Wilson routinely used this personal preflight ritual to visualize his success in every phase of the flight; it had become part of his habit pattern. The Raven pilots knew not to disturb Flip prior to launch whenever he got into his “zone.”
Wilson looked at his watch. Ten minutes to walk time. He went up to the duty desk and was the first to pick up a personal sidearm, a clip, and a “blood-chit” guarantee from the United States Government. Written in dozens of languages, it offered a reward if this pilot — Wilson — was returned safely to friendly forces. He also signed for a pair of night vision goggles.
Ensign Anita Jackson, one of the maintenance “ground pounders” was at the duty desk and offered him a log and a pen to sign for the items. A former airframe chief who came up from the deckplates, Jackson was soft-spoken and sweet in demeanor, but could be a ball of fire if pushed.
She smiled at Wilson as he finished signing his name. “Kick their ass, sir,” she whispered so only he could hear.
Wilson smiled and said, “Will do, Anita.”
He then stepped outside into a passageway that ran along maintenance control and picked up the book for Raven 403, the aircraft with his name stenciled on the side. He reviewed the aircraft discrepancies, or gripes, and the actions taken over the last several flights, but 403 was a familiar bird and a good flyer. While reviewing the book, he sensed the maintenance master chief and Ted Randall, both in their green flight deck jerseys, were watching him with interest. He glanced up at Ted and back to the book.
“Any problem, OPSO?” Ted asked.
“Nope, looks great, Ted. As usual!” Wilson replied with a smile.
He returned the book to a young female airman who took it with a look of concern in her eyes. Wilson smiled at her, understanding and appreciating her unease. He realized she did not know what the pilots would do tonight or the threats they would face. She just knew it was serious and hoped that Lieutenant Commander Wilson and all the pilots would return in three hours.
As Wilson grabbed his helmet bag, a burly chief slapped him on the back and said, “Blow ‘em away, sir.”
“We will, Chief,” responded Wilson.
He grasped, in that instant, that it was here, and in squadron spaces throughout the ship, where personnel showed their appreciation for the human risks their pilots were taking. Such moments also allowed them, through their comments to pilots like Wilson, to strike a vicarious blow against the enemy. He knew he was representing them, and could not let them down.
CHAPTER 56
Wilson entered the ready room and noted that the skipper, Olive, and Dutch were at the duty desk signing for their gear. He walked through the room and stepped into the passageway where he saw Gunner Humphries coming into the ready room from the flight deck.
“Hey, Gunner, all loaded up there?”
“Yep, which one are you?”
“Four-oh-three.”
“Four-oh-three… Yeah, you’re on the bow, one row.”
“Great, thanks.” Wilson turned toward the paraloft to suit up. Before he could walk away, the gunner stopped him. “Wait, I’ve got a joke for you.”
Wilson stopped and chuckled. “Go ahead.”
Humphries was in his element. “What’s the fastest thing known to man?”
“What?”
“The water that shoots up your ass after you take a shit. What’s the second fastest thing known to man?”
Still chuckling, Wilson took the bait. “What?”
“Your asshole when it slams shut to catch it,” he replied with an expectant look, suppressing a grin.
Wilson smiled and laughed, shaking his head at the absurdity of Gunner’s joke. With his years of experience, Gunner knew how to keep pilots calm.
“Have a good one, OPSO. Hit ‘em hard,” he added with a knowing smile and a squeeze to Wilson’s arm.
“Thanks, Gunner, will do.” Wilson replied as he turned for the paraloft, still smiling and shaking his head.
Wilson entered the paraloft, or “PR shop,” and greeted Petty Officer Zembower, the shop supervisor. Pulling the first item of flight gear from his hook, Wilson donned it in his same superstitious manner: g-suit around the waist, zip it up, followed by right leg, then left. The butterflies returned as he anticipated what lay ahead, not the least of which was a night cat shot. Cajun, Olive and Dutch entered together and went to their own hooks from which their flight gear hung.
Cajun, apparently, was also thinking about the dark night. “Flip, when did he say the moon was coming up?”
“About 2330 or thereabouts, sir. Just in time for the recovery.”
“It’s actually 2334, Skipper,” Dutch chimed in.
Cajun looked at Dutch. “Next thing you’re gonna tell me is the percent illumination, aren’t you?”
“Actually, sir…”
“Yeah, I know you know, Dutch!” Cajun replied, feigning mock disgust. “JOs know these things, like days between duty, so you guys can wheedle your way out of it with some BS excuse. Seniority among JOs is like virtue among whores.”
Wilson and the others smiled at the CO’s rambling. After a few moments Cajun looked at Olive. “Do you know the illumination?”
“Yes, sir, 72 percent,” she answered with a smug smile, working her straps.
Vindicated, Dutch puffed out his chest. “See sir, the JOs have you covered!”
The aviators were all aware of Petty Officer Zembower on the bench, polishing a helmet visor and enjoying the pilot’s banter without appearing too interested.
Cajun shook his head. “All right then, Dutch, tell me this: Is the moon waxing or waning?”
“Ah, sir, so long as I have a night light for the trap and know the percent illumination, even at only 72 percent, I’m good.”
“And you call yourself a naval officer,” Cajun replied in retort as he worked his g-suit zippers, shaking his head. While the skipper was pulling Dutch’s chain, Wilson knew he was halfway serious.
The four aviators finished dressing in silence as their thoughts returned to the bow catapults, or Bandar Abbas, or the recovery. On the PLAT Wilson noticed an E-2 hooking up to Cat 3, the deep hum of the Hawkeye engines reverberating as background noise in the shop.
Wilson was the first one done, and as he stepped to the door, Cajun raised his voice. “Good hunting up there, OPSO.”
“You too, Skipper. See you guys out there,” Wilson replied.
He noticed that Zembower looked up at him as he walked past to the door. “Have a good flight, sir,” he said with a smile.
“Will do, PR1. Thanks,” Wilson answered and exited the space with a confident grin.
Wilson stepped into the starboard passageway and began his familiar trek to the bow, trudging over knee-knockers and through open hatches to the “point” area of the flight deck some 700 feet away. I wonder if they’re going to turn this off, Wilson thought, imagining the mixture of disappointment and relief he would feel should Washington decide not to launch the operation.
While lost in his thoughts, a sailor traveling aft passed him and muttered, “Good flight, sir.”
Startled for a moment, Wilson turned and responded, “Thanks!” The nameless sailor was one of hundreds of teenagers aboard.
When he had almost reached the wardroom, he turned outboard, passed underneath the Catapult 1 trough, and stopped in front of a hatch leading to the catwalk. He lowered his visor and pulled his gooseneck flashlight from his survival vest. Opening the door, he stepped into a black vestibule and flicked on the flashlight. His watch read 2110. Fifty minutes to go. Wilson reached down and grasped the bar to undog the hatch, and yanked it up.