“That was a night pitching deck barricade,” Wilson continued, “…on fumes, after essentially a day pattern in varsity conditions. Damn impressive flying.”
“The jet’s trashed.”
“Screw the jet,” Wilson responded, with a casual wave. “They’ll send us another one.”
Sponge didn’t answer. Wilson kept his eyes on him and began.
“You’ve now been in this squadron one year. You’ve made the entire workup: Fallon, the Key West det, probably 250 hours of hard-core tactical flying — everything the Navy says a Hornet pilot needs to go on cruise a full-up round. Now we’re on cruise, and in two days, we’re going through Hormuz and will enter the Gulf. Two days after that, you will probably be in an aircraft with green bombs under the wings on your way up to Baghdad.”
Sponge’s eyes remained down.
Wilson continued, “There are Marines and soldiers down there who are going to need us — that are going to need you. You know any Marines in the box these days?”
“My college suitemate… He’s an infantry Marine in Anbar,” Sponge replied.
“Well, you never know, he may need you one day. And it doesn’t matter, really, if it’s him, does it? Whoever calls us in wants fused ordnance on target, and you and I have to deliver it — on target, on time. That’s our job. That’s what we’ve been trained to do. You ready to go up there?”
Wilson saw Sponge’s jaw tighten.
“Sponge, you are a hell of a pilot, and you did good last night. I doubt anyone else on this ship has flown a barricade, much less night pitching deck. When the pressure was on, you came through.”
Sponge looked at Wilson. “I just crashed a jet, my flight gear is literally in tatters, the squadron XO blames me in public and puts me in hack when I refuse to ‘sit down’ for more humiliation. I’ve got to write my statements for the mishap board, the JAG investigation, the human factors board, and who knows what else. Oh, yeah, my girlfriend knows — already, knows it’s me! I just got an e-mail from her. Which one of my air wing buds sent that news home? She’s freakin’ that I didn’t let her know — not that I’ve had a spare minute the past thirteen and a half hours.”
“Should’a married her,” Wilson deadpanned, “and, as a wife, she’d get an official call. And at least a chance at $400 grand in life insurance.”
Sponge shot him a look at first and then sensed the humor. A wan smile crossed his face in response to Wilson’s barb.
“Sponge, you’ll be ready to go soon. We’ll scrounge up some flight gear, hack will end, and you’ll be on the flight schedule before you know it. Take today to do your statements, write to your girlfriend and your family, and blow off some steam with the guys. Guido and them will bring you food. In 48 hours, though, we’re in the Gulf. We’re gonna need your game face.”
