Rear Admiral Roland Meyerkopf, Commander, Carrier Strike Group Eighteen, was at the other end of the personality spectrum. A career submariner, nuclear-trained as was Sanders, Meyerkopf was tight-lipped and taciturn. His eyes lit up when he discussed issues related to the nuclear plant but became bored — or was more likely out of his depth — concerning issues related to the operational employment of this “bird farm.” Tall and almost completely bald, he went to the evening’s reception as he would to an inspection. Both events were to be feared lest he or one of his staff make an error, and small talk with strangers did not come easy to him. Once seated in the stern, his aide handed him a folder that included two sets of papers: the dossiers of the local civic leaders he could expect to meet, and his prepared remarks for a speaking responsibility he had not sought, but which he knew would be thrust upon him sometime during the evening.
The Wing Commander, or “CAG,” filled out the trio of senior leaders aboard Coral Sea. Like Wilson, Captain Tim Matson was a Hornet pilot, six years his senior. He was also an easygoing friend since Matson had taught him to fly the Hornet long ago when Wilson was new to the airplane. Wilson considered himself fortunate that his boss was also a friend, and Wilson’s wife, Mary, was close to Matson’s wife, Barbara. Tonight, however, Wilson’s friend and boss needed to support his boss in this forced-fun function.
The barge cast off from the camel, and at the request of the Captain, traversed the starboard side of the ship before turning to shore. The officers’ eyes automatically inspected the hull of the steel mountain floating next to them, some looking at spots of rust, others at refueling stations and others at the tails of aircraft sticking over the flight deck sixty feet above. Wilson thought of the immensity of it. He was continually amazed carriers like this were built by human hands. Holding Coral Sea in place were three hundred and twenty-five pound links of anchor chain that stretched tight from the hawse pipe to the sea. The coxswain turned the barge left under the shadow of the bow on their way to shore.
The motor thrummed them forward as the boat rolled and pitched gently in the light swells. As the sun sank lower in the western sky, Wilson and the others inspected the green hills of St. Thomas through the windows and watched the waves crash against the rocky shoreline. The smell of hibiscus and agave filled the air when the barge grew close, and Wilson noted a large white-hulled cruise ship standing out from the Charlotte Amalie terminal. The ship was ready to begin her night’s voyage on the smooth sea caressed by the gentle trades. Puffy clouds dotted the horizon, and far to the southeast an impressive line of thunderstorms reflected the light of the setting sun.
Ten minutes after leaving the ship, the pitch of the engine changed as the coxswain maneuvered the barge along the wooden pier. Someone commented on the hundreds of wooden stairs along the cliff leading to the resort above. Annie smiled. Navigating the stairs in a skirt was a small price for her to pay, knowing her husband was waiting for her at the top of them.
As the experienced coxswain manipulated the throttles, a deckhand jumped off the barge and tied the bow line to the cleat, then secured the aft mooring line thrown by his shipmate. Once the barge was tight against the pier, the officers disembarked in order of seniority. A lieutenant greeted the admiral with a salute and led him to the reception. The rest of the white-clad officers trudged up the stairs in order, glad to be ashore after two weeks underway. Many of them commented on the iguana that sunned itself on the rocks in the remaining light, its disinterest in the noisy humans quite evident.
The music of Bob Marley greeted them as they completed the last of the steps, and a low wall invited them to pop their heads over it to take in the spacious resort deck, with its pools, lounge chairs, palm trees, and food laid out on long tables. In addition, servers wearing bow-ties moved among the guests offering fare from their trays. White uniformed officers mingled with the local heavy hitters, who, by the looks of them, were mostly elderly. Sprinkled here and there, however, were what appeared to be a few bored college-age granddaughters in cocktail dresses, disappointed at the lack of Coral Sea officers anywhere close to their own age. One loud matron grabbed the captain as soon as he appeared and introduced him to a distinguished looking gentleman in white trousers and blue blazer complete with ascot. The heavies seemed to be enjoying the forced fun with their newfound island friends — smiles all around. However, Wilson and Billy, along with most of the pilots, were thinking the same thing: Find a can of beer, fast.
“There’s my girl!”
At the sound of his voice, Jen Schofield walked up to her burly husband. Ten years older than his wife, and with a shock of white hair and goatee to match, Mike Schofield could be characterized as a biker — the big, rotund, loud, and uncouth version. He had served on destroyers as an enlisted man in the early 80s, and when he got out, had gone into the automobile sound business. It came as no surprise that he made a fortune selling the best systems to Norfolk area sailors. Annie smiled shyly and then yelped as he enveloped her, lifting her off the ground.
“Ha, haaa…. Welcome ashore, sweetie!” Mike boomed.
“Put me down!” Annie said under her breath, and when he did, she quickly scanned the crowd to see who, if anyone, had noticed the display. As she straightened her blouse, Mike moved in for a kiss.
Mike finished and then offered his meaty hand to his wife’s boss. “Hey, Jim! Good to see you!”
“You too, Mike. You know Billy Martin?”
Mike squeezed Billy’s hand in his vice-like grip. “Ha! ‘Billy’ Martin! You guys have the best handles! How you doin’, man?” Annie watched the men, no longer as a senior fighter pilot but as a demure wife giving her husband the stage. Not that she had much of a choice when Mike was around. Larger than life and completely comfortable in his skin, he was a good husband and father to their eight-year-old son. Wilson knew Mike was the right guy for Annie. Knowing her when they were both lieutenants, Annie had confided once that her boyfriends could not deal with the fact Annie’s job was way cooler than theirs. She could overlook the white hair and beer belly of a man who could accept her for who she was and still treat her like a woman.
The loud matron had the admiral, captain, and CAG cornered as she presented them to more St. Thomas A-listers. In this situation, the squadron COs and XOs were the de facto junior officers, and as they had learned over the course of their careers, knew to hit the bar and buffet table early, and in that order. They made small talk with some of the civilians, mostly retired businessmen from the eastern seaboard who made fortunes in clothing, or investment banking, or real estate. All of them peppered Wilson and the others in uniform with questions about the ship, incredulous that they could actually fly high performance airplanes off it. They asked the usual questions about how high and fast the planes could fly and sincerely thanked them for their service. Wilson nodded and smiled. “It’s our pleasure,” he told them.
Heads turned to the steps leading to the pool deck when a middle-aged man appeared. He was of medium height, with receding hair slicked back into curls, wearing a blue blazer and peach shirt open to reveal layers of gold chains against his brown, leathery skin. Conversation stopped, however, because of the stunning woman who accompanied him. Tall, with flowing brown hair and a brick-house figure spilling out of her too-short dress, she towered over the man in her five-inch spikes.