Raven One - [5]

, a carrier en route to combat in the Persian Gulf. Breathing deeply, he realized the ejection had been a dream. Just a dream. But as he slowed his breathing, he actually considered it a flashback to what could have happened to him that March night in 2003. Don’t fool yourself. It can happen next month, or even next week over Iraq. Then, just as suddenly, he berated himself. Stop thinking like this.

He looked at the clock: 5:52. Reveille in eight minutes, but he could go right back to sleep. Since he had a night hop scheduled, he could not break his 12-hour “crew day” by beginning his day too early, despite the fact that one could never escape “work” at sea.

He remembered yesterday’s hop in the Gulf of Aden, a functional test hop on a clear, blue day, one of those days when he still couldn’t believe they paid him to fly. He was the last aircraft to trap, and after shutting his jet down on the bow, he had taken a favorite route toward the carrier’s “island,” the towering six-story superstructure that housed the bridge that allowed him to enjoy the sunshine. As he had trudged down the flight deck in 40 pounds of custom flight gear, he had taken in the scene and wondered if this would be one of the last times he would ever experience it. It may be the last time this cruise… may be the last time ever, he had thought. He was conscious of the fact that once the cruise ended — some five months from now according to the schedule — he may not come back here on a deployed aircraft carrier again. Possibly by the Navy’s choice — probably by my own. He thought of the exhilaration of flying off the ship, being up on the “roof” and experiencing what only a handful of humans can even imagine. Experiencing life on a warship on the other side of the world — a reason to stay. And, at times, in his innermost thoughts, a guilty desire for combat, a reality which was now little more than 1,000 miles over the horizon, and getting closer with each passing minute.

A dread began to creep inside, bringing him back to the realization of what waited him later that morning and every morning, a reason he would resign his commission. Five more months, he thought, as he turned over and closed his eyes.

CHAPTER 2

At thirty-five years old, “Flip” Wilson was at the pinnacle of his flying prowess. As a Hornet pilot of some 3,000 hours, he had been in the cockpit each year of the twelve since flight school and was a decorated combat veteran. Approaching the end of his tour in the Ravens of Strike Fighter Squadron Sixty Four, Wilson was the Operations Officer responsible for both training the squadron pilots for any contingency and producing a daily flight schedule. Below him in rank were three more department heads and a gaggle of junior officer pilots. And, as mandated by the Navy’s career managers, he had a desk job awaiting him after this cruise.

The Ravens consisted of 15 pilots, a small number of maintenance officers, a dozen chief petty officers, and some 160 sailors who maintained the 11 aircraft and performed various functions that allowed the operation to run without hiccup. The Ravens flew the multi-mission FA-18 Hornet strike-fighters, and were equally at home with anything from air-to-air fighter sweeps and combat air patrols to air-to-surface bombing and defense suppression missions with an array of weaponry each pilot mastered. VFA-64 was commanded by Commander Steve “Cajun” Lassiter, an easygoing former Tulane linebacker with a thick moustache and a shock of dark hair. He was known as the “CO” or Skipper to those inside the squadron. The second in command, the executive officer, or XO, was a sour-faced martinet. Commander William “Saint” Patrick was responsible for all squadron administrative functions and in line to succeed the CO. Patrick was a slender man of medium height with a thinning hairline he combed to perfection. Unlike any other air wing pilot, he wore his flight suit only from brief to debriefing a flight. Once the debrief ended, he changed into a khaki uniform within minutes.

* * *

Four hours later, Wilson rolled his six-foot frame out of his rack. What is today? Day 25 of a six-month cruise? He did the math as he stumbled to the sink… No, day 21. Three weeks. With 21 more weeks to go. And he knew almost every one of those days would run together, a reason the crew called their time on-station “Groundhog Day.”

Wilson thought of Saint immediately as he ran a razor under the water. What bullshit crisis is it going to be today? Dental readiness report? Scratched tile on the deck? He didn’t technically work for Saint, but because the XO was a heartbeat from command and well-connected at the wing staff — and a senior officer — you didn’t mess with him. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Three bags full. Wilson shaved in silence and switched his thoughts to his upcoming day.

At nearly 1,100 feet long, Valley Forge was one of the largest warships afloat, a Nimitz class nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, one of twelve U.S. Navy aircraft carriers. Below deck,