JOs Psycho, Smoke, and Guido had just left the ready room, also on their way to the forward wardroom. Before he reached the door, the sound of a strike-fighter in tension caused Wilson to return to the PLAT, with Weed right behind him. They could make out Sponge Bob’s salute to the catapult observer, which was followed by the usual 10-second wait. When the cat fired, the Hornet thundered down the catapult track and into the air, another wake of wind-driven spray behind it.
The pilots proceeded out of the ready room and forward along the passageway. “Gonna be a varsity night,” Weed began.
“Yes, it is,” his roommate responded. “What’s been happening down here?”
“Deputy CAG called about 45 minutes ago. The Skipper talked to him, and I discerned that DCAG wanted to know about Sponge Bob. Skipper said he was a solid pilot. If it were me, I would have asked about the XO instead!”
Wilson decided to keep the fact that he agreed with Weed to himself. “How are your guys doing up there?” he asked, as he glanced at Weed over his left shoulder.
“Drenched and loving it,” Weed chuckled. “Guys are fighting to go topside so they can get some sea salt on their shoulders.”
“Yeah… think that’s what Sponge is thinking right now?” Wilson deadpanned.
“He looked confident as he walked, but the XO was real tense, more than usual.”
After they walked a distance of two football fields over a series of frame knee-knockers, they came to the “dirty shirt” wardroom, which was located below and between the bow catapults. Cat 2 was still firing, and the sound of the shuttle roared through the wardroom overhead. The tremendous crash that came from the water brake, located on the extreme forward part of the flight deck some 200 feet away, shook everything in the room that was not bolted down. The pilots were used to the noises and the shaking and paid little attention — unless there was something unusual about them. Tonight, they noted the increased movement of the ship, well forward of its center of gravity.
Wilson and Weed picked up their trays, drinking glasses and silverware as they got into the already long buffet line. The junior officers were about ten ahead. Everyone in line wore a flight suit.
Wilson had experienced severe pitching deck conditions several times off the Virginia Capes and once near the Azores, but not out here in the IO. Regardless of where it was, the great 100,000-ton ship could bob like a cork in heavy seas. In fact, right now, the ship was creaking as the bow rose and fell in the deep swells. It pitched up and down, often accompanied by what the seamen called a Dutch Roll, a roll induced by the pitching oscillations. Pitching and rolling decks were difficult enough, but the seas could also heave the whole ship, lifting it up and down in the water.
All this was a recipe for a poor boarding rate, which meant lengthy recoveries, stressed aircraft components, and tension with everyone involved with flight operations exacerbated by the fact that each plane had limited airborne fuel. USS Valley Forge just signed up for it.
The two sat down next to the Raven junior officers. Each squadron had staked out their own “unofficial” table where they — as the trained creatures of habit that they were — almost always gathered for a meal. The Raven table was all the way forward on the port side.
“Anyone care to go flying tonight?” Wilson asked the group as they joined them.
“No, thank you,” Psycho answered. Her voice carried throughout the room as she continued. “I flew last night and twice at night in the Red Sea. Think I’m covered for at least tonight.”
“JOs complaining about flying at night,” Weed said, shaking his head in feigned disgust. “Can we count on you for a full moon night? Waxing gibbous at least?”
“That would be nice — if you must fly me at night at all!” she giggled. Nugget pilot Lieutenant Melanie “Psycho” Hinton was an anomaly. The daughter of an admiral, she was blessed with California surfer-girl good looks. But she didn’t act like she knew it, and she could keep up with any of the guys. Her loud and obnoxious commentary — on any subject — earned her the call sign Psycho, which stood for “Please Shut Your Cake Hole.”
“It was clear and a million in the Red Sea, and last night was fairly pink, as I remember,” Wilson interjected. “You’ll just have to take it up with the schedules officer.”
“He gives you the schedule to sign!” Psycho cried, her eyes wide in mock indignation, enjoying the attention.
“I just sign what Nttty gives me,” Wilson said with a smirk as he reached for his salad plate, which slid to the left as the ship took a roll. “Nttty” was Lieutenant Junior Grade Josh Fagan, the Schedules Officer, who, after one memorable multiplane intercept hop, was christened with his call sign Nttty—”Not Time To Talk Yet.”
“So does the CO. Take it up with him,” Weed added.
Psycho also caught her plate in midslide and sighed. “Should have known the hinge-heads would band together in support of the front office. Next time I’ll just take it up with my good friend, Nttty. Thank you, sir.”
“Good answer,” Weed mumbled, through a mouthful of food.
SLAP!
A swell slammed hard against the bow and rattled the dishes. The group heard the water gurgle down the hull.
“It’s serious out there,” Guido muttered into his food as he took a big gulp of fried rice.
Smoke agreed. “Yeah, they’ve gotta be thinking about canceling the night events.”
Just then the loud WHOOOMMMmmm of a jet on a bolter filled the wardroom. The aviators exchanged knowing glances as the jet climbed back into the pattern. The first of many bolters this recovery, Wilson thought. He turned to Smoke, one of the squadron landing signal officers, and asked, “Were you guys working manual recoveries earlier?”
“NO!” Psycho howled and slammed her hand on the table. “I had a sweet OK going and then the deck pitched down — or came up — and I caught an ace on the fly. They gave me a “fair.” They said that was a gift because the ship did a little dance in close, but not so much that I couldn’t have made a better correction. I mean, it’s either a pitching deck OK or not! They should have rigged the MOVLAS, the bastards.”
Sensing an opening, Smoke chided her. “Was the deck down, or did it come up?”
Psycho’s eyes narrowed as she shook her head at him. “You A-holes stick together, don’t you? I thought squadron blood might be thicker than LSO water. Guess not.”
“Well,” Smoke said, and grinned at her. “We have two senior aviators here who are charged with advising the commanding officer as to proper procedure, given the operating conditions we face. So what was it? Up or down?” Smoke folded his hands in front of him and held her gaze.
“It was UP!” Psycho shot back, fire in her eyes. “As in ‘Shut up!’”
“All right! I’m sorry.” Smoke smiled and extended his hands in front of him. “Just wanted to get that straight!” His eyes remained on her as he mouthed “LSO water?” with a quizzical look.
“What did you get, Paddles?” Wilson asked Smoke, instantly wishing he hadn’t. Pausing for effect, the LSO suppressed a grin. “OK three, sir.”
“SEE!” Psycho exploded, her food barely staying in her mouth. “It’s good-old-boy collusion out there!”
Wilson saw the Skipper and Olive duck into the room carrying plates of food. It was an hour and ten minutes before their launch, just enough time to eat a rushed meal before man-up. Lassiter found a few spots at the table and placed his tray across from Wilson.
“Hey, Skipper.”