by Brandon Webb
On the next call, the list had shrunk to a single name.
“Lieutenant Kristine Shiflin, Air.”
“Alert five!” called out Papa Doc from the front.
The words stung her like a scorpion.
There were three levels of alert readiness status. “Alert thirty” meant stay in the area, on standby in case a possible mission materialized. “Alert fifteen” meant mission imminent: get jocked up and on hand in the ready room, prepared to head up to the flight deck on a moment’s notice. “Alert five” meant you need to be sitting up there in the bird, auxiliary power unit going, strapped in and ready to rocket.
“Alert five” meant Papa Doc was ordering an SAR team to haul ass up top and board a chopper now.
“Alert five” meant they thought Kris was in trouble.
“No way,” she murmured, then louder: “No way.” Someone had screwed up here. She started pushing forward through the rows of chairs. “Did they check the magazines?”
Papa Doc turned toward her and held out a palm. “Hold up, Halsey.”
She reached the front of the room and stopped. “Sir, this is crazy, they need to rerun their site checks, there’s no way Kris would be—”
“Halsey!”
She stopped short before blundering any deeper into the shit she’d just stepped in. Who did she think she was talking to? Jesus, Mon, get a grip.
Papa Doc stared at her, his expression oddly unreadable.
“Halsey,” he said, quietly now. “They found a note.”
“Bullshit!” she blurted. A note? No. Not Kris. Yes, she’d been stressed out, and yes she’d skipped a few breakfasts, but if she were feeling that desperate she would have said something—
And all at once the confrontation with Papa Doc from the night before came rushing back. His taunts, Kris’s stricken face. He’d pushed her too hard, just like he pushed everyone too hard. God damn him. Kris was already fragile. Had his bullying gotten to her that bad? Had Kris gone and done something crazy?
All the breath went out of her. She gripped a nearby seat, swaying on her feet.
Shit. Shit! SHIT!
One SAR team was already out the door—they’d be readying another ASAP. She needed to be on that second crew.
“Halsey!”
Monica snapped to attention. “Sir! I’ll go, sir!”
“Stand down, Halsey!”
“Sir?”
“You’re grounded, Lieutenant.”
She stood rooted in place. “What! But sir, I have to—we have to—”
Papa Doc leaned in, his face a slab of stone, and said the last thing in the world Monica wanted to hear.
“Quarters.”
41
For the second time in a week the great ship turned in the ocean, launching its choppers and rescue teams, calculating its search grids, sending out alerts to the other vessels in the strike group. Below, in her silent stateroom, a lone Knighthawk pilot stood helplessly by, confined to quarters.
Monica hauled up onto her rack, forcing herself not to look at the lower bunk, heaved over onto her back, and stared at the overhead inches away, straining to hear the sounds of helicopters lifting off and landing above her head.
In flight school she’d put in hours in a simulator. The exercise that left the deepest impression was a scenario in which she lost her engine and had to make a forced landing. The first time she went through it she hadn’t reacted in time. Instead of immediately popping the sprag clutch to disengage the rotor, which would have allowed it to maintain at least vaguely normal RPMs as she descended and given her a fighting chance to land the bird safely, she paused for two seconds to think. Long enough for the stalled engine to cripple the craft.
She would never forget the sense of helplessness as her simulated bird tipped over into that death spiral.
That’s how she felt right now.
Her best friend had gone missing—and here she was, restricted to quarters for mouthing off to her commanding officer, pending further disciplinary action while the rest of the squadron flew the mission without her.
Diego. Micaela. And now Kris? She wanted to scream, wail, throw something. Break something. Instead, she lay there turning into hardtack.
All she felt was numb.
She climbed down again and made herself sit on the lower bunk.
Kris had brought her own blanket on deployment, a quilt she’d patched together from remnants of outfits from her teen years. High school skirts, biker jackets, Goth pullovers, the sweater she’d worn (briefly) the night she lost her virginity…how the four of them had howled with laughter together the night Kris gave them the tour!
Monica ran her hand over the variegated cloth.
Chapters of a life.
Sectors in a grid.
The search effort would go on for at least a full twenty-four hours and probably longer, assuming Old Eaglebeak didn’t pull the plug like he did on the Schofield search. Yet Monica held out little hope. She felt a desperate certainty that in another day or two the quilt under her fingers would be gone, collected and packed away along with every other personal item that belonged to her friend.
She looked around the tiny cabin.
Each of them had her own steel dresser-wardrobe unit as well as a folding desk with additional storage above and below. In a few days a team of two warrant officers would come through and remove everything, carting it off to an office somewhere on the ship to be packed up and flown home to Tennessee. Part of the awful disappearing act that happened when a crew member died.
The CO of Kris’s squadron would go to his safe and remove the packet every crew member had prepared ahead of time, containing a form for notifying next of kin, who got the insurance money, prewritten letters to family and loved ones, and an address where personal effects were to be shipped. Normally the skipper would also write a personal letter of condolence to the parents and/or spouse of the deceased. In Kris’s case there were no parents, no spouse, no surviving family; the space on the form for “next of kin” would have been left blank.
Monica wondered what they would do with the box.
The numbness was starting to wear off.
In every squadron’s ready room, pilots had assigned seats based on rank and seniority, the most senior beginning up front, proceeding from left to right and back through the rows. Each seat had a slip-on head cover with that pilot’s name stitched on. In the Kestrels’ ready room, the head cover with Kris’s name would be slipped off and all those behind it moved forward one seat.
Like a game of musical chairs. Only no music.
Her name tag would be removed from the roster board and flight schedules. In a few hours it would seem as if she were never there. All part of the procedure.
Disappearing Kristine.
A searing ache flared in the pit of Monica’s stomach and began to spread up through her chest.
There would be a memorial service, based on whatever religious preference the deceased had indicated on his or her “In the event of my death” packet. And then Lieutenant Kristine Shiflin would cease to exist. After that, if anyone tried to talk about her during work hours they’d be told to knock it off and go cry in their rack after flight ops were over.
She understood the logic, even appreciated it. It wasn’t the crisp efficiency of a cold, unfeeling bureaucracy, as they’d explained to her when it was Micaela who was erased. It was a ritual of empathy, designed to serve the morale of the living, so her roommates and teammates wouldn’t have to bump into constant reminders of the departed. Also so they could stay focused on the mission.
So, yeah: empathy, and maybe some bloodless efficiency, too.
Monica buried her face in her best friend’s quilt and began to sob.
* * *
—
The search effort took two full days. On
the morning of the third day, when Monica returned to her stateroom from breakfast, there was a message waiting for her.
Her presence was requested for an interview with the command master chief.
42
The first thing Jackson noticed was how exhausted she looked, her red-rimmed eyes set into dark circles on a pale, haggard face.
The second thing he noticed was how pissed off she looked.
Which told him that she hadn’t grieved yet, not really. He hoped she would, for her sake, and soon. Before it ate her alive.
“Lieutenant Halsey,” he began, then tilted his head toward the man sitting to his right. “Lieutenant Commander Scott Angler, JAG Corps.”
There were no particular legal dimensions to the situation, but he trusted Angler’s insight and had asked him if he would sit in on the interviews.
The pilot nodded at both men. Her perfect poise concealing her anguish imperfectly.
“Lieutenant Halsey, I like to begin meetings like this on a point of agreement.”
“Yes, Command Master Chief Jackson.”
“Can we agree that your confrontation with Commander Papadakis two days ago was possibly the most boneheaded move of your career?”
“Yes, Command Master Chief Jackson.” Her face rigid.
“Of your very possibly short-lived career?”
“Yes, Command Master Chief Jackson.”
“You don’t need to address me as ‘Command Master Chief Jackson,’ Lieutenant. ‘Master Chief Jackson’ or simply ‘Master Chief’ will do fine.”
“Yes…Master Chief.”
“Lieutenant, questions of disciplinary action are not my concern here; that’s a matter for your chain of command. My concern is the state of morale on this ship.”
Jackson hadn’t decided up to this moment quite how much to soft-pedal this one. The woman had just lost her roommate and best friend—her second roommate lost in this deployment, pour l’amour de Dieu! He’d wanted to spend a minute taking her measure first.
He decided to go blunt.
“It appears your roommate took her own life, Lieutenant, and I need to understand why.”
She nodded, still standing at attention.
“Please take a seat, Lieutenant.”
She sat down across from him.
“Can you explain exactly what it was that occasioned that outburst in your squadron’s ready room? Purely as a question of context.”
Monica returned his gaze. “I wouldn’t describe it as an outburst, Master Chief.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. The exchange, let’s say. The one where you used the phrase, ‘Bullshit!’ ”
She took her time, assembling her thoughts. Unhurried. Which impressed him.
“I was upset,” she began, “when I realized Lieutenant Shiflin was missing. The night before, after flight ops, she’d had an encounter with Commander Papadakis, and I was concerned that this may have upset her unduly.”
“An encounter?”
“Yes, Master Chief. She’d had an especially difficult run, involving a string of bolters. He happened to be present when she emerged from her debrief, and he teased her a bit about it.”
Jackson let a moment of silence hang before prodding again. “Teased?”
“Yes, Master Chief.” Another beat. She didn’t want to say more, but he knew she would if he waited.
He waited.
“Taunted her, was how I observed it, Master Chief. She didn’t handle it well.”
“Huh.” Jackson nodded, not a Yes, I see nod, more a So that’s what you’re going with? kind of nod. This was a US naval fighter pilot they were talking about here, a Top Gun graduate, and Halsey’s position was that Lieutenant Shiflin went and threw herself off the ship to her doom…because someone teased her?
“As you might be aware,” he said, “Commander Papadakis reports that nothing of the kind took place.” He saw the startlement register. No, she had not been aware of that. “According to him,” Jackson looked down at his notes, “he made a comment, something to the effect of ‘That was a rough run out there’ and that he was glad she didn’t go in the drink. And she said nothing in return. All fairly benign.” He looked up at her. “That not match your recollection?”
The pilot’s cheeks burned. She was pissed off mightily, no concealing that.
“Not in every detail, Master Chief.” Jackson then saw her face change, as if she’d just remembered something. She straightened in her chair. “Someone else witnessed the exchange. The SEAL.”
Jackson hadn’t known this. He covered his surprise by looking down and scribbling on a paper pad. “Noted. And Lieutenant, what led you to make the leap from something as innocuous as a brief, albeit testy encounter in a passageway to a seasoned naval aviator disappearing from our midst?”
She was silent.
“I’m asking because,” he added, “in all candor, I really don’t see the connection.”
“She’d been under a lot of stress the last week or so, Master Chief. More than the usual jet pilot stress, I mean.”
“All right,” said Jackson. “How so?”
The pilot hesitated.
“I’m all ears,” Jackson added.
“Of course,” she said. “Here’s the thing, Master Chief. I don’t think anyone else realized how fragile she was. Everyone in the air wing saw her as a badass fighter pilot. A Tennessee hills spitfire.”
Jackson nodded. That squared with everything he’d heard in the past two days as he and Scott interviewed those who knew her.
“But I roomed with her. We talked. The past week, she was more and more anxious. Jumpy. Even a little paranoid.”
Jackson’s eyebrows shot up in wordless question. Paranoid how?
“I caught her glancing back over her shoulder a few times, as if she thought someone was there. One night she asked if I thought we were safe here. On the ship, I mean. Almost like she was being stalked.”
“Stalked,” he repeated.
“I…grew up on a ranch,” she said.
“A ranch.”
“Yes.”
Jackson nodded slowly, as if what she was saying made perfect sense, which they both knew damn well it did not.
“And did Lieutenant Shiflin give you any indication, any indication at all, as to who in particular might be making her feel…stalked?”
“She…she mentioned that Commander Papadakis had been staring at her.” She looked down, breaking eye contact. “At midrats, Master Chief.”
There was a brief silence.
Jackson pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“Lieutenant, can you tell us something you actually observed, any specific behavior or exchange, anything at all beyond the brief encounter outside the ready room and the fact that Lieutenant Shiflin mentioned being stared at, that would have prompted you to throw yourself on your sword and act out on your own commanding officer, based on what you thought and felt?”
“No, Master Chief.” She looked up and met his eyes. “I was upset.”
* * *
—
After the pilot departed, Jackson sat silent for a moment.
Whatever animosity passed between Lieutenant Halsey and her boss was none of his concern. But losing another crew member? Very much his concern. And there was one thing this green young pilot had said that particularly disturbed him.
He looked over at Angler. “Stalked.”
Scott shrugged.
Jackson frowned into his empty coffee mug. “Let’s have a talk with the SEAL.”
43
“Bomb assembly room,” announced Tom the ordie.
He ushered Finn through a massive reinforced steel door and into a large, brightly lit space, lined with rows and rows of munitions components stacked deck to overhead, bomb bodies and missile parts everywhere,
all pinned tight with wire lines and tie-down chains like those that secured aircraft to the flight deck. The place looked clean as an operating theater.
“This door stays locked when assembly’s under way,” Tom commented. “At that point the only way in or out is up through the trunk line.” He jerked a thumb toward a set of steel rungs disappearing up the wall through a circular opening.
Finn walked over and looked up through the thick glass hatch. From their current location on deck 6 he was looking straight up at deck 2—fifty yards or more through a vertical tunnel barely wide enough for one person.
No thanks.
Places without alternate paths of egress made Finn uneasy. If he’d had his own “Rules to Live By” that would be Rule 1: always keep an open exit.
“Your basic five-hunnert-pound bomb,” Tom said.
Finn turned and saw a few red-shirted men and women gathered around a large olive-green bomb body, preparing to hoist it up onto what looked like an operating table. High-explosive scrub nurses.
“But that’s just the chassis. Depending on what you stick on it you can turn it into a smart bomb, or an undersea mine. You can set it to burrow down and wait, or explode on contact, or in midair, or when it reaches a preprogrammed location. It all depends on which accessories you add on.
“We got about six million pounds of ordnance on board this ship. No real danger when they’re all kept separate, but put the right pieces together an’ you got serious boom power.”
Proud grin on his face. A kid showing off his comic collection.
“Attach some fins, shimmy in a fuse assembly till you hear a nice click and she’s ready to roll out to one of the bomb elevators and up to the flight deck, where she’s stowed in the bomb farm there, right behind the island, till it’s time for warheads on foreheads. Then we load ’er on a bird and off she goes.”
Warheads on foreheads? They were out in the middle of the Arabian Sea. “We planning on loading any birds today?”
“Running a drill,” Tom explained. “They’ll assemble a full complement, run it all up to the bomb farm, then bring it back down again and restock all the components back in their respective magazines. We’re supposed to pick up the pace, get it running a couple times a day, once the, you know…” He grew quiet and looked at his shoes. “Now that the SAR guys are wrapping up.”