San Diego was cold and rainy, which was odd because San Diego was never cold and rainy. Seven and Al were still unsure why they were sitting in the dull, gray office of Lt. Jerry Jackson, an admin officer with the Pacific Fleet’s Air Support Division. They had asked every official along their journey to San Diego why they were being summoned; each inquiry was met with the same shoulder shrug and look of ignorance.
Lt. Jackson wasn’t in his office. Seven and Al were told to wait in the chairs on the visitors’ side of the desk and the lieutenant would be along shortly. Al tended to bounce his right leg when he was nervous. On this day his leg had been bucking like a rodeo bull since he pulled himself out of bed. Seven made numerous attempts to calm his navigator, telling him that “everything’s fine” and “they probably just want us to do some instruction with some of the newer pilots.” Al didn’t buy into Seven’s pitch. He knew well that after only eighteen months in the unit they were still considered “newer pilots.”
Lt. Jackson walked into the room, one hand filled with file folders and an aged and weathered coffee cup in the other. Seven and Al stood as the officer entered the room.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” he muttered as he made his way behind his desk. “Okay, let’s see, you are Andrews and Shields, correct?”
“Yes sir,” Seven and Al replied in unison.
“Okay, well, do you gentlemen have any idea why you’re here?” the lieutenant said without looking up from an open file folder.
“No idea at all, sir,” Seven replied.
“Well, it appears as though you gentlemen have been selected for an OCA.” He again spoke without looking away from his file.