Flying for Something: Fly Navy

By Marty Hall

Flying For SomethingFLY NAVY is a story that jets through suspenseful currents of Navy life in raw form. Formerly titled Airman Mark for protagonist Airman Mark Kramer, this F-14 Fighter Squadron rookie gets exposed to everything an innocent young recruit never imagined existed in military service: greed, power, lust, murder, and betrayal of the Uniform Code of Military Justice by the Navys highest ranking officials. Surrounded by a cadre of fighter pilots and enlisted contemporaries, Airman Mark becomes embroiled in a real-life battle to prove his patriotic beliefs are worth the ultimate fight. He follows the squadron through sea trials and deployment to exotic ports about the world, coming full circle in realizing what a sinister definition can encompass those two famous words: FLY NAVY!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453541708

Marty Hall

Martin Hall served in the United States Navy aboard F14 Fighter Squadron VF-11. He has a Bachelor of Science from Canisius College, enjoys reading and writing, bicycle tours, clean cars, and is currently working on his third novel in the ‘For Something’ series: Trying For Something—Ex Post Facto.

Book preview

Flying For Something

Fly Navy

A Novel

Marty Hall

Copyright © 2010 by Marty Hall.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

79576

DEDICATION

For my daughters Courtney and Stephanie,

and for Mom—Always there, the Best Support, my Biggest Fan.

In Memory of

Ams2 Robert Baughfman

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Acknowledgements

I would like to extend deep appreciation and special thanks to the following people for assistance and support of my story endeavors: Edna and Joan Eckler, Jeff Hall, Mr. Robert Hausrath-The Consortium of the Niagara Frontier, Ms. Deborah Zamrock, Roman ‘Red Pen’ Shchurowsky, A wonderful editor, Mr. David Rogers who spent countless hours on the MS, Daniel Wood and Family, Christian Snyder: You are all the best; Patricia Marks and Barbara Kelly: Thanks for all the time; George Pataki, Frank O. Robinson, D. Boatfield, Mrs. Burzynski, M. Morris, R. Marzec, J. Sawicki, A. Frank, and Mike Mundell, who kept asking: When is this manuscript ever going to be finished?

Chapter I

The subdivision of homes was new. Although not large compared to most four bedroom layouts built today the Sherman home was the biggest of the eighteen in that tract and furnished most exquisitely throughout the interior. An affluent community located in the Norfolk, Virginia Beach, and Tidewater suburbs. It was a convenient locale for many senior military officers and a few government officials that didn’t mind the commute north into the District of Columbia. Each property was lavishly detailed, and the street decoratively lined with sensor control colonial lampposts.

At the end of this lovely cul-de-sac in the only drive attached to the circle, Mrs. Sherman and their thirteen and seventeen year old sons carried luggage and travel bags to the forest green Land Rover parked in the driveway. Lisa Sherman pushed the bags into their Rolls Royce of sport utility right up against the back seat and then sighed. She turned her head while bent over the cargo area to wipe her brow, and noticed a familiar white Mercedes sedan with unmistakable plates coming down the street: SECNAV.

She stepped back to let the youngest load his things while the oldest one lamented, Mom, here comes Mr. McMillan.

All right son, I’ll get your father.

She entered the house through the garage expecting to find her husband parked in front of the TV watching Bill Dance and messing with his fishing equipment. Instead, he was at the island in the kitchen mixing a Tanqueray and tonic. It’s Sunday morning and not even noon. Since when do you drink this early? Oh, by the way, I came in to tell you that Dick McMillan is here.

Don squeezed a lime atop the ice in his glass, It’s almost noon . . . in ten minutes. Not only that, your going to your mothers for a week. I’m going fishing.

"Don, Billy wants to stay here with you. He’s quite upset. You know how much he loves the boat.

Kevin misses his grandmother so he’s looking forward to this, but Billy is pissed. Are you all right, Don, you look terrible?"

Yes, I’m fine. I’m just a little frustrated with the weather. They’re forecasting rain tomorrow. Don stiffened, tossing his plastic drink mixer in the sink. Angrily, he continued, I told Billy to go only because he hasn’t seen his grandmother in years and she’s not getting any younger. Soon he’ll have his own life and no time for anything. This trip will not hurt him. Calming, he added, Now let’s go say hi to Dick.

Don took Lisa into his arms, kissed his wife good-bye and told her to be careful traveling—to enjoy the time away, and to give his mother-in-law his best. He grabbed his drink and they walked into the garage and driveway where Dick McMillan held idle conversation with their sons.

Hi Richard! Lisa said. She walked over and gave him a warm embrace. How are Shirley and the family?

Dick said, They’re fine. I’ll tell them you say hello.

Please do, and let Shirley know that I’ll be by for coffee when we return. Would you mind backing your car, we need to get rolling. There’s a long drive ahead.

Sure, he said.

Lisa and the boys climbed into the SUV. She started the engine while Dick backed his Mercedes into the circle. Don waved goodbye to his family, sipping his cocktail as Dick walked up with an outstretched arm. The two shook hands.

Jesus Don, you look terrible!

You sound like my wife, he miffed. We’re in over our heads. I never anticipated having to do anything like this.

Listen to me, Dick drilled. He grabbed Don’s arm, looked him square in the eyes and lowered his voice. Don’t you get fucking weak now. You brought me into this and we’re committed for one more load. Besides, look at everything you have at stake here.

Don raised his glass finishing his drink. He turned and looked back at his beautiful home, the Seville in the garage, contemplated the Land Rover and family that just left, while scanning over the pool and carefully groomed grass in the back yard. The alcohol took effect and a big smile emerged on Don’s face. You’re right. I just need to relax and keep things in perspective. Let’s go inside. You want a drink?

In 1975, Commander Don Sherman entered the Marine Corps out of high school. He served and trained as an elite member of the First Force Recon Battalion. During this peacetime era, most of his training and exercises were carried out in Central and South American jungles geared against the drug trade. Sherman learned quickly the magnitude of this worldwide illegal business, the vast amounts of money involved, and what priority the US Government placed on stopping American distribution. Sherman also realized that he was only one man. What difference could he make? He simply followed orders. He did what he was told and took full advantage of his training. Sherman made contacts, friends and observed in great detail places of large processing facilities, routes of distribution and methods of movement. He also realized the number of umbilical attached to this cash cow, which many stretched beyond Washington. Never in his lifetime did he think that the monetary lure of the trade would ever knock at his door, or that in a million years he would willingly open that door and invite it in to make itself at home . . . but it did.

Sherman applied and was awarded a scholarship to Annapolis, Naval Academy, or West Point. He decided to fly jets. Don piloted his career up to his current command as Skipper of VF-12, flying F14C Tomcats. After commanding his squadron for eight very successful months through and entire Med deployment with numerous awards and accolades, Sherman was appointed and announced the new Carrier Air Group Commander (CAG) for CVW-3. The appointment took place at the annual Tail-Hook convention held in Las Vegas, Nevada. This was home to the world famous air-combat training facility TOP-GUN located very nearby in Fallon, Nevada.

During that evening the officers celebrated to historic tail-hook heartiness. Late that evening in an extreme state of inebriation, Sherman fell off a buffet table and broke his right foot and ankle so severely that he could never fly tail-hook jets again. To him that was his lifeline and purpose for living: flying jets. He hated all the other superfluous tasks that went with the job, so when he finally got around to doing them, generally they were very late to get accomplished and rushed when performed.

Such was the case for a command barracks inspection that was supposed to be done on a Friday, but postponed because of the accident, slid to the following Saturday afternoon, and unannounced to his subordinates. Commander Sherman arrived alone and quickly hobbled through the barracks to find everything well in order. The floors were waxed and polished, and no real discrepancies surfaced. But there was no barracks maintenance Petty Officer around to congratulate for the well-done job. The Skipper looked on his roster that indicated the porter lived on the 2nd floor of the barracks in room 212. Sherman went to his room and knocked. Petty Officer, AK2, Mike Reeser opened the door, and to his surprise found his Commanding Officer standing there. Commander Sherman pushed a crutch through the apprehensive opening and went in to debrief his subordinate. Upon entering, Commander Sherman found an elaborate scale and many other tools of the old familiar drug trade. Thousands of dollars of cash lay on his bed. Huh, Sherman said. Petty Officer Reeser, you need to start talking.

Reeser went into very emotional detail explaining to his CO his poor upbringing and rough childhood. That the Navy was all he’s ever had. How his ex-girlfriend, Sherri Meyers, used him and bore his beautiful daughter. How much he really loved her yet couldn’t tolerate her promiscuity. How she got him involved with this powder, and used it herself. In a frantic scramble and last-ditch effort of desperation, Reeser gathered up all the cash on his bed, went to his locker adding two more bundles. He handed it to Sherman.

I have six months to my end of active service and an honorable discharge. This is sink or swim for me, sir. Here’s $75,000 cash to throw me a life preserver. I’ve made plenty of money at this, that is not the issue. It’s the honorable discharge I want and feel that I deserve it.

Commander Sherman took the cash sitting down. Reeser also sat, and it seemed like hours before his Skipper said another word. Sherman caressed the money running his fingers over it, fanning each bundle as he would a deck of playing cards. Each time he would pick up another bundle, he would look at Reeser and shake his head.

Reeser couldn’t sit still, sweating in bewilderment. He leaned over looking down at the floor with both elbows propped on corresponding knees and clasped hands supporting his distressed head. Then he ran his hands through his hair, glancing over at his CO trying to figure out what he was thinking. This seemed to go on for an agonizing eternity until finally Commander Sherman spoke. Reeser, you obviously have an efficient distribution system going here. It’s clear that it works well and no one has ever discovered it. How long have you been operating this?

Sir, my girlfriend had this guy that she used to buy from. One day she went over to his place to pickup some of this shit. She said that he had this really huge bag that they did a little from. All of a sudden she said that he just started shaking and everything and he just fell out and died. I wouldn’t be surprised if she killed him. Anyway, she took his stuff and whatever money he had there and brought it to me and said lets get rid of it. That was about seven months ago.

The Skipper almost fell out of his chair. You’ve been selling from here that long and no-one knows!

Yeah, Reeser replied. This barracks lends itself perfectly because of its location. Look, it’s the first building off the main parking lot in a string of six others. Each housing unit is attached via the covered breezeway. Everyone that parks in the main lot, whether it’s raining or not, goes through this building. It’s on the corner and provides the best route to the two other sets of barracks on base if you go down to the 1st floor and out the end door. Sir, everyone comes through this building. If a few come here to the 2nd floor and make a purchase and then go down to the end stairwell and exit, it’s still normal traffic. Keep in mind, too, Sir, that anyone with a military sticker on the front of their vehicle can get on this base. I’ve got enlisted and officers coming from all over: Norfolk, Portsmouth, Dam Neck, you name it!

Sherman asked, What kind of money are we talking here Reeser?

Just under half a million dollars in eight months. He started to relax a little knowing that the gears of greed were beginning to spin in his Skipper’s brain.

Commander Sherman kept shaking his head in astonishment. He was beside himself over the fact that such a large and efficient distribution system operated in his squadron and right under his nose, and no one knew anything except customers. How many of my officers are into this?

Petty Officer Reeser had to stop and think for a moment. What was taking place here and the ramifications of him talking, but it was beyond that. This was his commanding officer—not much really mattered anymore.

He said, Ensign Mahoney, the Assistant Maintenance officer who is non fly status, and Lt. Dallon. He’s my boss above Senior Chief Wilson. The Chief just makes sure that I have the equipment and tools I need to work with and lets me do my job. Lt. Dallon, however, knows what’s going on. He scrapes a portion off the profits for himself, and I believe he is involved with my ex, Sherri.

Sherman looked down at his busted up leg and contemplated his permanent handicap. He knew that because of what happened his career would never maintain an upward course. More likely it would level off or take a turn backward which would mean less pay. Without being able to fly, what difference did anything make anymore?

I’ll tell you what, Reeser, Sherman said, you’re going to get your honorable discharge, but it’s going to cost you. I’m taking this cash. I will get you a new supply of product and you will keep this nice little system of yours up and running. Everything comes to me, but I will pay you accordingly. You will extend your enlistment until I say it is over, are we clear?

Reeser had no choice. This was his only option to get his honorable discharge, get out of the Navy with enough money to gain custody of his daughter and live comfortably the rest of his days.

He said, No problem Skipper, but what about Lt. Dallon?

You let me worry about Dallon. Any further communication goes through him to me. I’m still your Commanding Officer. I may be transferred soon on account of my no fly status, but keep in mind this is no street deal. Do not come and see me, do not change anything from the way things have been. It’s big time. Do not fuck up and you’ll be all right.

Yes Sir, Reeser complied.

A month later Commander Sherman received new orders becoming the Air-Boss for USS Ronald Reagan, CVN-78.

Secretary of the Navy, Richard ‘Dick’ McMillan turned to his friend, former student at Annapolis, and current business partner. As long as you’re buying, I’ll never refuse a good drink!

Don watched his family and the Land Rover fade out of sight. He slapped his most superior naval officer on the back and took him inside to the kitchen island and the Tanqueray. Dick, grab me the mixing stick from the sink over there, would ya?

The two got their drinks heading into the gorgeous family room. Bill Dance no longer caught record-breaking bass on TV; instead some fat guy with no hair and a bad mustache hawked ‘The Sportsman’s Friend’. Dick scarped up the remote muting the ridiculous salesman.

Don went out of the room for a few moments while Dick made himself at home in the luxurious surroundings. He plopped down in a fine leather reading chair and set his drink on a marble coaster provided on the cherry-wood coffee table next to him. Within a few minutes, Don returned with what looked like an everyday elephant rifle and a box of shells. He sat down and said, We don’t have any alternative here, do we? This guy reneged on his agreement. I just have known him awhile and wish there was something else that we could do.

Dick sat up and grabbed his drink. He took a long, slow, swallow and said, Fuck him. He’s nobody. Besides, as you put it so well, ‘He reneged on your deal.’ He isn’t married and doesn’t have much of a family that’s worth a shit. He knows too much . . . entirely too much. Now pull it together and don’t think twice about this. I don’t want any mistakes. Make sure of it.

Don’t worry, Dick. With this piece of equipment and this scope, I never vary one or two centimeters to target. I don’t miss.

Dick reached out and Don handed him the rifle. Isn’t this what our Marine and Special Force units use? Dick stepped over to the window and shouldered the gun aiming at the gazebo in the back yard.

Exactly, Don said. It’s an M40 A-l heavy barrel sniper rifle. That is a custom-made 10x laser night scope I had put on last year. The stupid scope cost me more that the gun will ever be worth. Dick, this is the same gun I trained with as an enlisted man in the Corps.

Don sat in his comfortable living chair. He leaned forward snatching a brightly colored copper bullet from a box on the nearby end table. Delicately holding it, and then running it under his nose like some fine cigar, he added, I can put one of these 7.62mm rounds out 1200 yards and hit a ten foot target within a three inch diameter. I will be within 300 yards of our mark, so this will be a simple procedure.

Dick said, You’ve convinced me of your marksmanship. What about getting away?

I picked up an old two-door Nissan Maxima with all smoked windows and a No Fear sticker on the back. I’m having it destroyed after the job. If anyone were to spot the car, they certainly wouldn’t suspect a naval commander to be driving it. It’s a clean job, trust me.

All right, Dick said. Here’s the $50 grand. I’ll give you the other half when the job’s done. I’m headed up to the Naval Command Center to brief for the upcoming deployments. I don’t want any communication unless something goes haywire. It won’t take long for this to hit my desk. If it’s not what I want to hear, you’re on your own. Good luck.

Sherman sucked on an ice cube.

Also, Dick continued, The profile for the new replacement’s perfect. Have Lieutenant Dallon get him going right away. You’ve still got four or five kilos to get rid of, and it has to be gone before you deploy.

Richard McMillan set the rifle down, walked to the front door and departed. Don mumbled something about him seeming nervous, but looked at his cash, smiled, and answered himself aloud: He’ll feel better tomorrow.

Don spent the rest of the afternoon drawing down gin & tonics and trying to keep his mind off the unavoidable assignment. When everything seemed in order and he was well relaxed from the drinks, he set his alarm for 0130 hours, and laid down to rest.

As scheduled, he rose going through his regular routine. He went downstairs, plugged the coffee pot in, reached up into the cupboard and withdrew a Thermos. Not being certain how long it would take for his target to come into view, he put half a dozen donuts with his coffee to make the wait a little easier. He took the rifle and supplies to his car, and headed out to pick up the cover vehicle. A purchased he’d made under an alias and had it delivered behind a rundown garage where no one would see him pick it up.

Arrangements were made by phone for a scrap and salvage to come and haul it away without ever making eye contact with anyone.

Carefully driving so as not to bring any unwanted attention, Don eased around back of the garage where the Nissan waited as planned. He put some gloves on, transferred his equipment, and locked up his vehicle driving away. Within ten minutes, Don arrived at his location—a perfect little pull in spot that farmers use to get tractors and equipment across the ditch into the adjacent field. It was sheltered by trees and provided an excellent view of Oceana Boulevard and its entrance into the base.

Naval Air Station Oceana was home to all of the Atlantic Fleets fighter and attack wing aircraft. Located just 12 miles from Va. Beach, Virginia, every single vehicle entering into or leaving the base must stop at a manned gate house to gain access. In the mornings when everyone was coming in to work, traffic sometimes backed up for at least a mile. Spotting the target’s red Ford Mustang inching along would be easy. Don parked and then poured some coffee. It was 0355 hours.

After four doughnuts and three cups of java, traffic began to thicken coming into the base with no sign of the target’s car. Although afraid he’d miss his victim, he couldn’t wait any longer. Don reached for his emergency potable urine container. He took a deep breath, shivered, and turned the engine over.

Don removed the rifle from its case, rolled down the window just enough for a clear view, and began to scope incoming vehicles. Within minutes a back up was started, increasing more and more as the clock ticked closer to 0600 when shifts change and muster was taken within all departments and squadrons.

Sunrise crept over the horizon, and drivers started switching off headlights to parking lights only. Carefully panning over the lineup, then further down the road, the red mustang came into view a mile and half out and began closing within range. Just as the other vehicles did, the Mustang switched off its headlights and now Don had a clear view to the driver without any glare. He put the laser on the target’s nose and followed along as a snake of various makes and models made its way into the base entrance. As the lineup stopped, momentarily, and Petty Officer Second Class Mike Reeser leaned forward to fix his hair in his rearview mirror, the lights went out.

Don squeezed the trigger the second that the target came into view and stopped moving. He never took his eye from the scope, continuing to watch after the shot was fired. The bullet made a clean hole thru the windshield without shattering, and then hit the driver in the face at the corner of his left nostril. The shielded hollow-point round litera1ly exploded his head all over the right rear passenger compartment of the Mustang. Impact snapped him backwards instantly, and then forward to rest limply, slumped across the right corner of the steering wheel up against the dashboard. The pressure once applied to the brakes also went limp. The car slowly rolled forward and lightly bumped the one in front of it.

The shooters’ reaction at first was amazement, and then disgust. But he lightened over the success of his aim to mutter, I’ll be dammed, he isn’t wearing a seat belt!

From just about 200 yards, Don made a clean shot. No one suspected anything—yet. Quickly, he put the rif1e to the passenger side and rolled up his darkened windows so he wouldn’t be seen. Putting the car in drive, Don pulled out making a left turn going in the opposite direction. He thought about what a shame it was to have to get rid of such an accurate rifle. No one really knew he had it. But, now was not the time to hang on to old treasures that could link him to murder. He knew that he had to get rid of the gun.

The Nissan was returned behind the old garage where the wrecking company would be by within a few hours. The rifle, two doughnuts and what was left of the coffee made its transfer back to his car by the same skintight leather gloves that were now clammy with sweat.

Being careful once again so as not to draw attention, Don left from behind the garage heading straight to the marina where he docked his boat. Images started to sink in now as he drove along. He cracked his window and turned the heater off. But what was he worried about? Everything went fine.

It was now about ten minutes after six in the morning and the sun was still rising. What a perfect time to throw a couple of lines out to see what’s biting—and drop the homicide weapon in deep water. It had been quite a few weeks since Don had taken his boat out. Although slightly nervous, he still took his time prepping her for the water. He got all the canvas snapped off and stowed, transferred all the equipment aboard, checked the engine over and warmed her up. The bowlines were brought in and soon he drifted backwards out of his slip.

Don eased a little throttle to cruise passed the remaining docks. The small chop on the water made little affect upon his new Well Craft ’38 foot fishing boat. Once beyond the channel buoys and into open water, Don accelerated to near full speed headed for deep water on Chesapeake Bay. When the depth sounder read over 300 feet, he cut the motor and began a slow drift. He looked around in every possible direction before deciding it was safe, and reached down into the cabin to retrieve the rifle. He took the scope off and locked it in the side compartment. Giving the gun an I hate to do this kiss good-bye, he lowered it into the water and let go. Don sat back and poured some coffee. He grabbed the last donut and then sighed. Mission accomplished, he mumbled. Back to business.

Chapter II

US Air flight 502 landed at Norfolk airport. Airman Mark Kramer stretched and wiped the sleep from his eyes as the Boeing 727 taxied to the skyway. He watched passengers scrambling around him to get their things from overhead compartments wondering what their hurry was for. Apparently claustrophobia was a more widespread condition than he was informed. Seemed like sixty of the more than eighty passengers onboard wanted to be the first ones off. He was in no mad rush to go anywhere. This traveling thing was all new to him, and he was now in a place that he had never been before. He wasn’t even sure how he was going to get from the airport to his new duty station.

Mark raised his window shade and drew in an appreciating glance for the warmer difference in climates here in Virginia. When he had left Rochester there was snow all over the place.

People began to deplane forcing him to get going. He grabbed his two small carry-on and disembarked to luggage claim. He picked up his olive green sea bag, easily identified amongst the civilian baggage, and then turned to exit the terminal. Once outside, a Third Class Petty Officer in dress uniform approached from around a lineup of cabs. He asked, Are you Airman Mark Kramer?

Sure am.

I’m Petty Officer Burr from Squadron Personnel. I’ll be taking you back to the base to get you settled in and all the transfer papers signed. How was your flight?

I’m not really sure, I slept through the whole thing, Kramer said. I’m just coming off two weeks leave. This was my first after boot camp and school. Your family sees you for the first time and they are so proud of you in uniform. They take you all over the place. Never in my life did I do so many things over two weeks. I’m actually relieved to get away again. It worked out nice getting a non-stop flight. I didn’t have to get up and switch planes.

Yeah, your right, Burr said. Most all of the flights land in Washington.

I’m glad you showed up. I was going to shell out the expense for a cab, too. If they’re anything like Chicago it would have cost me a fortune.

Petty Officer Burr smiled, grabbing Kramer’s extra bag. He walked him over to the Government pick-up waiting in the NO PARKING zone. They put the luggage in the back and climbed in just before it started to rain. As the two sailors left the airport on the way to Naval Air Station Oceana, Airman Mark listened to the swash clap of the windshield wipers, reflecting on his enlistment.

Mark Kramer grew up strong and healthy despite being the youngest of five from his middle class family. He did well through school and had dreams of college but knew that the education was not something that the family could afford. Becoming a young man enhanced his boyish good looks to produce a 5'10" stocky frame. With soft green eyes and sandy brown hair, he focused his attention everywhere except books.

At age 17 and a year behind he struggled keeping grades. When the family moved, he was forced to switch schools in the middle of his senior year. The adjustment ended up being too difficult. He had to postpone college. He had always thought well of the opportunities that the military provided and decided that the Navy would be best for him.

Kramer enlisted from his hometown in Upstate New York. He went through intake screening in Syracuse and on to boot camp in Great Lakes. Basic Training started out rough until being approached about his talent for percussion and placement in a select company. The triple threat unit was comprised of a drill team, choir and band. Kramer played drums for the Navy band, performing for other company graduating ceremonies. This unit went through the requirements of regular recruits; however; in order to accommodate practice and performing, an extra four weeks was added to their schedule.

Airman Mark joined the Navy planning to become an elite UDT Seal. He took the physical fitness tests and passed. When it came to the eye exams, he couldn’t qualify. His next choice was to become a combat photographers mate only to discover that the A schools were filled. Undecided on what to do, he stayed at Great Lakes training facility attending Airman school. Keeping focused and doing the best he could, Kramer graduated with high marks. He was advanced from pay grade E-2 (airman apprentice) to E-3 Airman. Upon graduation the Navy awarded him choice orders to an east coast F14 fighter squadron: Fighter Squadron Twelve (VF-12).

Petty Officer Burr and Airman Mark Kramer drove past several civilian police and some military vehicles parked near the entrance to the base. As Burr slowed the truck, a sharply dressed serviceman stepped from the guardhouse to check the vehicle. Upon quick inspection of their bumper sticker, they were waved through.

Petty Officer Burr said, I’m kind of hungry and am sure you could use a bite after all the traveling you’ve done. What do you say we stop at the Enlisted Club for some lunch?

Sounds good as long as you feel that the food is worth it. I’ve heard rumors about some of those enlisted clubs’ food quality. Generally they have poor reviews and the soldiers avoid the places.

Burr smiled. Well, for the most part I agree. Of the duty stations I’ve served that has been the case. But they have a pretty good crew working here during the day and put out a decent lunch.

While driving down the long, straight entrance into NAS Oceana, two F14 Tomcats roared overhead in tight formation. Pride, amazement, and excitement began to stir inside Mark. Here he was, a member of the world’s most elite air combat squadrons. He couldn’t wait to get started working around them. Burr made a left, then a right toward a building that read Enlisted Club. They parked.

The club was busy for a Monday afternoon. That delayed the waitress getting to their table for an order. Airman Mark decided to get a pitcher of coke from the bar to have while they waited. As he arrived at the counter to signal the bartender for service, the TV over the end drew patrons’ attention with a special report:

NORFOLK TIDEWATER EYEWITNESS NEWS AT NOON: TOP STORY At this hour, Virginia Beach police and Navy Intelligence Security are investigating the first homicide of a Navy serviceman the area has had in over 10 years. Sources confirm that Petty Officer 2nd class Mike Reeser was shot in the head through the window of his car on the way into Naval Air Station Oceana this morning. Investigators revealed that a standard 7.62mm military weapon was used. No motive has been discussed and currently the reports believe this to be a case of mistaken identity. Navy Intelligence and local police are continuing their investigation. We’ll keep you posted as further developments come in. Next . . . .

Kramer paid the bar, picked up his soda and returned to his squadron mate. He said, Hey, did you happen to catch that news broadcast a moment ago?

The waitress arrived, apologized for taking long and took their order.

Petty Officer Burr said, Yeah, I knew about that this morning because the victim was attached to our squadron. As a matter of fact, he was the barracks maintenance Petty Officer and very possibly could have been the one assigned to pick you up instead of me. That was what all the commotion was from at the entrance. It happened earlier this morning, but they were still tying up loose ends and dealing with reporters. It’s kind of messed up. It bums out the day for a whole lot of people around the base. I didn’t know him that well, but he seemed like a decent serviceman. It’s sad.

The two of them finished their lunch heading over to the hanger. Burr parked the truck and they entered VF-12 Maintenance Control.

Generally, there are quite a few senior officers there. New personnel checking in are brought here to make initial introductions—get a quick low down on the chain of command. One of the officers will take the new squadron mate around for a get acquainted tour before sending him over to the barracks to get settled in.

Petty Officer Burr set his clipboard down and laid his hand on Airman Mark’s shoulder. Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to our newest squadron mate, Airman Mark Kramer.

Burr leaned over and whispered in Mark’s ear, You’re in luck, the Skipper’s here.

Petty Officer Burr began pointing out individuals around the room and stating their names beginning with the most senior man who made a point to come over and shake Kramer’s hand.

Airman Kramer, this is your new Commanding Officer, Commander Gary Stowell.

Neither of them were wearing hats. He wasn’t sure if he should salute him or simply shake his hand. His uniform was well pressed and laden with numerous rows of multi-colored ribbons. Above those were gold aviator wings, and on each side of his collar adorned a bright silver oak leaf. Nervously, Kramer reached out and gave a firm grip.

Commander Stowell said, Welcome aboard, son. That’s what I want, soldiers coming in with conviction in their handshake! Good to have you here. I understand you just came from school?

Yes sir, Kramer stated, relaxing a bit.

Well, Airman Kramer, I hate to send you right back to the books, Commander Stowell said. You’ll have the rest of the week to settle in and feel your way around the air wing. Next Monday, you’re to check into VF-801 FRAMP. That is our fleet training squadron. There you’ll learn everything you will need to become a qualified plane captain. Once you graduate that 12-week program, you’ll come back here and I’ll present you with your certificate. You’ll work as a plane captain with the line crew for maybe a month. From there you will do some temporary assigned duty (TAD) that will be about 180 days. It won’t be long and we’ll be starting operational readiness exercises (Ore’s) aboard ship. Learn everything you can—work hard. If you have any questions or problems, don’t be afraid to stop up to see me. Once again, welcome aboard.

Thank you, Skipper, Kramer said. I’ll do the best I can for you, sir.

Commander Stowell turned to his Assistant Maintenance Officer to let him know that he’d be gone for the remainder of the day. He addressed the rest of his subordinates with a hearty, Keep’em Flying! and left the hanger.

Petty Officer Burr continued his introductions: Seated over there at the desk is Warrant Officer Riley, the squadron ordinance officer. They call him, ‘Gunner’. Next to him is Ensign Mahoney, the Assistant Maintenance Officer. Standing here is Senior Chief Terry Wilson, the Squadron Maintenance Chief. Hard at work over there at the control desk is Petty Officer AZ3 Bower who facilitates all the maintenance administration for the aircraft. And over there at the other desk is AKAN Loomis, the squadron storekeeper who orders all our parts and supplies.

The officers and enlisted men gave Airman Mark a welcome hello. Ensign Mahoney came and shook Kramer’s hand to welcome him aboard. He told Petty Officer Burr to take his paperwork to Personnel and process what he had, and then to meet him upstairs in the Ready Room in half an hour to sign any required papers. I’ll take over from here, Petty Officer Burr, he stated. Burr picked up his clipboard and told Kramer that he’d see him around and departed.

Ensign Mahoney began his tour brief. He said, Maintenance Control is the command center for all the maintenance departments in support of the aircraft. This squadron has fifteen F14C Tomcat aircraft numbered from 100 through 115. Each time a plane flies, the aircrew stops at Maintenance Control to debrief for any mechanical problems. A work order is generated and sent to the respective shop. Each squadron has eight separate workshops performing specialty repairs. Airframes cover all structural aspects and most hydraulic system issues. Power plants perform strictly engine work. Aviation electronics service electrical systems. Parachute riggers take care of the aircrew flight suits and seat pan chutes housed inside the cockpit. Ordinance handles the Aim-54 Phoenix, Aim-9 Sparrow and Sidewinder missile systems, and loads and services the 20mm machine gun housed in the nose of the aircraft. Corrosion Control keeps the fuselage painted and free from galvanic breakdown, while the line crew fuels, oils, does pre and post flight inspections, taxis and chocks and chains the planes on flight lines. All departments are kept in check by senior Petty Officers in Quality Assurance. Any questions?

No Sir. Kramer replied.

Ensign Mahoney said, Follow me, and the two walked through the door and into the hanger bay.

Kramer was in awe. It had to be the largest open space that he’d ever seen. Clearly he could tell that VF-12 occupied the center spaces of the hanger, while two other F14 squadrons utilized each end. The tomcat aircraft were huge, yet there was enough room to park two planes side by side for each squadron. One of the planes even had room to sweep the wings out and forward.

The squadron to the left had a top hat insignia on its twin tail rudders. His squadron was the Flying Wolves and has wolf heads painted on the tails. The end squadron was simply painted red with silver swords crossing each tail.

They are VF-33, the Swordsman, Mahoney said. Make friends with them. We’ll be spending lots of time together on the upcoming deployments.

Kramer and Mahoney walked to each shop to make a brief introduction. All were located on ground level except the Parachute Riggers and Quality Assurance. On the way upstairs, Mahoney swung Kramer out of the gigantic hanger bay doors to the flight line.

Several F18 Hornets were practicing touch and go landings, and one of his squadron tomcats had just taxied in from a sortie. He watched the plane captain guide his bird in with the two flashlights affixed with yellow pointed ends. Simultaneously each hand went out straight. Then he would bring the points together centered above his head and the plane taxied straight. Walking backwards, the plane captain came to a stop. He dropped his right wand to point to an empty parking spot, while continuing to wave the left up and out and then down to center over his head. The F14 continued to roll forward. Continued to roll forward ever more to where it appeared as though the nose point was going to hit the plane captain. At the last second, while the director stood his ground, the nose gear turned sharply and the plane bee lined into the parking space. Quickly, the plane captain ran up to the front, made a couple more signals and the plane came to an impressive stop. Chocks were placed under the landing gear, and a grounding wire was attached. Seconds later the canopy rose, and the boarding ladder came down from a side compartment.

Mahoney looked over at Kramer and the mesmerized expression on his face. He said, Really something isn’t it? Just think, you’ll be doing that same thing in a couple of months. Then you have the carrier flight deck to look forward to. One thing at a time though, you’ll get used to it soon. Come on, let’s visit the rest of the shops.

They walked back through the hanger and up the stairwell to the 2nd floor.

This is where all the Ready Rooms are, most of the administrative offices, some meeting rooms, and each squadron’s Parachute Riggers and Quality Assurance departments. Mahoney stepped into QA bellowing, Attention on deck!! He then reached around, pushing Kramer in passed him. Kramer looked at the three individuals standing smartly at attention and said, At ease. It’s Officer Mahoney playing jokes on you guys."

Mahoney stepped inside laughing. You idiots fall for that every time! He said. Gentlemen, this is Airman Mark Kramer. He checked aboard this afternoon. I’m showing him around a bit.

They all introduced themselves and told Kramer that they look forward to working with him.

Mahoney walked back into the hallway then said, You all have a great day!

Kramer was coming out and just before he got the door closed, the three inside responded loudly, Fuck-you, Get a life, Do some work!

Mahoney was still laughing. They hate when I do that. Come on, we’ve got two more places to go.

They shuffled across the hall and into the Parachute Riggers loft. This was always an impressive place to see for the first time. The pilot and co-pilot’s flight gear was stowed here. In addition, there was an 85-foot table that was used to layout parachutes, inspect them, and then fold and repack them into respective gear housings. The large chutes go into seat-pans in the cockpit jettison seats, while the small chutes get packed into packs attached to the torso harnesses that are part of the aircrew ‘G’-suit.

While Kramer was looking over one of the pilot’s helmets, the two flight crewmembers that he observed getting taxied in arrived to suit down.

Fighter pilots, particularly ‘tail-hook’ fighter pilots, have an aura about them . . . and rightfully so. These guys fly the fastest, most superior air combat planes in the world. They perform feats of engineering miracle every time they land on a pitching, moving deck in complete darkness with only fractions of room for error. They have balls the size of boxing gloves, which, more often than not, protrude through their personality as much as their pants.

Mahoney, how the fuck are ya, you groveling ground puke? One of them said.

Airman Mark glanced over smiling and noticed that Mahoney wasn’t laughing anymore.

Ensign Mahoney said, Disregard these guy’s insolence. It only gets worse. Now Airman Mark was laughing. Mahoney continued, Sir, I’d like to introduce you to a new member of our squadron. Airman Mark Kramer, this is Lt. Commander Lasher or Thrasher to his friends, and Lt. Chip Dallon.

All joking and goofing aside, aircrew have the utmost respect for the enlisted men that risk their lives on the flight lines and flight decks to keep their planes in the air. The two officers came right over to shake Kramer’s hand and welcome him aboard.

Lt. Commander Lasher said, Hold on just a minute before leaving. I have something I would like to give you as a welcoming gift. Lt. Dallon here, our Supply Officer, just got a bunch of these in. Chip, you know what I’m talking about. Reach over there in that locker and give one to Mark.

Lt. Dallon looked over at Thrasher as though he were in some drug-induced time warp. He had no idea what his pilot was talking about. He thought and thought. Finally, Lt. Commander Lasher had to actually point at his flashlight attached to his flight suit.

Oh sure! Dallon said.

He walked over and opened a locker with a set of keys, reached in and withdrew a small box with several military specification numbers on it. He turned around and said, Here you go, Kramer. You will like this.

Dallon toss-slid the box down the riggers table to where Airman Mark and Mahoney stood. Kramer picked up the gift and opened it. Out popped a brand new olive green, right angle, military flashlight, with all the changeable colored lenses and a replacement bulb stored in the end.

Kramer said, You guys are all right for fly boys. Thank you very much!!

Big shit-eating grins emerged on the officers’ faces. Lt. Commander Thrasher said, Keep this guy around awhile, Mahoney, he’s got style.

No problem, sir! Mahoney replied. He turned and put his arm over Kramer’s shoulder and told him, Come on suck-up, lets get moving. We have one more stop to make and we’re late!

Their final destination was the Ready Room. The mother of all rooms when it comes to pride and propaganda. There was no NFL team coach’s office, no NASCAR team owners garage, no college NCAA championship gym, no Stanley Cup arena, or eight-time Olympic gold medal winning ski team headquarters that could match the effect you get when you land inside a Navy Fighter Squadron’s Ready Room. It would overwhelm and consume you. The history, the commitment and compassion for what each and every member of their squadron, current as well as past, flowed like the great Niagara River over Horseshoe Falls.

Kramer couldn’t believe he was here and actually a part of something so great. He also wasn’t aware that VF-12 was currently the oldest commissioned fighter squadron in the US Navy—a deepening fact.

Mahoney took him around the room and showed him year after year of different types of aircraft that VF-12 had utilized. All the way back to the beginning of Naval aviation, and bi-plane sop with camels.

Mahoney pointed out the conflicts and wars that the squadron had participated in, and all the dazzled spectators throughout years of air shows. All the pictures, plaques, awards, mementos and little items of huge significance: the flags and banners, right down to the model jets attached to the ends of meeting sticks that get used to train and debrief flight crews in combat maneuvering. It all provided a most dramatic impact upon Kramer that he had ever experienced.

Mahoney quickly walked over and tapped Petty Officer Burr on the shoulder. He said, quietly, Get a load of Kramer over there. We’ve got another new jack gone zombie on us.

I’ll snap him out of it, sir Burr said. Kramer, stop drooling, drop the shit from your pants, and get your ass over here to sign these transfer papers—NOW!!

Oh yea, here I come, Kramer said. Man this place is really something. Where do I sign?

Ensign Mahoney patted Airman Kramer on the back, shook his hand and gave him a formal Welcome aboard. He said, Get over to the barracks and get moved in. Enjoy the rest of the week off. Remember where you have to be next Monday. It’s been a pleasure showing you around. I have things to do, so I’ll see you when you get back to the squadron.

Kramer returned the handshake with a warm smile, and said, Thank you very much, sir. I’ll see you later.

Petty Officer Burr took Kramer’s paperwork and told him that his room was on the 3rd floor, number 306. "You have three other roommates. Two of them are on leave, but one comes back this week and the other won’t be back until the