Without taking his eyes off Wilson, Mongo refused. “No can do, Commander. I may need to stay out if the tests go long or if the bird can’t get airborne in time.”
Wilson was taken aback. Nobody called him Commander, especially in his own ready room. It was either Skipper or sir. While Mongo wasn’t officially a Firebird pilot, even the “guest” aviators, as a sign of respect, referred to Wilson as Skipper. Mongo’s stiff demeanor was different from the other pilots of his rank, most of whom were easygoing and completely respectful. Mongo gave Wilson the impression that he was holding Mongo up from something more important. He took another approach.
“Fine, if you get back to the ship when we do, then join up and you’ll be Number Three as we enter the landing pattern. Where are you operating?”
“In the vicinity of the ship, sir.”
Puzzled by this answer, Wilson was beginning to lose his patience. “We are operating in the vicinity, too, and so that we can deconflict our airspace, I want to know what sector you plan to be in. We are going to operate south if we can find a clear area.”
“That will be fine, sir.”
Mongo’s robotic answer irritated Wilson. He was “giving the keys” to one of his jets to this guy and he was… weird, weird compared to anyone he had ever met wearing a flight suit. Mongo was Weed’s guy, though, a Jedi Knight Weed had called him. And if the test community sent a detachment down here and needed one of Wilson’s jets each day to test a new unmanned helicopter, he had to defer. He was thankful that chasing a drone and collecting data-link numbers was Mongo’s job instead of his on this glorious day.
(USS Coral Sea, underway, Central Caribbean)
Peering over her oxygen mask at the yellow shirted flight deck director, Macho released the brakes and added power as she pulled out of her parking spot on Elevator 2. She tapped the brakes once to check them and continued forward, goosing the throttles to advance no faster than a man could walk. Macho kept her eyes locked on the director, using the rudder pedals and nose-wheel steering, she made slight turns under his direction. He taxied her past other parked aircraft, all “turning” with jet engines at idle and awaiting yellow shirt directions to taxi. Outside the cocoon of Macho’s cockpit, the flight deck was a high-pitched whine of screaming machinery. Hundreds of sailors in multicolored jerseys and “float-coat” life vests wore dark visors on their cranial helmets to shield eyes from the brilliant sun overhead. Puffy white build-ups, radiant in the dazzling midday light, towered above the ship as it slowly turned to a launch heading.