Hover

by Anne A. Wilson

  “At least you’re not tentative anymore,” Em says.

  “Yeah, thanks a lot.”

  Things have been good with Em lately. We’re only three days from crossing the Strait of Hormuz to enter the Persian Gulf, and since we pulled out of Singapore a week ago, I haven’t flown a single SEAL mission. Every day without a SEAL flight is a day our relations improve, and I have to say, it’s nice to have my commiserator back in my corner.

  “You know, I’m not even hungry,” I say as we seat ourselves.

  “I realize your thirst for knowledge is overwhelming your need to eat, but if you aggressively and confidently order an omelet this morning, you should be able to get something in your stomach. And you need food, missy. Seriously, you’re wasting away here.”

  It’s true. I haven’t been eating well. Since we left Singapore, I haven’t flown much, Zack and Em taking most of the flight hours. And while this has helped things between me and Em, it’s what’s happening in the cockpit when I have been scheduled that’s not so good. I’ve flown seven times, thirty-five hours, and can probably count thirty minutes total as the pilot at the controls—usually holding them on deck while the aircraft commanders left for bathroom breaks.

  They’ve staged a silent protest to my SEAL mission flying and it includes not just time on the controls, but everything. I don’t talk on the radios, I don’t brief, and they answer for me if an aircrewman asks me a question. The winds and weather have been such that they’ve been able to get away with it, but I wonder how much longer this will go on.

  In the meantime, I thought I could take comfort in listening to Eric’s voice on the radios. We usually hear our helicopter counterparts at some point during the day since we share the airspace around the battle group. Even without the SEAL missions, I thought I’d hear his voice, but it has proved strangely absent. I’ve looked for him on the deck of the Lake Champlain and seen the other Shadow Hunters there, but not him. Not once.

  No e-mail either, since the servers onboard that allow for personal e-mails have been down due to a massive security software upgrade. And no cell phones—they usually don’t work while under way. Bottom line, no communication of any kind with Eric in seven days.

  I pick through the omelet that Em forces me to order, thinking about my flight later today that’s scheduled with Chad. I recall the comment that Commander Claggett made about briefing to sit on my hands. Now I know what it feels like … and it sucks. It really does. But I’d like to think they’ve made their point and we can move on now.

  * * *

  Although, apparently, today is not the day for moving on. Chad has been at the controls for over six hours by the time we touch down on Nimitz.

  “Sabercat five five, Nimitz Tower, we need you to shut down present position, over.”

  “Nimitz Tower, Sabercat five five, say again, over?” Chad says.

  “Sabercat five five, Nimitz Tower, shut down present position.”

  Chad and I look at each other. “What the hell?” he says.

  “Okay, sir, we’re exiting the aircraft for shutdown,” Lego says.

  “Any idea what’s goin’ on, sir?” Messy asks.

  “Fuck if I know,” Chad says.

  As the rotors slow to a stop, a lieutenant dressed in summer whites with gold epaulets attached to his shoulders approaches the aircraft. He leans in to say something to Lego.

  “Sir, he said we need to come with him.”

  “All right. Cutting power.”

  We follow the lieutenant into the superstructure and, once inside, he introduces himself. “I’m Greg Baskin, Admiral Carlson’s aide.”

  I remember Greg. He accompanied the admiral to the Kansas City for the Operation Low Level brief so many weeks ago.

  Chad puts out his hand. “Chad Henkel.”

  “Sara Denning,” I say, shaking his hand. “And this is Petty Officer Legossi and Petty Officer Messina.”

  While Greg is shaking their hands, Chad and I are shaking our heads.

  “So, Greg, what’s going on here?” Chad says.

  Greg begins walking and talking at the same time.

  “Chad, you and Petty Officers Messina and Legossi need to wait here,” he says, directing us into a ready room of sorts—a passenger ready room. Several rows of chairs occupy the small, gray space and a closed-circuit TV hanging in the corner runs the movie of the day. It looks like The Hunt for Red October.

  “Sara, you’ll be coming with me,” he says.

  I look at Chad. “Chad, what’s going on?”

  “Ask Greg. I have no idea.”

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” he says to Chad, Lego, and Messy. “We have boxed lunches on order for you.”

  “So, this goes in the highly fucking unusual category,” Chad says. He’s obviously not in the mood for this, especially having spent the last six hours sitting next to me. “Does our ship know about this? What about our flight? We have overheads.”

  “Everything’s been taken care of,” he says. “You just need to wait here until we get back.”

  “How long are we talking?” Chad asks.

  “Just get comfortable.”

  That answer certainly isn’t making me comfortable.

  “Well, I’m gonna follow orders and set myself right heah,” Messy says. He plops in a seat, grabs the chair located in front of him, turns it around, and puts up his feet.

  “And I’m joinin’ ya,” Lego says.

  Chad, not bothering to disguise his irriation, turns to take a seat.

  “This way, Sara,” Greg says.

  We begin a long carrier trek, winding through an endless labyrinth of narrow gray corridors toward an unknown destination. I have no idea what to think. Wait. Actually, I do. This must be about Commander Egan. It has to be. But to have us shut down in the middle of a logistics run, interrupting a flight? It doesn’t make sense.

  “Greg, excuse me, but should I be worried here? Am I in trouble or something?”

  “No, you’re not in trouble. I’m taking you to a meeting.”

  “A meeting?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s all I know.”

  We finally arrive in Officer Country and Greg directs me to a broad stateroom door with Admiral Carlson’s name on the identification plate. He opens the door without knocking and we enter what looks like the foyer to someone’s home. It’s a shock to see carpeting and normal furniture. A coffee table is surrounded by leather couches, all of it decorated in a nautical theme.

  Three separate doors are accessed from this room—his sleeping quarters, a conference room, and the admiral’s mess, where he eats.

  “Wait here just one second,” Greg says.

  He knocks on the far right door, opening it a crack. “Sir, Lieutenant Denning is here.”

  “Send her in,” comes the response.

  I look to Greg, but he doesn’t say anything. He opens the door wider and ushers me through. Rather than follow, he closes the door behind me.

  I stop, doing a hyper-fast survey of the room. I recognize the majority of the ten men assembled here, and based on who’s in attendance, this is not going to be a meeting about Commander Egan. Quickly scanning the faces, I realize that most would call this an intimidating group, but I’ve been around high-ranking officers since I was small, and their bearing was always a comfortable reminder of my father. I know how to act, how to speak, how to be taken seriously, but even so, my heart beats faster.

  At least Eric is here. My heart flies when I see him. In the last seven days, I’ve dreamed of our reunion—a warm embrace, happy conversation.…

  But then I really look at him.

  He holds a neutral expression, removed, distant. I search his eyes, and they’re not right. Something’s not right. But I can’t let my gaze linger. I’ve already stayed here too long.

  Next to him, Commander Amicus—Animal. My survey of the room stops cold right here. My eyes zero in on the polished gold SEAL insignia that shines from his khaki uniform. SEAL insignia
? Animal isn’t a SEAL.

  The man to his right, another commander whom I don’t recognize, also wears a SEAL pin. Chiseled from top to bottom, he has dark brown eyes that narrow as he observes me. His name tag reads STEVE KENNAN.

  Captain Plank, the Lake Champlain skipper, sits erect between Commander Kennan and Admiral Carlson, who presides at the head of the long, rectangular conference table. Captain Magruder sits to Admiral Carlson’s right and opposite Captain Plank.

  Commander Eichorn, commanding officer of the Leftwich, is next, followed by an Australian lieutenant colonel, one of the SAS members on the Kansas City that day … that bizarre day when I met Jonas. He sits next to the lieutenant colonel now, with a cocksure expression.

  Mike Shallow is the final member of this gathering, sitting to Jonas’s right and to my immediate left.

  “Lieutenant Denning, have a seat, please,” Admiral Carlson says, gesturing to the empty seat at the end of the table, directly opposite him.

  I lower myself and glance quickly at Eric, who is now seated to my immediate right. I was hoping for an encouraging nod … something. His expression remains impassive.

  “You know everyone at this table with the exception of three, I believe,” Admiral Carlson says. He motions first to the man sitting next to Animal. “This is Commander Kennan. He leads SEAL Team One in San Diego.”

  Commander Kennan’s scrutinizing gaze hasn’t changed. His black hair matches Animal’s, but is worn short and close to the head.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Tyson,” he continues, pointing to the Australian seated across the table from Commander Kennan, “leads the SAS Regiment.”

  The Australian, a more darkly tanned version of Commander Kennan, regards me with a cool expression.

  “And finally, Commander Eichorn,” Admiral Carlson says. “Commanding officer of the Leftwich.”

  Although I’ve never met him personally, I certainly remember Commander Eichorn from the Operation Low Level brief. He’s a hard one to forget—completely bald, with a permanent scowl etched on his face.

  “I know this is confusing for you, but you’ll understand why we’re meeting here in just a moment. I need to let you know right up front that the information presented here today is classified Top Secret. Absolutely nothing that is said here will leave this room. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. But, sir, I only hold a Secret clearance.”

  “Not anymore. Your new security clearance has already been approved.”

  My eyes shift again quickly to Eric, who maintains his neutral expression.

  “I’m going to let Commander Amicus give you a brief overview of our purpose here,” Admiral Carlson says.

  I turn my head to the right to look at Animal, but I can’t take my eyes off of the SEAL insignia he wears.

  He points to his pin. “You’re looking at this.…”

  And suddenly, every question I’ve ever had about the SEAL flights—the scheduling, my role as the pilot at the controls, the flight hours discrepancies, Eric’s involvement, the high-level interest in training missions, the tension with the arrival of the Aussies, evaluations, metrics, all of it—comes to a head. My stomach drops because I realize I’m about to learn the answers, and I’m not really sure I want to.

  33

  The unique design of the Navy SEAL trident makes it one of the most recognizable insignia found in all branches of U.S. military service. Comprising four symbols—an eagle, an anchor, a trident, and a pistol—the gold pin is also one of the largest insignia, just under the size of a standard business card.

  Animal is right. I am looking at his pin, my brain turning a thousand miles an hour as I attempt to reconcile what I’m seeing.

  “I was sent to evaluate you for flying our missions,” Animal says. “Not training, but actual missions.”

  The air strains from the awkward silence, while I remain staring. Maybe it’s that I’m trying to digest the fact that Animal is in fact a SEAL, because a silly question leaves my mouth. “You mean you’re not a pilot, sir?”

  “You think my flying’s that bad? Thanks a lot.” He laughs, thankfully relieving some of the oppressive tension I feel. “Yes, I’m a pilot. I’m part of an experimental program that puts SEALs in a position to fly, and evaluate potential pilot candidates for our missions. Due to the highly classified nature of what we do, we don’t wear the insignia and only our squadron skippers know our primary designation.”

  He stops for a moment, while I look at his pin again and then back to his face.

  “Normally, every aspect of a SEAL mission is covered in-house. Demolition, parachuting, diving, everything,” he says. “The only thing that falls outside our purview is air transport. And you’ve heard it too many times—the aircraft that goes down, taking the entire SEAL squad with it. Sometimes it’s mechanical failure, sometimes it’s due to enemy fire, but we realized that in all cases, we were at the mercy of whoever happened to be on the flight schedule. So we decided we needed to be proactive. Pick the best pilots for the job to ensure our teams have the greatest chance of success.

  “We take the selection of our pilots very seriously, now hand-picking each of them. Once I realized you were the best-qualified West Coast candidate, we began your training in Hawaii. It was no accident that you were the pilot at the controls on the fast roping missions we completed together, nor that you’ve worked with Mike’s team so often. Mike and his squad needed to feel confident that you were the one for the job. They’ve given you the highest marks, just as I have. And now, Captain Martin has added his highest recommendation.”

  I glance at Mike first, who gives a small nod of approval. And then beyond him, to Jonas. His blue eyes are bright with energy, victorious almost. And the smile that goes with it, just as bright … yet so out of place among the serious faces here.

  “Commander Kennan is here because your selection would impact every member of his team, including Mike and his platoon. The same is true for Lieutenant Colonel Tyson and, in this case, Second Squadron.”

  My eyes shift to Commander Kennan and then to Lieutenant Colonel Tyson. Their keen eyes regard me so sharply, I feel as if they’re looking straight through me. Maybe they’re not so sure about me. That’s what it feels like.

  “But one thing stands out uniquely in your case and that’s why we have so much high-level interest at this table. You’re a helicopter second pilot. Normally, the flying skills we require are those of a seasoned aircraft commander with far more hours under his belt.”

  Captain Magruder, Admiral Carlson, Captain Plank, and Commander Eichorn wear the same serious, yet undecided expressions as Commander Kennan and Lieutenant Colonel Tyson. It’s then that I realize that Mike, Jonas, and Animal have given these six their recommendation for a pilot and they’re not sure if they agree.

  “In my opinion, skills are skills. If you’re one of the few, regardless of flight hours, who can get one of our teams transitioned to a hostile deck within a matter of seconds, then you’re the pilot I want.”

  He takes a purposeful look around the room.

  “But there are some in this room who wanted to meet you and get to know you better, before they gave their approval. You might think of this as a bit of an interview.”

  An interview?

  Wait a minute …

  An unexpected anger flares from somewhere, because I know what this is.

  So they’re evaluating me right now. Evaluating how I’m sitting, responding, reacting. I take consolation in the fact that Animal thinks a pilot is a pilot. He’s gotten past the female part, saying he thought I was the best qualified candidate. Mike and Jonas are okay with it, too. And Eric has been unfailingly supportive since the first time I met him. There’s a comfort in this, in having Eric by my side in this meeting.

  Animal looks to the others at the table, inviting them to speak.

  Captain Plank, so still, glances briefly at a sheet of paper in front of him and then returns his gaze to me. “Tell me about your expe
rience working with GMG2 Franklin,” he says in the same no-nonsense way I remember from the Lake Champlain.

  Gunners Mate Guns Second Class Franklin. He must have some sort of background sheet about my previous naval experience. I look around quickly. Every man here has this same sheet.

  “Sir, Petty Officer Franklin served as my running mate on Third Class Midshipman Cruise aboard the ammunition ship USS Flint. We cleaned and maintained the weaponry stored in the Flint’s arsenal. Forgive me, sir, but there isn’t much to report. We just stripped and cleaned guns for hours on end that summer.”

  “What guns?” he asks.

  What guns…? He’s asking me what guns?

  “M9s, M16s, .50 cals, M60s…” I say.

  “It says here you have an Expert marksmanship rating in both pistol and rifle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In the most recent marksmanship quals on the Kansas City,” and he briefly glances at Captain Magruder before turning his attention back to me, “you achieved the highest scores of any shooter on the ship. And by a good margin.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is this something you practiced during your time on the Flint?”

  “Yes, sir, we did get to shoot quite a bit during my time onboard.”

  “According to Captain Magruder, after the completion of the pistol quals, the chief master-at-arms reported that he was surprised with your familiarity with the weapon.”

  “Well, sir, I am. I could field strip those weapons in my sleep, I did it so often. Petty Officer Franklin always tested me, too. How fast could I strip the M9? How fast could I do it blindfolded? We played games like that all the time. So I don’t know, sir. I suppose it’s like riding a bike. All the muscle memory is still there.”

  “Could you do it now?” Captain Plank asks.

  Could I do what now? I wonder silently.

  “Field strip an M9, sir?” I ask to make sure.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “I don’t know, sir. It’s been years.”

  “Why don’t you try?” he says sternly.