Macho was led forward and the catapult petty officer directed her to “take tension.” Shoving both throttles to military power, she felt the airplane tense up underneath her. She then “wiped out the cockpit” by moving the stick to the four corners of travel and pushed the rudder pedals to their full extent. Ready, she popped a sharp salute to the catapult officer. When he returned it, she placed her head back in the headrest and grabbed the canopy bow “towel rack” and locked both arms in place.
From the island catwalk, a thrilled Shane watched the scene. That’s my roommate in that big and powerful airplane! She squealed with delight as Macho suddenly roared down the track and went airborne with a boom as the catapult shuttle slammed into the water brake. Shane watched Macho fly away until she could follow her no longer. She was thrilled.
I am so proud, so amazed, and so fortunate to be here!
CHAPTER 11
Mongo was shot off the bow a moment later and sucked the gear and flaps up. Leveling at 500 feet, he then energized his radar and Forward Looking Infrared sensor, or FLIR.
Like the other aircraft, he began to climb at seven miles ahead of the ship. Unlike the others, he set out to the west, on his own.
Mongo climbed at a shallow angle, the blue surface slowly falling away as he concentrated on setting up his cockpit up for the mission. He soon passed 20,000 feet — and had almost another 20,000 feet to go.
Passing 30,000 feet, he was well above the white buildup columns that cast shadows on the surface below. To his right, and about 50 miles north, a storm with an anvil-topped cloud sat over an open patch of ocean. Far to the south, at a distance he guessed was over the South American landmass, he saw other towering cumulus thunderstorms with more anvil-tops. His radar detected contacts on the surface, four total, and he commanded his FLIR sensor to lock on them one at a time. The binocular power of the sensor helped him identify them as merchants: two containerships, a tanker, and one car carrier that resembled a floating rectangular box. Mongo guessed the car carrier to be coming up from the Panama Canal.
He still had over 100 miles to go.
At 36,000 feet, Mongo leveled off but stayed underneath the contrail altitude of an airliner about 15 miles ahead of his nose. He glanced over his shoulder to see if he was “marking” himself and, as he had planned, saw no contrail behind him. Good, he thought and watched the airliner on his FLIR. The silhouette looked like a Boeing widebody, and the closest he got to the aircraft was three miles as it crossed right-to-left in front of him.
Mongo wasn’t worried about being detected by the airliner, and out here in international airspace, it was unlikely anyone was watching either one of them. Big sky, little airplane. The white contrails the aircraft engines generated were long, and with nothing better to do, Mongo wondered where the flight had originated. He guessed Dallas, as good a guess as any. As the airliner gradually receded to the south, Mongo figured it to be a 767, and, by the paint job, he could identify the U.S. flag airline.
While Commander Wilson and his wingman Macho were returning home to Mother after their training flight, Mongo was just beginning his. After 30 minutes airborne and over 200 miles from the carrier, Mongo retarded the throttles and entered into a shallow descent. Fuel management around the ship — and especially in an FA-18—was critical, and Mongo would need to refuel in-flight before he recovered in two hours. But this was risky. He had to complete his mission with just enough reserve fuel to find the big wing Air Force tanker near Mother, someplace 200 miles behind him. He could then get a drink before the engines flamed out.
Risky. Mongo was not given to worry. He was doing his job, and, if the ship weenies did theirs, this mission would be successful. If he ran out of gas and had to punch out, fine. If he died on this flight, fine. He had no one waiting for him in the states, and while he was in the service of something bigger than himself, the United States Government, he was drawn to the challenge: to manage every aspect of this mission, perfectly, and only he would know exactly how perfectly, leaving nothing to chance. And if the weak links in the chain broke, he would save their bacon. He even hoped they would drop the ball so he could pick it up.
Enjoying an unobstructed 360-degree view, he basked in his solitude as he descended in a lazy turn to the right. He knew he wasn’t, and at five minutes past the hour, the MIDS display showed a message:
READY FOR MISSION 45B AS FRAGGED?
Mongo selected his response:
WILCO
He wasn’t sure of the location of the controller he was communicating with. On the “small boy” guided missile destroyer? In an AWACS or E-2? Nevada? It didn’t matter, and Mongo wasn’t going to waste brain power speculating. This controller had come up on the right frequency at the right time with the right mission number. The controller answered him:
ROGER TAKE STATION AS BRIEFED PACKAGE ON SCHEDULE
COI BULLSEYE 315/35 TRACKING NW 330 40 KTS
REPORT PLAYTIME
Mongo called up his bullseye waypoint and calculated a course to the contact of interest about 30 miles away. Cruising at 20,000 feet, Mongo scanned the surface of the ocean. On the other side of a column of puffy cumulous, he saw it: a go-fast with a big wake. Taking care not to lock on the boat with his radar — for fear of setting off any RF detection equipment it may have — he overbanked the jet to put his nose on the smuggler. Viewing it through the FLIR, he bumped the castle switch to “grab” the IR contrast. Picking his nose back up, he leveled off, sauntering toward the boat from a position behind it. He maneuvered to conceal himself in the sun. In no hurry, he energized the video recorder.
CAPTURED he signaled to the nameless, faceless controller. He then used his data link to send a picture of the contact. The reply was swift:
VERIFIED HOSTILE
COMMENCE LIMA IN 1 MIKE
Mongo punched his timer and scanned the surface as he performed lazy S-turns to stay behind the go-fast and to stay in the sun. He saw the gray Fire Scout UAV, the package, three miles below him, heading for the same “skunk.” He scanned the water out to 20 miles around them — nothing — and felt satisfied. No witnesses… and no rescue.
When the timer passed 60, he engaged the laser and kept it on the go-fast, now only five miles ahead. Mongo’s geometry was perfect. He estimated the Fire Scout to be less than two miles from the boat. A MIDS display message warned him a shot was imminent. Seconds later, a fiery flash sprinted forward from the unmanned helicopter to the boat, a guided 2.75- inch rocket trailing a brilliant white plume against the blue textured sea below. Mongo returned his attention to the FLIR display, holding the laser on target, and waited for the rocket to enter the picture.
When it did, the display was washed out by the explosion, and Mongo could tell the boat was knocked off its keel by the force of impact. As the flash subsided, the boat careened wildly and rolled upside down with a huge splash. He saw debris splashes around the smoking hull, but no flame. The white fiberglass hull floated as the concentric impact rings and smoke subsided. On the FLIR he observed no movement around it.