JO pilots, whom Wilson could depend on tactically and whom he needed to show leadership to the nugget aviators.
As he surveyed the room, Wilson’s eyes met those of the only woman there — Lieutenant Commander Kristin “Olive” Teel. Before Wilson entered the room, she had been the senior officer present. Olive looked back at her CO with an awkward smile.
“Well,” Wilson said as he approached Olive. “Everything is well in hand… the Safety Officer is present!”
Olive knew she should have put a stop to Trench’s antics before Wilson arrived. “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t resist seeing it for myself!” Wilson nodded with a smile. Then, so only she could hear, he added, “This is not like you, Safety Officer.”
Olive was now mortified at her lapse in judgment. “Yes, sir, I’m sorry… It’s just that they already think I’m a stick-in-the-mud. Bad decision. Won’t happen again, sir.”
“I know it won’t,” Wilson said. “It can be lonely at the top, especially in that middle place.”
“Sir?” Olive asked.
Wilson smiled at her. “There are old fudds and young studs. Then there are lieutenant commanders.”
“Yes, sir,” Olive answered with a sheepish grin. She didn’t know what else to say as she reflected on the meaning of his message. Olive, you aren’t the boss, but you aren’t an irresponsible kid anymore either… not that you ever were.
“Forgotten. Where can I change?”
(Breezy Cay Resort, St. Thomas)
Lieutenant Mark James led the junior officers from the admin and down the hill. At six-foot-three and 225 pounds, “Trench” was the ringleader of the Firebird JOs, a role he enjoyed immensely. Nowhere did he shine more than when leading them on liberty. Their destination was the beachside cabana where pilots from Billy’s squadron, the Hunters, and the lone FA-18F Super Hornet squadron, the VFA-23 Blue Lancers had already gathered. A bonfire was raging and spirited aviators in aloha shirts were having fun sipping on their beers and telling sea stories.
Trench liked being the center of attention. With good looks chiseled by nature and a body cut by daily workouts in the foc’sle, he was olive skinned and wore his wavy black hair longer than most and unlike most kept it moist with mousse. He could easily pass for a cast member of the reality show Jersey Shore, using that to his advantage in a never ending quest to bed as many women as he could. He seldom lacked volunteers.
Trench was obsessed with the score. Having earned his call sign from his large stash of porn magazines, he was not about to squander his current target-rich environment — a tropical beach adjacent to several resort properties. The women of Carrier Air Wing SIX knew to give him a wide berth — some unfortunately learned too late and became figurative kill markings on the fuselage of his