Simon had never been much of an ocean person, which made him extra grumpy when his group landed on one of those massive aircraft carriers. They arrived in the middle of the night, but the ship was buzzing with activity as if it hadn’t slept in years.

Their helicopter had some technical issues, meaning they’d be stuck there for a few days—maybe longer, depending on how things unfolded.

Unable to tolerate the cramped cabin, Simon slinked out onto the landing deck the next morning. Jets were lined up like obedient soldiers, and one of them was already gearing up for takeoff. That’s when his eyes caught someone moving with impossible speed in a fluorescent yellow vest.

They flitted from jet to jet, circling the one about to launch like a caffeinated hummingbird.

Navy Shooter.

Basically, a shooter is the person in charge of yelling “Go!” while making sure jets don’t crash into everything on the flight deck. Think part air-traffic controller, part superhero in a neon jumpsuit.

Simon watched, a little surprised, as the shooter checked every side of the jet, signaling with quick, precise gestures to the pilot. The jet’s roar hit him like a punch to the chest—a terrible alarm clock—and then it was gone, streaking down the deck. The shooter barely flinched, black shades reflecting the morning sun, helmet snug, vest blindingly bright. A tiny cable jutted up from one earmuff like a miniature radio tower.

“Huh…” Simon huffed, leaning against the railing, watching from afar.