. He had been asleep five hours. Light from the passageway filtered into the stateroom from under the door and through a grate on the bulkhead.
He cleared his throat and picked up the receiver. “Lieutenant Commander Wilson, sir.”
“Flip, Nicky at the duty desk… XO just called an APM.”
Wilson stood motionless as he let the message sink in. An APM? Called by the XO?
“Flip,” Nicky continued, “it’s for zero-seven-thirty.”
Wilson exhaled. “Roger, we’re on our way,” he said and hung up the phone. “Get up… APM,” he said to his roommate in a frustrated undertone.
Weed groaned into his pillow, but he began to stir. “What the fuck?”
“XO called an APM. Fifteen minutes.”
The Maintenance Officer tossed his covers off and rolled his body over the bunk. He braced himself with one foot on the frame of the lower bunk and eased to the floor in one familiar motion. Wilson turned on the water and filled the sink to shave.
“Any idea what this is about?” Weed asked.
“No… and the CO’s not here. Not good.”
“When are they coming back?” Weed asked as he put on a fresh, black squadron t-shirt.
“Around 1500,” Wilson said as he lathered. “Just one recovery today for the Thumrait birds. Then a RAS.”
“So, with Cajun gone, the XO can play Skipper for a day.” Weed pulled on his flight suit.
“Yep… not good.”
At a hurried pace, the two pilots finished dressing, laced their boots and brushed their teeth. Wilson quickly checked his e-mail and saw a note from Mary. It would have to wait.
With only five minutes to go before the meeting, they headed toward the ready room. Most of that time was spent navigating 700 feet of ladders, passageways, hatches, and knee-knockers. They ascended a ladder in quick steps, pulling themselves up with their arms. At the top, they swung their legs into the passageway and darted left, crouching low under the Cat 2 track, and then onto the portside O-3 level “main drag” passageway.
Wilson acknowledged passing sailors with a nod and reflexively lifted his boots high over the knee-knockers. He was lost in his thoughts, and his thoughts were gloomy. Why is the XO calling an APM? And why now, rousting everyone with only 20 minutes notice?
Aviators, who were night owls by nature, ignored reveille and rarely went to breakfast. Their days were, therefore, skewed between a midmorning wake-up to a bedtime where they hit the rack long after midnight. These 16- to 17-hour days included one hop, maybe two (with hours of briefs and debriefs), all manner of meetings, assigned duties, and myriad admin functions relating to the pilot’s “ground job.” For Wilson, this meant a late night every night as he and Nttty, the Schedules Officer, wrote and refined the flight schedule for the following day. Although they could also find time for movies, exercise, video games, and e-mail home, everyone was always at and available for “work.”
