She herself was not immune to these conditions. She knew that she would need to get rest, food, sleep, and exercise whenever she could. But that was easier said than done.
She had missed dinner, but when the young CS on duty in the wardroom found that out, he had rushed down the nearest ladder to the galley to get her something to eat. It was just a little gesture of kindness, but many on board had begun treating Victoria differently over the past few weeks. There was an increased sense of pride among the crew. They were a family, and family took care of each other. All at the same time, Victoria was like a parent, a sibling, and a boss. The crew treated her with a special reverence. She had shown the wisdom and capability to lead the ship to victory, and out of harm’s way, when the storm was darkest. She had earned a reputation for competence, and as someone who placed her men above all else.
So she understood the cook’s gesture of kindness but was nonetheless touched. She had smiled and thanked the CS before he had left her alone in the wardroom. She was glad he did, because she had eaten no more than three bites before her hands started shaking and she doubled over, trying not to cry.
Victoria got up quickly and went back into kitchenette, which was connected to the wardroom, throwing her food in the trash, careful to cover the uneaten morsels with a paper plate so she wouldn’t insult her cooks. She stood in the kitchen area, sweating and gritting her teeth, willing herself to calm the fuck down. Beads of sweat ran down her forehead.
She breathed in deeply and blew air out her mouth. Through the porthole in the wardroom galley, she could see the blue horizon moving up, pausing, and then moving back down, the rhythm of the waves never-ending. She breathed to that rhythm now, forcing herself to relax by thinking of something that made her feel safe and happy. She thought of her father. She wished she could see him again. Then she began wondering if he, as the admiral in charge of America’s newest carrier strike group, was being hunted by a Chinese submarine this very moment.
She slammed her open palm into the steel refrigerator door, trying to get ahold of herself. Flashes of today’s flight entered her mind’s eye. Gripping the stick and adjusting the heading even though she wasn’t technically flying the aircraft because she didn’t trust her 2P not to screw up the weapons run. Eyes scanning back and forth between the multipurpose display that showed the submarine track and the switches and buttons and her tactical checklist. The whitewater shooting up into the air on her left side when the submarine detonated below. The wave of relief and guilt and pride she’d felt when she’d seen it. The cheers and smiles of the men in the hangar when she’d landed. And the fear that she knew had been in all of their hearts.
Victoria knew she should be pleased. Proud, even. She had succeeded in her mission. She had been the acting CO of her ship a few weeks ago when they had fired missiles at a group of Chinese warships. She had given the order then. But tonight had been the first time she’d actually pushed the button. Victoria had once again been tested. And once again, she had answered with skill and courage.
So why now, after the fact, couldn’t she stop thinking about those silent killers in the deep blue? How many more subs were out there? For every one they found and killed, how many more were now leaving port? Or already hunting them, getting closer to ending the lives of everyone aboard that she had worked so hard to lead?
It was her duty to hunt down and kill every Chinese attack submarine that might be a threat to the USS Farragut and the rest of the warships in company, before they sent a torpedo into her ship’s hull.
Logically, she knew that she shouldn’t take all of this responsibility on herself. There were hundreds of people who were fighting this fight. But as the senior helicopter pilot on board, and one of the top ASW experts in her surface action group — the group of destroyers and warships she was with — she felt a unique burden.
She couldn’t get herself to stop thinking about the Chinese sailors that were now dead on the ocean floor. Or perhaps they were trapped in some compartment, freezing to death as they ran out of air? Victoria knew that the Chinese were her enemy, and that they were trying to kill her. But try as she might, she couldn’t prevent these thoughts from coming to her now.
Alone in the small galley, praying no one would walk in on her, she used meditation techniques to calm down. Focusing on her breath. Letting the unpleasant thoughts pass her by. After a minute, her pulse and breathing began to slow.
It helped to think about her father. While she worried about him, her love for him calmed her. She would see him again soon, she told herself. His carrier was near Hawaii. With any luck, they would meet there. Maybe they could get a few days off. Have dinner. Have a conversation. Anything would suffice. She just wanted to spend time with him.
For years she had lived her life trying to prove herself to him and telling herself that she didn’t care. Then she’d harbored a deep anger towards him after the death of her mother. There were a lot of little reasons for the way she had felt, none of them any good.
But over the past few months, their relationship had finally gotten to a better place. Now it wasn’t their strong-willed personalities keeping them from talking, but time and distance. Fate and war.
A ray of setting sun shone through the sole porthole in the space. A whistle signaled the top of the hour, along with some mumbled announcement that she couldn’t quite make out.
“Okay. Let’s go, Victoria,” she whispered to herself, closing her eyes and forcing her way out the door.
She walked down the darkened passageway of the destroyer, balancing herself as the ship rolled with the waves. She could smell the start of dinner being cooked in the galley below decks, heard the sounds of the ship alive around her. The high pitch of running engines. The white noise of radios and electronics being cooled by fan motors, of fluid running through pipes in the walls and the sound of many steel-toed boots walking through the passageways. The banging of maintenance and the blood-curdling screech of needle guns. Dozens heading the opposite direction greeted her as she walked through the passageway.
“Afternoon, Airboss.”
“Good afternoon.”
“Afternoon, ma’am.”
“Afternoon.”
Victoria made her way aft and into the maintenance shop in the hangar and began doing her paperwork for postflight. She chatted up her lead maintenance petty officer and then decided to check on some of the other men doing work on the bird.
It was a quiet afternoon, the bright orange sun just above the horizon. She stood near the edge of the flight deck, arms folded across her chest, staring into the distance. Trying not to overthink her flight and trying not to worry about her father. She was drunk with fatigue. Her eyes burned with a combination of sweat and oil, and she tried to rub them clean with the dry sleeve of her flight suit.
“Boss, they wanna know if they can wash the bird. Flight schedule says we’re not flying for the next eight hours when we pick up the alert again. You still good with that?”
She looked up and saw LTJG Juan “Spike” Volonte standing over her, the dim light of the open hangar outlining his flight suit and jet-black hair.
Normally this wasn’t something that Spike would ask. The maintenance crew would just do it according to the schedule. But the US Navy was now in open combat with the only other superpower in the world. Even now, a Chinese submarine officer might be looking at them through his periscope. Spike was making sure that any change to their ability to fly and fight was communicated effectively.
The freshwater washdowns weren’t for looks. Well, maybe a little. But mostly they were to keep the saltwater from corroding the aircraft. Keeping equipment clean and working was an essential part of being a warfighter.