Olive was nearly six feet tall, her slender body bordering on anorexia. The combination of her close-set eyes and long, dark hair pulled back into a tight bun made her a dead ringer for Popeye’s girlfriend Olive Oyl, but without the squeaky voice. A no-nonsense woman of few words and fewer emotions, she participated on the periphery of any ready room hijinks only when avoiding it would call attention to herself. “Morning, sir,” she replied to her department head, as she kept her eyes down and made a notation on the status board.
Wilson sat down in his chair in the front row, next to the Skipper’s. He checked for something in the large drawer under his chair. He then sat back with his legs outstretched, took a breath, and waited. His wait lasted only a few seconds.
“Mister Wilson, I see you’ve not initialed the message board today,” Saint said from across the aisle. He did not bother to look up.
“No, sir.”
“An oversight?”
“No, sir. Haven’t read them yet,” Wilson said. He stood up and took a few steps, eyes locked on his XO.
Still looking down, Saint continued. “Do you know Strike-Fight Wing took all of our 2,000-pound practice bombs for noncombat expenditure and gave them to Air Wing Eight?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s right here,” Saint replied, lifting the message board a few inches toward Wilson. Wilson noticed that a gaggle of JOs had arrived. Oh, great! Wilson thought. The XO continued with his quiz.
“Why did you not know? Actually, the more important question is, why did they take them?”
“The Wing did not contact me, sir. I’ll e-mail them and find out.” The JOs had stopped next to Wilson. Aware that he was in a serious exchange with his XO, they didn’t dare interrupt. Saint noticed them, too… and liked having an audience.
“You’re the OPSO of this squadron — for the next several months — and you’re supposed to know these things before they happen. Had you reviewed this message board first thing this morning instead of rolling in here at 1030, you would have known about this before I did. You would have also had the chance to call the Wing and leave a message to find out what the fuck. And you could have had them e-mail you back to give the CO a full report. There could have been an answer in your mailbox right now.” For the first time, he raised his eyes to stare at Wilson. He couldn’t have planned the moment for greater effect.
The JOs kept their eyes downcast, embarrassed to be part of the public dressing down of a senior officer and too discomfited to leave. From her perch on the SDO desk, Olive feigned inattention, but she was listening. Wilson’s countenance remained rock steady.
“No excuse, sir. I’ll find out.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilson. That will be all.” Saint returned his attention to the message board, oblivious to the fact that the East Coast would not arrive at work to respond to Wilson’s query for several hours.
“Yes, sir.” Wilson responded. He managed to maintain control and repress his rage as he took his seat. Company man, he thought, scolding himself as he felt the JOs’ eyes on him.
* * *
An hour later, Wilson’s roommate, Lieutenant Commander Mike “Weed” Hopper, entered their stateroom. He found Wilson at the computer in PT gear. Weed took the measure of his roommate.
“Hey, man.”
“Hmm,” Wilson grunted without turning his head.
Weed clicked the light on above his desk. “Olive told me what happened.”
“Hmm.”
Hopper was the squadron Maintenance Officer, one place below Wilson in the Raven pecking order. Tall, with red hair, he possessed a big smile that matched his sense of humor. The Ravens were fortunate that these two department heads were friends, as they both had to work together to make the squadron flight schedule work.
“Five more months, my friend,” Weed said with frown.
“Roger that,” Wilson replied, and then added, “I can stand on my head for five months.”
“He grabbed me earlier, too. Said there were too many boot marks on four-oh-two and the troops needed to be more careful. Imagine that— too many boot marks on a deployed fleet Hornet.”
“Where is the skipper?” Wilson asked.
