“Good. Dismissed.”
The JOs got up and headed for the back door. Wilson wanted to follow them, but he knew he would not get the chance.
“Mister Wilson,” Saint motioned him over.
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand the pressure you must have been under in CATCC last night — with a low-state nugget pilot in the pattern. Commander Johnson spoke to me and said you did a good job working the situation. Receiving praise from an officer of his caliber is commendable, and mitigates the momentary lapse in judgment regarding your call to have him eject alongside. We’ll just call this a learning point in your department head training. As far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed.” To Wilson, Saint looked more compassionate and understanding than he had ever seen him.
“Yes, sir.”
“What happened last night is between us. No need for the CO to know.”
Between us and the entire air wing, Wilson thought. “Yes, sir,” he replied as he fought to keep emotion from his face. Wilson kept his eyes on the XO, but he sensed Nicky listening over Saint’s shoulder.
“That is all,” Saint said as he turned to his chair.
A few minutes later, Wilson was forward on the O-2 level. He knocked on the door of the JO’s bunkroom.
“Enter,” answered a voice. Wilson recognized it as Guido’s.
Wilson entered the six-man bunkroom. The furnishings consisted of three top and bottom metal racks behind blue curtains, six metal built-in desks, and sets of drawers along each bulkhead. Everything was painted gray. Two sinks and mirrors occupied the other bulkhead, and towels and robes hung on hooks nearby. Fluorescent desk lamps from two open desks provided some subdued lighting. A small TV was rigged in a corner of the overhead for viewing in what passed as the common area, a space little more than 8 by 8 feet. Guido and Sponge were seated, Sponge at his desk with his jaw set.
“Hey, Flip,” Guido said. Sponge remained motionless.
“Guido,” Wilson replied, and then added in a low tone, “How about taking a walk topside?”
“Yes, sir,” Guido replied, grabbed a pair of sunglasses from his desk, and exited the stateroom.
Sponge did not move as Wilson pulled up a chair. Sponge kept his eyes forward.
“I’ve never met anyone that flew a barricade pass,” Wilson began.
“Paddles graded it an OK, little right wing down to land—crash,” Sponge hissed. Wilson did not recognize the junior officer before him. The old Sponge Bob was gone. He needed to get him back.
