Wearing Ray-Ban aviators and a stars-and-stripes bandana, Stu followed Betty Lou as she went for the emotional jugular, interviewing several pregnant young mothers, some accompanied by small children. He knew viewers’ hearts would fill with empathy for the sacrifice these families were making. Sad mothers with even sadder and confused children wondering why Daddy was going away made for great human-interest pieces. If she was lucky, Betty Lou might find a father and his kids waving goodbye to their mother. The military, after all, was gender-neutral when it came to personnel deployment.
Tears led to sobs for some family members when the brows finally cleared the carrier. Given events in the Middle East, many of the dependents expected the scheduled seven-month deployment would be extended to nine months or more. Others were all too aware they could be seeing their loved ones for the last time. Fourteen men and women, including pilots and aircrew, as well as sailors and marines, had been killed on Truman’s last deployment. Five when an E-2C Hawkeye suffered a ramp strike while landing in rough seas and fell backward into the drink, and nine when a helicopter had crashed during what should have been a routine training exercise. Death came even on peaceful deployments, and no one expected this to be a particularly peaceful deployment.
The “Arab Winter,” the global rise of Islamic extremism in the aftermath of the “Arab Spring” protests across the Middle East, had resulted in more than a quarter of a million deaths and millions of refugees. And there was the continued threat from various global terrorist factions, from ISIS and al-Qaeda to Hezbollah and Hamas — along with the nations supporting them.
From young sailors to grizzled chief petty officers, from fresh-faced ensigns to the rear admiral commanding the strike group, all expected to see action this deployment. And all were ready. The “work-ups” with Carrier Air Wing 7 (CVW-7) — meaning the integration of the air wing’s roughly 2,500 personnel and around seventy-five aircraft to Truman’s company of more than 3,200 sailors — had gone well. Air wings, which consisted of several fighter jet squadrons, fixed-wing and rotary-wing aircraft, were occasionally reassigned to different aircraft carriers based on the US Navy’s OFRP. Crew morale, and confidence were excellent and a strong sense of readiness permeated the ship’s combined company of almost six thousand men and women.
Betty Lou continued to interview spectators as a small flotilla of tugboats began assisting the 1,092-foot-long carrier away from her berth. And almost on cue, a flock of seagulls winged skyward past Truman’s island toward a stunning October morning. Stu turned the camera to capture the postcard-perfect scenery, which contrasted sharply with the mood of a crowd wondering what the next months would bring.
Less than five miles away, Claire Ramey, a veteran tower controller at the Norfolk International Airport, dropped her eyebrows after listening to the radio call of the incoming jetliner that Norfolk Approach had just handed over to her.
“Mid-Atlantic Three-Eight-One-Eight, say again,” she said.
A pause, followed by, “Ah, Norfolk Tower, Mid-Atlantic Three-Eight-One-Eight, ah, with you five miles, ah, long final for… ah, Runway Twenty-Three, information Foxtrot.”
“Roger, Three-Eight-One-Eight,” Claire said, frowning at the heavy accent and broken English of the first officer and his failure to follow standard communications protocol. Twenty-Three? Did this guy miss the first class on radio basics? “Clear to land, Runway two three. Winds light and variable. Altimeter Two-Niner-Niner-Five.”
Claire was familiar with Flight 3818, a routine nonstop shuttle from La Guardia, New York, to Norfolk, Virginia. And she was particularly familiar with the regular crews of the Mid-Atlantic twin-engine regional jet. None of them had accents.
Are they breaking in a new first officer?
That could also explain the nonstandard radio calls.
But still…
Another long pause followed before the first officer read back her instructions. “Ah, yes, Norfolk Tower, ah, Mid-Atlantic Three-Eight-One-Eight is, ah, cleared to land, Runway Twenty-Three.”
Claire shook her head.
Two minutes later, as Mid-Atlantic 3818 finally appeared on the horizon, Phil Monaghan, a newly certified FAA air traffic controller standing in front of a radar screen a dozen feet away, turned to her. He looked younger than Claire’s own son, a senior at Virginia Tech, and was still learning the ropes.
“Ma’am, approach says another Mid-Atlantic Three-Eight-One-Eight just checked in.”
“Say again,” Claire said as she cleared a twin-engine Cessna for takeoff.
Apparently uncertain, the rookie controller hesitated before repeating his statement. “Another Mid-Atlantic with the same tail number checked in with approach.”
“That makes no sense,” Claire asserted. “It’s got to be a mistake. Double-check.”
Phil again spoke with the busy approach controller and then turned to Claire. “Yep. Three-Eight-One-Eight just checked in with approach control. They have them on radar, confirmed.”
Claire glanced at the approaching airliner. “How can someone be using the same tail number?”
Phil remained silent.
Becoming more concerned, Claire raised her binoculars, inhaled a fresh breath, and steadied her arms on the windowsill, fingering the focusing knob.
She suddenly whipped her sunglasses off and blinked. “That’s… a Douglas DC-9 on final,” she stammered, catching Phil’s eye. “Not a Mid-Atlantic regional jet.”
“But it has Mid-Atlantic’s colors,” Phil replied, peering through his own binoculars as Claire’s mind raced to find an explanation for the anomaly.
“Maybe… maybe they’re introducing a new type of aircraft to this service segment,” the rookie offered.
“No. We have advanced notice of changes in schedules or equipment, double backup protocol.” Feeling a tight knot in the pit of her stomach, Claire added more to herself, “Something’s wrong.”
Before she could key her radio transmitter, the low-flying DC-9 retracted its landing gear and flaps and slowly rolled level with the horizon. Claire could tell the airliner had gone to full power by the wispy, dark smoke flowing from the twin engines mounted on the tail of the fuselage.
“Mid-Atlantic Three-Eight-One-Eight,” Claire finally said. “State intentions.”
Before the DC-9 could reply, a new airplane checked in on the tower frequency.
“Ah, Norfolk tower,” said another deep voice with an accent. “Citation Three-Two-Three Quebec Bravo, we have information Foxtrot ah, landing Norfolk Airport, ah, Runway Twenty-Three… ah, ten miles west for landing tower.”
What the hell is happening? Claire thought, glancing in the direction of the inbound aircraft. “Citation Three-Two-Three Quebec Bravo, extend downwind, and I’ll call your turn.”
“Three, ah, Quebec, ah, Bravo, the, ah, the, low fuel.”
Claire vacillated a moment and then asked, “Three Quebec Bravo, do you want to declare an emergency?”
“Yes, ah, yes, turn to airport now and, ah, turn to airport now, land runway now.”
Claire once more raised her binoculars and slowly scanned the sky for the troubled Citation business jet. Dumbfounded by what she discovered, Claire then turned to Phil, who was also lowering his binoculars.
“That’s not a Citation,” he declared with the wide-eye stare of a deer caught in the headlights of a semi.
“Nope,” she replied. “It’s a Curtiss C-46 transport inbound.”