He couldn’t help thinking of his Navy career. He used to wonder whether to retire in twenty years as a Captain, or in thirty years as an Admiral. Now he thought of his Navy career in terms of hours, or maybe minutes.
He felt the helicopter settle slowly onto the flight deck. He thought of the strike planning ahead, of the two carrier battle groups working together. Whatever came of his first adventure into Lebanon, this was invigorating. This was how it should be done. He almost smiled as he thought of his congressman’s speech asking for a declaration of war. Exactly what Woods had thought he should do. If it had been done a little earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have gone into Lebanon on the Israeli raid. Maybe the State Department guy and the Navy attaché and that Squadron Commander and the Officer of the Mess would still be alive. Maybe the Sheikh would already be dead. Never know now, Woods thought.
Their helicopter was the last one to arrive at the conference. They went quickly through the hatch into the island of the Eisenhower and down the passageway. Even though none of them had ever set foot on the Eisenhower they knew the way perfectly — it was identical to the Washington, both Nimitz-class carriers. They climbed quickly down the ladders to the wardroom on the second deck. It was set up for a presentation with an overhead projector, computer projector, charts, and a lectern with a microphone.
Woods and Big moved toward the rear of the large wardroom and sat down with other junior officers. Wink and Sedge followed Big and Woods. Bark went forward and sat at the table reserved for the Squadron Commanding Officers.
The excited conversations of aviators from both Air Wings filled the room with a buzz. They had been selected by their squadrons to be involved in the planning of the strikes. The best minds in the squadrons. The most experienced. Almost all were graduates of Topgun, or Strike University, where strike warfare and air combat were taught in the deserts of Nevada by Navy instructors.
The aviators, or Airedales as they were called in the Navy by nonfliers, were ready to go. They just wanted to know what the targets were. Not that they cared. Knowing that they were going after the terrorist who had taken it upon himself to attack Americans and kill their fellow Naval officers was enough for them. Each person in the wardroom thought declaring war against an individual was one of the greatest ideas they had ever heard of. No more dark, covert operations. This was using sharpened military instruments as they were intended to be used. The Navy pilots felt as if they had been asked to a prom.
The ship’s messmen had set up food in the wardroom. There were several stations, like salad bars. Many of the officers grabbed trays and went through the lines.
“Hey! Trey!” an officer called as Big, Sedge, Wink, and Woods made their way to the back of the line.
Woods looked around. It was Terrell Bond, a friend of his from flight training, who was now an F-18 pilot on the Dwight D. Eisenhower. “Tear! What’s happening?” he said, extending his hand.
“How’d you get stuck with this job?” Bond asked.
“Yeah, stuck. I begged for this. Our big chance to go after this Sheikh guy.” Woods introduced his squadron mates.
“Hi,” Tear said.
“How’s it going?” Big asked. “How’d you meet Woods? You guys in the brig together?”
Bond laughed. He was tall and good-looking with a perfect smile. His dark black skin looked like obsidian. “Seems like it. We were at Meridian together.” Meridian was the Navy jet training base in Mississippi.
Big replied, “At least you didn’t get stuck with him in the same squadron. I don’t know how I’m ever going to get rid of him.”
Tear looked at Woods. “It’ll be nice to turn this Sheikh into dust, but you already had the chance, didn’t you?”
Woods frowned. “Huh?”
“That foray into Lebanon that everybody in the world is talking about. Wasn’t that you?”
“Where’d you hear that?” Woods asked, chilled.
“Hell, it’s all over the fleet. I think one or two of our guys are in e-mail contact with your girlfriend.”
“Hey, bite me,” Woods replied.
“So,” Tear pushed. “How was it? You going to get your picture on the wall at Topgun for four kills?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, okay. Cool. One day?”
“If there were anything to tell you about, I would be happy to tell you about it. One day.”
“I hear you. Let’s hurry through this food shit so this killex can get started.” Killex, short for “killing exercise,” Navy lingo for an event. A screwed-up event is a flailex. A bombing exercise is a bombex. Waiting too long is a sitex.
They finished putting food on their plates and worked their way through the salad and sandwich bars. They nodded at other officers they knew, some well, some just as acquaintances. Navy Air was a big family, but a family nonetheless.
As they walked with their trays, Big said quietly, “Shit, Trey. Everybody knows.”
“Don’t say a word, Big. If we let on, even hint at it, we’re dead,” Woods admonished.
“They know!” Big said.
“Cool it. Don’t panic. They can smell panic.”
They took their food to a table closer to the front, where Tear had been sitting with four officers from his squadron. They set their trays down and sat facing the front of the wardroom. Tear addressed his buddies. “Guys, this is Sean Woods — we were at Meridian together — and some other guys from his squadron, Big McMack, Sedge, Wink.” The pilots greeted each other and Tear introduced the officers from the Eisenhower. “This is Dale Hoffer, known here as Dull, Stilt Wilkins, and Ted Lautter.”
They all shook hands, each checking out the other for patches, rank, and pecking order.
They discussed who was where in the fleet and who was going to what job ashore in the next year as they downed their food. Woods watched a Captain he didn’t know approach the podium. “Who’s the 0–6?” he asked.
“Our CAG. Bill Redmond, or Red Man as he is known.”
“I’ve heard of him. He’s legendary. F-18 guy. Didn’t he bag a MiG-29 over Yugoslavia?”
“That’s the one.”
“Good guy?”
Tear shrugged. “Typical Captain. More interested in making Admiral than making us safe, or even getting to know us. Kind of an asshole. Rep in his squadron was that he was a screamer.”
“Hold on,” Woods interrupted. “Here we go.”
The overhead lights dimmed as Captain Redmond looked out over the audience and waited for complete silence. Between the two Air Wing Commanders, he had been picked to lead the strike planning effort because of the primary criteria in the Navy for deciding who is best qualified. His lineal number. His name was higher on the captain’s list than the Air Wing Commander from the Washington. So he was in charge, and the brief took place on his carrier. No one thought anything of it. That was always the way it was done. Admiral Sweat, who was truly in charge, wanted to go to the Eisenhower anyway. The Captain of the ship was his former Chief of Staff.
Red Man reviewed his notes and began his presentation. Very tall, he was thin, almost bony, with square shoulders, a large head, and graying blond hair. “Good morning,” Redmond said. “For those of you who don’t know me my name is Bill Redmond. I’m the Commander of Air Wing Seven. I want to welcome those of you who came over from the Washington strike team and from Air Wing Seventeen. I’m not sure we had to do it this way, but I’m glad we did. We need to make sure we’re all operating off the same sheet of music so we can support each other and not run into each other at the wrong time. There’s already enough room to screw this up and I don’t want that to happen because we don’t understand each other.”