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hair ties, and a few toiletries in my helmet bag just for instances like this, but I cleaned my bag the flight before last and never got around to resupplying it.
    But what a dumb thing to be worrying about in light of what just happened.
    â€œCome on,” Brian says. “We’ll show you to the wardroom.”
    I shove my helmet and gloves in my bag and follow the group into the hangar. We maneuver around two tightly packed H-60 Seahawk helicopters, turning sideways to squeeze between the bulkhead and an auxiliary power unit crammed in the corner. This is a far smaller space than our hangar on the Kansas City. I vow right then that when I return to our ship, I will never complain of claustrophobia again.
    As we walk, I think about the fact that we’re stuck on this ship and are going to need a place to stay. For the guys, it won’t be a problem. For me? Different story. In an anomaly that has yet to be explained, the Lake Champlain has deployed without any women. Granted, women make up only roughly 15 percent of a carrier strike group, but the Lake Champlain has deployed with them in the past, so I’m not sure why it would be any different this time.
    I’m no stranger to being in the minority, though. I’ve been assigned to short deployments as the only woman in the detachment, or perhaps as one of only two. But I haven’t minded. I put my head down and do my job with two goals. Be competent and blend in—be the small dot.
    Unfortunately, finding berthing for me in this instance is going to be a big dot thing. It’s not like they have guest rooms. If Zack was here in my place, they would throw down a cot in one of the pilots’ staterooms and he’d be set. Not so with me. They’re going to have to jump through hoops to accommodate me. Someone is going to have to move out of his room. Shoot. I hate this. It’s such a glaring you-are-not-part-of-the-fraternity moment. Special treatment for the female. The guys are going to groan. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
    We enter the Lake Champlain ’s wardroom, a tight, confined space, with one long, rectangular table running down the middle. The mess cranks—what the navy calls its cooks—are preparing for dinner and these guys barely have enough room to squeeze behind the chairs. They’re also having difficulty keeping their feet, leaning and stumbling due to the ship’s unpredictable movements—an always delicate balancing act.
    â€œWhy don’t you have a seat here,” Brian says. “I’ll grab some coffee.”
    I take a seat at the far end of the table, the other pilots dropping into chairs around me. But curiously, Eric stands apart, moving to the other side of the room. Brian returns, coffeepot in hand, followed by one of the mess cranks, Seaman Ogilvy, who holds several mugs.
    â€œSo, welcome aboard the Lake Champlain, ” Brian says with a grin.
    Seaman Ogilvy takes over, pouring the coffee—only halfway, so it doesn’t slosh out—and serving. I don’t think a cup has ever tasted so good.
    â€œWe’ve worked it out so that you’ll take my room and I’ll move in with these guys,” Brian says. “Nick will stay with the XO,” he adds, referring to the executive officer, who is second in command of the ship.
    â€œI’m sorry about this,” I say. “I don’t want to kick you out of your room.”
    â€œHey, it’s not a problem. This is a small ship and when we have guests, we have to move to accommodate. It’s not just you.”
    I smile in thanks. It was probably just an offhand comment, rendered without much thought, but Brian has no idea how much what he just said means to me.
    The other pilots begin to pepper me with questions about the emergency, and while I’m answering them on the one hand, a separate part of my brain is hyperaware of the man leaning against the opposite bulkhead. Perhaps because he’s looking