(USS Coral Sea, underway, St. Thomas roadstead)
The shrill sound of the bo’sun pipe over the 1MC sounded throughout the ship: “Ta-Weeeet… Underway. Shift colors.”
From his ready room chair Wilson glanced at the PLAT image of the flight deck and noted the time: 0905. Coral Sea’s anchor was up and soon they would be heading southwest into the central Caribbean. On the black-and-white television screen he could see the rugged shore of St. Thomas, and reflected the port visit had been fun and was over too soon, as all port visits were. The JOs had done a good job on the admin and seemed to welcome Ensign Duncan all right. No surprise there; she was friendly, pleasant… and gorgeous. He already had heard some of them refer to her as Wonder Woman, and he knew he needed to keep an eye on Trench and Coach.
“When’s the meeting again?” Annie asked from her chair.
“Zero nine-thirty,” Wilson answered. “All COs and XOs, and COs from the strike group ships. Guess our advanced training cruise just got changed.”
“What do you think’s going on? Venezuela?”
“Too provocative. Actually heard we might be operating in the vicinity of Panama. Maybe we’ll get to fly some close air support with the Army and some dissimilar hops against F-16s.
“Drug ops?”
“Nah, we’re too much of a national asset for that small stuff. Besides, they come through here, too. I think Panama, with the Chinese interest in building their own canal through Lake Nicaragua. Send ‘em a signal we’re watching them.”
Annie nodded. “Makes sense. Hey, thanks for the leave.”
“You and Mike have a good time?”
“Yeah, we went to St. John and Tortola. Beautiful. Boating, snorkeling… just beautiful. Met some fun Brit ex-pats living on a sailboat. What a life.”
“You could live like that, too, after you retire.”
“Yeah, but our little guy is thriving in Virginia Beach. Can’t do it,” Annie said.
Wilson smiled and shook his head. “You are such a mom. To both of your boys.”
“Yes, and Mike would agree with you.” Annie chuckled before she changed the subject. “How’s Mary?”
Mary. Wilson wondered himself. She was distant when they had talked on the phone and seemed further away than the actual 1,200 miles between them. He knew her seeming preoccupation was more than catching her at a bad time on a bad day. Derrick, now in sixth grade, was becoming moody with his video game obsessions. With that, and eight-year-old Brittany’s sexualized cultural desire to be thirteen, she had her hands full. But there was more. For the first time in their married life, he suspected her of having an affair.