"So are you gonna ground me, Doc?" the P-8 pilot asked.
"Sorry, my friend. Three days. Mandatory. And I'm writing you a prescription. That's one nasty mess you've got going on up there, and until it's cleared out, there's no way you're flying anything."
"I knew something was going on. I just didn't know it was that bad," the young Navy lieutenant, junior grade (LTJG) said.
"The good news is you should be good to go after 72 hours on antibiotics, but I'll need to see you again first."
"Okay, sir," he told the lieutenant commander (LCDR) who was a Navy doctor and also pilot in his own right. Most flight surgeons were rated aviators and Doctor Nathan Hawthorne was no exception.
"You want me to send the scrip to the base hospital?" the senior officer asked as he sat down at his computer.
"You know what, Doc? I've got a Walgreens right by my house out in town. I can take it there and get in and out in about 15 minutes."
The 'doc' laughed and said, "Or you can sit at the pharmacy for at least half an hour."
"And that's if I'm in uniform. My dad's a retired Marine, and he says he often waits closer to an hour."
The Navy MD hit 'print' then turned around and smiled.
"Yeah, but...it's free."
The younger officer laughed knowing that was true. Even retirees didn't have copays if they used a base or post hospital. The flip side of that was waiting. It didn't matter if you were getting a prescription filled or picking up a refill. You could use the drive through window wherever a base had them or go sit down inside. But either way, you were going to sit. And wait.
"So come see me on..."
The doctor had to check the calendar as the days flew by so fast for him they often blurred.
"Thursday. If you're clear upstairs, I'll clear you to go upstairs."
"Roger that, Doc," the younger man in the flight suit replied.
LTJG Trey Donovan had been on active duty a little over years and had been assigned to a P-8 Poseidon squadron at Naval Air Station Jacksonville for the last eight months following flight school.
When he learned he was getting P-8s he felt sick to his stomach. He'd wanted to be a fighter pilot like his father in the worst way. The 'old man' had flown F-4s his first couple of years on active duty then transitioned to the F-18 for the US Marine Corps until his retirement in 2010. He'd worn the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor for 30 years and retired as a colonel.
Like his father, Trey was 6' 0" tall with a muscular build. Trey's hair was thick and black while his father's was a mix of 'salt and pepper'. They also shared the same deep-set hazel-colored eyes, and both men were considered very good looking in their youth, and both had smiles that turned a lot of heads.
The similarities didn't stop with the physical. Both had been valedictorians of their high school graduating class, and both were graduates of the US Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. But unlike his father, Trey had never really given any thought to being a Marine. As a young boy he'd watched the movie Top Gun, and from that moment on all he'd wanted to do was take off and land jets on an aircraft carrier.
So while he didn't want to be a jarhead, he still wanted to fly 'fast movers' more than anything. The day he was informed he would be flying a prop plane during flight school had been the most depressing day of his young life.
But after flying the propeller-driven beast for a few months in training and a few more in the Fleet, he'd come to love the ugly tin can. The P-8 was the Navy's replacement for the P-3, that service's primary ASW or anti-surface warfare platform for decades. The P-8 was essentially a modified 737 that carried a nine-person crew along with a relief pilot and an in-flight technician.
Its main job was to locate and kill enemy submarines and ships using torpedoes, Harpoon anti-ship missiles, and other onboard weapons. It could also drop and monitor sonobuoys as well as perform other important missions.
It wasn't as sexy as flying at 'the speed of heat' or engaging a Russian fighter in air-to-air combat, but it was an extremely important mission and the P-8 was actually a lot of fun to fly. Of course, no one had actually engaged any Russian MiG or Chinese fighter since Vietnam, and there wasn't much of a submarine threat out in the 'blue water' areas of the world. But that could change anytime either country decided to challenge the world's remaining superpower, and being ready was the allowable option.
All in all, Trey loved his job, and even more so, he loved the camaraderie he'd first encountered at the Naval Academy. The endless razzing and practical jokes were a part of every pilot's life, and thin skin meant being miserable. Trey wasn't thin-skinned in the least, and he gave as well as he got.
His dad still occasionally ribbed him for being a 'Squid', the word the other three services used for Navy sailors, and also for being a 'second-class citizen' meaning a pilot who flew a prop plane or a helo, but the truth was his father was incredibly proud of his son and had even mentioned it a time or two.
As Trey headed back to his unit to let his boss, the squadron operations officer, know where he'd be going, he was trying to remember the last time he'd been sick. The only thing he could come up with was back in junior high school when his appendix nearly ruptured.
He'd played sports in high school and at the Academy, and other than some bumps and bruises from intramural athletics, he'd been incredibly healthy. But what started as a sniffle had turned into a head cold, and at some point had morphed into a full-blown sinus infection, and Trey's head felt like it was going to explode.
After handing the 'no-duty chit' to the LCDR he worked for, Trey left the squadron and the base and turned south onto Roosevelt Blvd then onto I-295 toward the town of Orange Park where he lived. The traffic was surprisingly light when he turned off I-295 onto Blanding Blvd., which was often wall-to-wall cars that time of day.
Trey glanced at the dashboard clock and saw that it was about 10am as he pulled into the Walgreens parking located near the city's only shopping mall.
It was mid-December in northeastern Florida meaning the 'Fall weather' they had for a few weeks each year was here even though it was a little over 70 degrees outside. It had been in the 40s for the previous three nights with highs in the upper 50s, and the warmer weather was a huge relief, especially due to the pounding in his skull which was made worse by the cold.
The downside was immediately apparent when he stepped out of his 2019 Chevy Silverado. A fly buzzed by his head which he lamely swatted at with the khaki-colored hat he pulled on a second or two later. On one side of the hat there was a single silver bar signifying his rank, and directly opposite was a silver and gold Navy emblem.
The hat securely on his head, Trey turned to go inside when he noticed a woman getting out of her car. When she did the same thing he'd just done, he laughed. But when the woman screamed, he realized it wasn't quite as funny to her. Two steps later the woman was still screaming and swinging both arms making him wonder what in the world was going on.
As he continued toward the entrance he realized there was a bee buzzing around her, and he correctly assumed she was allergic. He ran over to her and planned on picking her up if necessary to get her inside as she seemed frozen in fear. Other than the frantic arm flailing that was still going on.
But before he could reach her, he heard a different kind of scream just before collapsed.
"Help me," she said as she lay on the ground.
"Ma'am? Do you have an EpiPen?" Trey asked as he grabbed her purse.
Her throat had already closed up enough that she couldn't talk. Trey could hear a wheeze indicating she was getting some amount of air, but he knew that could change very quickly. He tore open the purse, shook everything out on the pavement, and realized she didn't have the antidote needed to reverse the effects of the bee sting.
He went to dial 911 then realized that Orange Park Medical Center, a first-class hospital with a trauma team in its Emergency Department, was less than a a half mile away. By the time an ambulance got there he could have her at the Emergency Room entrance.
He tossed her wallet and keys back in the purse, slung it under his left arm then lifted her up and threw her over his right shoulder and ran back to the truck. He carefully laid her in the back, jumped in the front, and fired it up. Seconds later he was at the intersection of Blanding Blvd and Wells Road where he made a right turn and headed south.
The Orange Park Mall flew by on his left as he drove as fast as he safely could. He hit the 'dial' button on the steering wheel and Blue-Tooth connected him.
"911, what is your emergency?" he heard a female voice say.
The P-8 pilot calmly explained who he was, where he was going, and why. The voice on the other end said she'd call ahead even though Trey was less than three minutes out.
He then pulled into the left lane in order to turn onto Kingsley Avenue and heat east. Orange Park High School was located at that intersection, but school was in session, so student traffic was non-existent, and he was through it in less than a minute.
