The pilot looks at me, his mouth a tight, tolerant line: you done yet? I raise my camera and squeeze off a burst. To his right, the flight control tower and radar masts of the USS Gerald R. When he’s satisfied, he salutes the crew and climbs a ladder into the cockpit. The smells of metal and fresh paint give way to crisp gusts of sea air – and the acrid tang of jet fumes.įinding his F/A-18E Super Hornet strike fighter parked on the deck, the pilot fist-bumps the enlisted aircraft maintainers and circles the jet, peering into open panels, giving the fuel tanks slung under the wings a good nudge to make sure they’re secure. Beyond, the Atlantic Ocean is a flat sheet of gunmetal grey, dappled with rushing whitecaps.
When he reaches the deck, he lifts the heavy latch on a door and pushes it open. The fighter pilot makes his way through the depths of the ship, shouldering past sailors in the dim, narrow corridors.
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