He entered his bedroom and opened the top drawer of his dresser to retrieve the large command-at-sea pin given to him 20 years ago by his father. His full-dress white uniform was ready in the closet where he had left it in November, and to it he affixed the pin above the ribbons on the right breast pocket, its rightful place. He thought of his father’s words: “Get your reports in on time and stay out of trouble in the air, and you’ll do fine.”
Thanks for the great fucking advice, Dad.
The red sky to the east brightened as he buttoned the last gold button and placed the hook from his sword belt through the opening in his uniform. Annapolis. Noon formation at Bancroft Hall. Pre-seeennnnt!…Hoh! Hundreds of mids in his regiment, standing in orderly ranks of navy blue uniforms on a crisp autumn day, entering Bancroft for the noon meal in sharp formations under his command. At 21 he knew he was on his way, and no matter how many stars Dad had received, he would have one more.
Medals clanking, he walked out to the beach and into a stiff Atlantic wind that kicked up angry surf. Looking left toward Dam Neck, he saw a couple in the distance. To the south, he saw nothing but white mist along the shore. He thought again of his father, who, a few hours from now would join his retired flag cronies for their early tee time at the North Island course. The golf course was in sight of the Third Fleet Commander’s home where, as a boy, he had spent so many lonely and troubled hours looking at the blue Pacific.
Saint pulled the .45 from his belt and looked at the eastern horizon: red, menacing, angry.
Red sky at morning, sailors take warning, he thought as he placed the muzzle inside his mouth.
CHAPTER 72
Nine Raven FA-18s, flying as one, descended in a shallow left-hand turn just east of Cape Henry. Now less than 10 miles from home, they would make up that distance in little over a minute. As Wilson lined the formation up on Runway 23, he glanced left at Little Nicky who maintained parade position, with Clam on his wing in the background. Both concentrated on flying sharp formation as Wilson rolled out in a measured rate. On his right side, Guido and Weed followed his moves as they remained welded to his wing line. Even though their faces were covered by helmet visors and oxygen masks, Wilson could recognize them, after months of flying together, by their body types and how they sat in the cockpit.
The pilots had been airborne just over an hour, launched 470 miles east into a gorgeous spring morning scattered with columns of cumulus clouds that hovered over a blue ocean. Wilson and the fly-off pilots had found it hard to sleep the night before, so excited were they at the prospect of seeing, in mere hours, the families they had said good-bye to six months earlier. For the first half of their flight, the pilots saw only water and clouds. From their vantage point at 28,000 feet, though, it wasn’t too long before they could see the thin beige strand of the Outer Banks leading north from Cape Hatteras to Virginia Beach and Cape Henry. When they checked in with controlling agencies that had familiar names like GIANT KILLER and Oceana Approach, their excitement grew. Wilson looked over his shoulder at his wingmen and chuckled to himself when he noted they had all eased into parade formation, even though they were well out to sea and no one four miles below could admire their skill.
While the others concentrated on him, Wilson stole quick looks at the scenery. Dozens of sport fishing boats and motorized yachts poured out of Rudee Inlet leaving sharp white wakes behind them. The sun-washed, high-rise hotels along the strip boasted beaches covered with sunbathers, and the cars jammed Atlantic Boulevard as usual. To the north, beyond the green space of Fort Story, he saw the merchant ships lined up on their way past the north and south entrances of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. Various containerships, bulk carriers, and crude oil tankers headed for the ports of Norfolk, Baltimore, or Philadelphia, on the final leg of their long journeys from Rotterdam or San Juan… or Hormuz.
Wilson keyed the mike. “Oceana Tower, Navy Alpha Hotel four-zero-zero, flight of nine, seven miles northeast for a flyby.”
“Navy Alpha Hotel four-zero-zero, Oceana Tower, winds one-niner-zero at five. You are cleared for a flyby. Welcome home, Ravens.”
“Four-zero-zero, roger. Thanks, great to be back.”
Raven One eased them down to 350 knots over Virginia Beach Boulevard and lined them up on the squadron hangar. From three miles away, he could make out a faint cluster of colors in front of the hangar bay doors and allowed himself a small smile. Mary, Derrick and Brittany were in that cluster with the rest of the Raven families, and he put them in the middle of his HUD as he signaled the others to level off.
In a tight wedge, they thundered over the crowd and disappeared behind the hangar, leaving behind a group of giddy women, hugging each other in their tight dresses and sunglasses. The children jumped up and down, and a few startled babies cried from the sudden noise.
South of the air station Wilson detached Weed and Clam to lead their own formations back to the field. He took his three-plane echelon into the break, whipped his jet over to the left and pulled power to idle, waving at the crowd below. Wilson then dropped the gear and flaps and called the tower for permission to land, the first time in six months he would land on a runway.
Once they were all on the ground, Ensign Jackson, who had left the ship early with members of the advance party, drove out to meet them in the flight line truck. As they taxied up to their hangar in order, Anita delivered a bouquet of roses to each of the pilots. Wilson’s heart soared when he spied Mary in a black and white dress, new to him, with one kid clinging to each of her hands. As the pilots had briefed it in the ready room, they shut down 18 engines on signal and popped their canopies in unison. Wilson grabbed the roses and a few other items, bounded down the ladder, and removed his helmet.
“Welcome home, Skipper!” Senior Chief Nowlin said as he took Wilson’s helmet.
“Thanks, Senior Chief. You doing good?”
“Doin’ good, sir,” Nowlin answered, smiling. “Now go to your family.”
“Roger that, Senior!”
Wilson donned his squadron ball cap and had taken only a few steps before Derrick broke loose from his mother and ran at him full speed. In one motion, he gathered his son up and squeezed him tight. “Oh, I missed you!” he said.
“Me, too, Daddy!” said Derrick, his voice muffled by the flotation collar of Wilson’s survival vest.
As other families squealed with joy around them, a beaming Mary walked up with little Brittany in her arms. Wilson deposited Derrick on the concrete and looked at Mary. “Hi, baby!” he said before he wrapped his arms around his wife. As he kissed her lips and held her tight, the bottled-up tension of the past six months ran right out of him. He then took his daughter from Mary and smiled at the three year old, who was still not quite sure what was happening.
Thank you, God.
The Buccaneers had returned for their homecoming before the Ravens and were gathered in the hangar space next door. A small party followed. With smiles all around, the Raven and Buc families put aside their competitive spirit in their adjacent hangar spaces to enjoy an abundance of food and drink with excited kids showing their fathers missing teeth or new toys and with the relieved women clinging to their men. Wilson shook hands with his pilots and hugged their wives or girlfriends. He spied Olive smiling with an attractive middle-aged woman dressed as if she were at Churchill Downs for the Kentucky Derby, a woman he learned later was Olive’s mother. The rest of the squadron personnel would come home the following day when Happy Valley shifted colors at Pier 12 in Norfolk.