In the darkness, he was surprised by a tear that escaped his left eye and dampened the pillow.
CHAPTER 35
“Flip, XO wants to see you in his stateroom.”
Wilson looked up at Olive. She waited behind the duty desk, her face as expressionless as usual, for his acknowledgement. “Thanks. Did he say what it’s about?” Wilson asked.
“No, sir.”
Wilson placed the message board on his chair and walked to the sink with his coffee cup. He gave it a quick rinse it and hung it on the wooden peg above the sink that said “OPSO.” In place, the cup blended in with all the others emblazoned with Raven logos and individual call signs.
Stepping out of the ready room and into the starboard passageway, he strode toward the XO’s stateroom up forward. He made his way, as if on autopilot, past the knee-knockers and through the sailors inspecting damage control gear, his mind trying to figure out what the XO wanted. Halfway there he realized it was pointless.
Commander Patrick’s stateroom was aft of the Cat 1 jet blast deflector on the starboard side. Next to him was the stateroom of the Spartan’s XO. Commanders bunked alone in individual staterooms on the O-3 level, but Wilson disliked this part of the ship. The XOs lived on a very public passageway and right under the deafening catapult. During launch operations, conversation in the staterooms was impossible. Quiet is a relative term on a carrier, of course, but he liked his O-2 level quarters. He would certainly miss them if he stayed in and was promoted to squadron command.
Unlike other squadron stateroom doors, the XO’s door was bare — except for a placard that read KNOCK TWICE THEN ENTER. Wilson rapped twice, paused, and opened the door. He stepped inside and said, “Yes, sir.”
Saint sat sideways at his desk, scribbling in an open notebook on his lap. He wore his usual khaki uniform with full ribbons, the only officer aboard to do so. Without looking up, he motioned to the couch and said, “Mister Wilson, good morning. Please have a seat.” Wilson did as he was told and took a place in the middle of the couch with both feet on the floor, hands folded.
Saint pored over the notebook and said nothing, his familiar and unnerving tactic. Wilson looked around the room for anything new, any window into the soul of his executive officer. The room was not only immaculate, but devoid of personal effects, as if he had just moved in yesterday. The television displayed the Ship’s Inertial Navigation System (SINS) screen, a series of numbers showing the ship’s position, course and speed. His desk held nothing but a plain coffee cup that stored pens and pencils. On a hook near the sink hung the XO’s blue bathrobe, emblazoned with a gold naval academy crest. The robe was the only item of sentiment Wilson could find.
“Mister Wilson, I’m looking at the Navy Relief Society contributions by department. The Administrative and Safety Departments are at 100 percent, Maintenance is 77 percent, and the Operations Department is 50 percent. The squadron goal I set last fall was 100 percent for all departments. Do you recall my discussion on this at an AOM?” The XO’s voice was calm and measured.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why is the Operations Department so deficient in meeting this squadron goal?” For the first time Saint lifted his eyes to look directly at Wilson. He waited for an answer.
Wilson kept his eyes on his executive officer. “Sir, may I ask who has not contributed yet?” He regretted adding the word yet.
“Certainly, and I like your modifier ‘yet.’ Let’s see… Airman Ayala and Petty Officer First Class Johnson. Your other two sailors made modest contributions.”
He once again waited for Wilson to answer.
“I have no excuses, sir. I will ask Ayala and YN1 Johnson about it.”
“Very well… I look forward to your answer after lunch.” Saint made a mark on the notebook spreadsheet.
“Sir, Ayala is on night check and doesn’t report ‘til 1830. I’ll…”
Saint jerked his head up, eyes wide under his thin eyebrows. With his mouth slightly open, he held Wilson’s gaze for several seconds. “I look forward… to your answer after lunch,” he responded with a cold stare, struggling to keep his fury in check.
“Yes, sir,” Wilson said meekly, his eyes locked on Saint.
“Very well,” Saint replied, the fire gone from his face as fast as it had appeared. Drawing a deep breath, he then launched into a new subject.
“You are leaving the squadron soon. Why don’t you have orders?”
“I’m still working with the detailer, sir.”
“What does he tell you?” Saint asked, with a hint of a smile.
“Washington, War College, Joint staff duty — the usual career path.” Wilson lowered his defenses a bit.
“The CO tells me you are dragging your heels. What do you want?”
Wilson realized his answer had to be the truth.
“I’d like to stay in the Norfolk area. My family needs a break.”
“Yes, the family. Isn’t it always so… You have four kids?”
“Two, sir.”
“Two. Are they young?”
“They are,” Wilson responded, his defenses going back up. To know the answers to these questions, Saint only needed to take a basic interest in his people.
Saint looked off at the bulkhead in thought. He turned back to Wilson. “Are you going to resign?”
Wilson fought to remain calm. “No, sir.” The answer was technically true, but he had been giving the idea a lot of thought lately.
“Mr. Wilson, despite your many years of service and family sacrifice, the Navy needs fine young black officers like you to stay for a career.”
So there it is, thought Wilson, Saint’s motivation for this talk. Officer retention figures, especially minority officer retention figures, drew great scrutiny in Washington. Wilson saw right through it… Saint doesn’t care about me as a person. I am just one of his statistics. Can’t have a minority officer resign under his watch.
“XO, does the Navy want me, an officer who happens to be black, to command a squadron, or an air wing… or a ship?”
Saint hesitated for a second and looked down, then recovered. “Yes, of course, but you won’t get there if you continue to underperform or if you fail to meet established squadron goals. You can’t do that to get to the next level. In addition, you must obtain every possible qualification. There are lots of officers with records like yours who didn’t screen for command last year. You can’t just coast along, depending on…”
“On what, sir?” Wilson asked, feigning ignorance.
Saint knew he was losing control. “To screen these days you have to go the extra yard.”
“XO, I have every qualification available to me in this squadron — from functional check flight pilot to Strike Fighter Tactics Instructor. In fact, I have more qualifications than you and the CO, sir. There’s no syllabus training hop I can’t instruct, much less fly. What further qualifications do I lack?”
“We’ve established that your ground job performance needs significant improvement, that you are not meeting squadron goals.” Saint was beginning to lose his temper.
“Yes, sir, I’ve not met the personal goal you set for the squadron, and I’ll address that by encouraging my sailors to contribute something. I will do everything short of compelling them to contribute to the Navy Relief Society. Will do, sir. But I would still like to know…. Is there a Navy-wide performance standard I’m not meeting? One that directly affects the combat readiness of this deployed strike fighter squadron?”
“Mr. Wilson, I will remind you to watch your tone.”