“C’mon, man. Let’s go to the ready room and help Dutch write up the follow-on message. Then we can go to midrats and get a slider.”
Wilson lifted himself up in the chair and exhaled. “Those things can kill you, ya know.”
“Yep, but since we are surrounded by machinery, tons of ordnance and jet fuel below us, teenagers everywhere, homicidal maniac XOs, the raging sea outside and hostile countries over the horizon, I’ll take my chances. And I’ll have mine with cheese.”
“You forgot the nuclear water we drink.”
“Which makes great bug juice and mixes well with scotch… or so I’m told.”
CHAPTER 16
Riiinnnngggg.
Wilson jerked his head up from the pillow and stumbled toward the phone. He glanced at the LED digits of his clock: 7:12. He had been asleep five hours. Light from the passageway filtered into the stateroom from under the door and through a grate on the bulkhead.
He cleared his throat and picked up the receiver. “Lieutenant Commander Wilson, sir.”
“Flip, Nicky at the duty desk… XO just called an APM.”
Wilson stood motionless as he let the message sink in. An APM? Called by the XO?
“Flip,” Nicky continued, “it’s for zero-seven-thirty.”
Wilson exhaled. “Roger, we’re on our way,” he said and hung up the phone. “Get up… APM,” he said to his roommate in a frustrated undertone.
Weed groaned into his pillow, but he began to stir. “What the fuck?”
“XO called an APM. Fifteen minutes.”
The Maintenance Officer tossed his covers off and rolled his body over the bunk. He braced himself with one foot on the frame of the lower bunk and eased to the floor in one familiar motion. Wilson turned on the water and filled the sink to shave.
“Any idea what this is about?” Weed asked.
“No… and the CO’s not here. Not good.”
“When are they coming back?” Weed asked as he put on a fresh, black squadron t-shirt.
“Around 1500,” Wilson said as he lathered. “Just one recovery today for the Thumrait birds. Then a RAS.”
“So, with Cajun gone, the XO can play Skipper for a day.” Weed pulled on his flight suit.
“Yep… not good.”
At a hurried pace, the two pilots finished dressing, laced their boots and brushed their teeth. Wilson quickly checked his e-mail and saw a note from Mary. It would have to wait.
With only five minutes to go before the meeting, they headed toward the ready room. Most of that time was spent navigating 700 feet of ladders, passageways, hatches, and knee-knockers. They ascended a ladder in quick steps, pulling themselves up with their arms. At the top, they swung their legs into the passageway and darted left, crouching low under the Cat 2 track, and then onto the portside O-3 level “main drag” passageway.
Wilson acknowledged passing sailors with a nod and reflexively lifted his boots high over the knee-knockers. He was lost in his thoughts, and his thoughts were gloomy. Why is the XO calling an APM? And why now, rousting everyone with only 20 minutes notice?
Aviators, who were night owls by nature, ignored reveille and rarely went to breakfast. Their days were, therefore, skewed between a midmorning wake-up to a bedtime where they hit the rack long after midnight. These 16- to 17-hour days included one hop, maybe two (with hours of briefs and debriefs), all manner of meetings, assigned duties, and myriad admin functions relating to the pilot’s “ground job.” For Wilson, this meant a late night every night as he and Nttty, the Schedules Officer, wrote and refined the flight schedule for the following day. Although they could also find time for movies, exercise, video games, and e-mail home, everyone was always at and available for “work.”
Wilson continued aft as the ship swayed back and forth on the swells. It was rare for an XO to call an All Pilots Meeting. The overall squadron leadership of pilots and flight policy was the unquestioned province of the Skipper, while the XO was charged with admin duties relating to personnel and work spaces. Depending on his message, what Saint is doing — with the CO off the ship and after the night the squadron just experienced — could be insubordinate. And, with the hours we keep, such short notice certainly shows contempt toward us, he thought.
Wilson recalled the first time he had met Saint, last year at the O-Club while Saint was still in refresher training. Cajun had introduced them. Without making eye contact with Wilson, Saint had given him a tight-lipped, perfunctory nod and a quick handshake. Saint then took a sip of beer and turned his attention back to Cajun. Wilson received the message loud and clear: You are an underling, nothing more. Since that meeting, Wilson had found that Saint’s ignoring him had not been personal. Commander Patrick treated the whole squadron that way.
Weed and Wilson got to the ready room with three minutes to spare. Wilson was surprised to hear music blaring from the stereo. The bleary-eyed JOs were either seated or getting a cup of coffee, and all but Nicky were in flight suits. Bubbly Psycho bebopped between the chairs, mouthing the words to the song: “Shake it like a po-la-roid pic-cha.”
Wilson poured a cup and strode up the aisle to his chair in the front row. “Anything from the beach?” he asked Nicky.
“No, sir, but both jets reported safe-on-deck last night.”
Wilson glanced at the status board; LASSITER and TEEL were the only Raven sorties listed, their mission a fly-on at 1500.
As the 1MC sounded the first of seven bells signifying 0730, the XO walked in. He entered from the front door that connected to Maintenance Control. Dressed in his khaki uniform with full ribbons, he placed his notebook inside his footstool and turned to Nicky. “Turn that shit off. What if CAG comes in?”
“Yes, sir!” Nicky wheeled in his chair to comply. As the ready room became quiet, the remaining pilots started to move to their seats. Wilson spotted Sponge Bob as he entered from the back door and took the seat nearest to the door. It was obvious he did not want to call attention to himself. He was also dressed in khakis and stoically acknowledged the nods and smiles many of his squadronmates sent his way.
Saint looked at Wilson and bulged his eyes to convey his impatience to start. Wilson turned to the group and said, “Okay guys, attention to APM. Take your seats.” Wilson took stock of the room as he returned to his own seat. Satisfied, he faced forward, but sensed the XO was looking at him.
Wilson met his eyes, and Saint asked, “Do you have anything to pass on the schedule?”
“No, sir.”
Saint exhaled in apparent disgust and took the floor. He stood directly on top of the Raven emblem embedded in the deck tile, an act that violated an unwritten squadron rule.
“All right… I’ve called you here because we had a mishap last night, preventable like most mishaps are. I realize the CO is off the ship, but we have to talk about this now, while it’s fresh in our minds. We may not get another opportunity before transiting Hormuz. People, we are America’s first team right now. Next week we will be in combat over Iraq, and, in my view, it is likely we’ll be involved in combat with Iran at some time during this deployment. Pakistan is also heating up, as is Afghanistan — which we will probably see at some point during the cruise. We have got to be prepared for any contingency, and we must know the procedures for any tasking in the CENTCOM Area of Responsibility.”
Combat with Iran? Wilson thought and dismissed the XO’s dramatics.
All eyes were on Saint as he continued. “Last night VFA-64 lost a significant portion of the combat power we took with us from Norfolk, provided and entrusted to us by the taxpayers. Four-oh-six is a class Alpha mishap that may never fly again, but it was not shot down and it delivered nothing against the enemies of freedom. Right now, it just clutters up Hangar Bay 3, and it will become a daily reminder to CAG that the Ravens weren’t ready when it counted.”