With his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands folded on his lap, Wilson sat alone in the stateroom to escape, for a moment, the pressure-filled aftermath of the barricade. Cajun and Olive had diverted with most of the older Hornets to Thumrait to be out of the way while the crash crew removed 406 from the angle and swept the deck for debris. Making the deck ready for recovery took almost an hour, and Wilson was surprised that the ship then recovered the remainder of those airborne, the Rhinos and big-wing aircraft. At least the deck had settled down and the wind had subsided.
Valley Forge had lucked out. A busted Hornet and a bunch of jets on the beach was a small price to pay for the decision to fly tonight. And it was a foregone conclusion that the Captain was going to recover what he could after clearing off the deck. The conditions had improved and everyone got aboard with no fodded engines — as far as he knew.
As he watched the Hummer fold its wings and taxi to its parking spot abeam the island, Wilson realized the night’s ordeal was basically over. But for Wilson, it was just beginning.
And everyone’s okay. Nerves may be shot, but everyone has all their fingers and toes, and we’re all breathing. Amazing. Wilson tilted his head back and yawned as he fought the urge to crawl into his rack and forget this night had even happened. This is going to be a long deployment.
The squadron, VFA-64, however, was not okay. Sponge’s plane, 406 was likely down for the cruise, and might never fly again. Sponge Bob was in sick bay for who knew how long, and no one knew what kind of pilot would emerge when he was discharged. Would he bounce back, or would he lose the confidence the squadron had spent the past year building into him?
Word of Wilson’s exchange with the XO was, no doubt, a major topic right now at midnight rations, or midrats. Summarily relieved of CATCC watch. Wilson replayed the image of Saint’s face as he relieved him. His own face, as well as his ears, flushed with blood as he fought to contain the flood of emotions that spread through his whole body — a mixture of rage, humiliation, and fear for Sponge’s life.
Should I have gotten up and left? No, he thought. I did the right thing. Leaving CATCC — with the eyes of all those witnesses on him under the crushing silence of embarrassment — would have been an act of capitulation. It had been bad enough just sitting there. He knew that issue was also being dissected at midrats, and he could imagine the discourse. “Man, if it were me, I would have said, ‘I stand relieved,’ and shoved the book in his gut on the way out.” Wilson slouched low in his chair staring at the gray locker in front of him, lost in his thoughts. Can I get through the next five months?
The door opened and Weed entered. He had just returned from the flight deck where he had accompanied the Maintenance Master Chief and airframe mechanics to assess the damage to 406. The Air Department had placed it, slumped over as it was on one wing, out of the way on the starboard shelf. Still wearing his float-coat, Weed dropped his cranial on his chair and began to rummage through a drawer.
“Hey, man.”
“Hey,” Wilson replied. “What’s the verdict?”
“Class Alpha mishap, no question. Right motor is toast, right wingtip launcher all but torn off, leading and trailing edge flaps worn down, right wingfold mechanism AFU. Of course, the right main is shot and the nose gear probably stressed, and foam covers the aircraft, including everything inside the cockpit. Nothing a year in the depot can’t fix. And Station 8 is ground down with big divots in the deck. You seen Sponge?”
“Yeah, about 30 minutes ago in sick bay. A different Sponge—pissed like I’ve never seen him. They took him down there and made him remain on his back while they cut away his gear and flight suit. They then pronounced him fit to pee in the bottle and said they are going to keep him overnight.”
“Does he get a shot of medicinal brandy?” Weed said, as he continued digging through the drawer.
“Not sure if Doc goes for that.”
“You mean he’s a gin guy?” Weed found the package of AA batteries. “Well, the boys in the Ranch will hook him up before long.”
“Yeah,” Wilson mumbled, his stare steady on the locker as his thoughts returned to his role as Operations Officer. “All of Sponge’s gear is gone. Do the PRs have enough to outfit him?”
Weed placed the fresh batteries inside his utility flashlight. “I’m sure, between us and brand X, we can throw something together.”
“I want to fly him within 48 hours. Thinking tomorrow we can get the MIR and human factors investigations well underway.”
“Who’s gonna do the human factors board for the XO?”
Wilson shot a glance at Weed, then looked back to the locker.
“You okay, OPSO?”
“Yeah, just need to sulk for another 20 minutes.”
Weed looked at his exhausted and humiliated roommate. He knew what had happened in CATCC and knew Wilson knew that he knew. There were few secrets in the air wing, and a scene like what happened in CATCC tonight flew through the ship. He asked the question anyway to get Wilson to unload. “What happened?”
Wilson pursed his lips and said nothing.
“Just tell me, for crying out loud.”
Wilson opened his mouth but couldn’t vocalize anything. How does an experienced aviator like him, a prideful man like him talk about the disgrace, the shame of being relieved of CATCC watch? Finally, he was able to get it out.
“After Sponge nicked the top loading strap with fumes remaining, I’m thinking, ‘Fuck it! Punch out now — and live! Break the chain.’ I made a recommendation and Saint goes ballistic, adding no value.” Wilson felt like he was whining.
“I’da done the same.” Weed said.
“Well, better not, or you’ll be relieved, too.”
“Saint isn’t qualified to carry your helmet bag.”
Both pilots knew about Saint Patrick’s carrier bona fides. As a junior officer, he had made one deployment, and, as a department head, was in a squadron that had a long turnaround between deployments. Saint had rotated out before they went across the pond.
Weed shook his head and resumed, “Three hundred and ten career traps. Smoke has more than that. And XO has never been CATCC watch on cruise in his life, not even this cruise. Hey, why don’t you schedule him for one?”
Wilson allowed a faint smile. “Because I care about you guys.”
Unfazed, Weed continued. “Saint knows paperwork though! That’s the way to command. Admiral’s aide, staff weenie, War College, Pentagon Joint Staff. Punch tickets and visit a cockpit once in a while, a long while. Having the right last name helps, too.”
Wilson appreciated the comments of his indignant roommate. If he wouldn’t — or couldn’t — unburden himself, Weed would do it for him.
“And then a middle-management job as XO/CO… Let’s send Saint to the Ravens. They are due to be brutalized. I mean, how much damage can one incompetent commander do in one tour?”
“The horror, the horror.”
“Yep. Where do we get such men indeed?” Weed got up and clapped his hands to end the bull session. “Been to the ready room?”
“Uhhmm… to help Prince with the initial mishap report. XO made the call to Norfolk.”