Hover (22 page)

“Sorry, love. I didn't mean to startle you.”

“No … no, I'm fine,” I say. “I just didn't expect to see you there.” I never heard him approach. With a composing breath, I bring my hand back to my side. “I'm sorry, you were saying what?”

“The ocean,” he says, inclining his head. “Beautiful tonight, isn't it?”

“Oh … um, no, actually,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows.

He's just being conversational, Sara. This is not the time to delve into your irrational issues with water.

“I just … never mind,” I say.

“What would you call it, then?”

I look up to meet his eyes, more black than blue on this dark night, and surprise myself with another truthful response. “Dangerous, maybe. But not beautiful.”

He glances at the wake before moving his gaze to the blackness beyond. “I think it can be both,” he says, turning to me. “But I prefer to focus on the beautiful.” He regards me earnestly, his features softening with the smile that spreads across his face.

This man is a walking contradiction—an imposing force, without question, and yet polite and friendly, to me, anyway.

“You know, I wasn't sure when I'd get a chance to speak with you again,” he says, his voice lowering. “We were somewhat rudely interrupted this afternoon.”

I nod, at a strange loss for words.

“I must have startled you more than I realized,” he says lightheartedly. “You're all tensed, love.”

“Oh, I … it's nothing.”

He stiffens, the ease in his demeanor vanishing. His lips crease into an intimidating hard line as Mike and Peter round the corner of the aircraft.

Mike's expression is notably even more daunting. “What are you doing?” Mike asks.

“Just getting reacquainted,” Jonas says breezily.

“You need to get back to your squad where you belong,” Mike says.

“You know, I rather like it
here,
” Jonas replies.

Mike and Peter respond as Eric did earlier—shoulders back and tensing.

“But let's not get our dander up,” Jonas says, raising his hands and backing away. Looking to me, he softens his voice. “I'm sure we'll talk later.” He issues a baleful glare to Mike and Peter before turning on his heel.

I wait until he disappears around the front of the aircraft.

“Guys, what…?”

“Holy crap, Sara,” Mike says, dropping the hardened expression. “I'm so sorry. We didn't see him leave the hangar.”

Mike speaks as if he just lost control of the prisoner he was escorting to trial or something.

“It's okay, Mike, really,” I say. “He was just saying hello.”

Mike and Peter share a disgusted look.

“What did Eric tell you about him?” Peter asks.

“Well, not much. He didn't have time. The only thing he said was that he's not to be trusted.”

“He's right,” Peter says. “Dead right.”

“Remember back to your bedtime stories—the wolf in sheep's clothing,” Mike says. “Don't ever forget that with him.”

This situation couldn't get any more bizarre. This is an ally we're supposed to be working with, right? But everyone's acting like he's a threat.

“I need to get up and preflight,” I say.

I climb atop the aircraft, and the fact that they've slipped up in their watch is evident now because one of them remains duly attached to me, observing my every move. It's not until I'm seated in the aircraft and the bird is turning that they return to the hangar.

We perform multiple approaches to the
Lake Champlain
and the
Melbourne,
Eric—no surprise—coordinating all of it. His voice is a constant reminder that Mike and Peter aren't the only ones on alert.

“Forward forty, forward thirty,” Lego says as we approach the stern of the
Melbourne
. “Forward ten, five, rope's away!”

I hold a steady hover while the Australians take their turn sliding down the rope, wondering about the speed of their transitions to the deck. As the night has progressed, and as they've gotten more slides under their belts, I assumed they would get faster. But there's a noticeable difference in speed when measured against their SEAL counterparts.

“… last man out. Pulling in the rope. Steady. Rope's in. Clear to go,” Lego reports.

“Lego,” I say after transitioning clear of the flight deck, “is it just me or are they moving slower than our guys?”

“It's not just you, ma'am,” Lego says.

Our thoughts are verified when we land and the Australians reenter the aircraft.

Jonas hooks into the ICS, his voice fraught with angry frustration. “One more,” he says sharply.

“Sir, do you need us to position any differently?” Lego asks delicately.

“No,” he says. “The positioning is fine. It's my team that's not.”

Oh. Awkward.

“The price you pay for five greenies,” Jonas continues.

Five new men. The SEAL squads here don't have this problem. Seasoned members all, they stand near the edge of the flight deck, patiently waiting their turn as we rotate the teams through.

“But I must say,” Jonas says in a turn of tone, “the delivery is spot on. Well done up front.”

I'm about to acknowledge the compliment when I look to my left, noting the tight expression on Commander Claggett's face. Probably best to let it go.

“Ma'am, we're ready to lift in back,” Lego says.

I take off while thinking about Jonas's comments, wondering once again what it is that Eric, Mike, and the others would find so disturbing about him. My mind spins with that question for the next four hours until Jonas and his team exit the aircraft for the last time, fanning out across the deck of the
Melbourne
and slipping away into the dark.

 

26

“Clear on the left! Clear on the right! Clear on the firing line!” bellows Senior Chief Messenger, the chief master-at-arms.

I stand at the end of a row of five people on our “shooting range,” which is actually the flight deck. Next to me, Zack, Matt, and Chad have just completed the donning of their safety goggles while Emily fidgets with her ear protection. We're shooting for marksmanship ribbons with the standard-issue Beretta M9, a semiautomatic 9mm pistol. Even though I already carry an Expert pistol medal, if the opportunity for target practice arises, I take it. I don't get to practice too often and it's something I enjoy. Like precision flying, accurate shooting requires steady hands, sharp eyes, and a gentle touch.

There are fifty of us today and we've fired in prone, kneeling, and standing positions at ranges of fifteen and now twenty-five yards. In this last round, we'll fire a standard magazine, fifteen rounds, in forty-five seconds—seven kneeling and eight standing.

Once the range is declared clear, I take aim. I fire one round every three seconds, creating a nice cluster in the center of my target. The shooting holes for Em, Matt, and Zack form starburst patterns over their targets, the entry points spreading far and wide. I doubt they'll even get the minimum score for Marksman. Chad's shots look better, probably in the Sharpshooter range, and he's receiving high fives for his efforts.

Senior Chief Messenger and his men from the master-at-arms division walk forward with us to tally our hits.

“Highest score of anybody today, ma'am,” he says, writing my point total, 292, on the target sheet. “Impressive.”

“Thanks, Senior.”

I glance over to Emily. She's joking and laughing with Chad, Zack, and Matt, and I'm noticeably excluded from whatever they're finding humorous. The subtle shift in the dynamics of our group is happening once more, just like it was prior to Hong Kong. First, the flight with the SAS, then two more SEAL flights in the two subsequent nights, all with me at the controls and all without explanation.

“I said, you wanna keep this as a souvenir?” Senior Chief Messenger asks.

“Excuse me. What?”

“The target sheet, ma'am. Would you like to keep it as a souvenir?”

I look down at the paper he holds, ripped from the target backing and rolled into a tight cylinder.

“Oh, um, sure,” I say, catching Emily's eye for a quick moment, an accusatory look, before she whips her head around, returning her attention to her boisterous group.

That look … That's not fair.

I march straight over to her and tap her on the shoulder.

“Em, what is this?” I ask, the anger simmering.

“What is what?” she asks, mirroring my tone.

Chad, Matt, and Zack scuttle away as Emily turns toward me.

“This,” I say, motioning to the three that hurry across the flight deck. “And that look and getting ignored and all of it. You know this flying thing isn't my fault. I have no control over any of it.”

“Don't you?” she asks sharply.

“What? No!”

“I don't see you complaining,” she says, crossing her arms.

“Complaining? I'm just doing what they're telling me to do,” I say.

“While Zack and I are sitting on our asses!”

“What?” I say in a volume just shy of shouting. “What do you want, Em? What do you want me to do? You know this bothers me! You know I don't like it!”

“Yeah, I'm sure this is really difficult for you,” she says, turning on her heel and leaving me standing alone, mouth agape.

What the hell just happened?

*   *   *

I climb up to my rack, thinking I'm going to nap, but knowing it's going to be darn near impossible based on what just happened with Em. I need the sleep, though. These middle-of-the-night briefs are taking their toll, and we have another one tonight. The aircraft commanders are rotating through on these, but the one pilot constant is me.

Should I complain like Emily said? I've asked questions, but never outright disagreed or protested my scheduling. Maybe she's right. Maybe I should. Zack and Emily are my squadron mates, both attempting to qualify as a helicopter aircraft commander, just as I am. They need the hours. They need the experience.

And the same is true on the aircrewman side. We have six aircrewmen in this detachment, but on these SEAL exercises, when we assign a different crew, it comes back from the skipper with red marks crossed through it and notes to assign Lego and Messy instead.

But we haven't put our foot down. We haven't complained. We just do it. And we'll do it again tonight. To a submarine.

We fast roped to a sub several times while working in Hawaii this winter and we've done it once in daytime hours on this cruise prior to pulling into Hong Kong. We practiced with the USS
Birmingham,
the fast-attack submarine that's traveling with our task group.

It's actually not so bad working with submarines—in the daytime, anyway. The sails are large enough that you still have a hover reference. But at night with no goggles … black sail, black water, black sky. Lego has been a champ for me on these, fine-tuning my positioning, but I really do seem to do these kinds of flights by feel.

As I close my eyes, I try to put the flight hours discrepancy issue out of my mind, thinking about the flight instead, wondering what I'll reference tonight when no one anywhere is running any lights. Moonlight has helped the previous two nights, and I can normally rely on the canvas of stars against the horizon. Too bad I can't talk with Em about this. I mean, I guess I could, but it would be like rubbing salt in the wound. And for the same reason, it would be just as uncomfortable to bring it up with the aircraft commanders.

With a small sigh, miraculously, I drift to sleep.

*   *   *

“Sara, wake up,” Em says.

“What?” I say, blinking. “What time is it?”

“It's seventeen hundred. Our meeting's about to start,” she says stiffly.

I watch, saddened, as she walks out the door without me.

I tug down on the long-sleeved running shirt I'm wearing—the one I donned for our shooting exercise earlier. Somehow, I've managed to keep my arms covered since I returned from shore patrol and have delayed the need to outright lie for how I received these bruises, ones that have only grown darker and harsher looking.

Entering Commander Claggett's stateroom, I move toward an open spot on the couch and I'd swear I was a ghost. No acknowledgment. No eye contact. Nothing. From anyone. Commander Claggett, who obviously didn't wait for me to begin the meeting, continues speaking without missing a beat.

“And on to marksmanship trials … Let's see, we need to congratulate Chad on his Sharpshooter qual,” he says. “Nice job, man.”

The group claps lightly as Commander Claggett's finger moves down the agenda.

“Singapore duty schedule? Chad?”

No acknowledgment whatsoever for my Expert marks.
Forget it, Sara. It doesn't matter anyway.

“Zack will have it when we pull in,” Chad says. “Lace has it the following day, Emily, you're next, me, and Matt. So we each have a day.”

“And, yes, we have confirmation. Drum roll, Chad,” Commander Claggett says.

Chad drums his fingers on his chair.

“Wog Day is a go!” Commander Claggett announces.

“Sweet!” “Excellent!” Chad and Matt say at once, accompanied with exuberant high fives.

“Day after tomorrow, the day before we pull into Sing!” Commander Claggett says.

Zack, Em, and I look at each other, letting out a collective heavy sigh. And I'm included again.

Wog Day. In the navy, you're considered a Pollywog until you've crossed the equator aboard ship. Assuming you participate in the Wog Day ritual, if you successfully complete all the trials of the day, you earn the coveted title, Shellback.

The rumors have been flying ever since we left Hong Kong that the captain might deviate from our course to Singapore and travel the extra eighty-five miles south to the equator so we could have the ceremony. I guess the folks from strike group operations are cooperating and he must have gotten the go-ahead.