Hover

by Anne A. Wilson

  Without emotion, I climb into the cockpit, complete the necessary checklists, respond when spoken to, and endure over three hours of on-deck turning sitting next to a disrespectful, foul-mouthed powder keg.

  Thankfully, we’re not allowed to do airborne functional checks at night, so we shut down just prior to midnight. Official sunrise is 0700 and therefore, so is our takeoff time. We can complete the first checks in the air en route to the Kansas City, so there will be no need to land on the Lake Champlain again once we lift.

  I wait until Commander Claggett steps out before I remove my helmet. Lego and Messy go about securing the aircraft for the night, folding the rotors, tying them down, and covering the engine intakes.

  I remain in the aircraft, looking up through the cockpit window. Breaks in the clouds showcase hundreds of thousands of stars. The night sky in the open sea is a treasure to behold. I suppose it’s one of the few good memories I’ll take away from this deployment.

  “Ma’am,” Lego says.

  “Hmm,” I say, turning.

  “We’re gonna button up the doors now. You wanna get out?”

  I leave my seat, climb into the cabin, and trudge down the steps of the main cabin door.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  “Sort of. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I pass by the maintenance office to ensure I’m not needed for anything else. The maintenance officer assures me I’m not, even though Commander Claggett isn’t here anymore to verify.

  I drag myself back to Officer Country and Brian’s room, taking a seat on the rack. I have less than six hours before I see Commander Claggett again. Better make the most of it.

  I remove my flight suit and boots and proceed with a sponge bath. Brian has a sink and mirror in his room, so I use a hand towel and do it that way. And what the heck? Eric brought me a razor, so I’ll use that, too. I shave my legs standing up and use the lotion he provided, as well. It actually doesn’t smell too bad, even having been purchased from the ship’s store.

  I wash my face and brush my teeth before donning my “pajamas,” which are Eric’s maroon shirt and gray shorts. Removing the rubber band that secures my hair, I scratch my head so it falls free. The brush Eric bought for me is lying on Brian’s desk, so I stand in front of the small mirror to brush it out.

  See what happens when you let your guard down? You just open yourself up. Normally, you would have shrugged this off, like water sliding over a raincoat. But it hurt this time, didn’t it? Stupid. You can’t be stupid, Sara. You’ll never make it.

  * * *

  It’s almost thirty minutes after midnight when I hear the knock.

  “Sara? It’s Eric. Are you up?”

  I open the door, but can’t manage a smile. I notice that Eric’s gym shorts and T-shirt ensemble is the same as mine, which shouldn’t be a surprise since I’m wearing his clothes. His shirt is just a different color—olive green, like his eyes.

  “We match,” I say.

  “That we do.”

  Our eyes hold … for a long time, they hold.

  Sara, stop it. Enough!

  “I know it’s late,” he says, “but I just came by to see if you needed anything.”

  “I’m fine, thanks. You thought of everything earlier,” I say, motioning to the towels and toiletries on Brian’s desk.

  “All right. I’ll just, uh … well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He starts to turn away, but stops.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks.

  “It’s fine,” I say too quickly. “I’m fine.”

  “Claggett?” he says.

  “It’s nothing, okay? Just…”

  “It’s not nothing. What happened?”

  I look down at my hands that have been wadding up my shirt—his shirt—as I’ve been talking. I spread it out with my fingers before looking up.

  “He sort of exploded earlier. Right after training.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “He got on me for not watching the tranny change this morning.”

  “But you did. You were there until we began training.”

  “I guess he forgot about the training.”

  Eric shakes his head. “I’ll go talk to him—”

  “No. He doesn’t want to hear it. And besides, I can speak for myself.”

  “But—”

  “Please. I said I’m fine, okay? I’ll handle it.”

  He searches my eyes for a moment longer. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you around, then.” He turns and walks away without looking back.

  I close the door and lean against it, nursing a queer, awful ache in the pit of my stomach.

  10

  “So then what?” Em says.

  I’m giving her the play-by-play of my stay on the Lake Champlain following a torturously long day. The check flight for Sabercat 55 took a full thirteen hours to complete, all sitting next to a live wire in Commander Claggett.

  “Hold that thought,” I say. “I have got to get something in my stomach or I’m going to pass out.”

  Entering the empty wardroom, I make a beeline to the counter that supplies bread, peanut butter, and jelly. I put together a sandwich, fill a glass with lemonade, and drop into a wide, stainless steel chair—one of thirty or so positioned on either side of seven long, rectangular tables.

  Having just departed the Lake Champlain, I gain a new appreciation for the ample size of our wardroom. Our tables are arranged end-to-end to form a U shape, filling the middle of the space. A lounge area with couches and a TV occupies the far corner. There’s even room for a sizeable salad bar.

  Steel blue-gray dominates—the color of the heavy-duty plastic table coverings. The chairs are a lighter shade of gray and this all contrasts not so nicely with bulkheads painted a stale yellow-cream, just like our stateroom.

  I stare ahead at nothing as I eat, my mind crowded with images from my stay on the Lake Champlain. I’m so wholly engrossed in my thoughts that I don’t notice the arrival of the ship’s operations officer.

  “Hey, Sara,” he says in his slimy way. “Imagine finding you here.”

  “Yeah, imagine that, sir.”

  Oh, no. I don’t want to be here—not alone with him. One of the most uncomfortable things about living and working on this ship is doing so with this man, Lieutenant Commander Doug Egan. During the six weeks I was onboard the Kansas City for work-ups, it was a nightmare because he wouldn’t leave me alone, always “finding” me wherever I happened to be on the ship.

  I’m in a delicate situation with him because he outranks me.

  “What’s this? You know you don’t have to call me sir. It’s Doug for you.”

  Oh, boy …

  I keep him at arm’s length and beyond, and I’m professional all the way with him. I’ve given him every subtle hint I can think of without actually saying, “Stay the hell away from me,” but he just doesn’t understand subtle.

  “Let me grab some coffee and I’ll join you,” he says.

  “Actually, I was just leaving.”

  “Leaving? But you’ve still got half a sandwich left.”

  “I’m really not that hungry.”

  I grab a napkin and begin wrapping my sandwich.

  “So I was already thinking ahead to Hong Kong,” he says. “I know this great place to eat that has an incredible view of Victoria Peak.”

  “I have duty in Hong Kong, sir.”

  “Well, lucky for you I sign off on the duty schedule. I can change that, no problem,” he says with a wink.

  “No, sir. You don’t need to do that,” I say, rising from the table. “I want to pull my weight with the duty schedule.”

  I make a hasty getaway to our stateroom, kicking the door closed once inside.

  “What’s going on with you?” Em says.

  “Commander Egan.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “He found me in the wardroom.”

  “God, he is the creepiest creep. Seriously, you should say something to
someone.”

  “But that’s exactly what everyone wants to see happen—you know, another reason women shouldn’t be here at sea. They just cause trouble.”

  “But you’re not the one causing trouble. He is.”

  “I know. But it won’t be perceived that way. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Em says. “If women weren’t here, this wouldn’t happen in the first place. Blah, blah, blah.”

  “But you know what sucks about that? There are plenty of guys on this ship who don’t treat me like this, who are decent. But I’d bet you ten to one that no matter where Commander Egan is stationed, like if he’s on shore duty somewhere, he’s going to be harassing the civilian secretary or a coworker or someone else. He’s going to behave the same way whether out here or at home.”

  “Hey, you’re preachin’ to the choir, honey,” Em says. “Well, it’s up to you, but I would say something, because this is one fucking long cruise to be dealing with shit like that.”

  I drop my sandwich on my desk and change into my new pajamas—Eric’s maroon shirt. I can’t explain why I brought this with me. I brought his shorts, as well. Items I should have left on the Lake Champlain. I didn’t see Eric before we took off this morning, so not only did I take his clothes, I didn’t ask his permission. And now I’m going beyond that and wearing them.

  My senses have officially taken their leave.

  “What, no Vikings jersey?” Em says.

  I stare, a deer-in-the-headlights stare. “I, uh … no … I mean, not tonight … that is, well, no.”

  “Have I seen that shirt before?”

  “No … I, uh, I got it on the Lake Champlain. I didn’t have any clean clothes, so…”

  “And you’re wearing that instead of your Vikings jersey? Wow, I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “This shirt’s just … softer.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says, raising her arms so her nightgown slides over them.

  I wipe the faint bit of perspiration that has just surfaced at my hairline.

  “By the way, they moved the Operation Low Level brief to tomorrow afternoon,” she says.

  “Wait, they didn’t go ahead with the brief the day I left?”

  “Nah. I guess the folks on the Lake Champlain are big players in the exercise, so it was postponed until they could be here.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “And you’ve been assigned a training lecture,” she says. “Automatic flight control system. It’s due tomorrow.”

  “Great. Just what I need.”

  I watch as she searches through her stacks of books to select a new one. “Care for some reading material before bedtime?” she says, waving a dog-eared, tattered Harlequin in the air.

  “No, absolutely not.”

  “Whatever, sappy pants,” she says, crawling under her covers. “Looks like the sweet dreams will be mine tonight.”

  I climb into my rack, curl up sideways, and pull Eric’s shirt over my knees, conflicted.

  I switched shirts. My brother Ian’s favorite Minnesota Vikings jersey for Eric’s.

  Ian’s Vikings jersey has held up surprisingly well over the last nine years that I’ve worn it, and I’ve never imagined not wearing it. So it worries me how quickly I was able to fold it away to wear something else. To wear someone else.

  I stretch out my legs, smoothing Eric’s shirt so it lies flat across my torso, worrying also about the depth of feeling I would have to carry for someone, conscious or not, to allow this to happen. The thought is mind-blowing. No, that can’t be. It just can’t be.

  11

  Em and I arrive early for the Operation Low Level brief, which we’ve learned is a counterterrorism training exercise, and take our seats in the wardroom. We’re awaiting the arrival of Rear Admiral Robert Carlson, the carrier strike group commander, and his party. This exercise involves multiple players—the entire battle group will be participating—so we’re joined by representatives from each ship, most of whom crowd the wardroom now.

  Every pilot in our detachment is required to attend because the exercise will employ several helicopters, including both of ours. We’re going to act as high-speed, low-level threats to the battle group. Each ship will then coordinate the tracking and simulated destruction of each threat.

  I’m happy for the diversion. It will help me get my mind off my latest run-in with Commander Egan and distance myself from the emotion-twisting experiences of the Lake Champlain.

  “Attention on deck!”

  We rise and stand at attention as Admiral Carlson enters the wardroom, followed by the Kansas City’s commanding officer, Captain Scott Magruder. Behind him, a parade of commanding officers from every ship in the strike group.

  At the end of the line? My heart stops. One Lieutenant Eric Marxen.

  “Holy mother of god,” Em whispers in my ear. “Look what just walked into our wardroom!”

  “At ease,” Admiral Carlson says. “Please take your seats.”

  As we sit, Em is drooling. “He looks like he just stepped out of fuckin’ GQ magazine! Why can’t they grow ’em like that on our ship?”

  I motion with my head that she should pay attention to the admiral now that he has started speaking. But I’m not listening either. Eric stands to the side with his hands behind his back. He’s wearing a khaki uniform, no ribbons or awards on his chest, just gold pilot wings above the left breast pocket. I wonder why he remains standing while the others in the arrival party have seated themselves.

  I tune in to Admiral Carlson. Silver-haired, tall, and trim, he possesses a commanding voice that surprises. “We’ve completed almost three weeks of this cruise with the prime objective of making good transit time,” he says. “Because we’ve made good progress, and because circumstances in the Middle Eastern theater currently allow it, our port call in Hong Kong is still a go on the schedule.”

  The news is met with smiles and audible sighs of relief. Ever since we cruised out of San Francisco Bay—what seems like years ago, not weeks—the rumor mill has been rife with speculation that all port calls were going to be canceled en route to the Gulf. Tidings from the Middle East have not been good. The aircraft carrier we’re relieving, USS Kitty Hawk, has sent numerous messages saying we would be needed on station sooner rather than later. Everyone in the room knows we have to be ready at a moment’s notice to drop everything, port calls included, to get there ahead of schedule, if necessary.

  “This also means we have time for larger-scale exercises during our transit—critical training, in my opinion, if we’re to carry out our mission once on station.” He pauses briefly to survey the room, conveying the seriousness of the statement. In other words, time to leave thoughts of liberty behind and get on with the real business of training. “Operation Low Level is one such exercise that demands your undivided attention and focus. So without further ado, I’ll give the floor to Lieutenant Eric Marxen, who will be acting as lead for the exercise. Lieutenant Marxen,” he says, motioning to Eric.

  As he steps forward, Emily nudges me. “Why is he giving the brief?” she whispers. “He’s just a lieutenant.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Not that I’m complaining,” Em says. “I’d rather watch him than a wrinkled old admiral any day.”

  “Shhh,” I say with a discreet shove on her arm.

  “Thank you, sir,” Eric says.

  He begins to speak, and he owns the room. Some people are natural leaders and Eric’s one of them. As I listen, I tick down a laundry list of character traits—smart, quick on his feet, engaging, articulate … and strong. Not just strong physically—it’s clear he’s lean and fit—but a confident strength brews on the inside, too. He’s no different now than he was on the Lake Champlain. If anything, just more impressive.

  Shut it down, Sara. Just shut it down. You know you can’t go there.

  But still. An exercise of this scope isn’t normally run by someone of my pay grade.

  “… following the
fifth high-speed, low-level run, the Sabercats will have the fast rope,” Eric says. “That’ll be a squad from SEAL Team One. Target is to be determined.”

  I glance at Em. She has her elbows on the table, chin propped in her hands, and is wearing a dreamy expression that’s not exactly the most appropriate for a counterterrorism exercise brief. But how can I judge her? It’s not like I’m walking the walk at the moment, either.

  Well, you’d better start! How about now, shall we?

  There. I’ve scolded myself. I listen as Eric fields questions from the admiral and several commanding officers with finesse. They seem particularly interested in the fast roping portion of the exercise.

  When SEALs need to board a vessel quickly for hostile takeover, fast roping is one method to deliver them. The rope can be positioned in several places—over the aft ramp, out the main cabin door, or over a square cutout section in the underbelly of the aircraft we call the “hell hole.” SEALs slide down the rope, or ropes, one after another, until the entire squad is dispatched in a matter of seconds.

  “How long would I need my flight deck open for that if we’re the target?” asks Commander Eichorn, commanding officer of the destroyer USS Leftwich.

  “No more than five minutes, sir.”

  “And what about pickup?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Eric says. Light chuckles spread through the wardroom.

  If SEALs don’t require a helicopter pickup, they can depart via other means—by an inflatable, motorized raft called a Zodiac, or they can swim out. Zodiacs haven’t received a mention in the brief today.

  “… and the commencement of the exercise is scheduled for zero four hundred tomorrow morning, weather permitting.”

  Eric answers a few more questions before wrapping up the brief, but then we’re not given the standard dismissal. Normally, we’d be called to attention again and the group that arrived together would leave together. But the executive officer stands and announces the meeting has been concluded.