Crossbones by John L. Campbell Page A

carrying a pack in one hand and an M4 rifle in the other. He was one of Calvin’s hippies, also in his midtwenties, and had earned his nickname from the shape of his body while growing up. He was one of the survivors from the Alameda pier evacuation as well as the battle with the dead on
Nimitz
’s open-air fantail. Vladimir Yurish had identified the young man as a potential pilot candidate and begun his training. He was behind Evan in the process but learned fast. Since reaching
Nimitz
, he had shaved his beard, buzzed down to a crew cut, and hit the carrier’s gym. He no longer looked like a gourd, but the nickname had stuck. Evan was happy about that, as no one seemed able to remember the man’s actual name, and Evan was too embarrassed to ask.
    â€œTake your time,” Evan called. “Really, it’s all about you.”
    â€œWiseass,” Gourd grumbled, giving Maya a peck on the cheek and putting his gear in the chopper. “You’re starting to sound like the boss.”
    â€œNyet!”
Evan yelled, putting on the thick accent. “That is to compare Baryshnikov to MC Hammer!”
    â€œWho?” said Gourd, climbing into the right seat of the cockpit. “Hey, are we going, or are you two gonna hug and kiss away all our flight time?”
    â€œThis aircraft,” Evan said, still using the accent, “will depart when the pilot is ready, and not a moment sooner.” He kissed Maya again, then crouched and kissed her belly through the coveralls. “See you soon, little one.”
    Maya walked to the superstructure, then stood and watched as the helicopter’s turbines heated, the blades began to move, and then as the wheels finally left the deck. She stood there as it climbed and headed east, not going inside until it was out of sight.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    N
imitz
, this is Navy zero-two,” Evan said into the helmet mic. “We are airborne.” He received an acknowledgment from the aircraft carrier as he rose toward the east.
    The SH-60 Seahawk was essentially the Navy version of the Black Hawk. It carried some different equipment—a rescue winch, dipping sonar for sub hunting, and the capacity to carry torpedoes—but it was for all other purposes the same aircraft, a fact that made the process of training rookie pilots easier for Vladimir. The only real difference was that the Seahawk had a hinged tail for tight storage, a design with a mind toward a carrier’s limited space.
    Vladimir had checked Evan Tucker out for solo flight three weeks ago with the understanding that he had much to learn and would require a great deal of practice before he could call himself proficient. “The most important thing to remember,” Vlad said, “is that when you crash due to stupidity, you do it in the water where you will harm no one else.”
    Evan had been going up once a day since his solo flight, mostlysmall trips, practicing his turns, hovering, climbing and descending, and of course, landing. Longer flights tested his navigation skills, like today. With only two helicopters flying, there was no worry of running out of the JP-5 aircraft fuel on which they ran. Millions of gallons remained in the carrier’s fuel bunkers, and any leaks—piping compromised by gunfire—had been repaired by Chief Liebs and his handful of men wearing hazmat suits. That same crew had also safely disarmed the nuclear weapons Brother Peter had rigged for detonation. The televangelist, firmly in the grip of misguided religious zeal fueled by lunacy, had been intent on using the nukes to incinerate the ship and all aboard. Father Xavier arrived just in time, preventing their annihilation by killing the madman with his bare hands. Evan knew that brutal—though necessary—act still weighed heavily upon the priest.
    â€œSo where are we going, Gourd?” Evan knew, of course; he had been the one to create their flight plan