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With his left hand on the throttles and right hand gripping a handle on the canopy bow, the holdback broke, and his jet hopped before racing for the edge of the flight deck. It happened so fast, Colt barely had time to acknowledge he was flying before instinct and training kicked in. His right hand reached for the stick to bank left while his left hand reached for the landing gear handle and flap switch, cleaning up as he screamed through two hundred and fifty knots a scant two hundred feet over the water.

* * *

Doc Crowe watched Colt’s jet take flight from the black-and-white closed-circuit video that played on the Ronald Reagan’s internal cable network, known as “Ship’s TV.” Taken from the PLAT — or Pilot Landing Aid Television — video from the flight deck was broadcast to every space aboard the ship, and it was almost guaranteed to be on in each ready room during launches and recoveries.

“Not going flying today, Doc?” Lieutenant Luke “Rucas” Mixon asked.

Doc brought her reclined ready room chair back to an upright position, then stood. “Unfortunately, I have to go down to sick call.”

“Think you can get ahold of some of them no-go pills?”

It was no mystery that most air wing pilots ascribed to the belief that improved quality of life through pharmaceuticals was an appropriate mechanism for dealing with life on the ship. In the early years of the Global War on Terror, flight surgeons often prescribed amphetamine — known as “go pills”—for fatigue management during lengthy combat sorties. But the flip side of that coin were hypnotic medications — known as “no-go pills”—designed to ensure adequate rest. Temazepam, zaleplon, and zolpidem were all approved for use by aviators.

Of course, many weren’t keen on the idea of spending eight months at sea, and they looked for ways to shorten their sentence. Sleep was the obvious choice. “Having trouble sleeping, Rucas?”

“No, but if I sleep twelve hours a day, then cruise is only half as long.”

Doc shook her head. “Sorry, but that’s a no go.”

Rucas groaned at the obvious pun, but Doc knew he hadn’t really expected her to pony up medication he didn’t really need. At least, not while they were only floating in the middle of the East China Sea as a deterrent against China invading Taiwan. Maybe if a shooting war kicked off, CAG would authorize it. But until then, they would just have to fall asleep the old-fashioned way — consuming a greasy slider at mid rats followed by hours on the Xbox.

“Yeah, well, if you change your mind, you know where I live.”

Doc hung her squadron coffee mug up on the peg over the coffee station, then exited the ready room into the passageway on the starboard side of the ship. Turning right, she walked aft toward one of the ladders she knew would take her to the main medical department just below the hangar deck between frames 90 and 120. As one of the Carrier Air Wing’s flight surgeons, she remained under CAG’s administrative control while embarked but under the cognizance of the Senior Medical Officer as a fully integrated member of the ship’s medical department.

That meant, as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t sit around in the ready room all day, drinking coffee and fending off pilots who wanted to sleep their lives away.

She found the ladder she was looking for and descended from the gallery deck, also known as the “oh three” level, to the second deck. Located just beneath the hangar, it was the first level above the ship’s waterline and home to most of the amenities — few as they were — that made shipboard life bearable. The ship’s store, post office, laundromat, and enlisted mess halls were all on that level. Wedged between them was the main medical department, known as “Sickbay.”

“What’s the latest, HM1?” Doc asked when she walked in and saw First Class Hospital Corpsman Diona Browne making notes in a medical chart.

“Just the usual, ma’am. Fever, cough, nasal congestion, and sore throat,” she replied.

“Anything we need to be concerned about?”

Diona shook her head. “Nobody has been too bad. I gave them decongestants and ibuprofen and sent them on their way.”

Doc nodded and took a seat on a stool located in the Sickbay’s ward where sailors came to be treated. Not unexpectedly, more than a few came with the hopes of receiving an “SIQ” chit — or Sick in Quarters — that permitted them to remain in their racks instead of toiling in the machine shops or on the flight deck. But for those who were genuinely ill, it was an opportunity for them to receive medical treatment and return to duty as quickly as possible. Fortunately, both types were relatively rare, despite the closeness of almost six thousand people.

“Just wait until after our next port call,” Doc said.

Diona laughed. “I’ve already put in the requisition for more penicillin.”

Doc furrowed her brow as she tried remembering where their next port call was. “We’re not going to Thailand next, are we?”