“Yes,” Annie replied. “My red-haired brother Weed is in the group, and some other guys I don’t know. TOPGUN types.”
Wilson smiled. Mike “Weed” Hopper had been his roommate in the Ravens. Promoted to the rank of Commander and serving as a staff member on the Operational Test and Evaluation Force, Weed had hoped to get his own squadron command; however, his career timing had gone against it. This Caribbean at-sea period would be a fun opportunity to fly together again.
Just then the ready room door burst open. “Kemosabe!”
Beaming, Wilson rose to greet his friend and grasped his outstretched hand. “All right, Weed! Welcome aboard!”
“Hey, Flip! Hey, Annie! Great to be haze gray again! Only been aboard thirty minutes and I’m tired, hungry, and — well — never mind!”
“Glad to see you in a flight suit,” Wilson said. “How hard was it to extricate yourself from your desk?”
“I managed. Part of my job description is to bag traps with fleet pilots like you so I don’t go insane. And down here, in our sunny warm-water playground, like the old days.”
“What are you guys doing aboard this time?” Wilson asked him.
“Well, we’re working a project with DARPA on some cool new sensors. We’re going to run some profiles with them, maybe drop a few precision weapons to get these boxes a full test. What’s coming down the road is incredible.”
Annie asked, “Whose jets are you going to fly?”
Weed turned to Flip and suppressed a smile. “Well, ah, yours, if you have one to spare. You’ll be happy to know, Flip, that I asked for the Firebirds by name.”
“Just for you?” Wilson deadpanned, suspecting the answer.
“Well, no… A TOPGUN guy they call Chainsaw is also flying with you. Doesn’t talk much and may have killed a man once. Got off on a technicality. But hey, that’s all behind us now!”
Wilson smiled. “How is he behind the ship?”
“Oh, just like me! Solid as a rock. Gets aboard two out of five tries and had only one blown tire last time out! You can sleep soundly!”
Wilson smiled again at Weed’s banter. Same old Weed. It will be fun to have him out here, he thought. And maybe they could find an excuse to fly together. Such opportunities were rare, but as the CO, he was in a position to make it happen.
“We better get going,” Annie said.
The three commanders left the ready room and headed forward to the Carrier Intel Center, or CVIC. The other strike group commanding officers were gathered there to hear from the admiral on the upcoming at-sea period.
Once they arrived at the restricted space, they showed their ID cards to the sailor in the window. Satisfied, the sailor hit a switch to unlock the door, which buzzed until Wilson opened it. When they stepped inside and went to the main planning room where the rest of the “heavies” were gathered in light conversation, Weed boomed an exaggerated Hey! at seeing former shipmates after many years apart. The trio found seats among the folding chairs and joined in the socializing. A few moments later, the murmur of conversation was broken by a sharply raised voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the admiral.”
The room snapped to attention, the silence broken by the footsteps of the admiral and his entourage as they walked up to the lectern. CAG Matson and Captain Sanders were right behind the admiral, and all were dressed in khaki, the admiral sporting his characteristic navy blue pullover sweater.
With the officers still at attention, the admiral pulled out a folder and placed it on the lectern. “Pleased be seated,” he said.
The group took their seats and waited.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I trust everyone had a nice time in St. Thomas. You are all to be commended on the conduct of the liberty party. Now that everyone’s batteries are recharged, we have a full four-week tailored training period ahead of us. While we are in these warm waters, we’ll be doing reactor drills in preparation for the upcoming Operational Readiness Inspection, as well as ongoing qualifications of new personnel, some of whom have just joined us. Damage control preparation and material readiness are also areas of concern, so we’ll be conducting general quarters drills and take a strain on material conditions and personnel qualifications.”
As the admiral talked, Wilson wondered why he had gathered all commanding officers here for this routine stuff. And why the dramatic entrance? Meyerkopf was different from other admirals Wilson had observed. He appeared to be uncomfortable around the aviators. Wilson also noticed the admiral did not discuss air wing training.
The admiral continued.
“While we can conduct this training anywhere, Fleet Forces has sent us here to show the flag in this part of the world. Carriers haven’t spent time much time in these waters in years as they’ve been wed to Central Command needs in the Middle East. SOUTHCOM has been asking for carrier presence for some time, and even this short cruise down here is welcome. We’ll be operating in the middle of the Caribbean basin, between Hispaniola and South America, with a swing by Panama and Nicaragua. You aviators will fly and do what you do during this time, but the focus will be on the upkeep of Coral Sea’s nuclear plant, which is critical to the tasking of this capital warship.”
The focus? Wilson thought. He sensed his fellow aviators, sitting silently around him, were also troubled by Meyerkopf’s tone-deaf remarks. By gauging their blank stares, Meyerkopf realized he was not connecting and picked up the pace.
“We are also in these waters to help prosecute the War on Drugs, to help the Coast Guard stem the flow of illicit narcotics into the United States. Eighty percent of this traffic is seaborne, and the routes traffickers use are many and varied, from the Pacific coast, through the Yucatan Passage, Windward and Mona Passages, and up the Lesser Antilles and the Bahamas. When you come across cigarette boats, low-slow flyers, submersibles, or anything that looks suspicious, report it, and we’ll contact the Coast Guard to prosecute it.”
Wilson knew this was something the aviators could get excited about, but he had been there and done that. The vaunted War on Drugs that had begun in the late ‘80s was, by any measure, a failure. While there were individual battles won — most notably the battle for the soul of Colombia, at one time a narco-state — the cartels had just moved over to friendlier Venezuela. It seemed the decades-long efforts by the U.S. to stem the tide of drugs had done little more than put a small dent in the pipe. Handing off air and surface contacts to the overworked and overextended Coast Guard had not stopped the trade, and American kids — and their parents — were puffing and snorting away, while sending a constant demand signal to willing suppliers.
Meyerkopf wrapped up his wooden delivery and seemed thankful he could now escape the skeptical eyes of his aviators. “Well, that’s all I’ve got. Ah, Captain, do you have anything?”
Captain Sanders scanned the room behind him until his eyes settled on his Intelligence Officer, Commander Norb Hofmeister. “Hof” was a favorite among the pilots for his quick wit in daily briefings and for knowing his business. He led a team of squadron intel officers — of whom VFA-16’s Ensign Duncan was the newest member — tasked to provide actionable intelligence to the aviators before they had to fly into harm’s way.
“Yes, sir,” Sanders answered as he stood. “Commander Hofmeister has a run-down on the local situation. Hof—”
In his khaki uniform, Hofmeister bounded to the front of the room as a chart was projected behind him. “Admiral, good morning! We are going to remain in the vicinity of Puerto Rico for the next two days requalifying your aviators in day and night carrier landings before we transit west southwest to this position north of the Panama Canal so we can do our reactor and damage control drills unmolested by ship traffic. This is about 750 miles from our current position, and we’ll be flying while en route. With a fifteen-knot speed of advance, we should be there in two days.”