Declared Hostile - [6]

St. Thomas! How many years had it been? Fourteen, he figured. The view of the island through the El 4 opening brought back the excitement he had experienced as a JO at this, his first “foreign” port. The island jutted out of the blue Caribbean, lush and green. The mountaintops were dotted with homes, and brilliantly lit soft cumulus clouds hovered above them in the late afternoon sky.

Join the Navy and see the world. Exotic and tropical, St. Thomas was one of the nicer ports the Navy visited.

Navy ships, however, rarely called on St. Thomas or any of the Virgin Islands. And since the late 90s, when Wilson was here as a new-guy — a “nugget”—it had become rarer still for a carrier to “drop the hook” in the roadstead. During that time, the demise of the Atlantic Fleet Weapons Training Facility had been precipitated by a fatal live-fire training accident — one that involved a civilian target range worker on the nearby island of Vieques. The lives of the naval aviators who crashed in these waters during their training over the years were seldom given a second thought by the press or by the people of the United States, the stories typically buried on page six as events involving a “routine training mission,” the aircrew “not identified pending notification of next of kin.” Yet, public pressure about this one civilian death had caused the Navy to withdraw, and with the inability to use Vieques for training, the Navy had stopped coming to the region. The result was a second-order effect that dawned on the local populace too late: the Navy also closed the massive training base of Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico.

As Wilson made his way around the “yellow gear” tractors and engine storage cans stashed at the far end of the hangar bay, he took care not to smudge his spotless trousers or scuff his shoes on a grimy tie-down chain. A carrier visit was special, and the local Navy League was pulling out all the stops with a big reception at the Frenchman’s Reef resort. Ship and air wing senior officers were invited, and as a squadron CO, “Flip” Wilson knew better than to miss this “command performance” with the heavies and local mucky-mucks. He was just glad he would be able to join the rest of his squadron, now partying on the other side of the island in shorts and t-shirts, later in the evening.

“Dude.”

Wilson turned to face his fellow squadron CO and longtime friend, Commander William “Billy” Martin of the VFA-62 Hunters. He had snuck up on Wilson from the starboard side.

“Hey, Billy. Figured a liberty hound like you would already be ashore.”

“You confuse me with the junior officer of my youth. It’s gotten to the point where I actually like going through my in-box paperwork. Heaven help me!”

“Better not let the JOs get wind of this,” Wilson answered.

“They are the ones who save it till the night before we pull in! They know I can’t ignore a full in-box.”

The officers entered a passageway on the port side that led to the fantail. They passed a long line of sailors in civilian clothes who were braced against the bulkhead waiting for the ferry to take them ashore.

Wilson recognized some of his young petty officers and said, “Have fun, guys.”

As he strode past, the sailors smiled. “You too, Skipper.”

Wilson and Billy walked onto the fantail and assessed the situation. The admiral’s barge was standing off the “camel,” a floating dock lashed to the ship’s accom ladder platform. A ferry was alongside the camel in the process of boarding hundreds of sailors dressed in civilian clothes.

Several Carrier Air Wing SIX skippers and XOs milled about the fantail. They awaited word from the harried Officer of the Deck they could board the admiral’s barge for an evening of forced fun. Wilson’s Executive Officer, Commander Jennifer Schofield was among them.

“Hey, Annie, what’s the word?” greeted Billy.

Jen Schofield’s fiery red hair had earned her the call sign, but her personality was easygoing and reserved. She had come up with the F-14 community, transitioned to the FA-18 after one Tomcat tour, and was a former CAG LSO. She had over 800 carrier landings in her logbook, along with a fair amount of combat green ink. On her uniform she wore the Air Medal with a numeral 5 and two Navy Commendation Medals with combat V. Where men with this record would be referred to as Salty Dogs, the refined and capable Commander Schofield exuded professionalism and class.

“Hey, guys! I think they’re going to board us as soon as they get this ferry off. Saw lots of smiling Firebird and Hunter sailors.”

“Good,” Wilson said. “And our JOs?”

“Oh, yeah! Trench is leading the charge to a place called Breezy Cay. Been there before?” Annie asked.

“Yeah, but it’s been a few years,” Wilson replied. “Nice place on the other side of the island.”

“We have an admin at the resort next door,” Billy said. “Should be plenty of air wing guys.” He motioned to the shore and added, “But, by the looks of it, that place is nice.”

The officers assessed the resort perched a mile away on the rocky shore of Frenchman’s Reef. The barge would soon transport them there for the reception.