As part of Plug’s job, he helped to write the flight schedule for all of the helicopters in the strike group. It was easier when there were three or four ships. Now that there were twenty-five, with all of the potential landing spots moving locations, it was like trying to solve one constantly changing mathematical equation. Since he had influence over the position the ships were kept in screen, he used that to help him with his collateral job, planning the helicopter schedule. If he kept the ships in certain places, he could plan to have the helicopters move people and parts around the strike group in an efficient manner. But the moment one domino fell, the whole thing came crashing down. Then you had fuel emergencies and missing parts and broken radars and unknown surface contacts and the yelling. Oh God, the yelling. Mostly from the O-5s and O-6s who were pissed off they’d gotten passed over for promotion. Why had he ever agreed to leave his aviation billet? Oh yeah, he hadn’t. The geniuses at the Bureau of Naval Personnel had decided he should be put here. He hoped to God those same guys weren’t working at St. Peter’s gate someday.
“Stockdale says ‘roger out.’”
Plug mumbled under his breath. “They better freaking say roger out…”
The lieutenant junior grade typing at the station next to him said, “You know, Plug, I think you’re getting the hang of this. You’ve got that disgruntled SWO junior officer look down pat. You should consider getting your officer of the deck quals while you’re here. I’m sure the Ford guys would be able to help you out…”
Plug sighed. “You’re probably right. I’m pretty sure that my brain is slowly transforming to full SWO. It’s been slowing down since I got here. And my eyes are becoming overly sensitive to daylight. I’m like a vampire now. I can’t even go topside. Soon I’ll start eating more donuts. Then my flight suits won’t fit.”
“Alright now, easy there, flyboy,” the chief said. “I’d like to see you do a PRT at my age.”
“Chief, I mean no disrespect. I only jest.”
The chief smiled.
Plug sipped the last drop of coffee in his mug. It was cold and bitter, like his almost-SWO soul.
Plug stared intensely at the USS Stockdale’s little blue symbol on the large digital display in the front of the room. He didn’t allow himself to blink until he saw the Arleigh Burke — class destroyer change its course and speed. A blue line extended out of the Stockdale’s ship symbol and changed direction to where he wanted it to go. Satisfied, Plug turned his attention to the monitor above him. It showed a live video feed of the aircraft carrier flight deck. Two helicopters were spinning, the aircrews changing out while they refueled.
Plug felt a hand on his shoulder. “Missing your past life? Don’t tell me you want to go back.”
He looked up to see Subs, the DESRON’s submarine officer. Subs was his roommate, friend, and most importantly, his watch replacement.
“And give up all this glamour?” Plug waved his hand around the room. Two of the four computer workstations had their screens turned off. Post-it notes read “IT repairs in progress.” The static hiss of multiple radios filled the space.
The chief and JG that Plug was in charge of during his duty stared back at him, smiles on their tired faces. Chief said, “I think this place is growing on him, sir.” Then their own watch replacements appeared at the door and they began their turnover briefs.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Subs said. He held out his fist, which Plug bumped. Then he rose from his swivel chair and stretched out. Subs had shown Plug the ropes down here, teaching him a lot in a short period of time.
“Hey, Commodore asked you to represent us at a meeting at zero nine thirty. In the War Room. Both the commodore and the deputy commodore are going on ship visits during that time.”
As if on cue, a series of bells rang on the 1MC overhead speaker. “DESRON, departing.”
The room looked up at the TV monitor in the corner as one of the helicopters lifted off the carrier’s flight deck. A distant rumble of spinning rotors could be heard, even down here.
Someone said, “Oh thank God,” joking that they were happy their boss was gone for a while.
Subs turned back to Plug. “Okay, technically they asked me to go, but I figure you’d rather attend a meeting than stand more watch. The meeting is supposed to be important, and they want somebody familiar with submarines to go.”
“And you’re sending me?”
“Familiar is a relative term.”
Plug sighed. He was on four hours of sleep for the fifth day in a row and really needed a nap. From 0930 to 1000 was his only free time today. He would give anything for thirty minutes in the rack.
Instead, he found himself saying, “I’ll be there. And thank you for this extra opportunity to serve my country. I’m really looking forward to it.”
“Attaboy.” Subs looked around the room. “Damn, man, what the hell is Stockdale doing out of screen? The battlewatch captain’s gonna have my butt. Alright, I’ll clean up the mess you left me. What else do you got?”
Plug ran through the status of all ships, the relevant parts of the flight schedule, and several other hot items.
Beneath the surface of their routine conversation and light-hearted jokes was a tension that hadn’t been there two weeks earlier. Everyone was on edge, trying that much harder to be perfect at their jobs, and worrying that at any time, an attack might come on their carrier, which was one of the most valuable targets in the entire US Navy.
Plug said, “As you know, the subsurface threat remains high. We have ASW flights going around the clock now. Two maritime patrol aircraft will be on station during the day. One is a P-3, one is a P-8. Do me a favor, Subs. When those guys are up, just let them do their thing. Pass along any contact info you have, but don’t micromanage them. They know what they’re doing. Please. For my sake.”
Plug found that if left to their own devices, the tactical action officers on ships would treat the aircraft like they were part of a video game, forgetting that they had highly trained and capable aircrews that were fully autonomous. As a pilot, nothing pissed Plug off more than when he was about to prosecute a sub contact and the geniuses in charge ordered him to fly twenty miles away without reason.
Subs said, “Got it. Any more condescending advice?”
“Nope, that about covers it.”
“Good. Then go get yourself some coffee so you can have a bright smile for the zero nine thirty meeting.”
“I stand relieved.” Plug mock-saluted.
Another set of bells rang on the 1MC. This time they were followed with, “Captain, United States Navy, arriving.”
All eyes in the room went up to the flight deck camera image. A C-2 Greyhound had just landed on the carrier. The start of today’s fixed-wing flight schedule.
“Who’s that?”
Subs said, “I think it’s the PACFLEET intel officer. He’s here for the meeting too.”
Ninety minutes later, Plug entered the carrier’s War Room with his trusty mug of coffee. Suggs, the admiral’s Loop, was sitting on one of the outer chairs that surrounded the conference table. Suggs was an F-18 pilot. Like Plug, he was a lieutenant who had done multiple deployments and was on the cusp of making O-4. Plug took a seat next to his friend.
“So what’s the deal here, man?”
“Hey, Plug. Not sure. I wasn’t in with the old man just now. I’m on the flight schedule again.” Due to the shortage in pilots, strings had been pulled that allowed Suggs to get in a few flights per week, even though his job was technically a nonflying billet.