To his credit, Brian turns and gives me a quizzical raise of the eyebrows.
I shift my attention back to an aircraft that’s bobbing and weaving in what looks like a helicopter prize fight. Now I understand the holes in the ramp, which from this vantage point appear to have been mended.
“I’m going to maintenance to get this show on the road,” Commander Claggett announces, brushing past me. “Come on, I want you involved with this.”
Once the work begins, I think about Commander Claggett’s presence here. In my opinion, it’s a hindrance. The guys know what they have to do. They know there’s a time crunch. Having someone standing over them who is not contributing to the maintenance effort, a person only interested in hurrying the process along, is detrimental to the evolution as a whole.
But I’m just here to observe and learn. I sit on a work stand near the hangar door for the next four hours, watching the Sabercat and Shadow Hunter maintenance teams shine as they join forces to bring our aircraft back to a working status.
As always, Lego and Messy lead the maintenance effort. They know the aircraft inside and out, one specializing in aircraft engines, the other in avionics and electronics. Between the two of them, they’ve saved us on numerous occasions when we’ve broken down without the resources we’d normally need to get ourselves flying again.
Their southern ingenuity is legend. Just like they can open the hood of any car, take the engine apart, and put it back together, so can they dissect the innards of an H-46 helicopter. Sometimes, I don’t want to know how they fix things. They’ve pulled out the duct tape or its equivalent too many times to count, and yet somehow, always find a way to get us home.
Add their skills as aircrewmen to their maintenance prowess, and they are, simply put, the all-around best aircrew team I’ve ever flown with.
They look to me now, expressions of relief on their faces, as Commander Claggett finally takes his leave to update Captain Plank.
“How are you guys holding up?” I ask, jumping down from my seat.
“Decent, ma’am,” Messy answers. “Although Kyle’s not too happy.”
“Why’s that, Lego?” I ask.
“Because my wife sent a care package and it’s sittin’ on my rack on the Kansas City. Never got a chance to open it since we had to leave so fast.”
“Oh, man,” I say.
“Yeah, Michelle said in her last e-mail that the kids were sending along some art projects.”
“More art projects?” Messy asks. “Dude, there’s no more wall space.” Messy looks to me. “He’s got more damn art projects plastered over the walls in our berthing. I don’t know how he passes inspection.”
“Remind me not to share any of my homemade cookies with you,” Lego says.
“Ah, dude, them’s fightin’ words. You know I’m only jokin’.”
“Besides, you’ll understand soon enough,” Lego says.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“You haven’t told her?” Lego says.
“Haven’t had a chance,” Messy says, turning to me. “When we were in Pearl Harbor, I found out that Leah’s pregnant.”
“Congratulations!” I say. “Messy, that’s great news. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thanks, ma’am,” Messy says. “She’s due the week we’re scheduled to get back.”
“Sounds like a perfect homecoming to me,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, sweetly.
“All right,” I say. “I’ve bothered you two enough. I’ll get out of your way.”
I return to the work stand, but as I move to sit, I hear a now-familiar voice.
“Hi,” Eric says, walking delicately through the maze of aircraft parts that litter his path.
Funny. The current thing. It just happened again.
“I wanted to check on your involvement in the maintenance effort,” he says. “I can see you’re adequately involved, Lieutenant, however, it’s still inadequate.”
A smile escapes.
“I’d say we need some more aggressiveness here. You know, grab a wrench. Go after it.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say, grimacing. “So what’s up?”
“I came by to get you for training.”
“Is it eleven hundred already?”
“Yeah, I know. Time flies when you’re watching a transmission change.”
I’m smiling again. What the heck?
“Guys,” I say to Lego and Messy. “I’ll be back in about an hour or so.”
“Okay, ma’am,” Lego says.
Balance is a challenge as I attempt to weave my way as Eric did through the assorted helicopter parts on the flight deck—tied down or stored in secured containers to keep them from rolling. Although, based on what I’ve seen both yesterday and this morning, I think balance has been difficult for everyone. Members of ship’s company notoriously razz the air detachment for not having their “sea legs.” But even for these salty sailors, no matter how long they’ve been at sea, if the waves are big enough, they’re going to find their gaits challenged, as well.
It makes me feel better when Eric has to brace himself against the open hangar door before stepping through. “I need to stop by Captain Plank’s office on the way,” he says over his shoulder.
“Okay,” I say. And it is okay. Like really okay. The sensation couldn’t be stranger, but walking with him, I feel lifted or … or something.
We stumble through several passageways as we make our way forward, leaning sideways and reaching out to the bulkheads for support.
“Geez!” he says, with a chuckle, accelerating forward as the ship pitches down, reaching for the handle of an open hatchway to steady himself.
“Guess Brian was right about the weather getting worse,” I say, catching up.
“People would probably pay for a ride like this,” he says.
“No kidding,” I say, my legs planted wide, hands gripping the hatch opening. The bow begins to rise again, and I regain stability for a moment.
“After you,” he says, standing aside. I step through the hatch into the ladder well that leads one deck up to the commanding officer’s stateroom.
I reach for the ladder rail to begin climbing, and the ship lurches, pitching steeply downward once more.
“Ho—!” Eric blurts out before slamming into me from behind.
We stumble sideways and my hands fly out to grab something, anything. The next thing I know, we’re righting ourselves, our hands latched onto the arms of the other.
“Sorry about that,” he says with a laugh.
“No worries,” I say.
“Wait, hang on,” he says. We remain braced, hands to each other’s upper arms, as the ship rolls through another monstrous swell. “There we go,” he says, as the ship somewhat steadies. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking up to meet his eyes. “You?”
“Yeah,” he says.
We stand like this a few seconds longer than necessary, before reacting like we’ve each touched a hot stove, abruptly letting go.
“Uh, right then,” I say, turning to climb the ladder.
I shake my head to clear it, stepping off the last rung, pressing myself into the corner of the ladder well to wait for Eric.
“I think this ship puts the roller coaster at the Mall of America to shame,” I say when he arrives.
“I don’t doubt it,” he says. “Although I’ve never been to the Mall of America, just heard about it.” He turns right, down the last, even narrower, passageway that leads to Captain Plank’s stateroom. “You’re from Minnesota, then?” he asks.
“Sort of,” I say, grasping the rails on either side, advancing hand by hand. “We moved around a lot, but that was the last place I lived before entering the navy, so I call it home. And my parents still live there, so yeah, I guess that’s home.”
“Well, it looks like you’re going to have a lot to write home to your friends about. I doubt they’ve ever experienced anything like this.”
Friends … What do I say to this? I’ve never really had too many friends. All along, I’ve blamed it on the fact that my military family had to move so much when I was growing up. But I know it’s more me than anything—ever the introvert. Besides, I never felt the pressing need to make friends since I always had my brother.…
I don’t realize Eric has stopped in front of Captain Plank’s door until I nearly run into him.
“Sara?” he asks.
“Sorry?”
“You okay?”
I blink, my brother’s face disappearing from my imaginings, and return my focus to Eric. “Um, yes. Yes.”
He furrows his brow slightly as he turns to knock on the door.
“Sir, it’s Lieutenant Marxen and Lieutenant Denning.”
“Come in,” Captain Plank answers.
Eric holds the door open for me to walk through, and while it’s not a big deal, it sort of is. He’s done it for me several times in the space of twenty-four hours, which just happens to be several times more than anyone else combined since I first donned a uniform eight years ago.
Nobody opens doors for me anymore. But I don’t expect them to. I mean, I can open my own doors. It used to happen for me, when I was younger, in high school. But it was one of those things that became ancient history the instant I stepped foot in the Naval Academy. In that moment, I surrendered my “getting treated like a lady” card and was given the “you’re in the military now so you can do it yourself” card. And I’ve always thought I wouldn’t have it any other way.
So two things shock me here. One, he’s holding doors open for me, and two, I like that he’s doing so. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.
My eyes shift discreetly to Captain Plank, who commands attention merely by his stillness. He sits ramrod straight at his conspicuously clean desk, pulling his eyes from his computer monitor only briefly to glance at us before swiveling in his chair. He leans over, punching in the key code to a safe located in the corner.
In the meantime, Eric and I stand next to each other at attention, the captain not having put us at ease. Every captain is different, some stricter than others, but on a bad weather day like today, it would be quite helpful to be able to stand normally for balance rather than legs and feet locked together.
Technically, if you’re standing at attention, you’re supposed to look straight ahead, not meeting the eyes of the superior who put you there. But since Captain Plank’s back is turned, I have a moment to focus on the only item, save his computer screen, that holds real estate on his desk—his Beretta M9 pistol. Distinct due to its custom wood grip, the sidearm that he wore at his waist yesterday now rests in an elegantly carved, hardwood display stand, shiny with a furniture-grade satin finish.
My time for scrutiny is cut short as he swivels back to us, holding what looks like a large bank deposit pouch, colored dark blue and unmarked. From inside, he removes a smaller brown envelope, the words TOP SECRET printed across the front. He opens the envelope and hands the one-sheet message to Eric without comment or emotion.
He’s giving a Top Secret message to a lieutenant … which means Eric would only be allowed to read it if he held a Top Secret clearance. It’s not unheard of for a lieutenant to have one, depending on the job, but strange that a pilot in his capacity would. Strange, too, that Captain Plank would have had me come in with Eric if this was to be the nature of their meeting.
I take a chance, shifting my eyes to the left, watching as Eric scans the contents of the message. His face tightens as he reads.
“The Australians?” Eric asks, looking up. “Is this a done deal then, sir?”
“It is,” Captain Plank states.
Eric exhales, a long exhale.
Each stares, unblinking, into the other’s eyes as something is silently communicated between them. “Sir—”
“Your reservations are noted,” Captain Plank says, acutely blunt.
He shifts his laser-sharp gaze to me. I can’t see it directly, but I feel it. Like a missile that’s acquired its target and locks on, his focus remains here for several long, uncomfortable seconds before he speaks.
“That is all,” he says finally, issuing our dismissal.
Eric and I execute an about face and a crisp exit. Once outside, Eric puts his hands on his hips and stares down the passageway, firmly setting his jaw. He breathes in well, his chest rising, holding here for a long moment before finally exhaling. The passageway is empty, but something in his mind’s eye holds his undivided attention.
“Eric?” I ask.
He drops his eyes to me, his expression serious, worried, frustrated—a host of emotions playing on his face. “Come on,” he says, finally. “We’re going to be late.”
9
“About time you two showed,” Stuart calls out as we walk into the wardroom.
“Sorry, my fault, Grady,” Eric says, using what I now gather is the preferred way for the group to address Stuart—by his last name.
We pull out chairs to sit when Brian leans into Eric’s ear. “Did you get the word that the skipper wanted to see you?” he asks.
Eric nods grimly. “I just came from there.”
“What is it?” Brian says worriedly.
Eric lets out a resigned sigh. “It’s confirmed.”
“Confirmed…?” Brian looks at Eric for some time with a questioning expression, but I see it in his eyes when he figures it out—whatever “it” is. They share a long and knowing look before taking their seats and turning their attention to Grady, who has started … singing?
Stuart Grady can’t be more than five foot five, but it’s sixty-five inches of spunk and madness. The episode with Captain Plank and the brief exchange between Brian and Eric are soon forgotten as Grady leads one of the funniest, most dynamic training lectures I can remember, launching into an extended rap about Russian submarines, the backbeat provided by Ben, Rob, and Ken.
Over the course of the hour, Eric’s mood lightens, not only because of Stuart’s hilarity, but also because of the easygoing chemistry of this pilot group. Even after the song ends, the guys keep it fun, jokes flying nonstop, one snappy witticism after another.
Through it all, I’m lulled into a false sense of security. I sit next to Eric, who now laughs alongside me. We joke. We smile. The defenses that are normally up and shored well have slackened. I don’t need them here.
So I’m totally unprepared for what Commander Claggett has waiting when I return to the hangar to check in prior to lunch. I walk into the maintenance office and he’s standing there, red. Make that purple.
“Come with me,” he says.
He leads me out of the hangar to the far end of the flight deck behind our aircraft so we’re hidden from view. And then he explodes.
“Where have you been?” he shouts.
“I—”
“How long did you wait after I left before you took off?”
“What—”
“This isn’t a fucking vacation! The men need to see you here and you need to learn this shit! It’s called professionalism!”
Professionalism? How dare he accuse—
“I want your ass in front of this bird until the transmission is in!”
He starts to march away and I think he’s finished.
“And you sure as hell better be in the fuckin’ aircraft the very second we’re cleared for functional checks!” he says, turning.
I grit my teeth, fists clenched. Hold your tongue, Sara. Hold your tongue.
He stomps away. But he’s still not finished. He wheels back, his body rigid.
“And you haven’t once come to me to debrief the flight. Fuck, I have no idea where you’ve been hiding! I had to search you out for the goddamn Hazard Report. And has there been any follow-up on your part for that? Let me answer that. No. Has there been any initiative shown on your part whatsoever to ask me what’s needed or what you can do to help this process along? No. But hey, you got your shower in. That was high on the priority list. I saw the guys wait
ing in line for you. I saw that! And then you had your fucking clothes washed? Are you fucking kidding me? And you were supposed to write the award nominations! Not Marxen! You’re treating this whole thing like a goddamn slumber party when this is fuckin’ serious shit!”
“But I was there!” I shout, pointing. “I was right there! All morning!”
“Save it!” he says, and storms off before I can get in another word.
I look across the aft end of the ship to the turbulent sea beyond, my blood roiling.
I hate this. I hate that man. I hate that I’m out here. I hate it all … and there’s nothing to do about it.
I turn where I stand, a full 360 degrees, seeing nothing but an endless expanse of water. Weeks away from landfall, I can’t pack up, leave work early, and go home. No. I must live with Commander Claggett within the confines of this tiny footprint of a navy cruiser in an ocean that spans sixty-four million square miles. Even the seabirds are absent. I haven’t seen one in over a week.
I take several, deliberate, deep breaths. Behind me, the sounds of the maintenance guys returning from lunch increase in volume. They’re going to be all over the aircraft here in a second, so I have to get myself together. Quickly.
I close my eyes and begin the mental transition.
I think about something neutral—dry, unemotional, and preciously neutral—and try to regurgitate it from memory. Transmission oil hot caution light. Location—master caution panel. Power—battery bus. Oil temperature thermal switches—two forward transmission, one aft transmission. Light illumination—110 degrees.
I repeat the facts, but say them aloud this time. “Transmission oil hot caution light. Location—master caution panel. Power—battery bus. Oil temperature thermal switches—two forward transmission, one aft transmission. Light illumination—one hundred ten degrees.”
Wearing an expression that’s as neutral as the facts that churn in my head, I pull my shoulders back and walk to the far side of the flight deck. I find my corner perch and there I sit, unmoving, until 2000 when the maintenance chief declares that 55 is ready for ground turns.
My helmet is on and I’m on top of the bird preflighting by the time Commander Claggett arrives. I don’t care that the ship is rocking so badly my helmet visor is spotted from the salt spray. Or that I’m doing a balancing act with a flashlight because I preflight on a near moonless night. I hang on tight as I traverse the narrow sliver of non-skid across the top of the helicopter, over eleven feet above the deck, but there’s no worry or fear. I’m just getting it done.
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