by Brandon Webb
Goggled and green-jerseyed handlers rushed forward to chock and chain the beast. Monica knew them all by their gait and gestures, had each one’s physical signature memorized. Her crew’s lives depended on these guys.
WHAM! Another cat shot, and whoosh! another jet disappeared into the dark.
CRASH! Another 25-ton beast pounded into the deck.
Insanity.
Her big brother had told her that the contrast between below decks and above was like night and day. That didn’t even come close. Life below was like living in a steel ant colony. Up here, everything was a mass of exploding chaos—yellow-jerseyed “shooters” signaling jet launches with their elaborate ballet; white-shirted “paddles” feeding the incoming pilots chunks of complex data with a wave of their glowing light sticks; green-jerseyed Martians swarming everywhere, checking and double-checking every facet of the machinery before takeoff. The roar of jet blast as the next pilot rammed the throttle forward, sending a blaze of blistering exhaust back into concrete-and-steel blast deflectors raised on their servo motors just in time to catch the inferno. The air boss up in the tower, all-seeing, his amplified voice booming above the din, directing everything like a benevolent Eye of Sauron.
And that smell! That heady mix of diesel fumes, jet fuel, and salt air. Every time Monica stepped off the catwalk and out onto the deck it hit her again, like echoes of a first high school kiss. She couldn’t get enough of it. Wished she could bottle it.
Launching and landing these jets was the most dangerous job in the world—and it was up to Monica to provide the safety net. The Lincoln carried forty-eight fighter jets and just six helicopters, but the helos were always, always, the first to lift off and last to land in any launch cycle, circling the ship’s starboard side in three-hour shifts so there would always be at least one helo in the air with a rescue swimmer on board, suited up and ready to plunge into the drink in the event a plane went down.
Every helo squadron had its own motto. “One Team, One Scream.” “Train to Fight, Fight to Win.” “Our Sting Is Death.” All of which sounded to Monica more like they belonged to jet fighters. Not the Black Falcons, though. The day she’d been assigned to the Falcons and learned what their motto was, she’d felt immediately at home.
“That Others May Live.”
Their helo was coming in now, winding up its final loop, another already in the air to take its place. As it settled onto the port edge of the deck in front of them, Monica thought again how much the Knighthawk resembled a praying mantis with its big cockpit-window eyes.
In the seconds before takeoff, she always said a silent prayer herself.
She’d be damned if anyone else on this deployment lost their lives. Not on her watch.
3
A pair of fuel handlers in their purple jerseys—“grapes”—rushed in dragging their long lines to gas up the bird as the two crews made a hot swap, Monica and the others buckling themselves into their seats, testing their comms, checking the digital readouts.
One of the grapes ran up to the pilot’s window and held up a small glass jar. Fresh fuel sample for visual inspection. Papa Doc nodded: no visible contamination.
Tonight they were making an unscheduled ferry run to pick up a passenger in Bahrain. Pilot and co-pilot would trade off, one taking the stick while the other rode shotgun and worked the radio.
“Halsey. I’ll fly her out. You take the stick on the leg back.”
“Yessir.” Normally the formal “Yessirs” and “Nosirs” were relaxed while flying, unless the pilot was a prick. Papa Doc was a prick.
Monica wondered once again what it was about her that Papa Doc so resented. Maybe it was her height; at six one she towered over his five nine.
Or maybe he just wasn’t comfortable with her Flying While Female.
“Hotel Sierra two zero six, Log Cabin, you are cleared for takeoff, spot one.”
“Roger, Log Cabin,” Monica replied. “Hotel Sierra two zero six, cleared for takeoff.”
From here on the dialogue was pure mime: hand signals and glowsticks from the brown-jerseyed plane captain on the deck in front of them. Nothing like the elaborate takeoff dance for a jet—no yellow-jerseyed shooters, no slamming catapult, no blasting off the deck like a rocket. Their plane captain pointed directly at them—Ready—as two green shirts pulled out the forward wheel chocks and scurried off with them to the side. He spread both arms out to his sides in a T, then brought them straight up over his head, repeating the sequence several times in a series of overhead claps. Lift off.
Papa Doc pulled up on the “collective” (thrust lever) and Monica felt them lift with a whisper, tilting away to the port and leveling into their southbound flight path, where for the next hour they would chop away at the wet chunks of night air between them and their destination.
Monica stared out into the black nothing. Checked all her instrumentation. Out into the nothing again.
Flying in the Knighthawk was like being in a cave: the close confinement, condensation dripping from overhead pipes, everything draped in shadows from the glow of instrument lights, the steady soporific whump-whump-whump of rotors that could just about lull you to sleep.
Not a word from Stickman, their lanky rescue swimmer, in back. Nor from Harris, their crew chief.
This was the hardest part of flying, the part you never saw in movies: the monotony. The long stretches of empty time, having to stay sharp and alert even when nothing was happening. Mostly they would eat up the time with idle conversation, though with everyone on comms it was like having a conversation with the voices in your head. On some runs they’d ramble on for hours, pausing only when necessary to confirm a procedure or communicate with ATC. But Papa Doc frowned on too much chatter. On his watch, flights tended to be less like sitting around a campfire and more like going to church. Sit silent in your seat, join in from the hymnal when the time came, then sit back down. Yessir.
Monica steered her thoughts away from Papa Doc and onto the reason for their flight: their passenger, a Navy SEAL from Black Squadron, was coming on board solo, for what reason none of them knew.
Nor cared, as far as Monica was concerned.
SEALs: Sea Air and Land. Cream of the crop, elite of the elite, blah blah blah.
Monica had met quite a few SEALs and had taken an instant dislike to each and every one. As far as she could see, they were all arrogant, profane, and self-absorbed. The ultimate macho-supreme assholes.
Worse than Papa Doc?
Call it a tie.
She inadvertently glanced over in her CO’s direction, then quickly looked away again. Lord, I hope he can’t hear my thoughts.
The hour bled out in silence.
“Hotel Sierra two zero six, Muharraq Airfield Control. We have you on visual, continue on course and maintain current altitude until advised.”
“Two zero six, roger that,” replied Monica.
Through the Knighthawk’s windshield Monica could make out their destination, a small landing strip where they were to rendezvous with their SEAL guest and his officer escort.
The Bahrain tower spoke up again. “Hotel Sierra two zero six, you are cleared to land.”
As the bird lowered to the tarmac Monica spotted the two men walking toward them, illuminated by runway lights.
Even from a hundred feet off she had zero trouble identifying the SEAL. He was tall, muscular, powerful, carried his fully loaded backpack as if it weighed no more than a paper boarding pass. He didn’t stride so much as he loped, moving with a dangerous grace that made her think of the mountain lions she’d seen back home.
Perfect specimen.
Asshole.
As they drew closer she could make out the officer lagging behind the SEAL in his desert cammies, lugging the other man’s kit bag and gun case. This little guy was totally eclipsed by the SEAL, not just a head shorter bu
t almost a different species: thin wiry limbs, knobby joints, oversize eyes. He looks like a marsupial, she thought.
In the navy, rank was everything—who outflew, outperformed, outlasted whom—and SEALs were a breed apart. The short, awkward-looking officer might technically outrank the big guy, but the big guy outclassed him in every other way. The contrast was almost comical.
Marsupial, meet mountain lion.
Stickman leaned out the door and shouted over the din of the rotors. “We’re here for Chief Finn.”
The marsupial took the backpack from the mountain lion, stepped forward without a word, and boarded the helo.
4
Finn silently assessed the four other people in the bird, starting with the pilot. He could sense him regarding his passenger there in the back with disdain. An angry man. Finn never trusted angry men. This one was cursed with a chiseled face, classic Greek nose, olive complexion. A movie-star face. Nobody should be born that handsome. Good looks like that made it tougher to keep yourself in perspective.
Finn understood the type: his talents, his limitations. The pilot would never advance much further than where he was right now. He might be career navy but his trajectory was a dead-end street. Not that his ego was too big. It was too small. Too fragile.
Finn dropped the pilot from the sonar of his mind and moved on to the co-pilot.
Something about Finn had startled her when he first climbed on. She’d tried to hide it, but she wasn’t skilled at concealment. She was on the stick now and focused on her task. She said something to Movie Star and Finn caught the echoes of a Texas accent, light on the twang. West Texas, his guess. Strong, possibly headstrong. Someone on a mission. No dead-end street here.
Tall, good features. Must have taken a ton of shit on her way to flying a navy bird. The naval aviation officer track was brutal. Just gaining admittance was an intense selection process, let alone getting all the way through it. Not easy to make it this far. Even harder to do so and not turn mean. Finn read the co-pilot as tough on the surface but still green. He sensed a sadness just underneath, too, like she was grieving someone or something recent.
The crew chief in the seat next to him interrupted his thoughts. “Welcome aboard, Chief.” Finn looked at him but said nothing.
The junior guy, the crew’s avionics operator and designated SAR swimmer, grinned at him. Black dude, introduced to Finn as “Stickman.” Still had that new-guy sparkle. This was a kid who had not yet seen death up close.
Finn nodded.
They all had their jobs to do. He saw no reason to interfere or interrupt.
He didn’t speak a word the rest of the flight.
* * *
—
The helo threaded its way through the invisible corridors, slipping in on the carrier’s port side as fighter jets exploded off the deck’s bow and came screaming in aft to catch the big arrestor wires. Finn watched through the Knighthawk’s side window, absorbed in the skill of it all.
According to Kennedy, a carrier flight deck was one gigantic bolt-action sniper rifle, three and a half football fields long, only instead of firing steel-tipped 10-gram rounds it shot 25-ton fighter jets, firing and reloading at the rate of one every twenty-five seconds. Finn thought about the jet pilots strapped into their multimillion-dollar machines, being shot off the deck into the dark like bullets.
The idea of being encased in a supersonic steel tube like that made his balls clench.
The tall co-pilot put their bird down on the deck like a mother’s kiss on a baby’s cranium. She was good. He noticed her glancing in the pilot’s direction, trying not to look like she was doing it. Checking for signs of his approval. Professionally, though, not emotionally. Finn suspected she didn’t give a shit about his approval emotionally. Good thing, because she was never going to get it, not from him. No one was.
The young SAR swimmer slid open the cabin door. Finn followed him out and down onto the flight deck’s hot surface. The crew chief, Harris, walked him over to the edge, where they clambered down a short metal ladder onto the catwalk. Harris stepped through a hatch into the ship’s interior.
Finn hesitated.
So here he was. Boarding an aircraft carrier, being carted back to the States.
Leaving his team behind.
Harris turned and saw him looking back to the south, toward Bahrain. “Chief Finn?” When the SEAL didn’t respond he said, “Everything okay, Chief?”
Finn looked over at the other man. Nodded and followed him in.
Nothing was okay.
5
The Air Transfer Office was located on the gallery deck, the level directly below the flight deck. Several rows of vinyl-cushioned steel benches for outgoing passengers to sit and wait. Shelves and files lining the bulkheads, where they weren’t cluttered with flight coats and helmets on hooks. Two desks, jammed into the two far corners. The place was crammed. Everything on an aircraft carrier was crammed. The only spaces Finn had ever seen more tightly packed were submarines and New York City apartments. Not that he’d had much experience in either.
There were two staff members, one officer and one enlisted. Neither had noticed him yet. His lightweight combat boots made no sound when he walked. Despite Finn’s awkward appearance, when he moved he was the opposite of awkward. There were people who took up a lot of space when they entered a room. Finn seemed to take up no space at all.
Now the officer looked up and noticed him. Stood, leaned forward, and shook Finn’s hand. “Welcome aboard, Chief Finn. Lieutenant Sam Schofield. Honored to have you as our guest aboard the Abe.”
“Just a passenger, Lieutenant.”
The officer paused. Hadn’t expected that response. “Campion will handle your processing.”
The young airman at the other desk flashed a quick grin and got down to business. Had Finn sign a log sheet. Gave him a slip of paper with a few key locations, including his berthing space and muster location. Explained how to read the “bull’s-eye” location codes posted everywhere around the ship, in case Finn didn’t already know.
The airman paused, then nodded apologetically toward Finn’s gun case.
“We’ll need to hold on to that while you’re here.”
Finn handed over the gun case, then set his kit bag down and dug out his sidearm. He ejected the magazine, racked the slide, and surrendered that as well.
“They’ll be stored in the armory, locked and under guard,” the kid added. “Safer for you, safer for the guns.”
Finn looked over at the officer, Schofield.
“There’s no lock on the door to the compartment where you’ll be berthing,” Schofield explained. He pointed at Finn’s cellphone, which Finn had set on the desk while unearthing his sidearm. “Won’t have much use for that, I’m afraid.”
Finn glanced at the phone, then back at Schofield. “I should be getting a package. From command. How does that work?”
“We’ll put a note on your door.”
Finn nodded. “Okay.” Then added, “Sir.”
Finn’s satphone was busted. It had happened the previous night while Finn slept. How exactly he still didn’t know. When he woke up that morning, the thing was cracked in two. Best guess, someone had slammed a boot or rifle butt down on it in the dark. Probably stone drunk. Nobody owned up to it.
For all he knew, he’d done it himself.
His memory of the night before was blank.
Finn had put in for a replacement right away. Within hours he’d learned he was shipping out. They’d said they would send the replacement satphone out to him. He expected that could take at least a few days, more likely weeks. Military efficiency: hurry up and wait.
Finn had had the sense that he should travel light. He wasn’t sure why but trusted the instinct. So he’d left his other gun case with his bolt-action .308 behind in Bahrain with Kennedy, along
with his night vision goggles and a bunch of other tools. And the pieces of his shattered satphone.
* * *
—
The ATO officer ushered Finn through a maze of passageways to his compartment, a tiny space tucked in a port-side corner just below the flight deck. Not too much smaller than a broom closet. Across the way, a few meters from the door, was a tiny head with a single toilet. No sink.
“It’s not much,” said the officer, “but you’re probably the only enlisted man on board with a private suite.”
Finn nodded. Officer humor.
Schofield was an interesting one, a mix of soft and wary. Big guy, strength to him, but the hands and musculature of an office worker. Had never done hard physical work. Not exactly street smart; didn’t have the kind of 360° awareness that came with life on the hustle—but Finn caught his eyes darting to the corners a few times. Habitual defensive posture. He’d been a target, not just once but often enough to grow reflexes for it. Yet he was no weakling. And the man projected something genuine. Not surprising he was an officer. Probably a good one, too; strong enough to lead by example, but he’d been a victim often enough to empathize with the ranks.
Finn had encountered two types of leaders in the military. There were those who grew to fill the high positions they were given. Who became bigger versions of themselves and used their elevated standing to protect the weak. And there were those who used the position to arrogate power to themselves. Who became smaller versions of themselves. Small men in high places.
He thought Schofield was probably the first kind of leader.
The lieutenant was wrapping up his summary brief. “We’ll have a man here for you at 0600, if that works for you.”
