Midrats. Act normal.
Monica moved down the food line, placing a few items on her tray. Taking her time, she wove through the tables and found an empty spot next to a quiet, studious-looking pilot.
Alan Rickards. Flew one of the air wing’s gigantic E-2 Hawkeyes. The E-2 was a long-distance radar detection craft, not a fighter, and the Hawkeye pilots were less showy than their fighter jet cousins. Monica knew Rickards by reputation; a serious but easygoing guy. Well liked by his peers.
She took the seat next to him, pulled her fat NATOPS manual from under her arm, and plopped it down next to her tray. Took a bite of her late-night snack.
Rickards nodded at the manual. “Need directions to study hall?”
She grinned. “I know, it’s a little hard-core.” She took another bite and turned a page.
“Cramming in every minute you can spare. Remember it well,” he said.
They went on like that for a few minutes, back and forth. She admitted that she was nervous about getting through the next few weeks leading to her checkride. That her CO was one seriously tough boss. She mentioned his name.
Rickards laughed. “I’m not surprised.”
“No?” she said.
“Papadakis and I were in the same class at the Academy.”
“Really,” she said—although that was precisely the reason she’d tracked him down. “I had no idea. So you know him.”
“Oh yeah,” said Rickards.
“Sometimes it feels like he’s, I don’t know, tougher on those of us who are women.”
Rickards smiled. “To be honest, that doesn’t surprise me, either. Nikos was never a guy you’d accuse of being woke. Not that we had that term in those days.” Warming to the topic. “Contrary to popular belief, though, we weren’t all Neanderthals. I mean, everyone knows the stories, Tailhook and all that. People assume it was systemic.”
He took a bite and frowned as he chewed.
“I’m here to tell you, it was not systemic. There were some jerks. Quite a few jerks, actually.” He swallowed. “But when that kind of ugly stuff went down, you know what, we hated it as much as anyone. Hey, I’ve got sisters. I’ve got a mom.” He shook his head. “That was some ugly stuff.”
They ate in silence for a moment.
So far, so good.
“Was there,” she began, then she paused and started over. “When you were there, was there anything, I don’t know, weird, or off, in terms of how he treated women?”
Rickards’s demeanor changed instantly. “Off, how?” Cautious.
“I don’t know,” she said, “just, any scuttlebutt about stuff he did, anything specific you heard about? Off the record?”
His eyes narrowed. “Such as?”
It felt like the room temperature had just cooled ten degrees.
“I just, nothing specific, I guess I just wondered, if there were any rumors, or talk, about how he got along with his female classmates, or—”
Rickards cut her off. “I’m sure you’ll be judged on merit, Lieutenant. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Of course,” she said quickly. “I’m sure you’re right.” She felt her face go red. Thank God for the low lights at midrats. “I’ve heard my NATOPS officer is a super-nice guy. What was it like for you, your first checkride?”
She managed to steer the conversation back to aviation and current events aboard the Lincoln. After a minute or two she even tried to nudge them back toward the Academy days again, but it went nowhere. Rickards had closed up shop, pulled down the steel shutters for the night.
After another few minutes the Hawkeye pilot stood, bade her a cordial good night, and left.
Monica felt almost nauseous, in part from the adrenaline aftermath and in part out of sheer relief that the conversation was over. Mostly, though, from that sickeningly familiar sense of boys closing ranks.
Guys protecting guys.
Rickards seemed like a decent enough person.
She didn’t believe him for a second.