of VFA-91 and their brand-new
Super Hornet jets. With not a little scorn, most of them referred to the
Spartans as “the girls next door.”
Located amidships in Ready 3, the remaining Hornet squadron aboard Valley Forge was the Buccaneers of VFA-47. Like the Ravens, they also flew the FA-18C, and the two squadrons were known as “sister squadrons.” These two squadrons were the only two of the eight aboard that were mirror images of each other, all reporting to the Commander of Carrier Air Wing Four, known as the CAG. As “sisters,” friendly, and sometimes not-so-friendly, competition was a part of their daily lives. The Ravens—from the Skipper down to the airman swabbing a passageway — wanted to outfly, outbomb, and generally outperform the Bucs in every area, and vice versa. In conversation, each squadron regarded the other as “Brand X.”
Before going to lunch, Wilson opened the rear door of the ready room. His eyes immediately focused on the back of the XO’s head in his front-row seat. The room was quiet now as most of the pilots were at lunch up forward. The squadron colors were blue and black, and each chair had a blue cover with black trim. The design depicted the squadron emblem — a black raven silhouette, wings outstretched as if swooping in for the kill. The image was simple, yet menacing, and a familiar tradition in carrier aviation over four major wars. Behind their backs, however, many in Carrier Air Wing Four and the fleet sarcastically referred to VFA-64 as the Crows.
Here it comes, Wilson thought. He grabbed a cup of water and made his way between the two groups of high-backed leather chairs to his own front-row seat.
“Hey, Olive,” he said to the duty officer. Lieutenant Kristen “Olive” Teel wore khakis and sat at the duty officer console. Behind her was a status board with the day’s flight schedule, each pilot’s name written in grease pencil in bold capital letters.
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.
