Raven One - [10]

pilots and two aircrew from the Sea Owls listened intently. If Cajun Lassiter was concerned about the conditions his squadron pilots — and he — would face that night, he didn’t show it. Too professional for that. But Wilson knew he would brief the aircrew on every contingency and would further brief Olive on pitching deck LSO calls and other heavy weather techniques he had picked up over 17 years of carrier flying.

LT Ramer Howard, known in the squadron as “Prince Charming,” both for his dark good looks and as a sarcastic reference to his disagreeable personality, sat in his khakis at the duty desk. The blank look on his face belied the question they all had as the roar of a jet at full power filled the room. The Skipper raised his voice an octave to be heard above it. It was a Super Hornet in tension on Cat 3, and on the PLAT Wilson could see light rain falling from the low clouds that extended to the horizon. With a dull thud, the Rhino screamed down the deck and kicked up billowing clouds of water drops in its exhaust. The familiar sound of the water brake reverberated through the ship and the Super Hornet’s WHOOSH served as evidence it had cleared the deck — airborne over 500 feet forward. Wilson glanced at Prince Charming, but his face remained blank.

“Wanna get some food?” Weed asked.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Wilson replied.

JOs Psycho, Smoke, and Guido had just left the ready room, also on their way to the forward wardroom. Before he reached the door, the sound of a strike-fighter in tension caused Wilson to return to the PLAT, with Weed right behind him. They could make out Sponge Bob’s salute to the catapult observer, which was followed by the usual 10-second wait. When the cat fired, the Hornet thundered down the catapult track and into the air, another wake of wind-driven spray behind it.

The pilots proceeded out of the ready room and forward along the passageway. “Gonna be a varsity night,” Weed began.

“Yes, it is,” his roommate responded. “What’s been happening down here?”

“Deputy CAG called about 45 minutes ago. The Skipper talked to him, and I discerned that DCAG wanted to know about Sponge Bob. Skipper said he was a solid pilot. If it were me, I would have asked about the XO instead!”

Wilson decided to keep the fact that he agreed with Weed to himself. “How are your guys doing up there?” he asked, as he glanced at Weed over his left shoulder.

“Drenched and loving it,” Weed chuckled. “Guys are fighting to go topside so they can get some sea salt on their shoulders.”

“Yeah… think that’s what Sponge is thinking right now?” Wilson deadpanned.

“He looked confident as he walked, but the XO was real tense, more than usual.”

After they walked a distance of two football fields over a series of frame knee-knockers, they came to the “dirty shirt” wardroom, which was located below and between the bow catapults. Cat 2 was still firing, and the sound of the shuttle roared through the wardroom overhead. The tremendous crash that came from the water brake, located on the extreme forward part of the flight deck some 200 feet away, shook everything in the room that was not bolted down. The pilots were used to the noises and the shaking and paid little attention — unless there was something unusual about them. Tonight, they noted the increased movement of the ship, well forward of its center of gravity.

Wilson and Weed picked up their trays, drinking glasses and silverware as they got into the already long buffet line. The junior officers were about ten ahead. Everyone in line wore a flight suit.

Wilson had experienced severe pitching deck conditions several times off the Virginia Capes and once near the Azores, but not out here in the IO. Regardless of where it was, the great 100,000-ton ship could bob like a cork in heavy seas. In fact, right now, the ship was creaking as the bow rose and fell in the deep swells. It pitched up and down, often accompanied by what the seamen called a Dutch Roll, a roll induced by the pitching oscillations. Pitching and rolling decks were difficult enough, but the seas could also heave the whole ship, lifting it up and down in the water.

All this was a recipe for a poor boarding rate, which meant lengthy recoveries, stressed aircraft components, and tension with everyone involved with flight operations exacerbated by the fact that each plane had limited airborne fuel. USS Valley Forge just signed up for it.

The two sat down next to the Raven junior officers. Each squadron had staked out their own “unofficial” table where they — as the trained creatures of habit that they were — almost always gathered for a meal. The Raven table was all the way forward on the port side.

“Anyone care to go flying tonight?” Wilson asked the group as they joined them.

“No, thank you,” Psycho answered. Her voice carried throughout the room as she continued. “I flew last night and twice at night in the Red Sea. Think I’m covered for at least tonight.”

“JOs complaining about flying at night,” Weed said, shaking his head in feigned disgust. “Can we count on you for a full moon night? Waxing gibbous at least?”