by Andrew Watts
When Juan returned from the head, the petty officer had two white boxed dinners waiting for him. “There’s metal forks and knives in there, so make sure you don’t toss ’em.”
“Hey, thanks, CS2.”
“Anything for the guy who sank the submarine.”
Juan glanced up at him, nodding, not knowing what to say to that. He left through the wardroom door and marched back along the ship’s main passageway to the hangar, carefully holding the boxed dinners. After putting his helmet back on and walking out onto the dark flight deck, he entered the rotor arc and handed the food to the aircrewman in the back of the helicopter, who gave him a thumbs-up.
Juan opened up the left cockpit door, plugged the communication cord into his helmet, and strapped back into the bird.
“CS2 give you this, sir?” said AWR1 Fetternut.
“Yeah, why?” Juan said as he snapped down his night vision goggles and adjusted his gear.
“I was down in the mess with him earlier. You got a fan club now, you know.”
Plug said, “Alright, let’s talk after we get airborne. I don’t want to piss off the Shoes for being on deck too long. Checklists.” Shoes was the semi-insulting term that pilots sometimes used when referring to members of the surface Navy. It had to do with the fact that traditionally, pilots wore brown shoes, and other naval officers wore black. Black Shoes, or Shoes for short.
The crew ran through their checks and contacted the ship to get takeoff clearance. Moments later, they were lifting off deck, sliding aft, and watching the ship slowly steam away from them.
“Nose coming left.”
“Roger,” said Juan. His visual scan was on the instruments now. Everything else around him was black. Even the green image through the night vision goggles was just a useless blur, with nothing to focus on.
“Pulling power. One…two…three positive rates of climb.”
Juan could feel the nose dip slightly and carefully watched the radar altimeter, the barometric altimeter, and the vertical speed indicator as all three instruments showed that the aircraft was indeed climbing upward. When they were flying at night over water like this, almost everything they did was on instruments. There were simply too few visual stimuli.
“Radar altimeter on,” Juan said, flicking the toggle switch.
“Roger,” said Plug. “Leveling off at a thousand.”
“Roger,” said Juan.
“So, did Boss quiz you on your limits and emergency procedures?”
“Oh yeah,” said Juan.
“She was merciless as always, sir,” said AWR1 Fetternut.
Plug said, “Coming right to zero-four-five.”
“Roger, zero-four-five.”
“Okay, well, if Boss already took care of your training, let’s just shoot the shit.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Juan knew that while Plug was trying to justify not asking Juan any questions, the truth was that Plug would much rather just chill out and have fun while they burned holes in the sky for a few hours. Every pilot was different. The way they flew usually fit their personality. Plug was carefree when he could be, and extremely detail-oriented and skillful when he had to be. Like the Airboss, he was a very talented pilot. Sometimes Juan wondered if he would ever get to their level. To some, it came naturally. Others had to work at it. Juan thought of himself as part of the latter group.
Plug said, “Okay, the game is ‘would you rather.’ Would you rather be twenty minutes early for every meeting for the rest of your life, or ten minutes late?”
Fetternut said, “Sir, you’re already ten minutes late to everything.”
“Okay, Fetternut, you’ve forfeited your turn. Spike?”
“No question. I’d rather be early. You can’t be in the military without being early to everything. What’s the saying? Fifteen minutes early, you’re on time, on time, you’re late, and late, you’re better off not even showing up.”
Plug said, “Okay, that one was easy. Would you rather be alone for the rest of your life or always surrounded by annoying people?”
Fetternut said, “How annoying?”
“Think of the most annoying girl you’ve ever dated.”
“Okay. Hmm. I can handle it. I’d rather be around annoying people. Cuz if you were alone, you could never have sex. So really, that’s a double whammy…”
“Spike?”
“Alone.”
“Hey, sir, I have a radar contact at one-fife-fife for sixty. It’s the only thing around.”
Juan tapped a few keystrokes on his panel. “I just put in a fly-to, just follow the needle.”
“Got it, coming right.” The aircraft turned and leveled off on the new course. “Okay, would you rather have a horrible job for ten years and then be able to retire, or have your dream job but have to work forever?”
“Isn’t that basically what the military proposition is?”
“Come on, don’t say that. You don’t love this?”
“Flying, yes. But being stuck on a boat with you guys…”
Laughter.
Juan said, “So, Fetternut, what were you saying about those guys in the mess deck?”
“Oh yeah. Sir, you got a fan club on the ship. They all know your name now. They’re talking about you as the guy who killed the submarine. You’re famous. You’re like the guy who shot bin Laden.”
Juan could see Plug glancing over at him, his eyes lit up by the green glow of the NVGs. Plug didn’t say anything, but his expression was one of concern.
Juan hadn’t felt good about what had happened. Watching movies and reading books about war was one thing, but actually pressing the button was another matter. Dropping a torpedo and seeing the white water of the exploding submarine rocketing up into the air. Knowing all those souls were gone. He had lost a lot of sleep since that day. He would do it again if he had to. But he hoped that he never would.
Plug turned back, looking out the windscreen, scanning back and forth through his goggles. “Fetternut, how far away is that radar contact?”
“We still got a little way to go, sir. It’s over forty miles away.”
“Okay. Let me think of another question…”
Juan said, “I got a joke. How about that instead?”
“Spike? A joke? Lord have mercy, are you feeling alright?”
Ignoring him, Juan began. “Okay, so there are a bunch of ISIS fighters in Iraq, and they’re hiding in some mud hut. The leader says, ‘Okay, guys, the Americans are closing in on us, and there are reports that the CIA might have even infiltrated our ranks. So, I tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to double up the watch sections.’”
Plug said, “Sounds like this guy’s a SWO…”
“‘Two guys to a duty section instead of one. First up, Omar and Muhammad. Second watch, Rahim and Akmed. Third watch, Hamid and Bobby.’”
AWR1 Fetternut was laughing.
Juan looked over at Plug and could see him smiling underneath his NVGs. “Oh, I get it. Because Bobby was CIA. Funny.” He let out a howl. “Alright, 2P, find me this boat. It’s the only thing out here tonight.”
Juan placed his hands on the control unit for the forward-looking infrared camera—the FLIR, as it was known. He pressed a few buttons and his display began to show the camera image.
The screen showed a green sea with a flat horizon and a few clouds. Juan used his thumb to turn the camera. “What’s the bearing?”
“Should be about ten degrees right of where you’re pointing it, sir.”
“Okay. I think I see it.”
A little white dot on the horizon of the screen was the only disruption to an otherwise symmetrical view.
Plug said, “How far from Mom are we?”
“Close to seventy miles from Farragut.”
“Okay, let’s check in with them. Let them know we might lose comms for a moment.”
Juan checked his communications selector switch to make sure it was on the right frequency. Then he depressed the f
ootswitch that allowed him to speak on the UHF radio. “Farragut control, Cutlass 471.”
“471, Control.”
“471 is investigating a surface contact seventy miles to your north. We might lose comms for a moment, but we should be back up in five mikes.”
“Copy, 471.”
Plug said, “Coming down to two hundred feet.”
“Roger, leaving one thousand for two hundred.”
“One thousand for two hundred.”
Juan’s eyes bounced from location to location as he scanned his various sources of information. He looked outside through his night vision goggles to see if there were any other air or surface contacts in the area. Nothing. Then he checked his instruments to monitor Plug’s descent to two hundred feet over the water. It was crucial that everyone in the aircraft checked this. While it was a simple maneuver, being so low to the ocean could be deadly if the pilot became distracted and continued descending through his altitude. He checked the radar altimeter, the barometric altimeter, and the VSI.
Then, as they got close to their level-off altitude, he said, “Fifty feet prior.”
“Roger.” The altitude stopped on 200. “Two hundred feet, radalt on.”
“Roger, two hundred feet.” Juan glanced at the radar altimeter, the autopilot feature that served as the most precise altitude hold.
“Looks like a trawler or something.”
“Yup,” Plug said. “I’m going to circle it on the right.”
“Roger.”
Juan could feel them banking left and then coming back over to the right, making a wide arc around the boat. He manipulated the FLIR to keep the camera focused and locked on to the boat the entire time.
“What do you think? Fishing boat or drug trafficker?”
“We got any intel about drug boats out here?”
“No.”
“I don’t see anybody moving on deck.”
“Me neither. Can you get a name?”
“Nah. Can’t see it on her. Too dark.”
“She doesn’t look like she’s making way.”
Fetternut said, “Yeah, I show her at one knot on radar, sir. So she might actually be dead in the water.”
Juan zoomed in and focused the camera. “Is that someone laying down on the back of the ship?”
Plug snuck a look at the screen underneath his goggles. “Looks like it. He moving?”
“No.”
“He alive?”
“I don’t know. This is creepy.”
“Let’s come up and show Mom.”
“Roger.”
“Coming up to two grand.”
“Roger, two thousand feet.”
Juan felt a flutter in his stomach and watched the numbers on his instrument panel rapidly begin rising as Plug pulled power and climbed. Now that they were higher, it would be easier to establish a communications link with their faraway destroyer.
“Farragut control, 471. We have video on the surface contact out here. Looks like a fishing boat, a trawler. But she’s not making way, and we have one…uh, person…laying on the back of the deck. They aren’t moving.”
The Farragut’s air controller said, “Roger, 471, we’re getting it on link now.”
“Okay, they want us to do anything?”
“Stand by.”
Juan said, “I mean, we’re quite a ways from land. Kind of weird for a ship to just be hanging out around here, right?” The fishing arms weren’t down, either.
Fetternut said, “They didn’t look like they was fishing.”
The Farragut’s air controller said, “We have video and took some screenshots. We’re passing it up the chain to see if they want us to go check it out.”
“Roger, control. We’ll need to head back soon if we’re going to make our landing time. Let us know if you want us to loiter here or not.”
“Stand by.” After a minute, he said, “Negative. TAO says to come back and land on time.”
“Roger.”
Juan said, “Don’t they care about this? I mean, what if that’s a dead body down there?”
“If it is,” Plug said, “it isn’t going anywhere.”
They flew back to the ship without incident. During the debrief for the flight, Juan checked with the folks on watch in the combat information center. They had been told to investigate the fishing ship in the morning.
Victoria had been up since dawn. She had worked out while her men were conducting the freshwater wash-down of the helicopter on the flight deck. Thick sponges and a light soap to get all the salt off. It helped prevent corrosion. The deck was wet with small pockets of soap bubbles every few feet.
She sipped coffee from a metal thermos. “Morning, Senior.”
“Morning, ma’am.”
“You guys gonna tear it apart today?”
“Yup. We’ll start the phase maintenance inspection today. And because I know you’re gonna ask, we hope to be done in seven days or so, as long as you guys can get the rotor turns done quick.”
Victoria smiled at the seasoned senior enlisted. “Don’t worry, your esteemed maintenance officer has already been lowering my expectations on the timing.”
The senior chief smiled. “He’s learning.” He placed his hands on his hips and yelled something at one of the enlisted men washing the helicopter. Then he said, “You hear any rumors about them giving us another bird from Ford?”
“I inquired about it. But I don’t think it’s gonna happen. Ford’s compliment of helicopters is light as it is. They were in a rush to get out here, apparently.”
He nodded. “Hmm. What about any rumors on when we might be headed back? It’ll be six months tomorrow.”
“I know.” She sighed. “Everyone’s spooked right now, though. No one wants to lower our Navy presence in the area. I mean, can you believe that we’re out here right now, after taking hits?”
“Ma’am, I don’t know what to believe anymore. This is all crazy. I heard that the Chinese ships were pulling into Panama City.”
“Oh, so you’re the one that Plug got it from.”
“Chief’s mess knows all, Boss.” The seasoned Navy veteran nodded, a wide grin on his face.
A whistle went off through the ship’s 1MC speaker system, signifying that it was 7 a.m. Morning meal had started. “Alright, that’s my cue.”
“You have yourself one of them good ones, Boss.”
“You too, Senior. And stop telling the MO your secret rumors.”
The senior chief laughed as Victoria made her way through the starboard hangar. She walked along the busy passageway, the smell of a mass-produced breakfast wafting through the air from belowdecks. The officers and crew were rushing through the passageway. Some had wet hair, just out of the shower. Some had red eyes, just off the midnight-watch rotation. Everything they did was on the clock. They hurried to eat, hurried to prep for their morning meetings, and hurried to go on watch. The packed schedule made the time go by faster. The repetition sharpened their skills.
Victoria loved the Navy. She was meant for this life, she knew. Her father, and his father before him, had served in America’s Navy.
She had never expected to become what she now was—a battle-tested officer on a ship at sea. But as she saw the look of pride in the eyes of the men and women who passed her, she was so glad that she had chosen this path.
She opened and stepped through a door with a blue sign that read, “Officer’s Country: Enter on Official Business Only.” She remembered the first time she had seen that sign, many years ago as a US Naval Academy midshipman, on a destroyer as a part of her summer training. She had stood outside the door for five minutes, too afraid to open it without permission. “O-country,” as it was known, was the part of the ship where the officers’ quarters and the wardroom were located. When an ensign had finally seen her, paralyzed with fear, he’d chuckled and explained to her that she was part of the club. The sign was more tradition than actual warning. And besides, no one paid any attention to it except for bran
d-new seamen and midshipmen.
Victoria opened the wardroom door and stepped in for breakfast. She looked around the filled room and met the eyes of the ship’s new captain, Commander James Boyle. She liked him so far. But while she respected the memory of the recently deceased previous ship captain, it didn’t take much for an upgrade. And there was always a feeling-out period as you began working with someone new. Time would tell what Commander Boyle would really be like to work with.
“Permission to join the mess, Captain?”
“Have a seat, Airboss. Good morning.” The half dozen conversations at the wardroom tables quieted a few decibels whenever the captain spoke.
“Good morning, sir,” she replied.
“They getting ready for the phase maintenance on the bird?”
“Yes, sir, I was just back there in the hangar. They’re set to begin taking her apart this morning.”
There was a single long table in the destroyer’s wardroom. A smaller table with only a few seats stood off to the side. This was the room where the officers ate, and where many meetings were held.
“Coffee, ma’am?” asked the petty officer over her shoulder as he laid out a clean set of silverware and a napkin.
“No, thanks. Just a water, please.”
He placed a glass of ice water in front of her. “What would you like, ma’am?” The sailor had a pencil and paper in his hand.
“Could I get scrambled eggs and toast?”
“Sure. Any sausage? We have sausage this morning.”
“No, thank you. Got any fruit?”
“Apples are still good.”
“Oranges?”
“No, ma’am. We ran out yesterday. Should get more the next resupply.”
“No problem. Thank you, CS2.”
The petty officer nodded and went over to the window on the far bulkhead, where another enlisted man was waiting to take the order from him. They ran it like a high-speed diner. Fast, polite service. Get everyone fueled up quick so that they could get back to work. There were still remnants of long-held naval traditions in modern wardrooms. The silverware was a little fancier than in the enlisted mess downstairs, and the tablecloths were nicer. Officers were expected to eat here for most of their meals. Proper etiquette rules were followed. They were expected to ask the captain or the highest-ranking person in the wardroom permission to join and leave the mess. The enlisted mess a deck below was buffet-style. Hundreds of sailors flowing through the line every meal. Nonstop cooking and cleaning. The thick smell of grease in the air at all times. But everyone on board ate the same food—officers and enlisted.
