With mock indignation, the JOs roared their disapproval. They had wanted either to witness the spectacle of Trench lofting one into the sea or lofting himself over the railing and into the bay tree branches that brushed the balcony.
Smiling, a wobbly Trench stepped down from the chair. “Okay, Skipper. But I could’ve done it, Coach!” he bragged, generating derisive hoots from his squadronmates.
“If you hadn’t screwed around so much before the CO got here, you could have at least taken one swing!” Lieutenant John “Coach” Madden answered with a broad smile. Like Trench and Dusty, Coach was another senior lieutenant. This trio formed the nucleus of the Firebird JO pilots, whom Wilson could depend on tactically and whom he needed to show leadership to the nugget aviators.
As he surveyed the room, Wilson’s eyes met those of the only woman there — Lieutenant Commander Kristin “Olive” Teel. Before Wilson entered the room, she had been the senior officer present. Olive looked back at her CO with an awkward smile.
“Well,” Wilson said as he approached Olive. “Everything is well in hand… the Safety Officer is present!”
Olive knew she should have put a stop to Trench’s antics before Wilson arrived. “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t resist seeing it for myself!” Wilson nodded with a smile. Then, so only she could hear, he added, “This is not like you, Safety Officer.”
Olive was now mortified at her lapse in judgment. “Yes, sir, I’m sorry… It’s just that they already think I’m a stick-in-the-mud. Bad decision. Won’t happen again, sir.”
“I know it won’t,” Wilson said. “It can be lonely at the top, especially in that middle place.”
“Sir?” Olive asked.
Wilson smiled at her. “There are old fudds and young studs. Then there are lieutenant commanders.”
“Yes, sir,” Olive answered with a sheepish grin. She didn’t know what else to say as she reflected on the meaning of his message. Olive, you aren’t the boss, but you aren’t an irresponsible kid anymore either… not that you ever were.
“Forgotten. Where can I change?”
CHAPTER 3
Lieutenant Mark James led the junior officers from the admin and down the hill. At six-foot-three and 225 pounds, “Trench” was the ringleader of the Firebird JOs, a role he enjoyed immensely. Nowhere did he shine more than when leading them on liberty. Their destination was the beachside cabana where pilots from Billy’s squadron, the Hunters, and the lone FA-18F Super Hornet squadron, the VFA-23 Blue Lancers had already gathered. A bonfire was raging and spirited aviators in aloha shirts were having fun sipping on their beers and telling sea stories.
Trench liked being the center of attention. With good looks chiseled by nature and a body cut by daily workouts in the foc’sle, he was olive skinned and wore his wavy black hair longer than most and unlike most kept it moist with mousse. He could easily pass for a cast member of the reality show Jersey Shore, using that to his advantage in a never ending quest to bed as many women as he could. He seldom lacked volunteers.
Trench was obsessed with the score. Having earned his call sign from his large stash of porn magazines, he was not about to squander his current target-rich environment — a tropical beach adjacent to several resort properties. The women of Carrier Air Wing SIX knew to give him a wide berth — some unfortunately learned too late and became figurative kill markings on the fuselage of his Hornet. It mattered not to Trench. Once he got to the beach, his eyes were in track-while-scan mode as he searched for the talent he had spied on the sand that afternoon. Fellow lieutenants Coach and “Ghost” Rutledge were “flying wing” on him to pick up any leftovers.
Trench and his wingmen stopped at the bonfire and popped open a Red Stripe. The moon, now halfway up the eastern sky, bathed the point and the cay behind it in a warm glow. Paradise. Nugget pilots Conner “Irish” Davis and Joe “Jumpin” Kessler were already there stoking the flames, beer bottles in hand.
“Bro! Check out the biscuit, nine o’clock long,” Ghost volunteered. They all eyed a tall, buxom blonde as she joined what appeared to be a group of giggling college coeds on holiday. Each of them held a jar of Long Island Iced Tea from the cabana bar, and they were well on their way to losing their inhibitions.
Trench snapped his eyes to the left. “Hoo, baby!” he said. “Look at the milk jugs on that bitch!”
Just as he uttered those words, the mood of the group took on a noticeable chill. When Trench did not get the reaction he expected from the guys, he turned to see Nugget pilot Lieutenant Junior Grade Tiffany “Macho” Rourke glaring at him.
Macho Rourke was his nemesis. Barely five-foot-three, she had a round face and wore her hair in a Navy-regulation bob. The most junior of the three female Firebird pilots, she was outspoken and coarse as she endeavored to rule the nugget pilot roost. Because she always bristled at Trench’s sexually suggestive innuendo, he knew to keep his distance from her. As a protected minority, a woman, Macho had demanded respect from day one before she had earned any, and silently chafed under the derisive meaning of her call sign. Sadly for the male Firebird pilots and luckily for Macho, Battle Axe was already taken.
“Oh, sorry, dudes! Thought it was just us bros here. Where were we? Oh yeah, Irish, you were going to lead us in the next song. I’m a little teapot—”
As the men laughed, Trench reveled in the attention. Smiling at Macho, he sipped on his beer, daring her.
“Go ahead, men, undress those little girls with your eyes,” Macho responded. “At least slip them a twenty for bouncing around in their bikinis for you.”
“Darn, I left my wallet in the room,” Trench shot back. “Besides, they look like classy college girls, probably Southeastern Conference types. Maybe I should — dare I say it — walk over there and introduce myself.”
Coach jumped in. “Bro, let me introduce you. ‘Ladies, may I present Lieutenant Hugh Jardon?’”
“Thank you, Lieutenant John Mehoff. Girls, you can call him ‘Jack.’” Trench said, playing along, with more chuckling from the guys.
“Those children aren’t going to give you the time of day,” Macho interjected, not afraid to be on her own defending the sisterhood, despite the fact the college girls were oblivious to the pilots talking about them from over 50 feet away. Trench picked up the gauntlet.
“Yes, Macho, you are so right. We don’t have a chance. We have zero game here on this tropical paradise with these girls on the prowl who are what, six, seven years younger than us, and about twenty years younger than you.”
The guys roared as Trench waited for Macho’s comeback. He didn’t have to wait long.
“You guys know that hitting on those students is child abuse, if not pedophilia. And… both you guys have girlfriends back home.” Macho folded her arms in smug superiority.