It’s going to be damned close.
She breathed deeply, trying to quench the fear worming its way through her gut at the thought of having to eject again. And if that painful memory alone wasn’t enough to feed her determination to make it to that flight deck, the image of her crop-dusting mentor, Commander Ripley, loomed in her mind.
Courage is fear holding on a minute—
“Dragon Two, let’s push,” Ricardo said as he inched the throttles back.
“Copy,” Amanda responded. She glanced at the fuel. Just under 2,700 pounds left in the tanks.
They continued the smooth descent and spotted the ship when they reached eleven thousand feet. Vinson had a clear landing area, and other planes were holding overhead the carrier.
Downwind descending through five thousand feet, Amanda was looking at 1,700 pounds of fuel. I’m going to be sucking fumes when I roll into the groove.
In preparation to eject if it came to that, she removed her kneeboard and began trimming the jet for level flight close to the ship. To save fuel, Amanda kept the landing gear in the up position. At an altitude of 1,500 feet, she had to add power with just under 1,400 pounds left in the tanks, or around 130 gallons.
“Gear and hook,” Ricardo reminded his wingman.
“I’m going to hold them till the one-eighty,” Amanda declared, deciding to reduce drag by keeping the landing gear and the tail hook retracted until she made the final 180-degree turn to align the nose with the carrier’s stern at an altitude of 500 feet.
The fuel burned faster at the lower altitude and increased power on her single engine.
Ricardo keyed his radio. “Let’s switch to the LSO.”
“Roger that.”
Ricardo checked in with the landing signal officer, unofficially known as “paddles” because back in the day LSOs would stand on the ship’s stern and face the incoming plane holding colored flags or paddles to guide them onto the flight deck. “Okay, Dragon One-Oh-Eight with you.”
“CAG Paddles copy,” the controlling LSO replied. “Understand Two-Zero-Six has damage on the right motor and low fuel?”
“That would be critical fuel and complete loss of right motor,” Ricardo calmly explained as they leveled their Super Hornets at 1,200 feet.
“Okay, Dragon Two,” the senior LSO radioed in a calm, reassuring voice. “We’re rigging the barricade. Fly a smooth stabilized approach, and I’ll talk you aboard.” The barricade webbing was an emergency recovery system used when there was a chance of not making the normal arresting-wire landing. It consisted of upper and lower horizontal loading straps stretched across the flight deck between stanchions. The sections were joined together by vertical engaging straps designed to snag the wings of the landing aircraft.
“Roger,” Amanda said as she tried to remember the process for a single-engine approach to the barricade. Her training also forced her to go through the single-engine rate-of-climb numbers should she have to go around, though she didn’t think she had the fuel for a single approach, much less for a go-around. She also noticed the SH-60 Seahawk plane-guard helicopter keeping pace with the carrier.
God bless those helo guys, she thought. But I hope they don’t have to fish me out of the drink.
Unable to stop herself, she gazed at the fuel status and cringed when she saw 1,040 pounds.
On the flight deck, as the well-trained crew raised the barricade, a loud voice made an urgent announcement over the 5MC. “Emergency Rhino abeam.”
Amanda watched the ship’s stern past her left wingtip and continued for another mile, completing the downwind leg before beginning a descending left turn to 073 degrees to line up with Vinson’s stern. She also dropped her tailhook. Don’t blow this pass in front of the entire air group.
“You’re lookin’ good,” the LSO said, adding reassuringly, “Just be smooth and fly the ball.”
“I’m on it,” Amanda replied. Reaching for the gear handle, she lowered the landing gear. All three indicated safe.
Rolling wings level over the wake of the ship, Amanda spotted the bright yellow-orange meatball. “Rhino, ball, state nine hundred pounds.”
“Roger ball,” CAG Paddles replied. “Clear deck. Keep it smooth, relax, and BREATHE.”
Amanda inhaled deeply as she shot a quick look at the flight deck, gripping the stick so hard, she overcontrolled.
“Line up,” the LSO coaxed. “Keep it nice and easy on that power. You’re a little low.”
Making the correction to align the jet with the center of the angle deck, Amanda allowed the jet to get too low and slow.
“Power and more power,” CAG Paddles urged. “Give me more power and line up.”
Adjusting the throttle, Amanda overcorrected and added too much. Her jet rose well above the desired glide path.
“Too high, Dragon Two. Lower. Lower!”
Although Amanda remembered the entire procedure for making an approach to the barricade on one engine, a single step flashed in her mind: You never want to be too high, because you could catch the top of the barrier with your landing gear if you had to go around.
As she tried to correct her height by setting up a faster-than-desired sink rate, the LSO hit the wave-off lights while ordering, “Dragon Two, go around! Now!”
Dammit, she thought while pushing the single engine to military power and clearing the top of the barrier by just a dozen feet.
“Dragon Two, turn downwind after you get yourself turned around, and turn in as soon as able.”
“Turning in now,” she said, working the throttle, rudders, elevators, and ailerons to get herself ready for another pass as her gas level reached six hundred pounds. “What’s my final bearing?”
“It’s still zero seven three. Line up.”
“Roger.”
Once again, she turned downwind, passed abeam the ship’s stern, and, after a quarter mile, made a 180-degree descending turn to line her nose with the carrier. She knew better than to spot the deck, but the meatball was going high on the Fresnel lens.
“Paddles, ball’s shooting up from the depths.”
“Dragon, cut power,” the LSO replied.
Once more, she overcorrected by idling the engines and made the problem worse as her fuel dropped below three hundred pounds. She silently cursed the asymmetrical thrust on the single engine, her constant worry about flaming out, and the damn helo shadowing her — distractions that were impeding her from making a proper approach.
You can do this, she thought, correcting the problem.
“Dragon has the ball,” she reported as she descended onto her moving target.
“Power!” the LSO radioed as the jet approached the round down of the flight deck. “Power, POWER!”
Amanda shoved the throttle forward two seconds before the Super Hornet slammed onto the deck a dozen paces from the ramp, skipping the one, the two, and finally snagging the number three wire. The latter arrested her forward momentum, propelling her into her harness as she groaned from the sudden deceleration while also rolling into the barricade just a foot left of the centerline. The vertical straps killed any forward motion by snagging the leading edges of both wings.