“Oh, stop! He betrayed you! You’re not a slut. You’re the victim. And I wouldn’t give these guys here a free pass. There are plenty of pigs to go around.”
“I know, I know. And I wouldn’t date a squadron guy, but it is a big ship. Maybe one exception,” Shane offered with a smile.
“Who?”
“Trench is cute.” Wonder Woman shrugged and smiled as she said it.
“Oh, no! You need to give him a wide berth, girlie. He’s interested in only one thing.”
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t start an office romance… but those muscles! Are you interested in him?”
“No way! He’s the lead pig! He doesn’t respect you, and you are just a notch in his belt. Besides, the Firebird guys are like brothers, and they call me a dude with hair. But Trench — and Coach, too — are two guys I avoid.”
“Why don’t you like him?” Shane asked.
“Because he thinks he’s God’s gift and that all women are his playthings — to be abused, verbally and otherwise.”
“Did he…?”
“Omigosh, no! Look, he’s nice to you now. Hell, every swingin’ dick on the ship is nice to you, but you are a piece of meat to him. He’s a Neanderthal and doesn’t think any of us chicks should be here, even the XO.”
Troubled, Shane looked away. “I just want to do my job and be respected for it.”
Macho rolled her eyes. “Do you think those guys in the metro office give the snot-nosed male intel officers personal tours of the tower? Or horse-faces like me? Fuck no. Your face looks like Miss America, and your body looks like Miss July. They are guys, young virile guys, and they’re after you. And if you don’t watch yourself, you’re going to get hurt.”
Stung, Shane said nothing, and an uneasy silence filled the stateroom. Shane checked for something on her desk, and Macho went back to her email, both still conscious of the exchange.
“I’m sorry,” Shane said.
“Hey, I’m sorry. It’s just that I want to protect you. Girls come aboard and are the flavor-of-the-month until the next one shows up. You’re showing your chops as an intel officer and gaining credibility around here, and that’s hard to do with these a-holes. The non-pilot males have it much harder. If they shrink away from the needling, they’re treated like shit. At least you have their attention. I’m not sure how much listening they’re doing, but you have their attention. Keep giving good briefings and it will sink in.”
Shane smiled in appreciation. “I think your face is pretty.”
Macho exhaled and smiled back. “Thanks,” she replied, grateful — as any woman living on the gray warship would be — for a rare personal compliment.
CHAPTER 13
Wilson climbed up the ladder steps in his flight gear, carrying his helmet bag in one hand and steadying himself on the rail with the other. At the top, he reached the O-4 level and undogged the hatch that led to the flight deck and stepped outside.
A week had passed since they had begun Assured Promise, and the ship and airwing were in a routine. First launch at noon. Last recovery at midnight. Lots of routine surface search around the ship interspersed with fun intercept hops against the Colombians who, like the Americans, were honing their air-combat maneuvering skills against a dissimilar adversary. The Kfirs were hard to see until the merge, and the Colombian he had fought yesterday had a good understanding of his jet to fight it slow. However, the Kfirs were no match for the Hornets. When not “fighting” the Colombians, the airwing pilots had scoured the surface around Coral Maru. The ship knew what every passing vessel was and where it was going, and the airwing pilots were competing against each other for the best still pictures of the same ships. As the merchants plodded through the Caribbean in the vicinity of the carrier, the American jets buzzed around them like troublesome insects. The “kids” in those cockpits found ways to compete in everything.
According to the schedule, Coral Sea was to remain here in this same piece of water for the next two weeks, with Wilson and the other airwing pilots doing routine searches and bumping heads with the Colombians while the nukes below carried out their arcane engineering drills. The daily repetition was like Groundhog Day, and, as Wilson walked to his jet parked on the fantail, he wondered once again why they were doing this basic meat-and-potatoes training here and not closer to home. Air Force and Marine fighters based in the Southeast could give them better flight profiles and provide several overland targets for training. In fact, the carrier could be in port for much of the training and drills. And why do the reactor guys care where the ship is anyway?
Weed and the test guys seemed to be busy, and that was the biggest mystery of all. Why test this stuff here when the test infrastructure was back in home waters? Sending Coral Sea here, and keeping it in one area for weeks at a time, was strange. He could only surmise it was to placate the ego of the four-star Combatant Commander in Miami who wanted some Navy assets to control. Or some regional State Department initiative: Sure, send 10,000 sailors to sea to show Colombia we care.
Oh, well, he thought, as he neared his jet, Firebird 301. It’s a beautiful day, and my job is to fly.
“Good morning, Dubose,” Wilson said as he returned the salute of his plane captain.
“Good morning, sir!” the young man replied, standing at attention in front of his jet. Although Wilson’s name was stenciled under the canopy, Dubose’s name and hometown were stenciled in black letters on the nose wheel door. Dubose felt as if he actually owned the multimillion-dollar jet and let the pilots fly it.
Wilson stowed his gear in the cockpit and began his preflight routine as Airman Dubose followed. On one wing station was a rack of six Mk-76 practice bombs. He and new guy LTJG Jumpin Joe Kessler were going to drop them on a towed target in Coral Sea’s wake before they set out to update the surface picture around the ship. All was in order, as usual, and Wilson chatted with some of the flight deck troubleshooters before he climbed into the cockpit.
He saw Weed preflighting a jet next to him, a single-seat Rhino from the Hunters of VFA-62, and noted his jet was carrying two racks of five practice bombs. Wilson shrugged off the double load of ordnance to the test program. He called to Weed and pointed at the weapons.
“Where you going with those?”
Weed smiled as he walked over to Wilson. “More Fire Scout testing. I’m gonna drop these things on smokes, and the Fire Scout will record the hits.”
“What fun,” Wilson said. “Where you going?”
Weed hesitated just long enough for Wilson to notice. “Depends where the Fire Scout is. I’ll find out airborne. What are you guys doing?”
Wilson gestured aft. “Dropping these on the sled, then searching around the ship. Showing the nugget the ropes.”