Commander Barnett didn’t even acknowledge his departure, having already buried himself back in the message traffic on the metal board. He flipped one after another, initialing each message in the red ink only he used.
Woods wandered to the back of the ready room to the briefing area. It had charts of the Mediterranean on sliding boards next to the greenie board — where the landing grades of all pilots were kept in full view. There was an additional television for the closed circuit briefs from the carrier’s intelligence center. Wink and Vialli were already there, as was the RIO with whom Vialli flew, Lieutenant Jack Sedgwick, known simply as Sedge. Wink’s eyes began their characteristic exaggerated blinking, which had given him his name. No one in the squadron even noticed anymore. No one ever called him by his name, Kyle Martin. As a senior lieutenant, on his second squadron tour like Woods, he commanded a lot of respect, especially because he was regarded as the best RIO in the squadron. As the mission commander, Wink had arrived at the brief early and was prepared. The spare crew was there too in case Woods’s or Vialli’s plane broke and there was time to launch a replacement. They didn’t want a scheduled sortie to go unfilled. Bark would rather die.
The television jumped to life at exactly 0815. The Washington had gotten underway at first light and was now well out of sight of Italy. The Ensign on the screen, the Intelligence Officer from VFA-81, one of the F/A-18 squadrons, showed the ship’s position on the chart.
Woods resisted sitting down to listen to the brief. He saw the new Ensign standing behind the briefing area looking lost. Woods walked past the enormous steel and leather chairs to the large coffee urn. Removing his cup from the pegboard, he filled it with coffee. On the television the brief continued uninterrupted. Woods watched out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re the new guy,” he said.
“Yes, sir. Ensign Charlene Pritchard,” she answered, extending her hand to Woods, checking him out. She had already heard about him and saw that his looks matched what she had heard. He was about six one, and had very dark brown hair, short but still unruly somehow. She was sure he wanted it to look that way. His eyes were an intense, dark gray and she noticed a faded hole in his ear from where it had been pierced.
“You don’t have to call me sir, really,” Woods said, shaking her hand. “I know you’re supposed to, but we tend to ignore a lot of that kind of stuff around here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He continued, not noticing. “Your name’s Charlene?” She was of average height and thin, and had the curse of looking five years younger than she was. Her brown hair was in a French braid and her face had a clean, freshly scrubbed look to it. She carried herself with a confidence that Woods didn’t expect in someone without wings.
“Yes, sir.”
“That won’t work.”
“What?”
“The name.”
“Won’t work for what?”
“For being in a fighter squadron. Can’t go around with a name like Charlene. You’ve got to have a call sign.”
She couldn’t tell if he was pulling her leg or not. She thought only aviators got call signs. “Why doesn’t it work?”
“Not strong enough.”
“You mean masculine enough?”
Her comment surprised him. “Did I say masculine?”
“Not in so many words—”
“Right. I said strong enough.”
“It has always worked for me. What woman’s name is strong enough?” she asked pointedly.
Woods thought for a moment. “I don’t know, maybe… Ethel. Or Betty. Something like that. Not Charlene. That won’t do at all,” Woods said. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”
“Right.” She drew some coffee from the urn into her Styrofoam cup. An idea occurred to her, a way to head off the problem. “A lot of people have called me Charlie in the past.”
He studied her with a glint in his eyes. “No, Charlie doesn’t work either. Too…” He struggled for the right word. “… Masculine.” He looked at her again. “We’ll just go with your name.”
“Charlene?” she said, pleased.
“No, your last name.”
“Pritchard?”
“Part of it. Pritch. I think that will work.”
“It rhymes with—”
“Niche. Exactly. Which is what you have here — intelligence. By the way, you need to get a squadron cup. Can’t drink out of Styrofoam. Bad for the environment.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. She looked more closely at him. “Did you used to have your ear pierced?”
“What?” he asked.
“High school, I’d bet?”
“When I was young and impetuous.”
“You still wear an earring on liberty?”
“You gotta be kidding me,” he replied.
“Do you think we’ll be able to go to Israel?”
“Already worried about port calls?”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Israel.”
“Never been?”
“No. Have you?”
He drank from the heavy white porcelain cup that had the Jolly Rogers insignia on it — the skull and crossbones — and gold pilot wings and his call sign, “Trey,” on the other side. “Once. Another cruise. I don’t know if they’ll still let us go. Last time we went, there was a terrorist bomb in Jerusalem. They delayed our visit by a month, but we went. We may be far enough out that the Gaza thing won’t matter at all. Plus it wasn’t really in Israel. I think we’ll be okay.” He looked at the Intelligence Officer on the television completing his section of the brief. “Why don’t you join us in the brief so you can see how it’s done?”
“Thanks,” she said as they walked slowly toward the chairs. She leaned over to Woods. “Who’s the other pilot there?”
“Boomer. Tony Vialli.”
“Why do they call him that?”
Woods put his finger to his lips so he could hear the weather portion of the brief, then turned toward Pritchard. “Came into the break at the ship supersonic once. He was late. Busted a window on the bridge. That’s the kind of thing you don’t live down.”
“Why do they call you Trey?”
“When I CQ’d in F-14s, I got all three wires.”
“What’s CQ?”
Woods tried not to roll his eyes. “Carrier quals. Landing on the carrier to qualify in that airplane.”
“What are three wires?”
“Later,” he said, listening to the television suddenly. He started writing information down on a five-by-eight card.
“What kind of flight are you going to do?”
Woods looked at Pritchard with an expression of curiosity, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him, and then shrugged. “Don’t know. Wink’ll take care of it. I’m just driving. He’s the mission commander.” He paused. “Have you done your squadron check-in card yet?”
“Just started.”
“Don’t forget to get Lieutenant Curly Crumpacker’s signature.”
“Who’s he?”
“Lots of hats. RIO to the Air Wing Commander, Squadron Morale Officer, F-14 Simulator Officer, lots of things.”
“I’ll get him.”
Woods nodded and sat down. He looked across at Vialli and said quietly, “Did you hear from her?”
Vialli smiled and nodded. “E-mail. Confirmed she’ll be there in Venice.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone with her for even a minute.”
“She’s interested.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Boomer got up to fill his coffee cup. “Hey,” he said to Pritchard.
“Hi,” she replied.
When he returned, she asked, “You know where Lieutenant Crumpacker might be?”
“Huh?” he said. “Trey tell you to find him?”
“Yes, sir.”