“Thank you, OS2.”
The brief went over the schedules for the next few days. Victoria looked at the screen and took note of when the RAS was. The replenishment at sea would bring them their much-needed parts and supplies. With her only helicopter going into a maintenance period, there was always a chance that some unknown problem would pop up. And the only way to solve it might be with a helicopter part that could be picked up on that RAS.
The operations officer spoke next. His slide showed a map of the Eastern Pacific theater. There were dozens of blue ships with three-letter name identifiers next to them scattered throughout the area.
Three red ship icons were near Panama City, with an arrow pointing towards the port location.
“Sir, Third Fleet has informed us that the Chinese ships will be in port, Panama, tomorrow.”
Grumbles from the crew. The captain didn’t say anything. Perhaps he would have told the crew to quiet down under different circumstances. But he hadn’t been aboard when the Chinese had attacked them, killing some of their shipmates, so he probably was giving the crew a longer leash.
“The Bush Strike Group is now conducting a training exercise off San Diego.”
“This early?”
“Yes, sir. They’ve moved up her deployment schedule by six months. And they’ve moved around some of the escort destroyer and cruiser maintenance schedules to increase the size of her strike group. Also, sir, the VP squadron is sending more P-8s down to El Salvador to work with us here.”
Victoria had the phrase “too little, too late” in her head. The battle was over. Or was it?
Was the Pacific Fleet ramping up its operational tempo in response to recent Chinese aggression? Or in preparation for more? She shook off the thought. Three wounded Chinese warships were headed into Panama City. That was not where they would go if further hostilities were on the horizon.
The captain said, “Okay. Any word on where they want us after this week?”
“No, sir, but the guys at Desron are breathing down my neck about it. They want us home for our next maintenance inspection.”
“Which Desron?”
“Not the one on the carrier, sir. The one in Mayport.”
“They’re actually called Surfron now,” someone said.
“What the hell is a Surfron?” someone else said, and a few people laughed.
“The staffer who’s giving you trouble at Surfron can go to hell,” the captain said. “We’ve got more important things to worry about out here. This is a combat-ready warship. Our maintenance inspection will happen when it happens.”
Pleased nods from the crew. The captain would win them over with that attitude. It made it appear as though he was sticking up for the crew in the face of “the man.”
The captain looked around and held up his hands. “Well, now, don’t tell anyone I told Surfron to go to hell or anything. He’s still my boss when we get back to Mayport.”
A few chuckles.
The captain pointed at the map on the display screen. “The Navy wants us here, patrolling the Eastern Pacific. An aggressor nation just launched an attack on us. So, this is where we should be. Our reason for being isn’t so that we can pass maintenance inspections. We do maintenance and training so that we can effectively defend our country.”
“Yes, sir,” said OPS.
“That being said, if they do extend us here, let’s look at the impact that will have on personnel, training, and maintenance. CHENG, OPS, please identify any risks you see and present your findings to the XO.”
“Yes, sir,” the two officers echoed. The XO nodded, acknowledging the request. Like the captain, he was also a new arrival.
The captain said, “Alright, now what about this mystery boat that the helo crew found last night?”
“Sir, it’s about fifteen miles away now. Our VBSS team is standing by in case we need to go over there.”
The captain nodded his approval. “Good. Anything from Third Fleet?”
“We don’t yet have permission to conduct a security inspection, sir. I think they have their hands full with the Chinese stuff and they’ve been slow to get back to our requests. But we did see a message about some sort of signals intelligence in this area. Supposedly the office of naval intelligence is involved now. They want us to report on anything out of the ordinary.”
“Well, I would say our mystery boat counts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alright, please ask again. I want permission to board this sucker by the time we get there.”
They went through a few more slides. Meeting schedules, training for the week, and the joke of the day, something that the communications officer — who was also the Bull Ensign — had put together. The Bull Ensign was the most senior of the ensigns. As ensigns were the lowest-ranking officers, it wasn’t much of a distinction. But it was a position of humor and tradition beloved by wardrooms around the world. His gold collar devices were oversized, and he was expected to mentor his junior peers.
“Alright, Bull Ensign, what have you got for us?”
“Sir, I just want to say that this joke excludes the Airboss.”
The pilots all perked up at that. Plug was smiling. “Bring it, COMMO.”
The ensign went red.
The captain said, “Let’s go, COMMO.”
“Sir, what’s the difference between a pilot and their helicopter, sir?”
“What?”
“The helicopter stops whining when you shut down the engines.”
Laughter and several “Oh’s!” throughout the wardroom.
The Airboss kept a straight face. “COMMO, please see me for counseling later, even if you did exclude me from the punchline.”
The captain stifled a laugh and stood to leave.
“Attention on deck,” said someone from the back of the room.
The captain left, and the officers and crew of the USS Farragut began their day. As everyone was leaving, Victoria tapped Plug on the shoulder. “Got a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up, Boss?”
“Let’s get coffee.”
The junior pilots, eavesdropping as always, echoed comments of “Uht-oh” and the like. Victoria headed over to the far end of the now-empty wardroom, taking an empty mug. She filled it up with a thick black version of coffee that she was pretty sure could only be served aboard Navy ships and administered to animals in scientific experiments — outside the US, of course.
Plug filled up an obligatory cup and sat at the cleared table, waterproof blue fitted cover on top with the ship’s emblem in the center.
“What’s wrong?” Plug turned his head slightly as he said it and had the tone of “What did I do now?”
“Nothing. Well — this is going to be a difficult conversation.”
“For who?”
“Mostly for you.” She put on a serious face. “You weren’t chosen to be a RAG instructor.” The Replacement Air Group was technically a retired term. The acronym “RAG” was deemed less politically correct as more and more women filled the ranks of naval aviation. The unit that Plug had applied for was now known as the FRS — the Fleet Replacement Squadron. But everyone still called it the RAG. Old habits died hard.
The RAG was the squadron that trained young nuggets fresh out of flight school on how to fly their fleet aircraft — in this case, the MH-60R Seahawk helicopter. Only the top pilots from each fleet squadron were selected for this assignment, which was seen as the first step along the “golden path” towards someday becoming a commanding officer.
Victoria watched his face closely. This was a job that he’d really wanted, and he would be very disappointed. The good thing about Plug was that he was what she liked to call emotionally expedient — he went through all five stages of grief at once.