Lions of the Sky

by Paco Chierici

  As she watched Dusty march toward the gangway, she tried to come up with an explanation for Dusty’s presence other than the most glaringly obvious. She knew there were four fighter squadrons in Air Wing-8. Two were the older generation F/A-18C Hornet models. There was another Rhino squadron, but it was a single seat squadron; no WSOs. She and Dusty had trained to fly the two-seat variant, of which there was only one squadron in this wing, VFA-213. As she huffed to catch up, she struggled to come to terms. They were true squadron mates now. Stuck together for the next three years.

  She caught up to Dusty at the bottom of the stairs rising five stories to the platform connecting the gangway to the ship itself. They flopped their big heavy bags on the ground breathing heavily, building up for the big climb while other sailors, like an endless stream of ants, marched right by them filing up and into the ship.

  “Hey, I guess we’re in the same squadron,” Quick acknowledged between breaths.

  Dusty nodded. “Looks that way.” She picked up her bags and moved to the steps. No hugs, no high fives.

  “Hey Dusty,” Quick said, undeterred. “We’ve got another thirty-six months together. Let’s make a clean start. A do-over. What do you say?”

  Dusty turned and eyed her with a cold assessing look that reminded Quick of Mr.Spock. The she dropped the bag from her right shoulder and extended her hand. “Clean slate.” As they reshouldered their heavy packs and took to the metal steps, Dusty looked over her shoulder. “Just don’t get in my way again.”

  Quick shook her head in exasperation. “Dusty, give it a break. We’re in this together. You know what Pig told me? We’re the first girls ever in this squadron. They’re one of the last ones.”

  Dusty turned the corner and plodded up the second flight without breaking stride. “I know,” she said without turning around. “I’m sure they’re busy painting the Ready Room pink just for us.”

  She matched Dusty step for step. It wasn’t as completely desolate as Dusty made it out to be. There were a few female pilots in the other fighter squadrons on board the Bush, and a couple more in the E-2 and electronic warfare squadrons. Even two or three helicopter chicks. But they would be breaking the door down at their squadron, VFA-213.

  After a few minutes they reached the top of the tower and started across the gantry to the opening in the side of the Bush herself. Once inside the massive ship, on the Quarter Deck, they presented their IDs, saluted, and made their way through the maze of passageways toward Ready Room 7.

  She stumbled clueless after Dusty, who seemed to know exactly where she was headed. The passageways were busy with foot traffic in both directions, like a New York City sidewalk at rush hour. Sailors on their way to work or lugging heavy sea bags, stuffed with whatever they needed to survive a half-year deployment, jostled and bumped into each other. Every few steps there was a traffic jam as people waited to squeeze, one at a time, though the frames of the water-tight hatches. It took them twenty minutes to make their way 500 feet up and aft to the door of Ready Room 7, and by then her shoulders were aching fiercely from the straps biting into them.

  They stopped for a moment outside to catch their breath again, wordlessly agreeing it wouldn’t do to walk in for the first time winded and hunched over. She studied the door as her breathing slowed, wondering what the future held across this threshold. The top half of the royal blue door was emblazoned with the Blacklion emblem, a twin-tailed rampant lion in profile, mouth agape in an angry growl, one foreleg lifted, ready to strike, black body outlined with gold superimposing the stars of the constellation Leo. The squadron’s designator, “VFA-213,” was painted just below.

  She grabbed the handle—through this portal was the Fleet; they’d made it—and pulled open the door. And stumbled into what looked like a tribal ceremony.

  Thirty men were gathered in a semi-circle around someone they couldn’t quite make out on his hands and knees. One of the guys stepped into the circle. He was big, about six-foot three and athletic, with a broad back and brown hair parted on the side. He was a lieutenant, but he didn’t look like a nugget. He had a few experience lines on his face.

  The big guy spoke to the man on his knees. “You ready? Last chance, last time. You’re the last one ever.” The kneeling man nodded. “Okay, go,” commanded the lieutenant.

  The Ready Room is even more central to the aviators’ lives aboard a carrier than it is ashore. From the waterline up to the deck, the ships are massive structures, unimaginably big. But once inside, like some illusionist’s trick, they are cramped and confining. Unless you happened onto the hangar deck, the huge space three levels below the flight deck where sick planes could be torn apart protected from the elements, you were constantly winding from one tiny space to the next through a rat’s maze of indistinguishable passageways and ladders. Up, down, left and right, the largest warships in the world were diced into tiny identical working and sleeping spaces.

  For the aviators, the relatively spacious Ready Room served many functions, often at the same time. In the back there was a board where coffee mugs with call signs inscribed hung on pegs. The front held the retractable silver screen that unfurled for the nightly movie. For briefs and movies, the aircrew always sat in their assigned seats, which were configured in neatly organized rows of over-engineered, heavy metal-framed reclinable chairs with retractable tables that allowed them to scribble notes. The walls were decorated with ornate plaques commemorating previous deployments and trophies celebrating victories. It was a special sanctuary from the sameness, and the feeling of confinement, of the rest of the ship.

  Ready Room 7 on the Bush was the den for VFA-213, The Blacklions. The floors were of polished linoleum tile in the squadron colors. Prominently placed at the front and center, surrounded by the crush of men, an intricate mosaic of the black lion logo was cut into the floor. And the man on the floor seemed to be supplicating himself to the lion.

  She took a step forward as the man put a rag to the logo, polishing vigorously. As he polished he moved slowly clockwise and she saw both who it was, and what he was rubbing. “HOB?” she said in amazement. But he was busy burnishing the oversized brass genitals inlaid into the Blacklion mosaic.

  As HOB polished, he chanted at the top of his lungs, “THIS AWESOME LION WITH BALLS EXTRAORDINAIRE…WITH POWERS RENOWN ON LAND, SEA AND AIR…I SHOUT AS I POLISH YOUR BRASS…MESS WITH US AND YOU CAN KISS OUR ASS…FOR WE ARE EACH HUNG WITH AN EXTREMELY…HUGE…PAIR.”

  The group of men cheered as HOB climbed to his feet, arms in the air and sporting his big goofy grin. The guy who had set HOB to his task shook his hand and welcomed him to the Lions as the rest of them clapped him on the back like he just hit a walk-off home run.

  Fuck that, she thought. I am not getting on my knees and polishing some cat’s scrotum. And I know, sure as shit, Dusty’s not going to either.

  The door to the Ready Room opened behind her. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Quick jumped and spun around to see a man in his late thirties with silver oak leaves on the shoulders of his flight suit—a Commander. Shit. She glanced at his nametag and saw Clam Baker embroidered under the gold-crossed anchors of the WSO wings. Under that: CO VFA-213. Shit again. She instinctively took two steps back from her new commanding officer.

  The skipper marched straight up to the leader of the pack, ignoring her and Dusty as he walked past. “Lips, who is the CO of this squadron?”

  The lieutenant stepped away from HOB. “You are, sir. It’s just that…”

  Clam cut him off. “Are you sure? Because I distinctly remember ordering you to carve that brass out this morning. It was an order, right? Not a suggestion?”

  Lips nodded, swallowed, and said, “Yessir.” And before Clam could continue he blurted, “It’s just that HOB showed up and we thought we’d squeeze in one last guy, real fast. No harm. Sir, it’s been a squadron tradition for almost sixty years.” He nodded to HOB. “For the new guys.”

  Clam leaned into him. “I know what t
he fucking tradition is, Lieutenant.” Clam turned around, facing her and Dusty. “Ladies, welcome to the Blacklions.”

  Thirty faces turned to the back of the room where she stood awkwardly, Dusty by her side. HOB’s eyes lit up like a giant puppy’s. “Hey guys!”

  Great, she thought darkly, this is awesome. A fantastic start. Clam clapped Lips on the back, propelling him forward like a reluctant child. The lieutenant stuck out his hand for her to shake. “Hi, I’m Lips. Sorry about that,” he said, poking his thumb over his shoulder. “My bad.”

  She and Dusty each shook his hand like it was business. “Dusty,” said Lexi.

  “Quick,” said Keely.

  “Welcome to the Lions,” Lips said with a shrug.

  All in all, she didn’t think her introduction to the Fleet could get any worse, and then Slammer strolled through the door.

  Chapter 2

  19 July

  USS Bush (CVN-77)

  The next morning Dusty exited the Blacklion Ready Room after finishing her check-in paperwork. She had given up her apartment and, like Quick and HOB and the other junior members of the squadron, was going to spend tonight on the Bush before the ship departed the following day in the pre-dawn hours. There were more pilots than planes in a squadron, so the most senior got to spend an extra night on the beach and fly aboard, while newbies like her—derisively called “nuggets”—pulled anchor and floated away with the rest of the sailors. She was noodling the positive attributes of a gold nugget as she walked to her stateroom to finish unpacking.

  She turned a corner and ran smack into JT. “What the hell are you doing here?” she said, recoiling in surprise.

  “Me?” He flashed a mischievous grin. “I volunteered.”

  She took a step back, scanning side to side. The passageway was mercifully devoid of traffic at this hour. She turned back to JT feeling the color rising in her face. “What the fuck do you mean?”

  “Your Skipper, well, I guess he’s my Skipper now, too. Anyway, he called around looking for experienced aviators to go on this cruise. So I raised my hand. I’m a Lion.”

  She was practically spitting nails. “So now you’re a stalker? I told you I didn’t want to see you anymore. We’re done, not that there was ever anything to begin with.” She shook her head angrily. “This is pathetic, JT. You stay the fuck away from me or I’ll turn you in.” She took a step to pass, but he grabbed her arm. She yanked it away and hissed, “I’ll cut you.”

  He laughed, uncomfortably, and raised both hands in a pose of surrender. “Just listen for a second. Put those fangs away. We’re going to be within eleven hundred feet of each other for at least six months, maybe three years, so you’re going to have to learn to deal with it.” She turned to walk away again but he said, “Please, just listen.”

  She spun, crossing her arms. “What?”

  “You’re not ready for this,” he said flatly.

  “I am. I graduated.”

  “You’re not, but it’s partly my fault. So that’s why I’m here.” She started to speak again but he beat her to it. “Look, you’re a smart girl. Really smart. If you take an honest look in the mirror you know that you cut a couple corners. In your heart of hearts you know it, right?” She refused to answer. She stood silent and unblinking as a Sphinx.

  “You have no idea what’s about to start happening with this ship and this air wing. I know how you feel about me, and that’s fine. But I care way too much for you to let you just get chewed up and spit out. You’re not ready. Yet. But I will help you.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “You can land on the boat really well, and that’s great. Normally that would buy you a long time in the Fleet to learn on the job. But in a few weeks this ship’s going to be on station, running interference between some seriously pissed off and heavily armed people. I’m here to finish my job, even if it means you’ll hate me forever.”

  She stepped forward, looking him eye to eye, glowering. Finally she stuck a finger in his face. “I’m not going to fuck you. Ever.”

  He laughed. “Okay. I get it. Truth is, I gave up on that a while back.” He lowered his arms. “That’s not what I’m here for. Trust me.”

  It was barely 0800 and the July humidity pressed down like a wet blanket as Slammer strode the deck of the Bush next to Clam and JT. The three men in olive green flight suits contrasted with the enlisted men in work camos who were busy power washing the catapult tracks and making last-minute repairs to the flight deck equipment. There were no planes yet on Bush, but it was obvious she was readying herself for their imminent arrival.

  “Listen gentlemen,” Clam began. “I’m glad to have you two in my Ready Room. There’s a lot more to this situation than they are letting out to the media.” He glanced about, making sure they couldn’t be heard over the general clamor on the deck. “We’ve got imagery of a big billion-dollar oilrig the Chinese are slowly towing south from Hong Kong. Don’t ask me how they know, but Intel has them dropping it just off the Paracel Islands. About seventy miles into Vietnam’s economic waters.”

  “Jesus,” said JT.

  Slammer raised his eyebrows. “Sir, the Vietnamese don’t have a clue it’s coming?”

  “They think it’s passing through. I’m told in no uncertain terms when this monster drops anchor in their waters three weeks from now, they are going to be unpleasantly surprised. We’ll be getting more detailed intel and ROE in transit but for now all you need to know is the Chinese are not fucking around.”

  “So what’s our game, sir?” JT asked. “Seems like we’re getting sent out with no clear mandate.”

  Clam seemed to struggle with an appropriate answer. “Good question. Best I can tell you right now is we’re going to deflect and distract. Here’s the party line. Our purpose is to provide a neutral U.S. presence to ensure accountability of all parties. The reality is, the Chinese and Vietnamese have been poking each other in the eye for the last few years. They’re all pissed off, buzzing around loaded for bear as it is. When the rig sets up shop it’s going to be like someone smacked a wasp’s nest with a stick.”

  Slammer tried to visualize what they would be actually doing once they took off. “And we’re just supposed to fly around between them and—and what, Skipper?”

  “The Bush and the entire Carrier Strike Group will be operating in international waters conducting normal peacetime operations,” the CO finally said. “We’re going to park ourselves in the middle of the playground and do our best to provide an adult presence.”

  Slammer shook his head. “Are they even going to let us load live missiles?” he asked, going heavy on the sarcasm.

  Clam stopped short, forcing the other two to halt abruptly. “Listen, this may not be the glamour job you thought you were signing up for. I’m sorry. But I’m going to have an inexperienced group flying in the same phone booth as a bunch of hopped up PRC and NVA pilots itching to shoot someone down for the motherland. My guys need to be ready. Ready to protect themselves and to protect the Bush. This is quite possibly the most important deployment you two have ever been on and our success depends on no one firing a shot. I can’t have any buffoonery out there. The whole world is watching.” Clam started walking again, weaving between teams of deck workers refreshing the paint in the landing area.

  “If you’d rather be doing something else, figure it out now. This ship leaves tomorrow. The Lions and Air Wing-8 will be on board by sunset.”

  Slammer had been pumped to receive the CO’s phone call a few nights ago, but ever since he’d walked into the Ready Room and seen Quick, he’d felt decidedly less enthusiastic. And this chat with Clam had done nothing to rev him up. Nevertheless, after a nod from JT, he answered, “Skipper, JT and I are damn happy to be Blacklions.”

  Clam stopped, again checking their surroundings. “Let me be perfectly honest with you boys. One of the main reasons you’re here is because Jimmy Mac told me you are superior instructors. I’ve got a raw group. More nuggets than usual. We were
supposed to have a nice long work-up and a normal cruise. Now I’ve got to get this group wrangled in a matter of weeks.”

  Clam lowered his voice further. “And there’s the matter of the two girls they just gave me. You two know what they’re capable of better than anyone on this ship. Jimmy Mac tells me you’re straight shooters. I’m generally agnostic to this social experiment, but this is a special situation. If they can’t hack it, I need to get rid of them. I don’t want them bringing the rest of the squadron down when the chips are on the table.” He stood straight, looking them each in the eye. “You’ve got two weeks to figure it out. If we need to, we can shitcan ’em in Singapore. No need for drama, just let me know and I’ll take care of everything. They’ll get assigned to a different squadron, different air wing, different boat. Clear?”

  A sense of relief flooded through Slammer. He nodded to Clam. “Yessir,” he said decisively.

  “Yessir,” JT said.

  “Very well, gentlemen. Get your butts back to Oceana and finish up your paperwork. You’ll be flying aboard tomorrow. We’re off to sea.” With that Clam walked away.

  Slammer turned to JT and gazed at him for a minute before speaking. “You want to get this shit out in the open now, or just stay pissed?”

  JT pulled out his combat bandana and wiped his brow. It was always hot and humid on the flight deck of a super-carrier. “Go ahead.”