“Hey, Skipper! Welcome to paradise!” Dusty greeted him.
“Yeah, I’ll say. You guys broken in the admin to an acceptable degree?”
“Yes, sir, we are fully qualified — since about noon today! Cold beer, warm water, island tunes. Fully qualled, sir!”
Wilson smiled as Dusty led him up a series of concrete steps. Their suite, located in a complex of buildings, was situated along a hill and surrounded by island flora. The moon had risen higher into the night, above the soft cumulus build-ups that floated over the island. A beautiful scene that Wilson wished “his” Mary could experience.
Thumping club music grew louder and louder as Wilson followed Dusty down a breezeway to a door at the far end. On the door was a VFA-16 sticker, a “zapper” to indicate this room belonged to the Firebirds of VFA-16. “Welcome aboard, sir,” Dusty said as he opened the door for his CO.
Wilson was met with the blast of an Outkast favorite, a gaggle of his pilots in swim trunks and sandals, all with a beer in hand and big smiles on their faces. Teetering on a chair next to the balcony railing was Lieutenant Mark “Trench” James. He wielded a 3-wood and was about to propel a golf ball placed on another chair into the Caribbean night — either that or ricochet it off the railing and back into the living room at high speed.
“Skipper!” a drunken Trench exclaimed as Wilson entered. “Watch this!”
“No!” Wilson warned as he raised his hand and shook his head smiling, knowing how this story was going to end.
“Oh, c’mon, Skipper! Coach bet I couldn’t hit the ocean from here, but I can. I mean, it’s right there! I don’t even need a driver!”
“Now, Trench,” Wilson, still dressed in his white uniform, admonished him as he good-naturedly approached him through the laughing JOs. “If you put the club down and get off that chair, we won’t have to convene a mishap board tonight.”
With mock indignation, the JOs roared their disapproval. They had wanted either to witness the spectacle of Trench lofting one into the sea or lofting himself over the railing and into the bay tree branches that brushed the balcony.
Smiling, a wobbly Trench stepped down from the chair. “Okay, Skipper. But I could’ve done it, Coach!” he bragged, generating derisive hoots from his squadronmates.
“If you hadn’t screwed around so much before the CO got here, you could have at least taken one swing!” Lieutenant John “Coach” Madden answered with a broad smile. Like Trench and Dusty, Coach was another senior lieutenant. This trio formed the nucleus of the Firebird JO pilots, whom Wilson could depend on tactically and whom he needed to show leadership to the nugget aviators.
As he surveyed the room, Wilson’s eyes met those of the only woman there — Lieutenant Commander Kristin “Olive” Teel. Before Wilson entered the room, she had been the senior officer present. Olive looked back at her CO with an awkward smile.
“Well,” Wilson said as he approached Olive. “Everything is well in hand… the Safety Officer is present!”
Olive knew she should have put a stop to Trench’s antics before Wilson arrived. “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t resist seeing it for myself!” Wilson nodded with a smile. Then, so only she could hear, he added, “This is not like you, Safety Officer.”
Olive was now mortified at her lapse in judgment. “Yes, sir, I’m sorry… It’s just that they already think I’m a stick-in-the-mud. Bad decision. Won’t happen again, sir.”
“I know it won’t,” Wilson said. “It can be lonely at the top, especially in that middle place.”
“Sir?” Olive asked.
Wilson smiled at her. “There are old fudds and young studs. Then there are lieutenant commanders.”
“Yes, sir,” Olive answered with a sheepish grin. She didn’t know what else to say as she reflected on the meaning of his message. Olive, you aren’t the boss, but you aren’t an irresponsible kid anymore either… not that you ever were.
“Forgotten. Where can I change?”
