Declared Hostile - [8]
The barge cast off from the camel, and at the request of the Captain, traversed the starboard side of the ship before turning to shore. The officers’ eyes automatically inspected the hull of the steel mountain floating next to them, some looking at spots of rust, others at refueling stations and others at the tails of aircraft sticking over the flight deck sixty feet above. Wilson thought of the immensity of it. He was continually amazed carriers like this were built by human hands. Holding Coral Sea in place were three hundred and twenty-five pound links of anchor chain that stretched tight from the hawse pipe to the sea. The coxswain turned the barge left under the shadow of the bow on their way to shore.
The motor thrummed them forward as the boat rolled and pitched gently in the light swells. As the sun sank lower in the western sky, Wilson and the others inspected the green hills of St. Thomas through the windows and watched the waves crash against the rocky shoreline. The smell of hibiscus and agave filled the air when the barge grew close, and Wilson noted a large white-hulled cruise ship standing out from the Charlotte Amalie terminal. The ship was ready to begin her night’s voyage on the smooth sea caressed by the gentle trades. Puffy clouds dotted the horizon, and far to the southeast an impressive line of thunderstorms reflected the light of the setting sun.
Ten minutes after leaving the ship, the pitch of the engine changed as the coxswain maneuvered the barge along the wooden pier. Someone commented on the hundreds of wooden stairs along the cliff leading to the resort above. Annie smiled. Navigating the stairs in a skirt was a small price for her to pay, knowing her husband was waiting for her at the top of them.
As the experienced coxswain manipulated the throttles, a deckhand jumped off the barge and tied the bow line to the cleat, then secured the aft mooring line thrown by his shipmate. Once the barge was tight against the pier, the officers disembarked in order of seniority. A lieutenant greeted the admiral with a salute and led him to the reception. The rest of the white-clad officers trudged up the stairs in order, glad to be ashore after two weeks underway. Many of them commented on the iguana that sunned itself on the rocks in the remaining light, its disinterest in the noisy humans quite evident.
The music of Bob Marley greeted them as they completed the last of the steps, and a low wall invited them to pop their heads over it to take in the spacious resort deck, with its pools, lounge chairs, palm trees, and food laid out on long tables. In addition, servers wearing bow-ties moved among the guests offering fare from their trays. White uniformed officers mingled with the local heavy hitters, who, by the looks of them, were mostly elderly. Sprinkled here and there, however, were what appeared to be a few bored college-age granddaughters in cocktail dresses, disappointed at the lack of Coral Sea officers anywhere close to their own age. One loud matron grabbed the captain as soon as he appeared and introduced him to a distinguished looking gentleman in white trousers and blue blazer complete with ascot. The heavies seemed to be enjoying the forced fun with their newfound island friends — smiles all around. However, Wilson and Billy, along with most of the pilots, were thinking the same thing: Find a can of beer, fast.
“There’s my girl!”
At the sound of his voice, Jen Schofield walked up to her burly husband. Ten years older than his wife, and with a shock of white hair and goatee to match, Mike Schofield could be characterized as a biker — the big, rotund, loud, and uncouth version. He had served on destroyers as an enlisted man in the early 80s, and when he got out, had gone into the automobile sound business. It came as no surprise that he made a fortune selling the best systems to Norfolk area sailors. Annie smiled shyly and then yelped as he enveloped her, lifting her off the ground.
“Ha, haaa…. Welcome ashore, sweetie!” Mike boomed.
“Put me down!” Annie said under her breath, and when he did, she quickly scanned the crowd to see who, if anyone, had noticed the display. As she straightened her blouse, Mike moved in for a kiss.
Mike finished and then offered his meaty hand to his wife’s boss. “Hey, Jim! Good to see you!”
“You too, Mike. You know Billy Martin?”
Mike squeezed Billy’s hand in his vice-like grip. “Ha! ‘Billy’ Martin! You guys have the best handles! How you doin’, man?” Annie watched the men, no longer as a senior fighter pilot but as a demure wife giving her husband the stage. Not that she had much of a choice when Mike was around. Larger than life and completely comfortable in his skin, he was a good husband and father to their eight-year-old son. Wilson knew Mike was the right guy for Annie. Knowing her when they were both lieutenants, Annie had confided once that her boyfriends could not deal with the fact Annie’s job was way cooler than theirs. She could overlook the white hair and beer belly of a man who could accept her for who she was and still treat her like a woman.
