Wilson and Weed picked up their trays, drinking glasses and silverware as they got into the already long buffet line. The junior officers were about ten ahead. Everyone in line wore a flight suit.
Wilson had experienced severe pitching deck conditions several times off the Virginia Capes and once near the Azores, but not out here in the IO. Regardless of where it was, the great 100,000-ton ship could bob like a cork in heavy seas. In fact, right now, the ship was creaking as the bow rose and fell in the deep swells. It pitched up and down, often accompanied by what the seamen called a Dutch Roll, a roll induced by the pitching oscillations. Pitching and rolling decks were difficult enough, but the seas could also heave the whole ship, lifting it up and down in the water.
All this was a recipe for a poor boarding rate, which meant lengthy recoveries, stressed aircraft components, and tension with everyone involved with flight operations exacerbated by the fact that each plane had limited airborne fuel. USS Valley Forge just signed up for it.
The two sat down next to the Raven junior officers. Each squadron had staked out their own “unofficial” table where they — as the trained creatures of habit that they were — almost always gathered for a meal. The Raven table was all the way forward on the port side.
“Anyone care to go flying tonight?” Wilson asked the group as they joined them.
“No, thank you,” Psycho answered. Her voice carried throughout the room as she continued. “I flew last night and twice at night in the Red Sea. Think I’m covered for at least tonight.”
“JOs complaining about flying at night,” Weed said, shaking his head in feigned disgust. “Can we count on you for a full moon night? Waxing gibbous at least?”
“That would be nice — if you must fly me at night at all!” she giggled. Nugget pilot Lieutenant Melanie “Psycho” Hinton was an anomaly. The daughter of an admiral, she was blessed with California surfer-girl good looks. But she didn’t act like she knew it, and she could keep up with any of the guys. Her loud and obnoxious commentary — on any subject — earned her the call sign Psycho, which stood for “Please Shut Your Cake Hole.”
“It was clear and a million in the Red Sea, and last night was fairly pink, as I remember,” Wilson interjected. “You’ll just have to take it up with the schedules officer.”
“He gives you the schedule to sign!” Psycho cried, her eyes wide in mock indignation, enjoying the attention.
“I just sign what Nttty gives me,” Wilson said with a smirk as he reached for his salad plate, which slid to the left as the ship took a roll. “Nttty” was Lieutenant Junior Grade Josh Fagan, the Schedules Officer, who, after one memorable multiplane intercept hop, was christened with his call sign Nttty—”Not Time To Talk Yet.”
“So does the CO. Take it up with him,” Weed added.
Psycho also caught her plate in midslide and sighed. “Should have known the hinge-heads would band together in support of the front office. Next time I’ll just take it up with my good friend, Nttty. Thank you, sir.”
“Good answer,” Weed mumbled, through a mouthful of food.
SLAP!
A swell slammed hard against the bow and rattled the dishes. The group heard the water gurgle down the hull.
“It’s serious out there,” Guido muttered into his food as he took a big gulp of fried rice.
Smoke agreed. “Yeah, they’ve gotta be thinking about canceling the night events.”
Just then the loud WHOOOMMMmmm of a jet on a bolter filled the wardroom. The aviators exchanged knowing glances as the jet climbed back into the pattern. The first of many bolters this recovery, Wilson thought. He turned to Smoke, one of the squadron landing signal officers, and asked, “Were you guys working manual recoveries earlier?”
“NO!” Psycho howled and slammed her hand on the table. “I had a sweet OK going and then the deck pitched down — or came up — and I caught an ace on the fly. They gave me a “fair.” They said that was a gift because the ship did a little dance in close, but not so much that I couldn’t have made a better correction. I mean, it’s either a pitching deck OK or not! They should have rigged the MOVLAS, the
