other airwing jets around him. They were also free to roam and goof off in this beautiful tropical playground before the ship summoned them home. Running into each other would ruin everyone’s day.
He rolled out due south in a shallow dive, headed for a small canyon of cloud, an opening like that between the thumb and hand of a mitten. The cloud formation reminded him of Michigan and his home, Bay City, at the base of Saginaw Bay. Nothing for him there anymore, not that there ever was. His jag-off high school friends were going to drink 12-packs of Pabst from the back of their pickup trucks until the day they died. They were already dead with their bitchy, ball-and-chain wives and rat-tailed kids who spilled cereal everywhere. He was flying through, and past, Saginaw Bay, the scuffed rust-belt patina of his youth, which in his mind was washed away in the radiant whiteness of the clouds here, or the Med, or the Indian Ocean. Lieutenant James was free — and powerful—flying a high-performance jet with firepower at his fingertips they could only imagine. He had used it, too, in Afghanistan last cruise, strafing a mortar position to the cheers of the Marines on the radio. Angel of death. Agent of deliverance. An officer and a gentleman when it suited him. And God’s gift when….