Declared Hostile - [7]

Annie then said in jest, “Do you see Mark? He said he’d be waving to us.” Annie’s husband Mark Schofield was in St. Thomas waiting for the ship — and his wife.

“Nope, can’t say I do,” Billy said, squinting as if he could. He squinted a little harder and smiled. “But I do see a fruity drink with my name on it.”

“With an umbrella in it?” Wilson snickered.

“Maybe. Just don’t tell the JOs. I want them to visualize me only with a beer bottle or whisky on the rocks. But when I get among the one percent, I can let my hair down with a rum runner, or even a glass of white wine.”

Annie shook her head and smiled, but Wilson continued to needle his friend. “Is that your foo-foo juice I smell?

They both looked at Annie. “Don’t look at me!” She raised her hands in protest. “That’s not my fragrance!”

The ferry pushed off to deliver a full load of sailors to the fleet landing at Charlotte Amalie. As soon as it pulled away, the barge, a motorized 50-foot covered launch for the admiral’s official and personal use, came in behind it with bosun’s mates positioned on the bow and stern to throw mooring lines to waiting sailors on the camel. Soon the officers would board in the traditional manner of seafaring professionals around the world: junior officers first; then seniors; with the admiral, the last man aboard… and the first man off when they got ashore.

The Officer of the Deck caught their attention. “Lady and gentlemen, you may board,” he said and motioned them toward the ladder.

The officers made their way to the ladder in some semblance of seniority. As they flashed their ID cards, they informed the Petty Officer of the Watch, “I have permission to go ashore.” Each one of them carefully descended the ladder to avoid smudging their uniforms, but everyone knew their whites would be trashed by the end of the night, if not on this boat ride.

Once on the gently rolling platform, Wilson and Annie queued up to the barge which was bobbing alongside. In a chivalrous move contrary to naval protocol, Wilson boarded first and took Annie’s hand. In her heels, she expertly timed the roll and boarded. They joined other air wing officers in the forward cabin, all chatting amicably and excited at the prospect of going ashore. They then heard the 1MC blare from the ship towering above them.

Ding, ding, ding, ding. “Carrier Air Wing SIX, departing.”

Ding, ding, ding, ding. “Coral Sea, departing.”

Ding, ding, ding, ding. “Staff, departing.”

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. “Carrier Strike Group Eighteen, departing”… ding.

Minutes later, the Air Wing Commander, the carrier Captain, the Chief of Staff, and the admiral — resplendent in their summer whites and each with multiple rows of ribbons — emerged from the ship and onto the camel, boarding in proper order. The captain, an amiable helicopter pilot by trade, poked his head inside the forward cabin. “Hi, guys!” he said in his booming voice, quickly scanning the group in an informal muster. Without waiting for a response, he left to join the admiral in the aft cabin. as the seated officers smiled and waved back.

Captain Rick Sanders was a celebrity aboard Coral Maru, a nickname the crew used for the carrier. Each day he walked the ship from stem to stern, shook the hands of his enlisted sailors, asked them about their jobs or how things were going at home, and took time to pass the word over the 1MC on the upcoming schedule and to recognize top performers. Airman Schmuckatelli in the ship’s laundry, you are the winner of today’s Coral Sea “What-a-Guy of the Day” award. Female sailors appropriately earned the “What-a-Gal” award. Division officers and chiefs sometimes worried that the Captain handed out so many 96-hour liberty chits there would be nobody left to stand duty. Sanders didn’t care, and he smiled and pressed the flesh with the skill of any seasoned politician — which he was.

Rear Admiral Roland Meyerkopf, Commander, Carrier Strike Group Eighteen, was at the other end of the personality spectrum. A career submariner, nuclear-trained as was Sanders, Meyerkopf was tight-lipped and taciturn. His eyes lit up when he discussed issues related to the nuclear plant but became bored — or was more likely out of his depth — concerning issues related to the operational employment of this “bird farm.” Tall and almost completely bald, he went to the evening’s reception as he would to an inspection. Both events were to be feared lest he or one of his staff make an error, and small talk with strangers did not come easy to him. Once seated in the stern, his aide handed him a folder that included two sets of papers: the dossiers of the local civic leaders he could expect to meet, and his prepared remarks for a speaking responsibility he had not sought, but which he knew would be thrust upon him sometime during the evening.

The Wing Commander, or “CAG,” filled out the trio of senior leaders aboard Coral Sea. Like Wilson, Captain Tim Matson was a Hornet pilot, six years his senior. He was also an easygoing friend since Matson had taught him to fly the