The ship’s mess facilities were all available 24/7, but the most popular meal by far was the late-night galley raid they called “midrats,” short for “midnight rations.” Which was why, at 2400 hours, Finn was seated at a table to the rear of the officers’ wardroom, drinking spring water from a tall glass, observing a roomful of navy officers hobnobbing.
He heard a lot of boasts being tossed around—how many flight hours logged, how many traps (completed landings) and greens (landings with top marks). A lot of mine-is-bigger-than-yours. The interplay of rank, seniority, and track record reminded him of a bumper car course, the buggies all riding on egos inflated till they strained at the seams like tires pumped way over their spec maximums. A few of these people would levitate above the herd to become admirals and commodores, military icons and political heavyweights. But not most. Most would hit retirement young and spend the rest of their lives telling anyone who would still listen that there was nothing, nothing that compared to the rush of being shot off an aircraft carrier flight deck by a nuclear-powered slingshot.
It occurred to Finn that if the USS Abraham Lincoln was powered by the steady depletion of radioactive uranium, its air wing was held aloft by the steady depletion of unfulfilled ambitions.
He surveyed the space. The noisiest sector here seemed to be focused on a petite, black-haired ball of energy whom Finn remembered seeing in the Jittery Abe line, one the others called “Biker.”
The last jet pilot to land that night, Biker had evidently made quite the entrance at recovery. “You see how she dropped that bird?” said one of her squadron mates. “No approach, just splotted it down on the deck. Blam! Like a mutt taking a dump on the street.”
“Thank you, Gopher, that’s very poetic,” said the tiny pilot, as she stabbed a huge forkful of whatever it was she’d mounded up on her plate.
“Jesus, Biker, how the hell do you pack all that in?” said another brother pilot.
“High metabolism,” she said between chomps. “I could eat you under the table.”
“You know what, I think I’d like that.”
“Fuck you, Ratso.”
“My stateroom, oh two hundred.”
“In your dreams, Ratso, not in mine.”
Kidding around with the guys. A navy fighter-pilot squadron was like a college fraternity, except with no alcohol and twice the testosterone. This one, though, she was holding her own. No, more than holding. She owned the place.
Finn also noted the helo pilot, the angry handsome olive-skinned one, sitting off by himself and drinking a can of Monster. Projecting that distinctive aura of self-righteous self-sufficiency that suggested Movie Star was used to sitting alone, that possibly it had hurt his feelings at some distant point in time, the way others avoided his company, but that he’d long ago taught himself to believe it was his decision in the first place.
Despite Movie Star’s careful efforts to hide it, Finn noticed him sneaking lingering looks every so often in the tiny black-haired jet pilot’s direction.
So, Movie Star had a crush.
Far off in a corner Finn spotted the ATO officer, Schofield, sitting quietly with another pilot. The two were obviously in a relationship and thought they were doing a good job of hiding it, but Finn could read it from clear across the wardroom.
If there was one thing that telegraphed the existence of a covert couple on a navy vessel, it was the irritation factor. Not affection: everyone knew how to hide that. No, there was a kind of friction, as unconscious as static electricity, that was specific to romantically involved couples, specifically couples that had been together for some length of time.
These two were having a spat.
He watched the conversation go off the rails, the other guy getting upset, Schofield staying calm. Finally the other guy got up and left. After a few moments Schofield stood, too, and began making his way back toward the buffet-style row of steam tables. As he passed Finn’s table he stopped. “Chief Finn.”
Finn hoisted his glass.
“I meant to ask you about that package,” said the officer. “Roughly what size are we looking for?”
“Small,” said Finn. “A satphone.”
Schofield nodded. “If you need an inside line meanwhile, anything beyond the ship’s phone or common-use PCs, just holler. I’m sure we can set you up in CVIC with secure comms.” CVIC: the ship’s intelligence center.
Finn thanked him, said that probably wouldn’t be necessary.
Schofield took two steps away, then stopped again and looked back at Finn. “You said you served on another carrier? An oil burner?”
Finn nodded. “Kitty Hawk. Oh-three to oh-four.”
Schofield’s face broke out in a grin. “The Battle Cat. If you don’t mind my asking, who was your CO?”
“Tomaszeski.”
Schofield closed his eyes, drew in a long breath, and let it out, dropping his normal tenor to a deep baritone: “Good morning, shipmates!”
Finn set his glass down and regarded the other man. “You knew him?”
“My first tour, a year after you. And every single day of that tour opened with the bosun’s whistle and reveille call, followed by Captain Tomaszeski’s daily address, which always started the same way—”
Finn joined in, the two men now speaking in unison:
“Good morning, shipmates—it’s another magnificent day at sea!”
Schofield gave a nostalgic smile. “And lo and behold, it was. It always was.”
The two were silent for a moment. Then Schofield nodded at Finn’s glass. “Refill?”
Finn didn’t need more water, but he nodded and said, “Thanks.”
While Schofield took the empty glass over to the beverage counter, Finn thought about Captain Tom.
Schofield had nailed it. And lo and behold, it was. Not that every day was specifically magnificent. The skipper would vary his adjectives. Sometimes the day was “stupendous,” “excellent,” or “phenomenal.” An aspirational “perfect.” A purely aesthetic “beautiful.” But it was always some version of “amazing.” Because Captain Tom wasn’t just blowing smoke up their asses. To him that particular day at sea was magnificent. And no matter what bullshit was happening that morning, no matter what plugged toilets or crappy food or aggravating bunkmates threatened to plague your day, when you heard Captain Tom pronounce the day “magnificent,” you couldn’t help but feel the same way.
Not that he stopped there. The skipper would then walk them through the current plan for the day, where they were headed and why, and then address whatever complaints had been brought to his attention by his network of chiefs—not that they would always be fixed immediately, but they would at least be addressed, and that was enough to make the intolerable bearable. Then he would single out one division for that day’s praise, and close with a few words of inspiration that in anyone else’s mouth might have sounded corny but from Captain Tom were as real as blood and bones.
Schofield returned with two fresh glasses and took a seat across from Finn, then raised his glass as Finn had done earlier. “To Captain Tom. As the saying goes, I would follow that guy through the gates of Hell and back.”
Finn tilted his glass and tapped it against Schofield’s.
And all at once it clicked.
That’s what had been missing since he set foot on this ship.
No morning address.
No address at all.
He thought back to that pair of steel-gray eyes he’d seen that morning, up on Vulture’s Row. He’d been on board the USS Abraham Lincoln for twenty-four hours now, and he hadn’t yet heard the sound of that man’s voice.
“Tell me something,” he said. “When was the last time you heard your captain here on the Lincoln give an announcement or address?”
Schofield thought about that. “I guess that’d be maybe four, five months ago. Just before we reached the Gulf. Some joker tossed a chem light overboard one night. After we went through the whole man-overboard alert and muster call, the skipper got on the 1MC.”
“And said what?”
Schofield pursed his lips and frowned. “Gave us all a tongue-lashing worthy of William Bligh.”
Finn took that in. “When else?”
Schofield thought some more. Shook his head. “Honestly, that’s the only time I can remember.”
They both fell silent again as they drank.
So the guy had never talked to his people, not but once in eight months to bawl them out over some trivial screwup?
This was not Finn’s idea of a captain.
Not by a long shot.