Lieutenant Mandy Clarke flight-checked her MH-60S Seahawk, as usual, touching and noting the tail rotor gearbox, running her fingers along the drive shaft housing, checking for any play or unusual wear. She crouched to inspect the chip detectors on the main transmission, looking for any telltale metal fragments that would ground the bird. Everything looked good.

She noted the photographer doing his own thorough check, not of his camera settings – he had that down pat. He inspected the anchor points holding the harness to the bulkhead, first with fingers and then with booted foot braced against the deck as he put his full weight to the tugging test. He approved, and so did she, noting his tightly-laced boots, his helmet and how he wore his flight gear. Her own fulltime crew could learn a lot from him.

She had seen him in action dozens of times and never had a concern with him in the bird, and felt comfortable with him there, never needing to keep an eye out for his safety. She had even discussed photography with him over beers at The Suds Club after-hours, where she had been the honored guest of his photo crew. She still used his ISO/Aperture Priority techniques to control her own personal photography hobby. He was a professional in every aspect, including Naval Aviation safety practices.

Mass Communication Specialist First Class Ken Morrison – a frequent passenger who often flew with her – was now ready for the mission, photographing a joint U.S. Navy/Canadian maneuver thirty miles offshore, strapped to the Seahawk and shooting from the cargo door. 

MC1 Morrison had earned his rating at DINFOS, Fort Meade, and it showed in everything he did – from the way he maintained his equipment to the way he respected the aircraft and the dangers inherent in aerial photography. Clarke appreciated flying with professionals.

She considered him as part of her crew, though he was assigned to Fleet Combat Camera Group Pacific. As her squadron’s Public Affairs Liaison Officer, all media embarks technically fell under her purview anyway – flight safety, mission planning, pre-briefs. It gave her official reason to care about his missions, and unofficial reason to grab coffee with him at the Sky Warrior Café when reviewing flight schedules.

***

The debrief had gone well until Lieutenant Commander Rawlings showed up late, still in his mess dress from whatever luncheon he’d attended.

“So Clarke’s playing tour guide again,” he said, loud enough for the ready room to hear. “How was the photo op, Mandy? Get some good smile-and-wave shots for the base website?”

She kept her voice level. “We documented the joint exercises per COMNAVAIRPAC tasking, sir.”

“Right, right. Public Affairs.” He drew out the words like they tasted bad. “Must be nice, flying around with camera guys instead of doing real missions. What’s your actual flight hour total this month? Ten? Twelve?”

“Forty-seven, sir.” She didn’t mention that was more than his.

“Well.” He exchanged glances with Lieutenant Vickers, who smirked. “Just remember some of us have actual operational requirements. Try not to tie up the birds too much with your… publicity work.”

She felt Morrison shift slightly beside her, tension in his shoulders, but he kept his eyes forward and said nothing. He couldn’t say anything. She was the officer; this was her fight if she chose to take it.

She didn’t. “Understood, sir.”

After Rawlings left, she turned to Morrison. “Let’s get your gear secured.”

They walked to the photo shop in silence. When the hatch closed behind them, Morrison finally spoke.

“For what it’s worth, ma’am, that was bullshit.”

She looked at him, surprised by the quiet anger in his voice.

“Your missions matter,” he continued. “Fleet Combat Camera exists because documentation matters. Strategic communication matters. And you fly those missions better than half the pilots in that ready room.” He paused. “Permission to speak freely?”

“Granted.”

“Rawlings is an asshole who’s never respected anyone who doesn’t fit his narrow definition of what a Naval officer should be. And Vickers just follows his lead because he’s too spineless to think for himself.”

She found herself almost smiling despite the lingering sting. “Tell me how you really feel, MC1.”

“I mean it, Lieutenant. I’ve flown with a lot of pilots. You’re one of the best. And you treat everyone with respect – enlisted, officer, doesn’t matter. That’s leadership.”

Something in her chest loosened. When was the last time one of her fellow officers had defended her like that? Or even noticed?

“Thank you, Ken.” She used his first name without thinking, then caught herself. But he just nodded, understanding in his eyes.

“Anytime, Mandy.”

***

They were in the Suds Club late in the evening, after the others had departed, looking at the photos on his laptop. One he particularly liked was the shot of her, smiling over her shoulder as the rotors wound down after landing; her helmet off, ash-blond hair tumbling free. She liked it too, and bent in closer to look. He looked too, scant inches away, not at the shot but at the screen-lit texture on her cheek – as a woman, not an officer…

“When did you take this?” Her voice was quiet, almost wondering. She could smell his aftershave – something subtle, not the aggressive cologne some of the JOs wore.

“Right after we touched down Thursday.” Ken’s finger hovered over the trackpad, not quite steady. “The light was perfect. And you looked… happy.”

“I was.” She turned her head slightly, just now realizing she had been smiling at him back there in the cargo bay. She realized now how close they were at the table. Close enough to see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, earned from squinting through viewfinders in harsh sunlight. “I always am. Flying with you.”

The words hung between them, meaning far more than they should.

Ken set his beer down carefully, like it was suddenly important to have both hands free. “Mandy…” The use of her first name in that tone – not the casual one they’d adopted over beers and shop talk, but something different, something weighted – made her breath catch.

“We can’t,” she said, but she didn’t move away.

“I know.” He looked at the photo again, at her frozen smile.

“I want to keep that shot though. For myself. If you don’t mind.”

She should stand up. Should make some excuse about early brief tomorrow. Should remember every fraternization lecture from OCS, every career she’d seen derailed by crossing this line. She felt the knot of her officer’s oath tightening in her chest, the cold weight of the rank she’d fought for. This wasn’t a game; this was a black mark that would ground her for good.

Instead, she reached over and closed the laptop.

“Show me the rest somewhere else,” she said quietly. “Somewhere more private.”

His eyes searched hers, and she saw him weighing it – his career, his upcoming CPO board, everything he’d worked for. She watched him make the same decision she’d just made.

“My place is ten minutes away.”

She nodded once, already knowing this was either the best or worst decision of her life. Possibly both.